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."