Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Let us make Christ our teacher as his earliest disciples did, who knew nothing about his His birth, and only followed Him at first just because they felt He was far better than they, and they had need of Him and loved Him. As we do this and simply endeavour to keep near to His thoughts, to think over the meaning of His words and to act as men who are seeking to follow Him, we shall begin to realise that there is in Christ himself a greater miracle than anything recorded of Him in the Gospels."

-- T. Edmund Harvey, 1913

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"But I take comfort from two things : first that any mere personal statements of belief can only put into words what we think we believe, while deeper down experience may have built on rocks that we know not of until storms reveal the need of them. And secondly the fact that all heresies, however great, may be phases of growth if one only knew it."

-- George Lloyd Hodgkin

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The thing is just to live the highest life we know and leave everything else"

-- George Lloyd Hodgkin, 1912

Evening Light

There are golden times for taking photographs. One them is right now... as the sun is setting. The light being thrown is amazing. Deep shadows. Saturated colors. I should be out... but I'm sitting here enjoying the light and how as it sinks into the west it changes second by second the woods into which I am looking.

Not picking up the camera has taken an act of will. The photographer in me wants to capture the lit limbs, the paling prairie below, the evening birds zipping across. But tonight, more than taking pictures, I need some quietness. I need a time to simply enjoy the scene. Yes, it will never come to me quite this way again... which is all the reason more not to view it through my Nikon's lens, but to open my eyes wide and peer into the beauty that God has set before me.

The drama of the fading sunlight has captured my attention in a way that the full blaze of the noonday sun did not just a little over eight hours ago. I took it for granted. It is only as the light is fading -- and illuminating its impending disappearance -- that I am watching it.

How short-sighted of me. Literally.

I fear I am that way spiritually, too. God's light is all around and within me and yet, far too often, I do not pay enough attention to it. The Spirit is moving in me... and I take it for granted.

But, unlike today's sunlight, God's light will not wane. Nor does it shout it's existence. It merely beckons those of us who are willing to mind the light... to notice it.

The green of the trees is darkening now. The limbs have turned from golden brown to black. The birds are silhouettes against the deepening sky.

But God's light shines on.

Thank you for this day.

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Lofty, ethereal, and intellectual knowledge of God can be obtained in may ways, but true knowledge can be obtained only by God's Spirit shining in upon the heart, enlightening and opening the understanding."

-- Robert Barclay

What Not to Say...

I was reading an on-line article the other day that was about ten things you should not say to teenagers if you really are desiring to communicate with them. The first one was "Never ask how their day was." Teens see that as intrusive and akin to and inquisitional question.

Well, even though I am not a teenager, that made a lot of sense to me. It feels a bit intrusive to me. I hate that question... it feels like I am being called on to justify how I spent my time.

I searched the Internet but did not find any article about ten things you should not say to sullen fifty-nine year old men if you are really desiring to communicate with them. So I wrote it myself -- here they are.

1. How was your day? Well, we've covered that one.
2. Talk to anybody interesting? Interesting to me or interesting to you?
3. What did you have for lunch? Probably the same thing you are planning on having for dinner.
4. How was the traffic? Let's see. Hmmm. Everybody is coming downtown or leaving downtown at the same time I am on a road that is under construction and down to two lanes and seems to have been ever since I started making this trip in 9 years ago. How do you think it was?
5. Did you do anything fun? Let me ask my boss. I'm sure my having fun at work was way up on his agenda.
6. What did you do today? I spent a lot of time looking busy whenever somebody walked by my office door, which really cut into my time surfing the Internet looking for the latest Lindsay Lohan news.
7. You look tired. I am, but I hope to catch up on sleep at the office.
8. (at the grocery store) Would you like a sack for that? No, not really. I don't want the carton either, but it sure makes the milk easier to carry.
9. Can I borrow your (insert tool, farm implement, vehicle here)? The bigger question is can you bring it back in the same shape it was in when you borrowed it? Including full of gas and clean inside like it is now? And the answer is obviously "No" since you never have before.
10. Most any statement and or question you can come up with.

As with teenagers, it seems that there isn't much you can safely say. Hey, that works for me.

Any questions?

-- Brent

30 Days of Smelling -- Aroma

I've been driving a lot the past few days. From mid-Indiana up to the lakes part of our state. Specifically, through Warsaw and Winona Lake (home of famous baseball pitcher/revivalist Billy Sunday) to Dewart Lake (home of Quaker Haven Camp -- scene of much of my mis-spent youth ministry).

I decided to "Wander Indiana" as one motto appearing on some 1980s license plates urged us to do. So I stuck to most state and county highways for the 150+ mile trip back to the farm.

And that's when I saw Aroma. I don't mean smelled an aroma. I mean saw "Aroma." A town I did not know existed in Indiana. It's just off Indiana Rt 13.

