Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

                When was the last time you were surprised?

               I don’t mean, necessarily, like a surprise party, though that counts.

               What I mean is, like, a moment when you were taken aback, when reality didn’t go as expected.

               Ugh. I’m not explaining this clearly.

               So, let me try this: last Sunday’s Hebrew Bible reading was from Exodus 17. The Israelites were fresh off complaining about food, and they began going on about how they needed water. They began to ‘quarrel’ with Moses and Aaron.

               Pause.

               Did you know chapter 17 is often referred to as the chapter of complaints?

               Unpause.

               First, they had no food. Now they have no water. And again they say, “Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?” I mean, I can’t say I’ve ever been in their situation, but I kind of feel like they have a valid point.

               God hears their complaints once more and responds. God tells Moses to gather the elders, and Moses is to strike the rock. Water then flows out, astonishing the Israelites at God's power. God’s attention to their lives. God’s nearness. God’s ability to keep God’s promise.

               That’s what I mean.

               When was the last time you were surprised by God? When was the last time your spirit was thirsty and God provided refreshment? When were you left in awe of our Creator's goodness and mercy?

               When did you last encounter the good news that God is among us?

               Life has its ups and downs. In both tough and joyful times, we recall God’s goodness. Have you reflected on a difficult season you survived and wondered whether you would make it through? You did. And you will. That’s why I love the stories and myths in our sacred text. God can’t be controlled, yet God is faithful. We might, like the Israelites, have to take the long way and wait a minute, but God surprises us. Always with love.

               I remember, as a child, feeling that some homework assignments were impossible. I would try with all my might, especially with math, to get my brother [who is a math teacher] to do it for me. He was wise. He knew the assignment. He loved me and, in those moments, essentially said, “I love you. I believe in you. I know what you’re capable of. So, I’m going to make you work.” What he gave me helped me for the rest of my life: a belief that I can do something, and that if I can’t, I can ask for help and learn from my mistakes. Sure, he could have just given me the answers. Instead, he taught me to think critically, trust my abilities, and rely on what I learned.

               Do not hear me equating my math homework with what the Israelites endured. That would be silly. Instead, hear me in this example and metaphor [?], which attempts to communicate how God can surprise us by making Themselves known in and through each other. Above all, hear me try to explain that we have a part to play in our collective salvation and liberation!

This reminds me of what I wanted to say in my sermon but didn’t. It’s about a man with two children who asked them to do chores. One initially refused but eventually did the work; the other agreed but then backed out. My main point was that we can change our minds and it’s never too late to start working. We all can do something. Even if we said ‘no’ and if we said ‘yes.’ The story goes something like this:

An old man strolls along a beach after a storm so fierce that thousands of starfish were swept ashore. As he walks, the old man sees a young girl carefully picking up one starfish at a time and tossing it back into the ocean. The old man tells the girl that she is wasting her time—that she can’t possibly save all the starfish, can’t possibly make a real difference. The girl bends down, grabs another starfish, and flings it into the ocean. She says: “Well, I made a difference to that one!”

Our lives are often like that, no? Like a beach covered with starfish. And all we can do is  . . . all we can do.

               You can make a difference. The small next thing you can do is likely where God will surprise you. Don’t ever stop doing the faithful, loving thing. Even when you don’t want to. Even when you feel like you most certainly can. Do it. Complain. Celebrate. Lament. Praise. Do. It. All. God hears it all.

Do something – especially something you wouldn’t like to do or want to do. Then, wait to be surprised! 

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The photo below has nothing to do with anything I wrote. It simply is a photo of me surprising myself. October 1st is the start of what some call "spooky season." To me, this means we enter the time of year when we allow ourselves to experience feelings we usually try to avoid. Of course, the origins of Halloween are many, but for us Christians, it's a season when we remember the saints in our lives who have completed their baptism in death. Yes, it has nothing to do with the "devil" and everything to do with remembering those who have gone before us and loved us. To make it about the 'devil' is to give too much power to something [death] that has no power over us. We are a people of the resurrection, not death and evil!

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday

 

                              It’s Thursday and, surprisingly, I don’t have many thoughts.

               I'm outside on my patio. My “Nashville” string lights are on, and Moths are flocking to them like children to their favorite Disney character at Disney World. Or so I assume. I’ve never been.

               The neighborhood is quiet. No events at the high school. No children outside enjoying this cool Fall evening. No Cicadas. Not even my wind chimes.

               Silence.

               And, well, Crickets, chirping away. Before the Sun tucked itself behind the Western horizon, the Cardinals were singing, as they always do.

