30 Days of Hearing -- News

The sounds today were the sounds of news -- expected and unexpected. Arising this morning, I heard the local and national news on television. Among the highlights of the local news was the annual dyeing the Indianapolis canal green for Saint Patrick's Day. While I am glad that the Irish have their day, I wonder when we Quaker's are going to have day -- and if we do, will they dye the canal grey?

In national news, of course, is all the hubbub and humbug around the health care bill. On and on and on and on and on. The Republicans say this; the Democrats say that. Both vilify the other.

Arriving at work I heard news from my co-workers -- about visits to the doctor, movies that were watched, and plans for the day. Then during the day, I heard all sorts of news about a new purchasing plan we are thinking about, the safe arrival of a new camera at one of our offices, letters that needed signed, a new way to ... Well, it's sort of boring to list, but was important stuff at work.

I also received email and telephone calls giving me news -- a friend's new project with liturgical arts, the possible good change in another friend's job, a new picture of me being posted on Facebook, and so on. Some of the news was good; some was sad; some was tragic.

Of course, I liked hearing the good news much more than I did hearing the bad news -- especially the bad news involving my friends. But all the news I heard today in some way connected me with the wider communities of which I am a part -- my friends, my co-workers, my city, my country, my world. Some of the stories moved me to pray -- prayers of gratitude and prayers of supplication. And praying is something I always need to do more of.

As I thought of all the news that had come my way today, I was reminded of the best news -- the Gospel. "That God so loved..." And ultimately, that's the news I most needed to be reminded of today. That God loves -- not just me, but my friends, my co-workers, and all the people that populate this big blue marble. And that is good news, indeed.

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"We would suggest, however, that the world suffers more from its politicians than from its prophets. Social progress toward the good life might move more surely if [we] would dare to credit more highly the inner voice of moral guidance..."

-- Vincent D. Nicholson

30 Days of Hearing -- House Sounds

I'm home sick today. Some sort of bug -- probably picked up on an airplane trip. Oh well. So I gave into it and just stayed home. While drowsing abed most of the morning, a variety of sounds surrounded me. The ticking of the mantle clock. The whoosh of the geo-thermal heat coming on. A woodpecker working furiously on some piece of rotted tree trunk. The occasional jet coming in for a landing at the Indianapolis airport. A car coming up the long gravel drive. Someone (from that car, I suppose) knocking on the front door -- I didn't answer. The telephone ringing -- I didn't answer it, either. Princess the wondermutt barking off in the distance... no doubt on the trail of some much faster coyote. And the buzzing of my iPhone whenever an email came in.

Even though I was abed resting and no television or stereo was on and I was wrapping myself in silence as well as blankets, I heard, in the supposed silence, all these sounds. They reminded me of the ongoing beat of life... and how it makes itself heard. Just like a heartbeat ... so silent to the world outside, heard only by someone who comes close enough in silence to listen.

I am grateful for those sounds today -- even the doorknocking and telephone ringing. Even if I don't answer then.

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- Business

The past few days have been filled with the sounds of business. Metallic voices calling flight numbers, the whine of jet engines straining for take off speed, women's and men's voices debating significant issues, elevators zipping up to hotel rooms, the buzz of people enjoying before dinner drinks, and so much more.

And that's why I shared to following at the opening of our board meeting the other day -- to help us refocus on the meaning behind those sounds of business ... and life.

There is a spirit which I feel that delights to do no evil, nor to revenge any wrong, but delights to endure all things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end. Its hope is to outlive all wrath and contention, and to weary out all exaltation and cruelty, or whatever is of a nature contrary to itself. It sees to the end of all temptations. As it bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in thoughts to any other. If it be betrayed, it bears it, for its ground and spring is the mercies and forgiveness of God. Its crown is meekness, its life is everlasting love unfeigned; and takes its kingdom with entreaty and not with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of mind. In God alone it can rejoice,...

Those are the dying words of early Friend James Nayler. These words of beauty and power have coursed through my soul and challenged me since I first heard them almost 30 years ago.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about that last phrase -- “In God alone it can rejoice.” That’s because I tend to rejoice in lots of other things – the good work that I get to participate in at the Center, the workshops my friend Beth and I are co-leading and the book we are going to write, and the disappearance of the snow! I find it easy to rejoice in God’s creatures and abounding gifts. I enjoy the beauty of the earth – am brought near to tears driving through the Hoosier countryside as the sun sets.

I am enraptured as well by much of human creation be it music or art or writing. It is easy for me to see the divine thread running through literature, art, music and all human endeavor. For example, I was moved deeply by the “Sacred Spain” exhibit at the IMA that Katie graciously led our staff through during the holidays.

I see in those things a search for God and spirit that enlivens the subject and the creator. I am moved, too, by the random acts of kindness, large and small, that people do for each other. Their true beauty shines through in those efforts. Our longing for beauty in nature, the arts, and other people all can point us to the One who created it all. Does Nayler mean I shouldn’t rejoice in nature, people, and the arts? And so I resonate with the words of a sonnet by Kenneth Boulding that includes these lines:

What then! In God alone I must rejoice?
Not in His creatures, His abounding gifts?

Yes, because Nayler and other saints knew, nature, people, and the arts are reflections of the holy. As beautiful reflections they can be distracting. They can capture and hold my attention so strongly that I fail to look beyond them to what they are pointing me toward – God. Nayler’s words warn me that I am are to look to God first and not settle for the image – no matter how beautiful or reflective that image is.

Naylor’s words do not contain an original thought. They are merely a rewording of Jesus dictum to “seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.”

Seeking the kingdom of God first is not something that comes naturally for me. Thomas Kelly’s “Testament of Devotion” helps me with this. He writes powerful moving prose that beckons us to a life of the spirit. He says

“Deep within us all there is an amazing inner sanctuary of the soul, a holy place, a Divine Center, a speaking Voice, the which we may continuously return. Eternity is at our hearts, pressing upon our time-torn lives, warming us with intimations of an astounding destiny, calling us home unto Itself.”

If coming to that Divine Center is what it means to seek first the kingdom of God, then I know I want to do that. That’s why Nayler says it is “in God alone I must rejoice.” It is why Jesus says “Seek ye first the kingdom of God.” Because when we have found our rejoicing in God alone, then all else pales. It is not that it is less beautiful it is just that God is more beautiful.

As Boulding writes, in another sonnet based on Nayler’s words:

“Seek first the Kingdom – for thy joys are dim
Until thou findest all things new, in Him”

There is a spirit that in God alone rejoices – may that spirit come and dwell in us so that we might “findest all things new, in Him.” Even in the midst of the sounds of business.

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- Dinner Conversation

Last night, in Herndon, Virginia, I went out to dinner with my boss Tim Shapiro and our board of directors member Katie Patterson and her husband Jack. That was a rather eclectic group that gathered at the Ice House. Tim's a Presbyterian minister, Katie's a speech therapist and art museum volunteer, Jack's a corporate pilot (they are both Catholic), and I am some Quaker type.

Whatever would we have to talk about?? The biggest thing we share in common is our link to the Indianapolis Center for Congregations. Well, even with a couple of introverts like Tim and me thrown into the mix, things went very well. From the time we climbed into Tim's car until the time we reentered the hotel, the conversation was lively.

We talked about current goings on in DC (since we are close), non-for-profits who hold on to certain investments perhaps a wee bit too long, the Academy Awards, salaries at regional air carriers, art exhibits, our families, and more. We told bad jokes and made even worse puns -- boy, is it hard to keep up with Jack in that department, though I admit I tried.

And while we did not talk much about our faith, it was the tie that bound us together over dinner. Because of our faith, we had each flown to DC to the board meeting -- believing in the center's mission of helping strengthen local congregations.