I saw other towns I'd heard of but never seen. Swayzee ("The Only Swayzee in the WORLD" the town's sign proclaims. Oh really???). Normal. (Seeing that I remembered an old headline from an Illinois paper proclaiming "Normal Man Weds Oblong Girl" -- using two distinctive town names). And a host of others.

Now I grew up in a state (Ohio) that prides itself on respectable town names. Columbus -- after the great explorer. Athens -- after the cradle of philosophy. Knockemstiff -- after the ... well, let's not go there.

But still, even though I could not really smell Aroma, sealed hermetically as I was in my air conditioned Camry cruising down the highway, I was grateful for it and the people who live there. Small towns, it seems to me, bring the scent of what we value as a people -- the smell of honest, hard work; care for one another; love of the land we call home, faith in God; faith in each other; and so much more. All things that help Aroma, and places like it across our land, send out a fresh, clean smell of the best of what our country blessed with. And called to be.

-- Brent

30 Days of Smelling -- Bug Spray

Bleh.

That's how I feel about bug spray. I hate the smell of it. I hate the feel of it.

Double bleh.

That's how I feel about mosquitoes and biting flies. They are a curse. One of the banes of life next to a woods. The other morning, before all this blamed heat and humidity set in, I decided to go into the woods and battle bush honeysuckle. My mortal enemy. So I mixed up a backpack sprayer of special herbicide (I'm a herbicidal maniac when it comes to bush honeysuckle) and headed into the woods.

Bad idea. I was immediately swarmed by mosquitoes. I had forgotten to cover myself with bug spray. Thirty seconds and thirty bites later (I'm not exaggerating ... I counted), I headed back out. Yikes.

Last night, before heading out to the park to watch fireworks, I did not make the same mistake. I thoroughly soaked myself in the stuff. Even though I hate the smell and feel, it worked. It kept the mosquitoes away so I could enjoy the booming celebration. I may have put a bit too much as it also kept people away.

Well, for an introvert, that's not all bad. Ha.

It did make me think that protection is not always comfortable. I was sitting there feeling sorta greasy and stinky, but safe from biting insects. It was really hot and humid as I thought about other protection -- like a suit of armor, for example. How uncomfortable that would be on a hot humid day. Okay, so it's weird to be thinking of armor while sitting on a Midwest hill waiting for fireworks... but I'm weird.

And that weird thought then morphed into spiritual protection. I remembered Paul's' injunction to the Ephesians -- "Put on the full armor of God .. so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God."

Now as a Quaker-type, all those militaristic metaphors bug me more than a little bit. Plus it all sounds a bit cumbersome. And yet, as the stinky, yucky bug spray reminded me... protection is not always comfortable. But it is protection. Physical or spiritual.

So I guess I need to be buckling up the belt of truth, taking up the shield of faith, and fitting my feet with the gospel of peace more often than I'm covering myself in bug spray.

-- Brent

30 Days of Smell -- Flood Mud

One of the joys of farm living ("Green acres ain't the place to be/Farm living ain't the life for me/ Flooded land spreading out,so far and wide/ Give me Indianapolis, you take the countryside." -- my current version of "Green Acres" theme) is getting to mow. Which I did tonight for a few hours. Unlike when I lived in town and fired up the $200 Lawnboy for a 30 minute jaunt around the yard, here it's running to town for 2 5 gallon containers of fuel and pouring said fuel into an expensive zero turning radius mower and zipping around the yard at 12 mph. The scale of things is bigger, so a 1/2 acre lot her (like in town) would look like a postage stamp. I mow about 3 acres when I mow.

And that's just "the yard."

There's also all the rows between all the trees we planted for conservation's sake. Thousands of 'em. I have to mow to keep the weeds and grasses down to give the trees a chance. That means using the tractor and bushhog.

Which I did recently. With fear and trepidation. Not that I'm afraid of John Deere ... well, maybe a little bit, ever since I rolled him down a hill one time. No, I was afeared of what I would find when I got to one of our lower fields. One that, laying aside a creek bed, is prone to flooding.

And last week was the perfect week for flooding. Storm after storm after storm. In a period of a few days. And the creek reached within two feet of record levels. Which meant that the lower field had been 2 feet underwater. The smell of flood mud was heavy in the air when I moved that direction. Heavier than the diesel exhaust of John. One reason it was so heavy is that there was so much newly exposed bank. The flood had decimated our creek bank, claiming hundreds of feet (and washing it downstream). I claim I own acreage in four counties ... because a bunch of it ain't here anymore. It's in counties farther south.

The river flood mud smell also told me that many of the trees we had carefully tended had also gone downstream. The reason we had planted them was so that they would put down roots and stabilize the field in future floods. That was 4 years ago and we've had 3 floods since. At least 1.5 acres have washed away, carved out by raging water, along with hundreds of trees.

I have come to hate the smell of flood mud.

Still, it does remind me of Jesus' story of the wise man who builds his house upon the rock and the foolish man who builds his on the sand. I wonder if the Sandman planted trees, too? And watched it all wash away?

