MEDITATION: THE GOOD SAMARITAN

It’s funny when I was writing this in my head, it was only a few sentences long. And then it grew. And grew.

When I decided to keep at least one foot in the tradition I was raised in, I also realized that I was, frankly, pretty damned ignorant. So, that’s where most of my of my reading has been going. Anyway, it led me here. Who is my neighbor and who deserved my help is a question being asked in every part of this country. And the answer in too many living rooms seems to be “nobody, I’m only responsible for myself, don’t ask me to pay extra taxes or offer any extra help to………because……..fill in the blasted blanks.

When Jesus answered the question of the man of law, “who is my neighbor?” he told story with remarkably few details. A certain man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho along a road known to be dangerous. The man is attacked, beaten, robbed, stripped and left by the side of the road. Of possible passersby, only three are named; a priest, a Levite and a Samaritan.

Why did the first two pass by? Kathleen Norris pointed out in an essay that the priest and the Levite were forbidden by the Law of Moses to have any contact with the dead. Apparently the rituals to cleanse them of being ritually unclean were time consuming and expensive. They might have been willing to face that cost for a fellow Jew, but they would have no may of knowing who they were dealing without breaking the law. Unconscious, stripped and wounded; the man could have been Greek, Syrian, Egyptian; heaven knows everybody seems to have passed through that part of the world at one time or another.

Maybe they were just in a hurry. And I can hear a few modern excuses running through their minds. Maybe it’s a trick or a trap. Darn fool, he should have known better than to travel this road by himself. Probably doesn’t belong here in the first place; there’s too many foreigners in the country anyway. It’s not my problem; I have enough troubles of my own to worry about. So, eyes averted, steps quickened, down the road they went. They may have felt bad about it. Who knows; they may have salved their consciences with “it’s a busy road; somebody else will be along before too long.” Although why they thought the possible somebody else would act differently……

Along comes the Samaritan. A member of a people who claimed to have been left behind when most of the population was forced out of the country by the Assyrians. They claimed to be Jews, but had their own ways and their own temple. They weren’t recognized by the Temple establishment in Jerusalem as Jews.

The rest of the story is familiar. The Samaritan cares for the stranger, puts him on his own animal, takes him to an inn and leaves money with the inn keeper with the promise that he’ll make up any differences when he comes back.

I haven’t thought of this story for a long time. I flashed on it while reading a one star review of a favorite film, The Shoes of the Fisherman. Faced with a world brought to the brink of atomic war by famine in communist China the Pope places the wealth of the church as guaranty for aid. That’s not right, said the reviewer. The Chinese should have been forced to renounce communism first. The writer didn’t suggest that the Chinese be required to become Christians, but the implication was there.

That’s when I flashed on the story. I seemed to remember that the parable started with “a certain man” and several translations later I was faced with a simple fact. Jesus didn’t say who the man was or what he was doing on that road. Only that he needed help and that when the letter of the law conflicted with the spirit of the law, well get things cleaned up and sort out the details later.

It might be a trap. It might be a sham. You might get fooled. You might get hurt. Or you might just light a little candle to shine in the dark.

MEDITATION-PELAGIUS

Regarded as a heretic by the Western Church. But there were two Popes named Pelagius in the sixth century. And Pelagius II was born with that name. Curiouser and curiouser. Looking forward to getting the book on Cassian, the theologian who tried to make Pelagius' teachings more palatable for the orthodox. So much I don't know.

MEDITATION-?

Something sis said this weekend keeps coming back in that irritating, itchy way that some thoughts have. Apparently the fastest growing church back home is Baptist style church popular with the young people. Services start on time and end on time. There's all sorts of youth groups, adult groups, singles groups etc. and up the wazoo.

It seems that the younger folks like it because it provides them "with what they want." I hate to admit it but my knowledge of the gospels is more than a little rusty. However, I 've always been under the impression that a certain itinerant preacher got in trouble with the imperial and temple authorities because he went around telling people what God wanted, not the other way around.

MEDITATION-BRUTAL

I was reminded of a line from this while watching a travel program about nothern Ireland. I hadn't listened to the LP piece in years. Reading this is much more brutal than I rmembered.