We were not the same type of Christian gathered around that table. Catholic, Quaker, Presbyterian. And yet, the conversation reminded me, that we did not to be all the same. And I also remembered the words of Isaac Penington who wrote in 1659 that:

…, oh, how sweet and pleasant it is to the truly spiritual eye to see the several sorts of believers, several forms of Christians in the school of Christ, every one learning their own lesson, performing their own peculiar service, and knowing, owning, and loving one another in their several places and different performances to their Master, to whom they are to give an account, and not to quarrel with one another about their different practices. For this is the true ground of love and unity, not that such a man walks and does just as I do, but because I feel the same Spirit and life in him, and that he walks in his rank, in his own order, in his proper way and place of subjection to that: and this is far more pleasing to me than if he walked just in that track wherein I walk.

I am blessed to "see the several sorts of believers, several forms of Christians in the school of Christ" throughout my life. "Every one learning their own lesson." And hearing last night's conversation reminded me just how blessed I am in that regard.

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"To meet at all, one must open ones eyes to another; and there is no true conversation no matter how many words are spoken, unless the eye, unveiled and listening, opens itself to the other."

-- Jessamyn West

30 Days of Hearing -- Ring Tone

I am not the sort of fellow who goes in for special ring tones for individual callers. Well, not for the most part. I used to have the "Hallelujah" chorus play when family called... but that was on my old phone and I haven't updated the new one to do that. Most people just get my standard ring tone which is the theme song from "Mr. Deity."

But today, in the midst of meetings and preparation for my trip to D.C., I missed hearing that familiar (to me) ring tone and came back to discover a message from my friend and co-author Beth.

"Hi. I know you'll be flying tomorrow. I hope you survive the flight," sang her bright, cheery voice. (I wonder if she's always this bright and cheery. I must check with her husband, Dave).

Hope you survive the flight??? Yikes! Except, I knew what she meant. Beth knows I hate (and I mean hate as in scared to death and in dire need of tranquilization) flying. So what I heard was her concern for me.

Still, it was a bit disconcerting -- "I hope you survive the flight."

Then she tried to cover up by explaining what she meant... and, of course, just dug a deeper hole. I was really laughing by the time I called her back.

But it did make me wonder -- how many times have I said something that sounded so right in my mind but came out so wrong aurally? Especially to the listener? How many times have I tried to say something helpful and said something hurtful? Way too many, I am afraid.

It also made me think of the grace we extend to those we love. If an "enemy" of mine had said those words, I would have resented them -- heard them as a dig at my failure of nerve. But since they came from Beth, a good friend, I heard them as care and compassion about something she knows troubles me. Even if she does not have that fear herself.

I also remembered the old gospel hymn "Open My Eyes," especially the second verse --

Open my ears, that I may hear voices of truth thou sendest clear,

And while the wave-notes fall on my ear, everything false will disappear.

Indeed, the false disappeared in the truth of Beth's call. The truth was she reached out in Christian love and offered a wish for my fear to be eased and my travels to be smooth. May all my words -- well-spoken or not -- be heard with that same grace. The grace of intention and love.

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- Spring

I heard the sounds of spring today. No, not the ones that usually come to mind -- birdsong or lawnmowers or daffodils popping open (not that I've ever heard that!). Instead, as the sun was out and the temperature neared 60 I heard people saying things like:

"Spring must be coming."

"I love this warm weather."

"The snow is gone!"


Ah, the sounds of spring -- human voices rejoicing in the grip of winter being broken. Of course, being Hoosiers, we will soon be complaining about tornado season and then the heat and humidity, but for now the sounds issuing forth were those of rejoicing.

And, as I thought of those sounds, I was reminded of how little I lift my voice in rejoicing. I am quick to whine; slow to sing praises. Of God, or spring, or even the people with whom I spend my daily life.

While I am as grateful as anyone for the warmth of the March day I just enjoyed, I am most grateful for the voices reminding me to be ... um ... grateful. For all with which I have been blessed -- which is much.

So, even though the season's first thunderstorms might roll in later this week and take some of the bloom off this season, I am grateful for the sun, the warmth, and voices that celebrated them.

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The Light Within, which is the central Quaker idea, is no abstract phrase. It is an experience. It is a type of religion that insists upon a real and vital experience of God revealed to persons, to their own souls, in their own personal lives. "

--Rufus Jones

30 Days of Hearing -- Ghosts, Redux

I heard more ghosts last night. Except these were not voices from the past. They were voices from the present that evoked the past.

I attended the Central Ohio Young Life 40th anniversary banquet in Columbus. I was a Young Life staff person there from 1972 to 1976, mostly involved with the West and Hilliard clubs. I was in town visiting my parents, so they (who used to be on Young Life support committee), my sister Linda (a member of the West club), and I went.

One of the first people I ran into did seem like a ghost. It was a young man named Mike Chilcoat -- and he looked so much like Dave Chilcoat, his father who founded Young Life in Columbus in 1970 that I was truck speechless for a moment. His voice sounded like his dad's and he was a gracious, gentle, welcoming soul like his father (who passed away from ALS a few years ago). The short time spent talking to Mike brought back a flood of memories of a truly remarkable man -- a man who blessed my life immensely.

The next person I saw was also a Chilcoat. This time it was Beth -- Dave's wife. Who recognized me immediately even though we had not seen each other since 1976. After some reminiscing (her recall of my mistake of ordering "steak tartar" 35 years ago because I didn't know any better was a bit embarrassing), she reintroduced me to her son Jeff who I used to babysit on occasion (I remembered him sticking a Flintstones vitamin up his nose while I was watching him -- turnabout is fair play).

I also got to see Bev Brown who ran the West Club with me and who still looked beautiful and Jerry Kasberg who lead singing there and who is now a Presbyterian pastor. The Shover sisters and Glynda Rice who attended the West Club were also there.

All their voices were a delight to me. As were the words they spoke. I found them so affirming. I look back on those years and see my failings. They loom large ... things I wish I had said, things I wish I hadn't said. I see the times I failed to live up to the Gospel I proclaimed (and still do) and how I relied (and rely) on God's grace -- and hope that I communicated that message of Love and Grace well. And I also hope that I never held myself up as some sort of positive example -- that instead I pointed the way to a relationship with God.

The voices that spoke to me, last night, though, seemed to have either forgotten all my failings or forgiven me for them, or both. And for that I am grateful. I am grateful, too, for the kindness of those words... the memories of wonderful times aboard old Flxible buses on Young Life trips, silly skits, late nights at Camp Wilson, 20 minutes of silence as we thought about our relationships with God, and the love and support of people like Dave, Jerry, Beth, Bev, Jack Gilbert, Joe Guzzo, Jimmy Miller, Barb Turf, and so many more.

The blessings God has poured on my life are immeasurable. And the ghosts of Young Life past and present reminded me of that last night. I am grateful beyond words.

Now if I just had the hair I had back then!

-- Brent

PS The picture above is of a volleyball game in 1973 -- the West High Young Life club trip to Lake Hope, OH. I'm the yahoo who is up in the air after hitting the ball and Dave Chilcoat is on the far right in the back wearing a denim shirt.

30 Days of Hearing -- Ghosts

I heard ghosts today. I am in Ohio visiting my parents and sister Linda. While my folks still live on The Hilltop (as our side of Columbus is known), they do not live in the house I grew up in. So, since I am here a couple of days, I decided this morning to take a wee car ride and visit the neighborhoods where I grew up.

As I did, the voices and sounds of ghost came floating to me. First, I headed from Linda's house through Valleyview and I heard my father's voice warning, "You know this is a speed trap. They'll get you for going 26 in the 25 zone." Sure enough, heading south on Hague, there sat the Valleyview Police Department -- radar gun aimed and ready. Then it was south on North Eureka, past Holton Park where I spent hours playing tennis 35-40 years ago. I could hear the ka-thwack of the ball hitting the asphalt and zing as it smacked off our wooden rackets. Then it was south and west to Lechner Avenue to Glenwood Park where I used to sled. My Mom would warn me, "Don't talk to strangers." It was close to the then Columbus State Hospital for the Insane and she was worried, I guess, that I was the sort to take up with them.