So, I wonder, which am I? Wise for being here and planting trees in sandy soil on a bluff overlooking a creek, or foolish for no living in town in a condo without the smell of flood mud?

Ah, only time and the love of God will tell. For now, it's time to get back to mowing, carving a new path through the old wood from one set of trees to the other to replace the path that the flood washed away, and smell the mud.

Whatever happened to "God gave Noah the rainbow sign/ No more water, the fire next time!"?

-- Brent

30 Days of Smell -- Road Construction

For the past few days, a prominent smell every morning and late afternoon has been a mixture of dust, pulverized concrete, diesel fuel, heavy equipment exhaust, blacktop, and the like. The powers that be have decreed that a portion of Interstate 70 on my route to and from work needs updating. So updating it they are -- and not just sorta updating it, either.

No patching here... they are taking the road down to the roadbed beneath. Down to the dirt. Which has meant tearing up the concrete, pulling out all the old rebar, regrading, putting down beds of gravel and leveling it, setting up new rebar structures, and pouring new concrete.

It really is a very thorough process ... and interesting to watch. And, and this is for that same fellow I always seem to get stuck behind passing through the construction zone, you can still watch it at 45 mph! You don't have to slow down to 20!

Okay, now that that's out of my system, while the construction smells drifted into the Camry's cabin this morning, it set me to thinking about how many times I had rebuilt the roadway of my life. Not many, to be honest. Oh, I've done lots of patching. Ripped out a bad section or two and smoothed it up. Put a fresh coat of spiritual sealer down.

But I've never taken it down to bedrock and built it back up again. And so maybe I am long past due for such an overhaul. To strip away all the layers that have built up since my initial decision that I would "arise and go to Jesus."

My road looks pretty smooth to me... until I put my head down and look along the surface. Perhaps it is a bit wavy and rough. So I will heed the advice of Isaiah -- "Build up, build up, prepare the road! Remove the obstacles out of the way of my people." I will take some time to strip my road to God back down to the bedrock of belief and rebuild slowly with prayer and reading and silence. Just enough surface to travel along ... to get me to my destination. And in so doing I will, to rephrase Isaiah just a wee bit, "Prepare ye the way to the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway to our God."

I pray that I have the spiritual strength to say with the Quaker mystic Pierre Ceresole: "Eternal, grant me the possibility of revising, understanding and weighing everything anew, truly and freely, without violence. Grant me not to be fossilized against your Spirit and your Call, but to be ready at your command to start everything over again and undo all I had thought I had also built at your command previously."

I wonder what smells I'll smell as I begin the tearing down?

--Brent

Russian Quakers Hordes Head to US

According to Google Alerts that picked up an Associated Press report, a huge influx of Quakers from Russia are setting sail for the United States. And when I say huge, I mean HUGE -- 200,000.

This especially alarmed me because the Friends World Committee for Consultation lists only three Friends Meetings in Russia. They must have the Russian version of mega-churches over there (I'd better contact Scott Thumma of the Hartford Institute about this -- he's the expert in mega-churches). So are they mega-Meetings?

In case you think I'm making this up, here's the report, direct from the Los Angeles Herald.

NEW YORK, Jan. 11.— Two hundred thousand Russian Quakers are coming to this country to establish a permanent colony near Los Angeles, according to P. A. Beamans, who claims to have been at one time a captain in one of the regiments composing the Russian Imperial guard.

The advance guard of the so-called Russian "Quakers" recently arrived in Los Angeles and it is reported that 15,000 of the sect are preparing to follow. If they come anywhere near deserving the name which is commonly given in America to the Society of Friends they will be welcome in Southern California.

I read closer and noticed that the issue of the Herald was dated January 12, 1905. http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85042462/1905-01-12/ed-1/seq-1.pdf

So I guess the number of Friends in the United States will not be doubling anytime soon. Which I guess is okay, since I don't speak Russian anyway.

до свидания (do svidaniya),

Brent

30 Days of Smelling -- The Sweet Smell of Success

I went golfing today. This did not used to be an unusual event, but of late it has been. I don't get out nearly so much as I used to. So, even though it is almost the middle of June, this was just the second time I have been out this year.

The early morning saw me out golfing with my son-in-law Michael, grandson Anthony, and a fellow we just met named Steve Belden. Steve's a judge from Canton, Ohio and his daughter, we discovered, attends Malone University (where I attended) and is an intern at the Indianapolis Zoo (which I drive by often).

My goal -- seeing as how it was just my second time out this year -- was not to stink. And we all know how much stinking ... um ... stinks.

The newly re-opened Bald Head Island course (just a shade nicer than my usual courses in Indiana -- the fairways here resemble the greens there) proved quite a challenge -- lots of water and sand. I was hoping to acquit myself not too badly.

Now I used to be a pretty fair golfer. Not great, but not bad for a hacker. But to play well you have to play often. So my goal was to shoot somewhere under 110.