Richard Harris (1930-2002)
This great poem by the late actor and singer Richard Harris was given a superb dramatic reading by the author on his 1973 LP record entitled His Greatest Performances. It’s available on his CD entitled The Anthology 1968-1974: Man of Words. The various place names, the “orange” and the “green,” and the fact that Harris was Irish, made it obvious his specific subject was the conflict between Protestant and Catholic in Northern Ireland. Like all great poetry though, it rings true in a much broader context.

There Are Too Many Saviors on My Cross

There are too many saviors on my cross, lending their blood to flood out my ballot box with needs of their own. Who put you there? Who told you that that was your place?

You carry me secretly naked in your heart and clothe me publicly in armor crying “God is on our side,” yet I openly cry Who is on mine? Who? Tell me, who? You who bury your sons and cripple your fathers whilst you bury my father in crippling his son.

The antiquated Saxon sword, rusty in its scabbard of time now rises— you gave it cause in my name, bringing shame to the thorned head that once bled for your salvation.

I hear your daily cries in the far-off byways in your mouth pointing north and south and my Calvary looms again, desperate in rebirth. Your earth is partitioned, but in contrition it is the partition in your hearts that you must abolish.

You nightly watchers of Gethsemene who sat through my nightly trial delivering me from evil— now deserted, I watch you share your silver. Your purse, rich in hate, bleeds my veins of love, shattering my bone in the dust of the bogside and the Shankhill road.

There is no issue stronger than the tissue of love, no need as holy as the palm outstretched in the run of generosity, no monstrosity greater than the acre you inflict. Who gave you the right to increase your fold and decrease the pastures of my flock? Who gave you the right? Who gave it to you? Who? And in whose name do you fight?

I am not in heaven, I am here, hear me. I am in you, feel me. I am of you, be me. I am with you, see me. I am for you, need me. I am all mankind; only through kindness will you reach me.

What masked and bannered men can rock the ark and navigate a course to their annointed kingdom come? Who sailed their captain to waters that they troubled in my font, sinking in the ignorant seas of prejudice?

There is no virgin willing to conceive in the heat of any bloody Sunday. You crippled children lying in cries on Derry’s streets, pushing your innocence to the full flush face of Christian guns, battling the blame on each other, do not grow tongues in your dying dumb wounds speaking my name. I am not your prize in your death. You have exorcized me in your game of politics.

Go home to your knees and worship me in any cloth, for I was never tailor-made. Who told you I was? Who gave you the right to think it? Take your beads in your crippled hands, can you count my decades? Take my love in your crippled hearts, can you count the loss?

I am not orange. I am not green. I am a half-ripe fruit needing both colors to grow into ripeness, and shame on you to have withered my orchard. I in my poverty, alone without trust, cry shame on you and shame on you again and again for converting me into a bullet and shooting me into men’s hearts.

The ageless legend of my trial grows old in the youth of your pulse staggering shamelessly from barricade to grave, filing in the book of history my needless death one April. Let me, in my betrayal, lie low in my grave, and you, in your bitterness, lie low in yours, for our measurements grow strangely dissimilar.

Our Father, who art in heaven, sullied be thy name.

MEDITATION-THE FALL

Rewrite the story of the Fall in Genesis without the spiritual element and the story is as old as humanity. It’s repeated every time some guy tries to get a girl into his bedroom. It’s repeated every time a joint, a line of coke, even a cigarette is offered with the tired refrain of “everybody’s doing it,” “what’s the matter, you scared,” and the classic “nobody will every know.” There’s at least one problem with trying to keep a secret. No matter how deep you bury that secret at least one person will always know what happened. You can hide things from everyone but yourself. Buried deep inside it festers and creates a wall between you and everyone around you.

And if you believe that in some way the God of scripture set the forces of creation in motion that resulted in humanity and every other creature in the universe, including a certain tempter; there’s always “don’t tell Dad.” And there’s another old standby. Take out the King James sixteenth century language and you might find that the story takes on a five year olds’ playground singsong; “I know something you don’t know.”