On down Columbia Avenue, across Sullivant to Hauntz Park, where I could hear my cousins urging me to light the candles in our decorated wagon (covered with chicken wire and tissue paper) for the "Lantern Parade" around the park and the crack of my little league bat hitting a ball. And Hilltonia United Methodist Church where I heard the world's longest, most boring Indian story while a Cub Scout... a story that ended with the line, "The smoke signals said, 'Squaw Bury Shortcake'," a pun I found execrable even as an 8 year old.

Then I cruised up Springmont, past my cousins' Jon and Jeff's old house (now for sale) at the corner of Nashoba and Springmont. I could hear their voices calling me to hurry up as we walked home from Mound Street Elementary School. They were a year older, wise second graders to my inexperienced first grade. They are both dead now, but I could hear them also trying to guess who I was at a Hallowe'en party we kids had down in the basement of that house. Other voices of other kids came back as I cruised that neighborhood where I lived the first nine years of my life. I saw our old house on Sullivant Avenue and then our "new" house on South Eureka. At first glance, it looked the same and I heard the voices of Mike Rader and Mike Riley and my other buddies. I saw John Burroughs Elementary School and heard Mr. Sarsfield, my sixth grade teacher, exhaling an exasperated, "Brent."

Other voices came as I cruised along. My grandparents' voices on Richardson Avenue. My teachers at West High School. Sunday school teachers at Highland Avenue Friends Church. And on and on and on and on.

Perhaps these were not "real" sounds. But they sounded real to me. Each sound and each voice came through with crystal clarity. And it reminded me that we never lose that which we have loved -- be they people or places; alive or dead. My friends and family, many long departed, traveled with my through my old haunts... and I was grateful for their company. And the blessings they imparted ... blessings they may not have even known that they were giving me. Indeed, blessings that may have gone unrecognized even by me at the time.

As I drove, I remember being deathly afraid of ghosts when I was nine and living on Sullivant Avenue. I had a recurring nightmare of a monstrous ghost that looked a bit like Godzilla appearing out of the evening mists around Hauntz Park. Today, though, I found the sounds of ghosts all very comforting... and was grateful for their company.

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- Shredding

Shredding. As in paper being fed through one of those machines. And jazz. As in music coming from Rabbi Spiegel's office. Hallway conversations. Water running through the coffee maker. The UFOish sound of the scanner down the hall. One side of phone call conversations. Telephone rings. Intercoms buzzing. Hum of traffic on the street outside my window. The creak of a chair being leaned back on.

All these and more reminded me that I was back in the office today. I heard these sounds and thought, "It is good." And it is. I am blessed with work. A worthy work. No more worthy, I think, than anybody 'work be they bag boy or local pastor or schoolteacher, but worthy nonetheless. A job that blesses me and hopefully blesses others through me.

And so I took a few minutes to just stop and listen to the sounds that make up most of my day to day existence -- the 9 to 5 routine (actually 8:30 to 4:30) of going to work at the Center for Congregations. And while many of the sounds are man-made, many are human, too. Happy laughter, exasperated sighs, heels clicking on the wood floor of the entryway, a toe tapping in time to music pouring out of computer speakers, and more.

The human sounds remind me that the real reason I am here has nothing to do with the to do lists I compose on my way in every morning. And which can become someone obsessive for me when I feel my progress on them has been interrupted -- by some PERSON who needs something.

To serve the people who are here... that's my purpose here. To make it easier for them to do their work of serving congregations and the people who love them. I need to remember that human dimension and let go of the "to do" dimension.

So now it is just after 4:30. Aaron Spiegel and I are the only ones here. He's on the phone. I'm click-clacking away on my laptop. Soon we'll be off to a work-related dinner and our lives will be filled with human conversation and the blessing that comes with it. Thank God for work sounds.

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- Birdsong

Ah, the first day of March. And, compared to most of February at least, it came in like a lamb. The temperature rose to almost 40 and snow was melting. The driveway is becoming a wee bit less rutted -- you actually have to steer up the 1/3 of mile unlike the past week where you put your front tires in the ruts, took your hands off the steering wheel, and let yourself be guided.

But the most remarkable thing -- fittingly for a day to begin "30 Days of Hearing" -- was the birdsong that was evident. From the moment I opened the garage door this morning until when I pulled back in this evening, the sound of birds was evident. Happy, chirpy sounds of tiny birds to the piercing cry of a white tailed hawk searching for food to the gentle calls of the bald eagles down the creek from us to squawking of geese flying overhead.

It was the sound of the world coming back to life, it seemed to me. It reminded me that, in spite of the snow and cold and gloom, that life was all around me. And that it often is, if I will just take time to notice it.

It also reminded me that our senses are intertwined ... so intertwined that we often take them for granted. I heard the bird songs as I walked and felt the ground under my feet and felt the wind on my cheeks. I heard the cry of the hawk and searched the sky with my eyes until I spotted it circling and soaring. I smelled the mud I stirred up as I tramped with my boots and the scent of the creek rushing by brought the taste of fresh water to my mouth.

I noticed all of this because I heard the sound of birds. And I was reminded of one of my favorite hymns, "For the Beauty of the Earth"

For the joy of ear and eye
For the heart and mind's delight
For the mystic harmony
Linking sense to sound and sight;

Lord of all, to thee we raise
This our hymn of grateful praise

Indeed ... the mystic harmony linking sense to sound and sight. A true gift from God that I recognized anew because of the birds singing their praises. Cardinals, jays, hawks, woodpeckers, eagles, and even an owl -- all singing out, declaring their Maker's creativity and grace. And someday, even a weak voice like mine will join with all of God's creation and

"And we will surely sing
With all the wonder of birds..."

Till that day...

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Our first task is to love one another, to be valiant for the truth upon the earth, and to remain attentive to the true spirit in all that we do."

-- Newton Garver

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"For communication with art helps us to see. Unless the artist in us functions readily—as it did for Jesus, St. Francis and George Fox, for instance— we actually see very little in life. We recognize, we identify, we evaluate: we see what we remember, usually distorting what we see to fit the pattern of memory. Ordinarily, we see with scales of habit on our eyes. Art teaches us, as Blake puts it, to see through, not with the eyes. We see from a depth within us, and therefore see the depths in things. Clive Bell said that art grasps the universal within the particular. This implies, not Pantheism, but the world as the language of God, wooing the human race, awakening that of Himself within persons."

-- Dorothea Blom

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"[The fine arts] at their greatest, always contain some revelation of the Spirit of God, which is in the fullest harmony with our spiritual faith. In the fields of music, art, and literature, as in others, Friends may witness to the glory of God and advance that glory by their service. The "fulness of the whole earth is His glory," and we mar the beauty of this message by every limitation we set upon it.

— William Charles Braithwaite

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The saint is ... a man or woman who become clear as to exactly what he wants of all there is in the world, and whom a love at the heart of things has so satisfied that he gaily reduces his cargo to make for that port. 'Oh God, my Lord, do as thou wilt; I will be still.' He is one who is doing what he wants wants to do ... what lies beneath the minutes and the days and the years he would want to do if all of them should vanish and leave him forever at it. He is responding back to the love of God in whatever setting he may be placed. He is a radical in the true sense of that word, for he has gone to the root of things and found the root good. He is holy in the sense of the totality of his abandonment to that Loving One."

-- Douglas V. Steere

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The deepest Self of all is that Self which we share with all others. This is the one Vine of which we all are branches, the Life of God on which our own individual lives are based."