I know... an abysmal score, but for a course essentially new to me and with my lack of playing, I'd take it.

I will say, that by the grace of God, some lucky shots (off the decking surrounding the green and plopping right next to the hole), and a few "mulligans," I succeeded. 108. A couple of pars. A bunch of bogeys. And a few... well, let's just say they were pretty bad.

But the biggest smell, amid the myriad of smells including sea salt air, deep maritime woods, cool water, sweat, sunscreen, sun-baking skin, and so forth, was the smell of grace. So many times, as one of us approached a close putt (especially after a difficult hole) someone would say, "Oh, that's good. Pick it up." Words from family and a new friend alike.

Now I seriously doubt that I shall see Steve again (thought it is a small island we're on), but it was grace, I believe, that brought him into our lives for those five hours making our way around 18 holes. But I am grateful that he was part of them, grateful to have spent hours with two other of my favorite people (Michael and Anthony), and grateful for those few good strokes I put together -- without having a stroke in this heat.

Thank you, God, for this good day.

-- Brent

30 Days of Smell -- Sunscreen

In Tropical climes there are certain times of day

When all the citizens retire to take their clothes off and perspire

It's one of those rules the greatest fools obey

Because the Sun is far too sultry and one must avoid its ultry-violet rays

The natives grieve when the White Men leave their huts

Because they're obviously....definitely....Nuts!

Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun

-- Noel Coward, "Mad Dogs and Englishman"

Well, I am neither truly a mad dog or an Englishman (though the latter is my heritage -- and some wonder about the first), but I am in the tropical climes (sort of) and while I did take my clothes of and perspire, I took them off to put on a pair of bathing trunks and head out to the ocean side in the midday sun.

The water was refreshing but I am, as my good doctor put it, blessed with northern European fair skin, and so after a very short while, the scent of burning flesh accosted my nostrils. Okay, it was not quite that drastic, but noticed my shoulders felt a little warm. So I scrambled up out of the water and headed to my beach chair where I'd stashed my SPF4,000 sunscreen.

A little girl started crying when she saw me. "Mommy, what is that bleached white thing running up the sand?" she moaned, pointing. "Don't be afraid, darling," I heard the mother comfort her, "it's just Moby Brent, the great white whaleman."

Reaching my chair, I dried off and slathered the sunscreen on. It smells the same to me as it always did and brought back memories of being the whitest kid at Westview Swim Club in Columbus, Ohio. "The Amazing Brently -- The Boy Who Will Not Tan."

The few times I tried to tan, I ended up being badly sunburned. The sunburn then turned into a giant skin flakes until I looked like a reptile shedding his skin. While others tan as brown as a berry, I burn bright as a cherry. Not at all an attractive look.

So the scent of sunscreen soon came to mean safety from sunburn to me. A welcome smell of protection. Dowsing myself with sunscreen means I can go play in the ocean or spend hours at the holy game of golf and come home with my skin moisturized and as cadaverously white as when I left.

I also thought about other sun protection I have. Found in the Bible. Psalm 121:6 to be exact. "The sun will not smite thee by day..." King James Version. Ya just gotta love the idea of the sun not smiting. And why won't I be smitten? Because, "The LORD shall preserve thee..."

Ah, the ultimate sunscreen.

Okay, that may seem a bit of a stretch ... to go from the virtues of Coppertone Sport SPF 30 to the watchfulness of the Lord, but that's how a kid who grew up reading and memorizing the Bible thinks as an adult. I'm Bible-haunted and my life -- including sunscreen -- reminds me of verses.

I don't think that's a bad thing. Especially when I need protection from the sun -- and a number of other sorts of things, too.

Now, I have given up the idea that, even as buff as my body is, strolling the beach will ever get me longing glances, amazed at the rock hard abs and my deep dark tan and my full head of beached hair blowing in the breeze. Instead, I am an almost 60 year old white man who, if he wants to live until his 70s or 80s needs to cover up. And besides, it's fun to scare little kids occasionally.

-- Brent

30 Days of Smelling -- Sea Salt

I am currently at one of my favorite places -- Bald Head Island, North Carolina. I started coming here about six years ago and it has not lost its charm. A quiet island south of Wilmington. No cars allowed. Right now the sun is sinking and the ocean looks silver in its light. Waves are up and the smell of salt is in the air.

Earlier, slathered in sunscreen, I made my way to the beach and played in the water. A hot, humid day was downright pleasant, basking as I was in sun and just sitting in that saline sea from which scientists say all life once began. Perhaps something in my genes calls me back to the salty soup that God created.

Regardless, this place smells different that Indiana. The heat and humidity are today about the same, but the scents here are decidedly different. And the salty smell of the sea reminded me of the vastness of creation.

The same God who created God's country of the Midwest (which truly is with its deep dirt just right for farming, woods and glens, rivers and streams, and masses of wildflowers) also made this place with its own special beauty -- sand, sea, sun, horizon, maritime woods, and marshes.