Perhaps the death blamed on man’s fall in the garden wasn’t the physical death that the far right evangelicals claim. After all there’s no claim in scripture that our physical bodies were meant to be immortal. Even stars and planets are born, age and die. Something the writers who preserved scripture wouldn’t have, couldn’t have known.

Perhaps the meaning story isn’t death of the body but injury to the soul. When truth is ignored, trust is impossible and without trust there can never be love or hope. And without love or hope life is meaningless.

MEDITATION-BIRDS AND BELLS

With a bit of adaptation this would work for almost anyone. It’s still a beautiful piece.

Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the children of the earth.
Every part of the earth is sacred.

The air is precious, for we share the same breath.
Every part of the earth is sacred.

This we know, the earth does not belong to us; we belong to the earth.
Every part of the earth is sacred.

This we know, all things are connected;
Like the blood that unites on family.
Every part of the earth is sacred.

Our God is the same God,
Whose compassion is equal for all.
Every part of the earth is sacred.

We do not weave the web of life;
We are merely a strand in it.
Every part of the earth is sacred.

Whatever we do to web, we do to ourselves.
Every part of the earth is sacred.


From the Rhythm of Life by David Adam

David Adams was vicar of the parish on the island of Lindesfarne for many years. Although he is now retired he still lives on the island. Also known as Holy Island, it’s all of two square miles in area. The island has had some kind of religious foundation since 635 AD. It’s a place where you can be immersed in the sounds of the sea, the birds, the wind and the old church bells.

MEDITATION-THE PRAYER OF SAINT FRANCIS

Lord make me an instrument of they peace:
Where there is hatred let me sow love,
Where there is injury let me sow pardon,
Where there is doubt let me sow faith,
Where there is despair let me sow hope,
Where there is darkness let me sow light,
Where there is sadness let me give joy.

O divine master, grant that I may
Not try to be comforted, but to comfort,
Not try to be understood, but to understand,
Not try to be loved, but to love,

For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in forgiving that we are forgiven.

From the Glenstal Book of Prayer

MEDITATION-COME HOLY SPIRIT

Holy Spirit, bringing order out of chaos,
Come renew the face of the earth.

Holy Spirit, breathing life into the lifeless,
Come renew the face of the earth.

Holy Spirit, making strong the weak,
Come renew the face of the earth.

Holy Spirit, giving talents to your people,
Come renew the face of the earth.

Holy Spirit, guiding all who venture,
Come renew the face of the earth.

Holy Spirit, filling all things,
Come renew the face of the earth.

The God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing,
That you may abound in hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.

David Adam in The Rhythm of Life

MEDITATION-POINT OF VIEW

Tom Cowan tells a story that echoes the old Irish tale of the voyage of King Bran. As the coracles of Bran and his men sail into the west they are met by a strange vision a chariot and driver are speeding west over the waves. The driver is Mannanan son of Lir one of the Irish gods of the sea. Where the sailors see ocean and dolphins Mannanan sees a field covered with grass and flowers.

Cowan’s tells the tale of two Irish hermits. The first leaves his hut by a lake to catch a fine, fat fish for his breakfast. As he casts his line he spots his neighbor hermit from across the lake. His neighbor is calmly walking across the WATER. Hailed by the curious boatman he tells him he is seeking flowers for his alter and what is his neighbor doing in a boat in the middle of a flower filled meadow. The confused fisherman tells him he’s looking for breakfast. “The fish are biting over by those foxgloves” says the second hermit and so they are. Each returns to his hut, one with breakfast, the other with his flowers.

Perhaps the difference between paradise and a desert depends on your point of view. And your ability to find a fine, fat fish swimming over by the foxgloves.

MEDITATION-YOU SHALL BE AS GODS

There are two Creation stories in Genesis. The first story ends with man being granted dominion of the earthly part of the Creation. The second story ends with the Fall. The usual interpretation since the days of Augustine, the melancholy former Manichean, is that sex was somehow involved.

Part of an essay by Thomas Merton put a different cast of the story of the “Fall.” In Merton’s interpretation what man reached out to take on his/her own was something that we already had; but it was within the relationship with God. And it doesn’t have anything to do with sex. It has to do with men reaching for the power of Gods, without the relationship, knowledge or respect for the rest of Creation. To me that dominion was granted within our relationship with God. When mankind reached for the power of God outside that relationship we lost the right to that dominion. We’re still trying to exercise it, but damn it we continue to destroy far more than we create.