-- Howard H. Brinton

So What Does It Mean to be Human

That was the question I wondered after watching "Moon" with Sam Rockwell. I don't want to give too much away from this 2009 film in case you haven't seen it, but...Sam Bell is an astronaut (or is he?) who has left family behind for a 3 year contract on the Moon mining a substance that has freed those of us on Earth from dependence on fossil fuels.

What a great guy. What a great company. Except is he? Are they?

Sam remembers his life on Earth. His wife. His daughter. He even remembers his life on the Moon. And he is confused when ... well, "he" appears a bit younger and healthier in the same space --- and actually rescues him from an accident.

It's a lovely spooky film that raises questions only fiction can -- if we try to think about them rationally, we quickly lose our way. That is why, I believe, only story tells the "whole" truth -- it asks the questions we want to ask, struggles with the questions we want to ask, and dares to leave us unanswered.

Is that not the essence of faith? To go where reason ceases to make sense and to venture into the realm of ... the myterious? The spirit? The soul?

And, as a Friend who believes "there is that of God in everyone" it raised anew the question of who is "everyone"? Everyone like me? White? Privileged? Human? Animal? Clone? "Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?" (Psalm 139:7).

It is, I think, a frightful, wonderful question. A question we all should struggle with. Especially when we feel confident that God's presence is with us. Is it not equally with others? Recognized by us or not?

Well, I probably waxing too philosophical about a mere movie -- wonderful piece of entertainment or not. But, because I think it was a wonderful piece of entertainment, it also challenged me -- which is what good art does.

"Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?"

Indeed!

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"To me, being a Christian is a particular way of life…being the kind of person that Jesus wanted his followers to be and doing the things he told them to do … Nor, it seems to me, can you live a Christian life unless, like Jesus, you believe in the power of goodness, of mercy and of love… "

-- Kathleen Lonsdale

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"What does it mean, this trusting in God? I think it means that we are certain that spiritual power is life's precious foundation."

-- Emil Fuchs

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Jesus came to teach us to hear more honestly and understand more intelligently and deeply the voice of God within ourselves. Do not be too sure of yourself, pray truly, constantly. Do not distrust yourself, but ask for Strength, earnestly and constantly."

-- Pierre Ceresole

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"A major issue for the Society of Friends today is whether its emphasis is to be, once more, for this type of open, expectant religion, or whether it is to seek for comfortable formulations that seem to ensure its safety.”

-- Rufus Jones

Jones said this in 1940... hmmmm....

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Without the love of God the command to love our neighbor is a monstrous sarcasm, the imposition on mankind of impossible conflict between the moral sense and the will."

-- Kenneth Boulding

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"To be present is to be vulnerable, to be able to be hurt, to be willing to be spent - but it is also to be awake, alive, and engaged actively in the immediate assignment that has been laid upon us."

-- Douglas V. Steere

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Do you want to know whether a group is part of the true church? Very well, note whether they love each other; note whether their hearts are quickened by the love of the Living God; note whether they show that they have the mind of Christ in them. No other credentials are needed."

-- D. Elton Trueblood

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The world today is hag-ridden by fear, as if indeed the witches and warlocks of old Pendle had come to life, to execute a fearsome vengeance on mankind...If we could take up the challenges of 1652, we should know that the Lord is at work in the darkness; that the ocean of love and light is unquenchable, yesterday, today and forever; that whatever may befall us, our joy no man taketh from us..."

-- Elfrida Vipont Foulds

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"We too often bind ourselves by authorities rather than by the Truth. "

-- Lucretia Mott

Quaker Wisdom for Today

“A true friend freely, advises justly, assists readily, adventures boldly, takes all patiently, defends courageously, and continues a friend unchangeably.”

-- William Penn

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The place of prayer is a precious habitation: ... I saw this habitation to be safe, to be inwardly quiet, when there was great stirrings and commotions in the world."

- John Woolman

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Our strength or help is only in God; but then it is near us, it is in us - a force superior to all possible opposition - a force that never was, nor can be foiled. We are free to stand in this unconquerable ability, and defeat the powers of darkness; or to turn from it, and be foiled and overcome. When we stand, we know it is God alone upholds us; and when we fall, we feel that our fall or destruction is of ourselves."

-- Job Scott

A Quietude of Quakers: Or What Do You Call a Group of Friends?

As I've mentioned before, my friend Carrie Newcomer has a new CD coming out (you can, like me, pre-order it now!). "Before and After" is a wonderful album of of sublime songs with soul-felt lyrics. As we fans have all come to expect from Carrie, a thoughtful, deep, spiritual singer-songwriter.

But, there is this other side to her that folks who only listen to her serious stuff miss -- and that is her playful side. She writes some absolutely hilarious little tunes -- such as "Don't Push Send" on "Geography of Light." "Before and After"'s final track is a delightful example of a fun song -- "Crash of Rhinoceros." It's about Adam naming the animals (rather pedestrianly -- "Horse and cow and goat and sheep") and Eve thinking that the animals deserved something "a bit more unique and refined." And so she begins coming up with things such as "crash of rhinoceros," "pomp of Pekingese," "Parliament of owls," and so on.

As I said, it's delightful. A truly fun song.

And, though I am no songwriter (and certainly no singer -- as those who have heard me in my misspent younger days can attest!), it did remind me of a similar project I started a few years ago but never finished. That was coming up with names for groupings of religious people. I started with my own -- "a quietude of Quakers." Then came a "mass of Catholics." And then I was off:

• a presdestinarian of Presbyterians
• a bishop of Episcopalians
• a glossolalia of Pentecostals
• a healing of Charismatics

So I emailed Carrie about this. And about five minutes later she fired back:

• a litany of Lutherans
• a munificence of Methodist
• a boisterous of Baptist

And we were off to the naming races:

• a money of tele-evangalists
• a nest of snake handlers
• a sabbath of Seventh Day Adventists
• a tenacious of evangelical Quakers
• a visitation of Jehovah's Witnesses
• an aura of new-agers
• a brass of Salvation Army
• a momentum of Mormons
• an inclusive of Unitarians
• a dodecahedron of Disciples of Christ
• a singularity of Independent Christians
• a liberality of United Church of Christ

We paused for breath. Then she said, "Geeze Louise get two writers started on this. :-)" Geeze Louise, indeed.

This too much fun just to keep between Carrie and me -- so... submit your naming ideas!

And pre-order Carrie's new CD.

--Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Fire

If you average things out, I am warm. It's cold here in Indiana and that cold has seemed to seep into even a place as snug and warm as our Yankee Barn Home. So I am sitting by the fireplace. About as close as I can get. The geo-thermal is working hard to warm the place up, but is needing some assistance from the auxiliary heat. But the one-half of me facing away from the fireplace feels freezing. Cold drafts sneaking up my pants legs.

Gosh, I sound ... um... like my grandparents did when they were my age. I mean, they were old when they were my age (they were always ancient -- at least as I remember). And they would complain about drafts and sit wrapped in afghans and... OMG, that's me!!!

Being half cold and half hot made me think a bit about my life -- spiritual and otherwise. On the average, I'm okay. Sometimes I'm warm. Sometimes I'm cold. For the most part, I'm just right. And the older I get, just right (on average) is fine by me.

But for now... I am going to scoot a bit closer to the fire!

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Red Pen

I've been using a red pen a lot today -- my editing pen. I use it to make notes on other people's writing and to fix my own.

My writing has a lot more red marks than their's.

While I was using it, I remembered how, a few years ago, when I was writing Holy Silence: The Gift of Quaker Spirituality and I sent it to my former college professor and mentor T. Canby Jones. Though he called me and told me how much he liked it (which meant a lot), I remember getting the marked up manuscript back and feeling just like I did when I was a student of his at Wilmington College.