I have seen so little of this world and yet each place I've been has shown me a side of God that I could not see anywhere else. And most of all, on this trip, I have been struck by the wildly creative side of God -- the land and seascapes the Master Designer devised. Amazing. And for no other reasons, so far as I can tell or read in Scripture, that the pure pleasure of the creative act and for the our enjoyment and sustenance. Both physical and spiritual.

So on this Firstday (as we Quakers say), I give thanks for the smell of salt in the air -- even if it is accompanied by sand in my shoes.

-- Brent

30 Days of Smelling -- Mulberry

I had to mow today. It seems like I could say that every day. Though much of Ploughshares

50 acres is prairie and woods, most of the woods and prairie is new and must be maintained. Plus there's 5 acres of lawn, which sounds like a lot -- and is, except for the scale of the place. Five acres is about right to frame the house, allow for a football field (I am an Ohio native -- football is our state religion -- Go Bucks!), and line the 1/3 of mile driveway.

So there's lots of mowing -- with a bushhog and a John Deere Zero Turn Radius mower. The racing mower.

Which is what I was on tonight for 2 hours. It is fast, but mowing is still a chore.

As I thought of what I might smell tonight, I anticipated writing about newly mown grass. I had even figured out where I would go with that. But that was not the scent that captured my attention.

Instead it was the reek of over-ripened mulberries. We have tons of mulberry trees and the squirrels and birds have had a feast time ever since the mulberries came in. They were so heavy laden this year, in fact, that the squirrels and birds have not been able to keep up. They are rotting on the trees and the ground underneath. As I zip by, my nose is assaulted by the scent of rotting fruit above and below. Pungent, sweet, cloying. Not at all pleasant. Good mulberry wine and pies going to waste, I think, as my tire grind the berries into the ground. An abundance of fruit just rotting while I am at work in the city.

It caused me to stop and think about what other abundance I am letting go to waste while I am busy paying attention to other matters. Matters that I think are more important. And maybe they are more important. At the moment. And yet, there is abundance all around me and I fail to notice it. Instead I focus on the lack -- the lack of love I feel, the lack of resources, the lack of time, the lack of... And meanwhile I am blessed with SO MUCH. So much is rotting while I bemoan this perceived -- though not real -- lack.

God, teach me to see and use what you have given me before it goes to waste. And to quit fretting about that which I do not have.

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Silence is wisdom where speaking is folly, and always safe."



-- William Penn

30 Days of Smelling -- Burning Human Flesh

Nice title, eh? Sorry about that. But that was the smell that was on my olfactory mind today. Except I did not end up smelling it. Hooray.

Okay, I'm old. I've admitted that before. And as I have aged, my sun-damaged skin has erupted in some interesting formation. I mean, for the most part they are not noticeable to anybody but me, but one on my back that started as small as a pencil dot had transmogrified into something that was growing larger than that US's 1960s-70s "police action" in Vietnam.

And we know how that ended for us.

So at my last trip to my good doctor (who I've been seeing off and on now for almost 30 years), she said she could remove it. Being afraid of needles, knives, and other other medical paraphernalia, I demurred. After all, I rarely see it, not being in the habit of turning my back on myself.

But I am heading to the beach soon. And I thought why should this beautifully sculpted male body (joke!) be marred by this ugly thing on my back?

So I made an appointment to have it removed. Today was the day. As we prepped for the removal (her by getting medical stuff ready and me by taking off my shirt!), we began talking about removal. "Burning it off?" I trembled. "No, we don't do that much anymore," she said.

Phew. Because I remember when I as a pre-teen I was afflicted with a severe case of warts. I had to have them burned off by Dr. George Clouse armed with what my current good doctor (Dr. Ludmilla Trammell) told me was an "electric needle."

"Oh, the smell," she said. "It was awful. It would stink up the whole office. Patients waiting would turn green." No kidding!? I turned green. And I was the patient. And I remember that smell.

In fact, I remember all day today wondering if that's what awaited me.

It didn't. She froze the thing off with liquid nitrogen. No muss, no fuss, no smell.

It still hurts like hell right now, but ... no stink.

As I thought of that smell today, I did think about how it represented a malignant part of me being excised. Something that needed to go. And burning, perhaps, was a good thing to smell in that case. Getting rid of something awful, should it be easy?

That's what our Puritanical (and I mean that in worst possible popular usage of that word -- nothing too close to the original Puritans) American religiosity calls for. Nothing worth having should come too easily. Faith is hard won and the smell of brimstone and hellfire is always in our spiritual nostrils.

Except...

Except...

There's grace. Grace abundant. As we used to sing (messing up the words), "There's a wildness in God's mercy, like the wildness of the sea."

Well, grace is pretty wild. And it doesn't reek of the stench of brimstone. Or burning flesh. And if that makes it "cheap," then cheap God's grace is.

Guilt. Well that's another matter. It stinks and hurts. And is a self-imposed burden that sometimes I need to carry. To remind me not to be so hateful and judgemental of others as I remember my own faults and failings.