               But now, it’s quiet.

               A neighbor pulls into their driveway across the street, and Brigid barks. She acts as the welcoming committee or feels it’s Her duty to inform the neighbors of any activity in the cul-de-sac.

               Just a few weeks ago it was still light at 7:58 p.m., and the neighbor kids were out playing, jumping on their trampoline and getting yelled at to “Come inside. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

               I don’t mind the silence out here. It’s a nice change of pace from what Summer was like toward the end. Whistles, cheers, sounds from the band, bright lights from the high school football and soccer field: students preparing for competition on the gridiron.

               The occasional loud engine disrupts the evening. But mostly, it’s still. It’s calm. I can feel Creation breathing.

               So I breathe. I’ve got a flannel on because my forearms were getting chilly. In the air, I smell a grill- rather, something being barbecued. My stomach grumbles. Did I have supper?

               On Sunday, we'll read a parable about two sons whom their father asked to work in the vineyard. One initially refuses but later changes his mind and does the work, while the other agrees but never follows through. We’ve all experienced this—intending to do something, but life happens. Soon, the dishes pile up in the sink, and the plant in the corner, with its brown leaves, seems to ask for water. We’ll get to those dishes, water the plant, and all will be well.

               Unless we don’t. And the dishes get grimy, one brown leaf turns to four, and we find ourselves working harder to make things right. But we do the work. We have time to reconsider our choices. We do what needs to be done, even if it isn’t our first choice.

               I’m not sure where this sermon will end up. Jesus' parable is working on me, as it's meant to. We are both the children in the parable. We’ve been both the former and the latter. It’s okay to be both. Being human, especially on days like today, is acceptable.   Yet, I can’t escape this silence.

               More cars. 121 is busy tonight. Where are these folxs rushing to? I hope everyone gets home safely.

               We need silence. We need these still moments to rest, to hear something other than the cacophony of voices clamoring for our attention. What are these Crickets going on about? How many more of these still, quiet nights will we have before the chilled air of the Northwest arrives?

               What is that line from the famous HBO show? Winter is coming.

               Woah, Adam. We are three days into Fall. Don’t rush it!

               I’m not. I’m simply paying attention.

               I’m now listening to the sound of the Amtrak whistle. That train horn always reminds me of Merton, who has this wonderful story about how our thoughts during meditation are like trains pulling into the station. When we're quietly praying or listening for God's gentle, still voice, distractions naturally come. When they do, try to see them as the train’s whistle—welcome them warmly, acknowledge their presence, and then gently send them on their way. This way, we turn interruptions into a peaceful part of our practice.

               I like to think that the first child who said ‘no’ and then did the work had a quiet moment when they heard the urgency in their parent’s request to act. It’s never too late to change our minds. It’s never too late to do the next right thing.

               The thing about being human, as I learn with each passing day, is that we aren’t static beings. Meaning we aren’t stuck in this life. We can change. We evolve. Admitting this and welcoming this reality frees us to choose the better parts of life. Even when we think we’ve missed the train.

               Again, I lean into Merton’s wisdom, who writes, “To be born again is not to become somebody else, but to become ourselves.” (Love and Living)

               The roads are busy with traffic. The noise interrupts this still night. I’m reminded that I’m not alone. There are the Crickets. There’s you. There’s always us.

               Ope, the neighbor's Dogs are out. Brigid assumes her position, alerting the neighborhood to the latest arrival. Tecumseh is in His corner, nose to the air, stealthily sniffing for what I can’t see.

               Ugh. It’s great, right? To know we aren’t alone. To remember we have each other. To proclaim our interdependence.

               I wonder if that’s what silence does.

               Let us hear the good news that God is here. And there. Everywhere.

To choose love.

Maybe that’s the next right thing.

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

As many of you know, I love marking time with the changing seasons. On Tuesday, we move from Summer to Fall, and we will have an equal amount of daylight and darkness. I find these threshold moments the perfect opportunity to reflect on God’s presence in my life, give thanks for where I have been, and lean into God’s wisdom as I move into whatever comes next.

At Kirk Night, we took time to reflect on the summer months, asking ourselves, “What fruit of God’s love did you experience in abundance this summer?” and “What aspects of nature or the changing seasons are you grateful for?” A gratitude practice like this helps us remember that life is a gift and that God is with us. A daily, intentional attitude of gratitude will keep our hands open to expect, allow, and receive life at ever-deeper levels of satisfaction—but never to think we deserve it.