And I also thought of all the green ink that my fave editor Lil Copan has bled over the three books of mine that she's worked on. And that was after I had red-penned them numerous times!! I lived for the occasional "Good" or "Great" -- instead of the "I know you're a preacher, but quit!" comment. Even though she was right.

Ah, the editor's touch. Red ink, green ink, blue ink, yellow highlighter, Microsoft Word "track changes" and more. Hard to take, sometimes. But all with intent of making my writing clearer, stronger, better. And, for the most part, it did. And, I have learned to be a bit more brutal with myself while editing -- to kill my favorite phrases and most impressive words. If I am that enamored of them -- the words -- then I have probably stopped writing to express and have started just showing off, literary-ily speaking.

So what's the point of this little meditation? Well, I hate writing that always gives "the moral to the story." And I fear I do that too much. So, with editing pen in hand, I have crossed that part out. The moral is ... for you to figure out what the moral of touching the red pen is.

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Granola Bar

One of the "joys" of the diabetic life, as my fellow diabetics will attest, is "going low." Technically, that's known as hypoglycemia, but most of us in the diabetic cohort just call it "going low." It happens when our blood sugar goes below the normal range and it impacts us differently depending upon our body chemistry. For me, I tend to start feeling very sluggish. Then I progress (or digress) to fuzzy thinking, slurring words, and dragging my left foot when I walk. And my nose starts running.

It's the last one that bothers me... When the others happen, I tell myself I'm fine, but if my nose starts running, then I know I had better get something to eat and get my blood sugar back up into the normal ranges. Because the next step, for me, after runny nose is ... um... cussing and becoming combative. Until I slip into a sort of sleep state where I feel aware but my body just lays there.

It's not fun.

That's why I've got stuff stashed in my car, my golf bag, my camera bag, desk drawer, etc.

So of course, I never go low where that at work or golfing or in my car. I only go low in places where I don't have a stash and when I have forgotten to carry something with me.

I had gotten lax about that lately and so had some "episodes." My friend Chantale, a fellow diabetic, chided me about that, so I've been trying to be better. So today, when I went to Meeting for Worship, I stuffed my faithful standby -- a Quaker granola bar -- in my pocket. I was teaching Sunday school after worship and so knew that the possibility of needing a snack was real.

And even if I didn't, it was a comfort to know that it was there. Throughout Meeting, I felt that granola bar there. And, when Meeting was over and I stood up, my head felt a little muzzy. So out came the granola bar and back up went the blood sugar. And I was fine to teach and would be okay until I arrived at home for lunch.

As I thought about the granola bar -- that little bit of rolled oats, rice, coconut, raisins, and so on -- and how it could bring me back to life, I thought about the little things I carry with me that bring me back to life spiritually. Mine are mostly invisible, unlike more liturgical friends of mine who carry rosaries or wear crosses or have a talisman in their pocket. Mine are things like spiritual silence and sentence prayers. Things that help me regain a sense of spiritual perspective in the midst of going low spiritually.

Of course, the idea of a spiritual granola bar is just a metaphor... and sometimes nothing can stave off a low, be it physical or spiritual, but professional intervention. A doctor. Or a spiritual friend. But, for me, most of the time, a granola bar is just what the doctor ordered -- for my body or my soul.

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Woods and Mushrooms = Rest

Today has been a writing day. Deadlines have a wonderful way of focusing my attention. But unlike some writers I cannot write all day, hour after hour, without breaks of sorts. This morning I took a long one -- a walk in the woods.

It is a gloomy day, but I donned my boots, Carhart jacket, John Deere cap, grabbed my camera and went to see what the weather had wrought over the past few weeks while I've been mostly indoors. I tried to talk the dog into going with me, but Princess is even older than I am (at least in dog years) and figured there were no coyotes the direction I was heading, so declined. Ebony, the last surviving kitteh went with me part way, but then spotted a blue bird on a low branch -- and the stalking was on.

I walked on alone, feel the moist ground give beneath my old boots. I checked where there were newly fallen tree limbs that would need clearing come a drier day. I saw how much more bush honeysuckle needed pulling out, sawing down, or --*gasp* -- poisoned. That stuff is nasty. Much that I had cut last spring and fall, had come back. In force!

I also saw happily that in spite of some heavy rain, the creek bank had not eroded much. And I uncovered some of the tree saplings that had been engulfed in weeds and grass over the summer.

And, though the light was not great, I got some decent shots. Fallen logs covered with moss. Winter mushrooms. And then I heard shots. Close. To close. Very rapid. Large caliber. Large enough to put a fair sized hole in a guy my size, whose dressed in blue jeans and brown jacket and might be mistaken by some doofus as a deer or other critter worth shooting at -- legally or illegally, trespassing or not.

One would think that having 50 acres of land around you would guarantee a far amount of privacy and safety, but it is amazing how small an acre is when someone is firing a lot of ammunition very quickly and you can't tell what direction they are from you or what direction they are aiming.

So I decided to hotfoot it back up to the house. Indignantly, I returned -- my walk cut short.

Still, the walk and time away from words helped settle my mind and soul and get me ready to come back to words. Which I did with a renewed vigor -- and hopefully some decent writing.

I thought about that break as I thought about worship tomorrow. I thought about skipping it since I am in this writing mode. I have to go to Sunday school -- I'm teaching!! But, worship... hmmm, maybe I'll pass. After the walk, I thought, "No." I need to go. It will be the break I need to refresh and replenish my soul. If I am a writing a book that has a lot of God-talk in it, how in Heaven's name could I even consider not going and meeting with the One whom I'm writing about?

I'm slow sometimes. But eventually, God willing, I catch on. So tomorrow morning, I will arise and go to Jesus/ He will embrace me in his arms/ In the arms of my dear Savior/ O there are ten thousand charms.

And rest. Refreshment. Rejuvenation. And so much more.

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Purse

I held a purse this morning. That's not something I usually do. I don't carry a purse (even a man bag) as a rule, so that made this morning's touch a bit extraordinary.

How I came to touch a purse was out of the ordinary, too. My friend Cynthia was visiting the Center for Congregations with a group from the Capitol Region Theological Center in Albany, New York. As I came out to greet her and her fellow travellers, she held out her purse to me. "I brought this for you to feel," she said with a wink. The group of staff people and her friends at the CRTC looked quizzical. "You know why, don't you?" Cynthia said to me. Indeed, I did. One of the by-standers said, "Why?" So Cynthia said, "Well, Brent's writing this series called '30 Days of Touch' so I brought him this to touch. Now he has something to blog about today."

That's how I found out who the person is who reads the blog. It's Cynthia!

And that is how I came to be standing outside the conference room of the Center for Congregations fondling a deep green velveteen clutch with a rather elaborate flower of the same material and color attached.

It did not go with my outfit today at all.

So I handed it back to Cynthia after enjoying the lushness of the velveteen and the chuckles of the others standing there. The purse was pleasing to the touch. And that Cynthia thought enough to bring it for "inspiration" also touched me.

As the day has gone on, I thought about other purses ... notably ones in the Bible. Not all of them are good. Such as the sinner's in warned against in Proverbs 1. Beware those who say "let us all have one purse" -- they are up to no good. And Jesus sends his disciples out with "no money in their purse" and indeed, makes a fashion statement when he says (in Luke) not to carry a purse (about the only "commandment of Jesus that I have faithfully followed all my life).

Of course, the most famous purse in the Bible is one that is implied, but not called a purse -- the Samaritan's purse. The one that good fellow dipped into for funds to care for a stranger. Which reminded me of all the strangers who need me to dip into my purse -- most notably this week, the strangers of Haiti., hit again today by aftershocks.

While green velveteen may not be my style, I am glad again that Cynthia brought hers for me to touch -- and remind me to touch my own. And while touching it, to draw out some of what's in it and help those in need.