But grace, like liquid nitrogen, attacks that which much be exorcised and does it fairly painlessly. Yes, there is a bit of pain now. But it is minor... a reminder of something that was ugly and harmful is no longer a part of me.

Perhaps I should apply grace more liberally to myself.

-- Brent

30 Days of Smelling -- Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

I had a late night last night. I had agreed to pick up my friend Katie at the airport. Her plane was initially due at around 11:30 -- which is well after my usual bedtime of Quaker midnight. Quaker midnight, for the Methodists among the readership of this blog, is 10 p.m. (Sometimes, in my case, Quaker midnight comes earlier than 10 p.m. -- depending on how tired I am. I figure, if I'm tired enough, then it's got to be 10 p.m. somewhere in the world, and off to bed I go.)

But Quaker midnight came and went last night and I was still up. In fact, Katie texted me at around 10:30 saying they were just getting ready to take off from Atlanta. I tracked her flight for awhile on the Internet and then, when it said it had landed, headed for the airport.

I forgot about waiting for luggage. Anyhoo, it was past 12:30 a.m. before we wandered into the house. And I wandered straight to bed, after telling Katie to sleep in if she felt like it. "Will you sleep in?" she asked. "Probably not," I replied.

Sure enough, right at the crack of 6:30, just like usual, I was awake. Well, sort of. My body brought my mind out of slumber into an awareness that it was time to get up. Even though I didn't want to. At all. But I was eased into the new day by the smell of coffee brewing. Nancy, who always beats me up (hmmm, that doesn't sound quite right!) had been up for at least 30 minutes and the aroma of fresh coffee was filling the air. It made me feel almost alive.

Later, after an hour in the office, I smelled fresh coffee again. My little brother, rabbi Aaron Spiegel had made his way into the office, turned on his computer, and brewed a fresh pot of coffee as he does every morning he's here. I think it's a Jewish ritual.

At any rate, the smell perked me up again. And while some Friends joke that coffee is Quaker communion (we don't do the bread and wine thing), I did think just a bit about it as such whilst smelling that heavenly aroma.

It is a form of communion in many place -- if by communion we think of communing with each other. I know I've had many a deep conversation with a friend -- about life and God -- over coffee at the local brewhouse. And many times we officemates gather while pouring Coffeemate into our cups and recap our weekend's activities. And many is the cuppa Joe that I enjoyed in between Meeting for Worship and Firstday (Sunday) School.

While I often have enjoyed communion with my friends and family over coffee, I would also maintain that I have had communion with God in those moments as well. Both in the God whose Spirit lives in His children whether at Meeting or in the kitchen at work and in the goodness that comes from God's gift of coffee to us. Yes, I do think that all good things -- including coffee (sorry Mormons) -- come from God and are given for our pleasure.

And sometimes just to help us wake up.

I think I need to smell some coffee just now. And maybe sip some, too.

-- Brent

30 Days of Smelling -- an Invitation

Many of you know that I am in the process of writing my next book, Awakening Your Senses: Exercises for Exploring the Wonder of God (InterVarsity Press/2011), along with co-author, Beth Booram. Beginning last fall, Beth and I initiated a series of 30 day experiments focusing on each of the senses. We are on our fifth and final one--30 Days of Smell--and would love for you to join us as we begin this olfactory journey. The purpose is to hone our sense of smell and let it teach us to notice the fragrance of God in our world.

Beth and I invite you on one last adventure beginning today Monday, June 7th. Join us, please, in "scent"-sing God around us.

Here's how you can participate:

• Put a note in your calendar for the next 30 days that reminds you to pay attention to what you smell.
• Each day, notice fragrances, whether pleasant or repugnant, and ask God to speak to you through them.
• Keep a journal of your experiences and what you learn.
• Follow my blog, Beth's blog (http://peregrinejourney.blogspot.com/) or join us on our Facebook and share your own stories. I

We look forward to hearing what you smell!

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Eternal, grant me the possibility of revising, understanding and weighing everything anew, truly and freely, without violence. Grant me not to be fossilized against your Spirit and your Call, but to be ready at your command to start everything over again and undo all I had thought I had also built at your command previously."

-- Pierre Ceresole

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Jesus did not come to found an institution that would carry on after he was gone, but he came to die and rise again and continue to be present in the midst of his people as their abiding head."

-- Lewis Benson

Quaker Mutilation Syndrome -- Who Knew?

I just learned of a disease afflicting our beloved Society of Friends. I was doing a Google search on Quaker stuff and up popped "Quaker Mutilation Syndrome."

It was alarming. I read one account that said, "Her plucking has been worse ... it could escalate into mutilation. Lately she has been pulling and letting out that little scream like ... then she goes right on and does it again, ... I have seen several small spots of blood ... There isn't any way to give her more attention, unless we stay up all night together too."