We also reflected on questions that help us prepare for the gradual approach of darkness in the latter part of the year. As summer transitions to fall, consider what you are ready to release. As nights lengthen, what dreams are seeking to surface within you? Change is unavoidable and inherent in our human nature. Whatever your answers, remember that God is with you, and you have the strength and courage to face whatever lies ahead.

With each new day and season, I strive to stay attentive to God’s presence, which calls me not only to change but also to grow. While change is unavoidable, growth remains a choice. I hope to embody a way of being that allows Love to uplift and guide me back to my Original Name. God has given us this life to embrace and collaborate with the Spirit in building the Beloved Community. We are God’s artwork—just like the Maple trees soon to burst with vibrant reds and oranges! Let us remain open to whom God’s Spirit is shaping us to become, and give thanks for the blessings God gives to us.

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

The desk in my study at home faces a window, offering a beautiful view despite the slight inconvenience of opening it and drawing the curtains. From here, I observe the changing seasons—green grass fading to brown, full trees shedding their leaves to reveal bare branches, and Hummingbirds buzzing until the Cardinals, Chickadees, and Robins are the only birds left. I have spent considerable time watching from this window, a practice that reminds me that God’s timing, which transcends our simple clock time (chronos), is always present in our patience and waiting.

               Today, as the gentle rain quietly fell, I was delighted to watch a female Cardinal hanging upside down from one of the few remaining Sunflowers in the yard. She seemed so graceful as she balanced herself on the fragile stalk, using her sturdy, cone-shaped beak to reach the black seed. With some effort, she tugged and pulled until she finally succeeded. I watched with fascination as she cracked open the shell and swallowed the soft inner kernel.

               Being near her, I noticed she was missing some feathers. A quick search reveals that female cardinals usually shed feathers in late summer or early fall after breeding. Wet and eager for food, I hear her sing between pecks about change and growth. Molting may not be painful, but it can be quite exhausting for the bird. It leaves her more vulnerable to temperature changes, reduces the energy she needs for flight, and increases her risk of predation. She looks gnarly, but I suspect she knows to embrace the process. She makes me hopeful.

I often talk about Birds and Nature, which might seem repetitive. Yet, after hearing that an Anthropic researcher left over fears that AI might wipe out humanity within ten years, I feel more despair than ever. I’m not here to argue whether we should use AI—though I can share theological and pastoral perspectives—but I will say this: no AI-generated image has ever given me the same deep awareness as watching a molting female Cardinal in September. It may sound strange, but perhaps Jesus was right when he said, “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” The Divine, Eternal Love, God, the Universe – however we describe what is beyond us yet present among us – is here: in you, in me, in the dried Sunflower, and in the Cardinal. And the Cosmic They/Them loves you just as God the Father feeds the Birds and waters the Lilies.

               I guess, beloved reader, what I want to communicate in this post is twofold. First, like the Cardinal, it’s okay to give yourself over to change; to let new life rise within and around you; and to let go of any beliefs, worlds, or thoughts that no longer lead to your True Self. Second, you are not alone in your exhaustion, and it does not define you. Despair is a normal response to the confusion and uncertainty of our current timeline. However, there’s wisdom in the Berry poem shared last week – the one about how the wild things do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. My hope is that by writing often about the Divine and nature, you will come to see the Divine dwelling in you. Maybe you'll be lifted from despair by simply being reminded that you, along with everything, belong to God.

Here's a prayer by theologian and mystic John Philip Newell that I hope draws you deeper to the Love that abides in you.

“You are above me O God; You are beneath; You are in air; You are in earth; You are beside me; You are within.  O God of heaven, you have made your home on earth in the broken body of Creation.  Kindle within me a love for you in all things.”

Under a low gray sky, I looked out my window and saw a Cardinal undergoing change. She wasn’t flustered about Her feathers, nor did She mind my camera. As She ate and I watched Her, we shared a moment of connection – a quiet exchange of gratitude. Hope today was a thing with ... molted feathers.

I hope you will join us Wednesday as we celebrate the Season of Creation with a Taize service. 

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

 The world mourns the loss of Wendell Berry, a remarkable poet, prophet, and pastor. Some may wonder why I called Berry a ‘pastor' since he wasn’t an ordained clergy member. That's a fair question. A quick look into the word 'pastor' reveals it originally relates to caring for animals, much like a shepherd.