-- Brent

30 Dyas of Touch -- A Multitude of Feeling

So what has been the "touch" of the day? Well, fingers have touched keyboards, paper, skin, cloth, food, and so much more. The brisk winter wind has touched my face and reddened my cheeks. Lotion has touched my skin and eased the soreness beneath the redness. A ball cap has touched my bald head and covered its vulnerability from the cold.

Then there have been the emotional touches. The little joys that have come -- like a friend's reporting in that she had a good interview for a job I think will suit her. And the pricks that have come when I have felt I disappointed someone I care about.

And there have been the soul touches ... the times when, for a moment or a bit more, the Divine presence broke through. Like when the sun broke through the leaden clouds at a particular moment whilst driving home. No, I am not foolish enough to think that God planned that just for me ... but, but, but... what if the ways of God were so mysterious, so wise, and so caring that even in the midst of the human tragedies unwinding across the globe, there was just a bit of grace for me. Ah, dare I hope so. Or fear so... because if so for me, then why not for others in more desperate straits?

Ah, the vagaries of faith.

There are times, I wish, I did not feel. To not feel would mean to never hurt -- either by the prick of the lancet for blood testing or the prick of the heart when I know I have not lived up to my best self (and in so doing have hurt others as well). But to feel hurt ... to feel joyful ... to feel anything -- is that not part of being human? And to be fully human -- is that not what God has called us to be?

-- Brent

"Of making many books there is no end"

So says the writer of Ecclesiastes. And his words are no less true today than they were when written thousands of years ago.

I have been thinking a lot about book making every since my post yesterday on "Pages" started some discussions, including about the advantages of e-reading over paper reading, the ecological impact, and so on.

I do want to say that I was only saying, in that original post, why e-reading, by and large does not work for me other than email, blogs, and other mostly shorter forms. But that's just me. And others, I know, love to e-read and that's great.

But I do feel sort of like addressing some brief thoughts about the subject. One is the whole idea of books and community. It may seem like a stretch, but to me, books have an advantage over e-reading in creating community. Here's how -- for one, when I would read on my Kindle, that book was mine and only mine. Sure, I could pass the Kindle onto someone else -- but then I couldn't read my next e-book. Whereas, when I read a good traditional book, I can pass it on -- literally. I see or think of a friend who I feel would enjoy it and take it or mail to her or him. And I receive books that way, too.

And when I am done with a book, and feel that I will never use it again for research in my writing or just plain enjoyment, I can take it and donate it to a worthy group. I can share, that way.

I am pleased that there are many books on the Internet via public domain and Google books, but there are also many that are not. And so being forced to buy them electronically adds to our consumer culture. I suppose there are libraries who have electronic versions of books that are not in the public domain, but I have yet to learn of many around here.

And, yes, I do use libraries. I have had a library card since I was 10. One of the first things I do when I move to a new town is go to the library and get a card. But that's a whole 'nother subject.

Another think I do think about is the ecological impact. And yes, McSweeney's as a literary quarterly, is rarely a source for hard news, but the article I referred to earlier ("Can a Paper Mill Save a Forest: The strange possibility that the transferring of information digitally is more environmentally destructive than printing it") was part of a special edition of the quarterly that featured hard news in the format of a newspaper. It (San Francisco Panorama) came complete with news, opinion, arts, food, sports, and comic sections. And the story I referred to was part of the news. Nicholson Baker is a keen researcher, so I read his article with more than just a passing interest.

Here I where I am going to admit that I don't know which is more ec0-friendly. I'm not that smart. And I would have to do a lot more research. But I do think that the answer is not as clear as folks on either side would make it.

I do wonder about the recyclability factor though. I think of recycling in a number of ways. The first way is the sharing I mentioned about. When I am through with a book I often pass it on. Indeed, many of the books I have purchased have found their way to other homes -- including homes of people I don't know, since many of my friends pass books along, too.

A second way is the very paper itself -- it can be recycled and used in other books. Or insulation. Or...

A third thing I think about is trees as a renewable resource. If used correctly and well.

A fourth thing that occurs to me is just how hard a time I have recycling old computers and other electronic hardware here at work. And how so much of them is plastic and potentially dangerous heavy metals that can leach into our water table.

A fifth is carbon footprint of both types of printing -- the electricity used to make paper and LCD screens, the fossil fuels used to transport them from their source of manufacture to their end user, and more.

Ah, I could probably wonder forever about this. I often do think things to death. But those are my thoughts so far.

Like I said, I don't know the answer. And I'm not sure the answer matters as much as being aware of the question and trying to live out a faithful response to it. That's what I think we are all asked to do.

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Pages

I had a Kindle. I admit it. I was intrigued by the idea of a cool techno device that would allow me to carry books with me all the time. And I used it a lot. For a week or two. Then it went into my desk drawer and mostly sat there until late in 2009 when I got it out, charged it up, and ... gave it to someone else in our office.

I don't know what she thinks of it.

I have many good friends who use a Kindle or other e-reader. And my Sacred Compass is available on Kindle (more about that in a minute). And I feel like, Well, good for them. Hooray. Glad it works. But it just doesn't work for me. I don't think it's my age. I know folks older than me who love it. Especially the way they can enlarge the font.

I think it's because I am still a toucher of pages. Yes, I know that is somewhat contradictory for a guy who's writing a blog this very minute, but... since confession is good for the soul, as they say, there you go. And today I've been touching a lot of pages for lots of different reasons.

This evening, though, I've been enjoying touching pages of two books new to me. Howard Zehr's The Little Book of Contemplative Photography and Michael Sullivan's Windows into the Soul: Art as Spiritual Expression. Both are very good and I commend them to you.

But the point of this particular blog is not how good the content of these books are. Instead, it's how good they feel. I like the feel of the pages between my finger tips. I like the feel of a real marker sliding over the page ... be it slightly rough recycled paper or finely finished and smooth.

And as I enjoyed turning and marking the pages, I was reminded of other pages. Both of these books are, as you may have guessed from their titles, very spiritual, but I am thinking of the pages of the Bible. I started reading that book of books at an early age. Which is amazing.

I mean, when as a kid I would go to the Hilltonia branch of the Columbus Public Library, wander into certain sections, pick out a book and take it to the circulation desk, the librarian would call my mother to see if I was allowed to read a book that was above my reading level and might have fairly adult themes. But, if I pulled out the Bible with all it's murder and mayhem and sin and sex, nobody batted an eye.

Think about it.

I'm glad they didn't. For those stories formed my faith life. Those thin onion-skin pages filled with King James language opened up the stories of God and God's people. I found they were an often unruly, unrepentant lot -- even in the best times. And I could, even as a kid, identify with that. I knew I wasn't nearly as good a kid as my Sunday School teachers hoped I would be.

Still, I hungered for God. And those thin pages welcomed me. They opened the words of God to me. They still do. And so I am grateful today for the touch of pages between my fingers.

And I hope you are so blessed, too... even if they be virtual pages. Kindle-ized or memorized or whatever -- burned upon your heart.

-- Brent

PS Oh, Sacred Compass (yes, I am shameless, and yes, if you own a Kindle, I hope you'll buy it!) and Kindle... here's the rest of the story. While I was pleased that Sacred Compass was Kindle-ized (after all, that's more people who will read what I consider an important message), I was shocked to find out that some mistake in "translation" from print to Kindle had been made and the word "God" had appeared throughout the Kindle version as "god". Lowercase. Yikes. Thanks to Jennifer Ertel for catching that major faux pas. And thanks to the folks at Paraclete Press (my publisher) for fixing it right away.

30 Days of Touch -- Markers

I taught Sunday School today. For the second week. This was something I had vowed I would never do again after my friend Stan Banker asked me (20 years ago) to teach a six week course on Quakerism at First Friends in New Castle, Indiana. That six weeks turned into six years! I didn't quit teaching; I retired. Ha.