As the website I was reading said, "Quaker Mutilation Syndrome, (also known as QMS by those ... who are unfortunate enough to be familiar with it), is a little-understood, yet terrifying condition ..." I can imagine it is. And the report goes on to say that this may be partly a logical result of "Quakers ... becoming quite well-known for their intelligence and talking ability."

So I began to wonder if QMS could be a result of some rancorous Yearly Meeting gatherings I've witnessed of late. Lots of talking happens there, anyhow. Still, the thought that so many Quakers are mutilating themselves that there is now a name for this ailment is very disturbing.

It seems some experts are classifying this as a behavioral problem. Others say the causes for QMS fall into two general categories: medical and non-medical (psychological).

Among the medical reasons are:

• Endocrine diseases such as low thyroid levels, progesterone or testosterone imbalances, diabetes (hmmm, I can relate to the latter)
• Bacterial-related ... disorders such as bacterial sinusitis
• Skin infections
• Fungal diseases
• Internal organ diseases (Quakers are prone to Fatty Liver Disease -- again, who knew??)
• Internal parasites such as roundworms and tapeworm (Yikes!)
• Nutritional deficiencies or food allergies
• Ingested allergens, such as:---certain proteins---carbohydrates---chemical additives (preservatives, colors, or flavors)
• Inhaled allergens, such as:---smoke ---perfumes (!!!)---pollen---dust mold
  

Imagine my relief, after getting all worried about this condition possibly running rampant amongst the multitudes gathering weekly for Meeting when I discovered that QMS afflicts -- birds. Quaker parrots to be exact.

I mean, I feel sorry for the birds that suffer, but am breathing easier that Friends are not afflicted with QMS.

Or are we?

-- Brent

Having Written

I am doing something I haven't done for awhile -- coaching a writing colleague. My friend Kristyn has had some ... um... interesting experiences the past few years. Experiences that are her's to tell and she has decided to begin writing about them. She asked me to help. So I have been making her write -- certain lengths, certain subjects, and so forth. And then coaching her on stuff like cliches (avoid them like the plague), punctuation (avoid too many exclamation marks!!!!!!!!!), deleting tautologies (though baby puppies are sooo cute), and so forth.

But she's not the only one I'm making write. I am also making myself write.

It may surprise non-writers (aka readers!) but many writers have to force themselves to write. Well, some do anyhow. Okay, well, I do.

I enjoy having written -- the moment when it's done. Looking back over the words that have appeared is downright satisfying. But I can put off starting forever.

For a guy who makes (somewhat) his living w/ words, writing is always hard work and I'll do most anything to avoid it. This rainy, damp Indiana day has found me up in my office listening to music (Over the Rhine and a bunch of stuff clabbered together from various Paste magazine music samplers) and writing.

I tried to avoid it by thinking I should reorganize my bookshelves (too many books, spilling out all over the floor and stacked upon one another int he shelves) but finally told myself to get to work.

So I did and the day was actually somewhat productive. There may be a sentence or two or even a paragraph I can keep.

And so I find myself musing, Why is it so hard to get started? I know I'll enjoy it once I get going. I love the creative process. I sometime amaze myself with the excellent word usage I can devise -- and then promptly delete that particular piece since I know that I am too easily amazed! While my friend Chuck is fond of quoting Chesterton that "Anything worth doing is worth doing badly" (which always brings a smile), what I am doing feels to me too important to do badly. Even if it -- like the short stories I compose -- may never see the light of print.

I have decided that I delay for a couple of reasons -- one is that I am naturally lazy. Many people think of me as a hard worker who gets things done ahead of schedule, but the fact is I work hard and get things done ahead of schedule because it's easier than not doing so.

A second reason is because I am my own boss in this. Nobody is making me do this at a certain time. And I am easily distracted by books that need reshelved or Joan Osborne's "Cathedrals" or... hey, there's a deer walking through the prairie as I write this!

And a third reason is that writing is important work and sometimes it gives me pause that I even attempt to undertake it. Who am I to be so audacious as to put thoughts to pixels and then into paper? What have I to share that is worthy of being shared and read and contemplated? I a person who is still in awe of real writers.

But, I am called to write. I believe that. And so, unlike Jonah who even argued with God to avoid getting started on what he was called to do, I do make it to the point where almost every day I apply the seat of my pants to the seat of my chair and turn on the computer. And begin writing. After only one or two games of "Spider Solitaire" and checking my email.

And perhaps it's ultimately because I hear the angel in Revelation 10. "Then the angel I had seen standing on the sea and on the land raised his right hand to heaven. And he swore by him who lives for ever and ever, who created the heavens and all that is in them, the earth and all that is in it, and the sea and all that is in it, and said, 'There will be no more delay!'"

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"We are a people that follow after those things that make for peace, love, and unity."

-- Margaret Fell

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Why should any man have power over any other man's faith, seeing Christ Himself is the author of it?"

-- George Fox

Birthday Musings

I'm 59 today. Yikes? How did that happen?