Although Berry perhaps was never a literal 'shepherd,' his care for the land had a pastoral quality. One of my early mentors noted that whenever we read about a farmer or character’s relationship to the land in Berry’s writings—whether articles, essays, books, or poems—we could substitute 'church.' This reflects wisdom applicable to those in parish ministry. What I most appreciated about Berry’s fiction was his grasp of Jesus’s command to love our neighbor, regardless of their creaturely state. He also understood the importance of community, frequently emphasizing the value of being rooted in a particular place and of staying committed there.

Berry was a prophet. Reading “The Mad Farmer Liberation” reveals a voice calling in the wilderness, urging us to abandon our indifferent, greedy, and apathetic relationship with creation and to stop the practices that destroy our planet—Earth. I love, as one writer put it about Berry’s prophetic wisdom, “As a cultural conscientious objector, he occupied the rarefied space of a neo-humanist, a Renaissance man in an era of industrial agriculture, technology overdrive, and obsessive consumption. Most importantly, he was a prophet, warning us about the abuse of land, water, and atmosphere for ever-larger food production and the demons of economic development (and data centers).” If ever there were a time for his wisdom here in Central Illinois, it's now.

In seminary, I signed up for a class mainly because Wendell Berry came and spoke the last time it was offered. On the first day, as I reviewed the syllabus, I saw an afternoon set aside for Berry. Despite the heavy workload, I thought it was worth the effort to learn from one of my favorite authors. Unfortunately, when a student dropped the course, the professor canceled it, and I lost my chance to meet Berry. Later that year, in my final Master of Arts in Spirituality class, we read Jayber Crow, which became one of the most important books in my personal library. It’s Berry’s most renowned novel and has taught me the true meaning of membership and belonging. A treasured memory from that period is from the Thomas Merton Center at Bellarmine University, where I listened to Professor Greg Hillis teach Jayber Crow to help us understand and experience the doctrine of the Trinity.

Before moving to Kentucky at twenty-two, I wasn't familiar with Wendell Berry. Soon after, I started reading his poetry and dreaming of living in union with the land like him. His works, along with those of fellow Kentuckian bell hooks and Kentucky transplant Thomas Merton, have greatly influenced my understanding of ecclesiology. Although I know I will never reach his level of literary skill, I aim to grow by drawing inspiration from his art and work—as a pastor to this congregation and as a community member.

One of the first lines I read from Berry in his book A Place on Earth resonated so deeply with my 22-year-old self that it became the subtext for my very first blog. The blog no longer exists, but the words and their impact do:

“Nobody can discover the world for somebody else. Only when we discover it for ourselves does it become common ground and a common bond and we cease to be alone.”

For me, this is Berry in a nutshell. May we discover together our common ground, common bond, and common love – remembering we are never alone. I hope, at the very least, you feel this within the ministry of 1PC.

I don't have a photo of Berry. I could take a picture of the books of his I have -- but that's lame. Instead, here's this one. I invite you to think about your relationship with your place: the air, the ground, the creeks, the creatures above and below. And then remember this line: “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred and desecrated places."

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

               

Over the weekend, I spent time with my brother’s family at their campsite in Canton. By day, we were fishing the high waters from the recent rains; by night, we were laughing around the glow of a campfire. On Sunday morning, I was the first up and sat on the end of their dock, watching the morning unfold. It was peaceful until the Kingfishers started chatting, and suddenly the moment became holy. The ground, or the dock hovering above the glasslike water, became sacred.          

This Sunday’s Old Testament lectionary text was from Exodus 3. We know it well. It’s the moment when Moses encounters the Divine in the desert through a burning bush. The famous line is, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground!” It’s a moment of transformation for Moses [and the bush!], and one many of us resonate with, especially those of us who love a good sunrise, a beach photo, or the vibrant pastels this time of year created by corn sweat. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good nature photo [hashtag blessed; hashtag god is good; hashtag awesome]; however, the passage doesn’t end there, does it?              

Moses has more to do than just removing his sandals. In verse 7, we see that God listens to the cries of God’s people—actually, God notices their suffering and understands their pain.

               Did you get that? Way back in the Old Testament, God knows the people’s sufferings. God is intimately involved and aware of God’s people and their lives. What happens next? God acts. God intervenes in history [as this story tells it] and sends Moses to bring God’s people out of exile.

               Here’s what I’m getting at, friends. We need to admire and stand in awe of the creative energies of God that are embodied in the first incarnation – creation. AND we need to join God with our creativity and gifts to see that justice and peace flow through our streets like a mighty river. I love what my Hebrew professor, Dr. Tyler Mayfield, says about this when he writes:

What happens in the holy spaces of our lives should also have holy consequences in the world around us. Moses’ experience with God directly leads to action for and alongside God. Spiritual formation and working to bring about social justice cannot happen in vacuums – they naturally flow into and out of one another, fueling the fire and fanning the flame of the Spirit’s work and witness in our world.