In spite of my vow, I did sign up to teach some sessions on Sacred Compass at West Newton Friends where I've been attending. Last week we drew our LifeMaps and this week we did Call Charts (places where the call of God has broken through in our lives). We use big ole flip chart paper and colored markers.

I brought lots of markers -- thin, fat, scented, unscented, vibrant colors, muted pastels. Most people seemed to enjoy the exercise. I'd like to think that was because it had some spiritual significance, but even if it was just that they got to play with markers, well, that is fine by me.

I know I enjoyed the markers. The first one I picked up was a fat barreled scented marker. Licorice. Black licorice. Which I love. Ymmm. Then I used a thin pale blue marker, no scent at all. Just for fun, when no one was looking, I made a little dot on my hand... just to see what it would do.

It's still there, faint. The color that was so smooth and vibrant on the chart paper, is faded and .... hmmmm.... wrinkly textured on my hand.

Which made me think about the textures of my spiritual life. They are many. Some are smooth -- like the times when I felt in complete sync with God and the marker of my life moved easily across the paper. Others were rough, like trying to draw on a piece of sandpaper. The marker skipped and jumped and I really had to bear down to leave a mark.

I think that describes some of my most obstinate times.

At other times, the marker was fine, but the surface was slick. Beyond smooth -- it was glossy and did not seem to take the color. It would smear if even lightly touched. I think those were the times that I was a young know it all. I had all the spiritual answers and so really didn't need God's help in thinking things through. I had already thought them through, thank you very much.

What are some of the textures of your life? And how do they speak to you?

Now, after thinking about that licorice scented marker, I think I'll go get a piece of licorice!

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Clean Sheets

I haven't touched them much yet, but I am anticipating the feel of freshly laundered bed linens on my old skin tonight. This morning when I left, Nancy was stripping the bed. Tonight I helped her remake it with sheets just out of the dryer.

Now I know it's no big deal. Making the bed is hardly a monumental event. But still, in a little more than an hour, I'll be ditching my khakis, warm sweater, and slippers and, book in hand, be sliding between those fresh smelling, crisp clean sheets. Ah! That will feel good. To be enveloped with cleanness, freshness, and a feeling of safety that comes with drifting off to sleep with a good book and in my own bed.

I don't think there's anything in Bible that equates the love of God climbing between clean sheets. But, despite that lack, that's sort of how I thought about God's love as I anticipate doing so in a little while. An enveloping love -- safe, clean, fresh, pure. No desire other than to put me at ease and help me feel loved. Hmmm, if the canon is not closed, perhaps I could contribute a Psalm ...

Psalm 151

A song before retiring by Brent

The LORD is my clean-sheeted bed,

in God do I rest. He lays me down in love

as in fresh linens; as they sooth my my skin

He soothes my soul.

And, yea, though I go into the blessed sleep in

darkness, His Light and Love go with me

and comfort me.

And though worries do daily afflict me and at night

if they could they would assail me, this night

remembering God's encompassing love, I shall fear

no evil. Instead, I shall rest in

the bed that has been prepared for me; the bed of

God's love.

Selah.

Goodnight!

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Contacts

I just started wearing contact lenses again for the first time in about 20 years (ever since I had to wear bifocals). There were two reasons I decided to give them a try again. One was that I get tired of pushing my glasses up or down or bending the frames or cleaning the lenses or any other of a zillion things that drive me crazy about glasses.

The other was ... well... vanity. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was now 58 not 18. Where did my hair go???? And why was my beard white. So I thought contacts might restore at least some semblance of youthfulness. And, indeed they did. I put them in and looked hours younger.

They did take some getting used, of course. They are bifocal lenses so they are a little funny vision wise at first -- until my brain figures out how they work and translates the impulses into clear vision (all very scientific, I know). And the other is putting them in.

I have this aversion to anything touching my eyes. You know that puff of air they shoot you with to test for glaucoma? I start flinching from the time I put my face anywhere near the machine. And if you point your finger toward my eye, I start backing up.

So, I had to get used to putting the tiny lenses on the end of my finger and then keeping my eye open long enough without flinching to get the lens in place.

Of course, it is no big deal -- except that they are my eyes! Over the past month, though, the procedure has become almost automatic -- I can put them in, uh, not blindfolded obviously, but easily.

And I can see. Very well. These little teeny tiny small pieces of plastic suck right up onto my eye and put the world in focus for me.

Oh, and did I mention that they make me look hours younger? Very youthful. They make my beautiful blue eyes sparkle.

As I thought about these lenses and how easily they have become an invisible part of me, I began to think about other things that have become second nature and improve my spiritual vision. Attending worship is one. I rarely anymore (unlike when I was a pastor) wonder whether I will go or not... I just do. Not out of habit (well, maybe a little) but because, like putting in my contacts, I know that doing so will help me see my way through the coming week more clearly.

Looking with attention and love at the world around me is another that helps bring my God-sight into focus. It is easier to see God at work in the world when I gaze that way -- with loving attention. And though I still have along way to go in doing that well, I slowly am getting better at it and thereby seeing the Divine breaking through my day all around me.

Those are just two of the things that serve as spiritual contact lenses for me. Others include listening to music and hearing the creative forces at work, soulful reading of poetry and prose, and having spiritual conversations with friends. All of these are, in small ways, like contact lenses -- not very big, but making a big difference. Helping me focus on the important life of the spirit. Bringing sight to my soul's eyes.

-- Brent

Earthquake Relief

Please join me in supporting the American Friends Service Committee's earthquake relief work in Haiti.

http://bit.ly/5f5JtX

Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Lotion

I'm not a lotion using sort of guy. At least until lately. Nancy got me a bottle of men's hand and body lotion for Christmas. MEN's. For a manly guy like me -- no generic family use stuff. Ha.

Well, it doesn't smell too bad -- no lilacs or rosewater -- so I decided I'd try it. Surely a little couldn't hurt. Well, that little trial became daily use. My skin -- usually dry and flaky (like me) in winter -- is now radiant and smooth. Well, okay, maybe not exactly radiant and smooth. But it is certainly less dry. It feels better.

I've especially enjoyed using it on top of my little bald head. Evidently my skin had been hungering for some moisture and the lotion has worked wonders.

As I put it on this morning, I began thinking of an old gospel song -- "A Balm in Gilead"

There is balm in Gilead,
To make the wounded whole

Then at work today I've been listening to Ricki Lee Jones' new CD "Balm in Gilead." Which again brought the old song to mind.

So, I began wondering, what's that about? Why all this stuff about balm?

Perhaps, I thought, it's because your soul is as badly in need of balm as your skin was. Indeed, there have been some spiritual dry skin and hurts lately -- a betrayal, worries over friends' illnesses, family concerns, relationship problems, and other disappointments. All the stuff of everyday life ... but as hard on the soul's skin as a windy Hoosier winter day is on my epidermis.

And that balm, for me, is the presence of Christ in my life. It is a presence I welcome even in silence because of Jesus intimate knowledge of sorrow. His experience of my condition brings me solace. I am with Emily Dickinson when she said:

When Jesus tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is "acquainted with Grief," we listen, for that also is an Acquaintance of our own.

So come on in Jesus. Pour your balm on my wounded soul. Bind my hurts with your presence. No words are needed. No explanation. Just be with me -- sharing our acquaintance with grief.

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"There can be no friendship where there is no freedom. Friendship loves a free air, and will not be penned up in straight and narrow inclosures. It will speak freely, and act so too; and take nothing ill, where no ill is meant; nay, where it is, it will easily forgive and forget too, upon small acknowledgements."

