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."