               Dr. Mayfield goes on to reflect that our burning-bush moments invite us to look away, then look back, and to allow those moments to transform us into action. Yup, it’s contemplation and action! Everyone we meet – no matter how they identify – or whatever stereotype we cast upon them – is a beloved child of God who contains the Divinity’s spark. All of us are as beautiful as that sunrise you admire in Florida. So let us see that all of God’s beloved, good, holy creation is cared for, and that we join God in creating a place where not only is everyone welcomed, but we all know in the depths of our being that we, along with everything, belong!

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     I don't know about you, but this week has been heavy, largely because the queen of country music and a truly great human being, Dolly Parton, died. What isn't there to admire about the cultural icon known not only for her music but also for her philanthropy, her allyship with the LGBTQ+ community, and her status as one of the best teachers on what it means to live as your true self? An Episcopal priest I follow on Substack, and self-proclaimed biggest Dolly fan, Rev. Lizzie, wrote a beautiful reflection on Dolly's faith and how it shaped her music. You can find it by clicking here.

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Wednesday, August 26, was [Inter]National Dog Day. So, here's a photo of Tecumseh and Brigid.

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This week, I read an article from the Presbyterian Outlook that I found both insightful and compelling. The article’s title is also its topic: Why College Students are Leaving Church – But Not Faith. You can access it by clicking here. As your pastor, I value authenticity– not unlike what Dolly preached and practiced. An element of this is the ability to ask questions and be comfortable with the unknown. One statement in this article that stuck with me was from a student about membership. They said, “The only benefit of membership is that you’re asked to give money. I don’t have any.” I’m curious: what is the benefit of membership? The second person to respond will get a cup of coffee on me! [Meaning, I’ll take you out for coffee while we discuss!]

 

Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday Afternoon

                  Surprise!

                 That was a theme from Sunday’s sermon. The text was the account of Jesus' interaction with the Canaanite woman in Matthew. The story is also in Mark, and I encourage you to read both [Matthew 15.21-28 & Mark 7.24-30] to see what is similar and what is different. I’ll be curious if anything surprises you!

                  The primary takeaway from Sunday is that our limited beliefs and traditions can sometimes hinder our growth. My attempt to connect this story to an invitation to serve on Session as a Ruling Elder is inspired by the Canaanite woman’s faith and courage. Her voice challenges Jesus’s automatic responses and encourages a broader understanding of God’s mercy. In the same way, the church can become too comfortable with routines and the ease of ministry, and we may overlook how we exclude or isolate others in our community. Like the Canaanite woman, your voice and presence can help us advocate for the safety of those we serve.

                 You'll be surprised by how rewarding it can be to serve on the Session. As the governing body of our congregation, we are in ministry together, not in silos but as members of Christ’s body, discerning together where the Spirit is leading us. It's also a chance to say ‘yes’ to God and to contribute your talents to shaping our community's ministry. Caring for the congregation is truly a gift, and I hope many of you will have the opportunity to join me in serving here at 1PC Lincoln someday.

                 One last word regarding the Canaanite woman’s story. I hope that we, as a community of faith, continue to remain open to the calling of the Risen One, trusting in the transformative ministry of which we are a part, and that we might also listen to those in need when they describe why the world ought to be transformed. If you want to read a sermon that addresses some of the problematic interpretations of it over the years, click here for Diana Butler Bass’s Sunday Musings.

                  During my sermon, I mentioned the work by Canadian psychologist Michael Rousell on the power of surprise. I’m including the TED Talk he gave in 2019 about three decades of work and the insights he’s gained into how surprises are opportunities for change.

                  Finally, I have begun a new practice inspired by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver, and intrigued by Mark Ragland, who writes at The Pocket Notebook on Substack. I started keeping a pocket notebook to help me notice and record surprising moments. I’ve been doing this for three weeks, and my pages are filled with lines from poems or essays, feathers found on walks, sketches, doodles, and anything else that helps me pay attention to life's beauty. Unlike my journal practice, a pocket notebook doesn’t require much time or energy. Simply jot, doodle, or tape the things that stand out to you and put them in your pocket notebook. If I’m honest, the reason why I began this practice was to be more present to the life in front of me, and not the one being fed to me by the algorithms on my phone. Here’s a link to an intro on keeping a pocket notebook from Mark Ragland.