We heard the litany all through the eighties and beyond. “God gave us dominion, we can do whatever we want with the earth as long it makes a profit for somebody; especially me.” “And anyone who doesn’t agree with this is a tree hugging, tree worshipping pagan.”

I have a variation on the old philosophy question. “If a tree dies in a forest does it go to waste?” It’s a question that gets asked a lot in the Northwest. And the usual answer from the big lumber companies is “Yes!” We have very little old growth forest left and there are still some companies that would love to take their chainsaws to it.

And no, I don’t believe that when a tree dies and falls in the forest that it’s wasted. I’ve seen those old, fallen trees. They support a whole universe in that rotting tree. You can find insects, mushrooms, moss, lichens and small bushes living on that old log, For me the whole idea of sustainable logging is an oxymoron. There is no way you can keep taking the life from the forest and not put back. You can do it for a few generations but in the end you’ll be left with a forest that’s a shadow of the old growth stands.

MEDITATION-NO HUMANS NEED APPLY

God created the garden and put man and woman in it to tend it and care for it in partership with God.

Now we seek to recreate the garden, Paradise, on our own. If only we had enough power, enough resources, enough labor saving devices, enough of something we don't seem to have. Except people. All the schematics for paradise from the seventies and eightes seem to have room for everything but people. And this abundance comes with a price tag. After we've come up with the ultimate labor saving devices and put everyone out of work who will have the money to buy all this abundance?

Machines planting, harvesting, recycling; cycle after cycle: a paradise of machine perfection. No disruptive, unprogrammable, imperfect humans need apply.

Note to self-reading Wendell Berry before noon is not for the faint of heart

MEDITATION-GROW WHERE YOU'RE PLANTED

I’ve never been very comfortable in my own skin. I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s curiosity; trying to understand how all the pieces fit together. The problem is, somebody took all the puzzle boxes, upended all the pieces on the table and hid the box tops with the pictures. At least that’s how it seems sometimes.

So there I went again. Threw up my hands and headed out the church door. Funny thing is I keep spiraling back. At least I managed to fit a few of pieces together. I’ve been reading Seeking God by Esther de Waal. It’s a commentary on St. Benedict’s rule. One of the vows Benedictine religious promise is stability. Briefly put, it means grow where you’re planted. Stop trying to reach that glow on the other side of the mountain. The glow just keeps moving. Stop, listen, read, pray; and grow where you’re planted.

ON MY ASS IN THE GRASS-rough draft

A funny thing happened to me on the way out the church door. My path spiraled right back into the sanctuary. I tripped over a movie, dove back into an unfinished book and, like William Wilberforce sitting on the wet grass in Amazing Grace, I'm trying to figure out if I found God or if God found me. And, like Mr. Wilberforce, I find the whole situation.......inconvenient for the lack of a better word. I keep telling God to go away and like the relative who knows that home is the one place where they have to let you in.......God keeps saying "let me in."

I really wish I could be like so many of the people I see around me. Of course I have no X ray vision to see into their souls, but they seem serenely untroubled by the soul searching that I can't seem to shake.

There I was, supremely prepared I believed to strike out on my own and follow some neo pagan path to spiritual fulfillment only to be reminded that frankly, that view of God is too small. I am strongly drawn to much of Celtic view of the world. The grounding in the earth and the beauty of the created world and that does exist within Christianity. From Iona to Bobbio in Italy, those wandering Irish holy men and women planted their love of God and His creation. It surfaced time and again in Hildegard and Mechtild, in Francis and Ekhart.

KITTIES

Bandit is the only cat I've ever seen that loves to sleep on their back. Up until recently she only did it when the others were out of the house. Lately she and Lucky have been sharing moms' chair when she isn't in it. And Lucky doesn't yank chains unless she really feels like it.
I really get a kick out of her half asleep grooming. Just a lazy half wash the face and almost make it to the ears.

Just lazin' around.

And then look really cute.