-- William Penn

30 Days of Touch -- Touch

As I was thinking about what to write about touch today, I was reminded of one my favorite movies. "Touch." It's a Paul Schrader film based on an Elmer Leonard novel (two of my favorite creatives) and I first saw it at the Festival of Faith and Writing (if you care about writing and spirituality, you must attend!). In brief, it's the story of a fellow named Juvenal (Skeet Ulrich) who, when he displays the stigmata, can heal people.

Well, you can imagine the problems. When he hears about Juvenal, evangelist turned RV dealer Bill Hill (Christopher Walken) sees a money train. So he hopes to trap Juvenal with the seductive charms of Lynn Faulkner (Bridget Fonda), a former baton twirler at Hill's church. Absurd, yep? And it only gets more so. August Murray (Tom Arnold), Catholic who wants to restore the Latin rites and more, sees Lynn as a corrupting influence on Juvenal, wants to get rid of her, use Juvenal for his own devices. It gets fairly complicated -- as things involving faith do -- and, well, let's just say a cast of thousands (it feels like) is soon involved.

The film appeals to me on various levels. One is the whole idea of the stigmata -- something that fascinates a non-liturgical type Quaker like me. Exhibiting the wounds of Christ and all the mystery and dogma that surrounds that.

The other is the idea of faith-healing. And by that I mean true faith healing -- not the hokey, set-up faith healing one associates with TV evangelists, but the real healing by faith. Like Jesus, the apostles, and various ones since. I am amazed by it... and a bit taken aback by it at the same time.

And third is the whole idea of how we will use any anybody's gift to benefit ourselves at times.

And so, I am now touching the VCR tape of "Touch" (I need to get it on DVD) and may pull it out, plug in the VCR and watch it again. It helps me think about the healing force of touch -- whether spiritual/physical/Divine/human or some combination of all of those -- and how we long for it. I know I do.

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Absence

I was late to Meeting this morning. I hate being late to anything, but especially to Meeting where we gather in a circle in silence and wait for the person presiding to read the call to worship. It's hard to sneak in ... there being no back pew, so to speak.

I was there early enough. I'm teaching Sunday School so arrived with all my supplies and was bundled up against the cold. I jumped out and hit the lock button on the car. Andy (my car's name) made a funny bleat which I chocked up to the cold. After I got indoors though, put my materials down, took off my coat and hat, and headed to worship, I did my after de-coating pat down. No car key. Must have left it in my coat, I thought. So I headed back to the cloakroom, pulled down my barn coat and searched in all the pockets. Nothing. So I checked my pants pockets again. Nothing.

I knew that the car key had to be somewhere close -- after all, I had driven the car to Meeting. And even though, because Andy is a Toyota hybrid, there is not an ignition switch into which to insert a key, a key has to be in the area for the car to come to life. And it had lived all the way to West Newton Friends Meeting. So I redonned my coat and hat, went back out into the single digit temperatures, and looked in the car. Nope. No key. I looked in the trunk. No key. I sat in the driver's seat and pushed the start button. The car started.

The key had to be there somewhere!!! But it was 9:35 -- past time for Meeting. So I was late on entering. I almost asked for a bit of divine guidance in finding the key when the time for prayer requests came, but since I was going to be teaching from Sacred Compass which talks about finding divine guidance, would not show how lacking in this area I was. So I sat in Meeting, with my hand in my pocket, resting where my key would normally be. Feeling its absence.

And then in the silence, it hit me what that funny bleating sound was that Andy had made when I locked him. It was him saying, "Ah, I don't think so. A key is inside." And so he had not locked. Which I should have noticed when I went out to look for the key. I didn't have to unlock.

So, I knew where the absent key was supposed to be, had a rough idea of where it was, but still felt it's missingness. And wondered if some enterprising car thief might come along and test her luck on my car and hit the start button and drive off with my Andy while I sat in worship (something that I have personally known to happen twice to others while in Meeting).

Still, I was able to settle into the silence and even spoke some words of vocal ministry -- a first for me at West Newton. And they weren't about the missing car key.

Right after worship dismissed, I hustled into my coat and hat and zipped back out to the car. Where could it be? I looked in the console, on the floor, felt back into the seat, and then looked down. There, wedged between the seat and the console, sat the key. It must have slipped out of my pocket either last night or this morning. I pocketed it. Hit the lock button. Heard a satisfying beep. And went in to teach Sunday School.

Ever since then, though, I have been thinking about absence -- the feel of missingness. The reaching for something that is supposed to be there and is not. And that made me think of the despairing times when God seems absent. Who among us has not cried, with the Psalmist, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" If not out loud, at least deep inwardly.

And I thought about God as being the key that gives life. That it is God in whom we have come to life and move through this life. Indeed, as Paul told the people of Athens:

"The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by hands. And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything, because he himself gives all men life and breath and everything else. From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. 'For in him we live and move and have our being.'"

No wonder the feeling of God's absence is so disturbing. The dark night of the soul, indeed. The dark night of no life. If it is in him we live and move and have our being, then the feeling of absence is the feeling of death and despair.

Oh, I could work this metaphor a long time. I am a writer, after all, and a minister-type. That's probably a bad combination which could tend to over-thinking as one of my friends accuses me. So I'll stop.

Other than to say, that the feeling of not touching a key in pocket led me on a search. A search for the key. And the feeling of absence of God can likewise lead me on a search. A search for the Divine presence which gives me life. And I thought again of the Psalms -- "My heart says of you, 'Seek his face!' Your face, LORD, I will seek."

Indeed.

-- Brent

30 Days of Touch -- Prick

Snick. Click. Prick. OUCH!

Ah, after 12+ years that last word always follows the other three sounds. The "ouch" comes because the "prick" is the touch of my lancet shooting out of my "finger pricker" (real name "diabetic lancet device") through the slightly tougher epidermis of one of my fingers searching for the capillary blood that will provide an accurate reading on my glucose meter.

The touch of that lancet (nicer word than @#$!needle) still makes me jump. It still hurts. Yes, I know I'm a wienie, but... I am glad I don't have to do it as often as I used to. But I still bear the tiny tell-tale signs of a diabetic -- slightly callused finger tips an tiny little red marks where the lancet has plunged. And it also -- to the delight of music lovers everywhere -- means my steel stringed guitar has largely been retired. The lancet has to be set to plunge deeper if I play a lot to get through the string hardened calluses. And so it hurts more.

Still, "taking the plunge" so to speak is a part of my life. As is recording the findings that the tiny computer called a glucose meter spills out. It's easier now than it used to be -- the meter has a memory, so I can enter them in the computer and track my blood sugar story. Make pretty graphs and charts. Show my doctor what a good boy I've been -- most of the time.

In the old days, the touch of the finger pricker was accompanied by the feel of paper and pen as I opened my little log books and entered the date, time, amount of medicine I took, any unusual activities (like extreme exercise or a piece of food that had sugar in it), and the glucose amount.

As I thought about that today, I went and looked at the old log books. I am a pack-rat -- keep way too much stuff. But in them I read the story of my diabetic life. Then I thought about journaling -- an art I've never much been very good at. Not compared to people like George Fox or John Woolman or many of my friends. At least in the traditional journaling sense.

Instead, I journal through my writing -- here on this blog, on articles and essays I start (but may never finish), the books I've written, sermons composed, prayers, poems, and other forms of placing thoughts on paper (real or virtual). And there is often an accompanying "prick" -- something that sticks me somewhere and says "Time to think about this...."

I am grateful that "prick" is often much gentler than the lancet device's is. Often it is more like a soft nudge from a good friend. But sometimes it is more direct and painful -- and really gets my attention. Regardless, the result, as I've seen after I've looked over old files of writing today, is my spiritual story -- the true story of my life.

So...

Snick. Click. Prick. OUCH! For the touch of the lancet -- physical or spiritual -- I am grateful. Whether it stings or not.

-- Brent