NOW IS THE TIME FOR ALL GOOD MEN TO COME TO THE AID OF THEIR COUNTRY

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PLAYING WITH PICTURES

This is a collage of a day lily called little fairy. And it is a sweet little lily.









This is a collage of a dahlia. I don't know it's name but it was really pretty before the frost got it last year.

A Shasta daisy that originally came from my grandmothers yard.

A black eyed susan.

And a cone flower

I'm trying to get a handle on posting pictures in this format. Arrrrghh!





This one is for summer.

And this is fall. I guess my quickie little posts of slam bam thank you mam shots are a thing of the past. Wahhhhhhhhh!

NEW ARBOR

This is our new arbor. The rambler rose will be planted on the right (the north side) next to the house. Should be spectacular.

ANOTHER EXPERIMENT

Found another variation for the foccacia dough. It makes a pretty good pita bread.

We're a little roundness challenged here. It's been ages since I've tried pocket bread so this isn't bad for the first go round. At least this batch didn't split at the bottom like my original experiments. I think I need to invest in another peel and use corn meal next time so they slide a little easier onto the hot stone and air pan I had in the hot oven. Part of me has the "good enough" attitude. The other part has the feeling the the Creator/Creatoress was generous enough to make the good ingreadiants available. The least I can do is make the best use of them I can.

FOCACCIA BREAD

baked a variation of this bread last Sunday. I did a double batch finished some for us and parbaked the rest. Lisa knows all about parbaking. Heaven knows we did enough of it at the Little Bakery in the Mall. ;-).
HERBED FOCACCIA

2 ½ to 3 ¼ cups all purpose flour plus additional for kneading
½ cup whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons dry yeast
1 teaspoon dried rosemary
¾ salt preferably kosher or sea salt
½ teaspoon coarsely ground pepper
1 cup very warm water (110 to 120 degrees)
1 ½ tablespoons olive oil
Vegetable oil spray
1 tablespoon yellow corn meal

Focaccia topping
1 teaspoon rosemary
¼ teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
1 ½ tablespoons olive oil.

Dissolve the yeast in a couple of tablespoons of the warm water and put aside. In a large mixing bowl whisk together the flours, rosemary, salt, and pepper. Make well in the center and pour in the water, dissolved yeast and olive oil. Mix together with a wooden spoon or the dough hook of an electric mixer until a dough forms, about five minutes. Turn onto a lightly floured surface and knead by had for 10 minutes until the dough is smooth and elastic.

Coat a mixing bowl lightly with cooking oil, place the dough in the bowl, cover and set aside to rise until doubled. Punch down the dough and form into a rough rectangle. Lightly oil a 9x13 rectangular baking pan and sprinkle the bottom with the corn meal. Pat and stretch the dough until it fits the pan. Cover and put it aside until the dough is doubled.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Use your fingers to make light indentations in the dough. Brush the surface with about 1 ½ tablespoons of olive oil and sprinkle with the remaining rosemary, salt and pepper. Bake until the focaccia is golden brown and well risen, about 25 to 30 minutes. Turn the bread onto a rack to cool slightly and cut into squares. Can be frozen for up to a month. To reheat wrap in foil and bake at 350 for 5 minutes, unwrap and heat another 5 minutes to crisp)

Variations:

Substiture dried sage, marjoram, or basil for the rosemary

Knead in ¼ cup chopped black olives such as kalamata, gaeta, or nicoise into the dough.

Knead ¼ cup finely chopped sun dried tomatoes into the dough

Add two tablespoons grated parmesan cheese to the dough and sprinkle another two tablespoons on top before baking.

Add garlic to taste to the olive oil used for the dough and the topping.

Top with a half cup of thinly sliced sautéed in a little olive oil.

From The Family Health Cookbook put out by the AMA back in the nineties.

To parbake you prep the bread and bake it to the point where it just starts to brown. I baked some of the foccacia all the way with extra garlicy olive oil and parmesan cheese for us Sunday and froze the rest until tonight whenI finished the rest to take to work tomorrow.The house smells so good right now.

You can have those flowery air fresheners, I'll take garlic anyday. So far it's going over very well. It's fun to take a recipe and figure out how to make it better or different.