I mean, I know how it happened -- I have stayed alive in spite of my propensity for doing stoopid things like turning my tractor over, leaning too far out on the edge of a ladder, using a chainsaw whilst standing in the dump bed of the golf cart, thinking "I'm pretty sure I turned the circuit breaker off" while trying to hook up a new light switch and stuff like that.

When I ask "How did that happen?" I am more thinking about how did I come to be one of the geezers? Am I really not 25 anymore?

Oh, I am reminded that I am not every time I look in the mirror. What little hair there is is mostly white or grey. The wrinkles are deeper every day. The skin not quite as firm as it used to be. At least I still have my teeth -- all original equipment!

But how old I am has really hit home lately. Not that I feel old -- just that, um, I am old. That really occurred to me recently when I was attending one of our tribal meetings (a gathering of Quakers). Quakers United in Publications had invited me to speak at their annual meeting. So off I went to Richmond, Indiana. While I was there, I got to attend the launch of a new book called Spirit Rising: Young Quakers Speak. It is a delightful compendium of young adult Friends (18-35ish) essays, poems, musings, and art.

As part of the launch, the editorial committee of the book and some of the contributors put on a program of worship and readings. It was a wonderful time, but it occurred to me that night, while the young adult Friends were reading their book, that I am at that stage where I am one of the elders. Hokey Smokes!

Seriously, that thought had not really occurred to me.

Like I said, even though I know I am 59, I don't think of myself as "old" (for all my kvetching otherwise). I think of myself as Brent -- a younger sort of guy who still has a lot to learn and a fair amount of energy and enthusiasm for life and its challenges.

But that night I thought I am not here as one of the gang. I am here because I am one of the older voices.

And I thought of some of the "older voices" from my past -- Wil Cooper, Charles Thomas, T. Canby Jones, Elton Trueblood, Virgil Peacock, Leonard Wines, and the list could go on and on. When I was the age of the young Friends in the room that night, these were some of the elders who influenced me in ways that are still felt. And now I am their age.

Now, I do not in any way think I am the theological or spiritual equal of these weighty Friends. No, indeed. But, it has come home that I am their age and NOT that of young Friends. I have passed into a new season of my life and am coming to grips with that.

This was a new and interesting thought for me. And I decided it was good.

I like my age and who I am at this age.

And, if I can sometimes be helpful as an older voice, then all the better.

Happy 59th birthday to me!

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The cause of Peace has had my share of efforts, taking the ultra non-resistance ground -- that a Christian cannot consistently uphold, and actively support, a government based on the sword, or whose ultimate resort is to the destroying weapons. "

-- Lucretia Mott

Spiritual Discernment-- Life in Motion

Trusting that God directs our paths teaches us to see the ways life opens. Our lives are filled with potential “a-ha” moments. Following our spiritual compass helps us see the “a-has”. Trusting God also allows us to be real and genuine and authentic people, because trust helps us be more aware of the circumstances through which we pass. We see our flaws and frailties, and can still embrace the fact that we are people who hunger after God and are instruments of God.

The early Quaker mystic Isaac Penington said:

"Know what it is to walk in the path of life. . . . It is that which groans, and which mourns; that which is begotten of God in you. . . . The true knowledge of the way, with the walking in the way, is reserved for God’s child, for God’s traveller. Therefore . . . don’t strive to be any more than God has made you. Give God your will . . . and, sink down to the seed that God sows in the heart and let that grow in you. "

I love the idea that “The true knowledge of the way, with the walking in the way, is reserved for God’s child, for God’s traveller.” As I look at my life, I see one of motion. Though firmly rooted in the Midwest, as an adult I’ve lived in sixteen houses in two states, held fifteen full- or part-time jobs, and owned too many cars. Your life may be less frenetic than mine, but I’m sure that as you look over your history you’ll see various movements in your life as well—careers, family, spiritual, and physical changes. The movements all fit with the concept of way opening. Way opening implies motion; a moving along life’s pilgrim way. What a winsome discovery.

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Therefore the main thing in religion is to keep the conscience pure to the Lord, to know the guide, to follow the guide, to receive from him the light whereby I am to walk; and not to take things for truths because others see them to be truths; but to wait till the Spirit make them manifest to me; nor to run into worships, duties, performances, or practices, because others are led thither; but to wait till the Spirit lead me thither."

-- Isaac Penington

Getting Lost Along the Way

Awhile back I spent a delightful afternoon at the annual Gathering of Friends General Conference in Johnstown, PA. I'd been asked to do a reading from Sacred Compass, which went well. The audience seemed engaged, they asked some questions, and a good discussion ensued.

Then, after chit cat and signing some books, it was off to Indiana. Nancy read the Mapquest directions and I followed her well read instructions. In spite of that, I soon stopped seeing signs that said Route 219 very quickly.

After a mile or so, I pulled over and pulled out our road atlas and looked at the Johnstown mini-map and looked. It appeared that so long as I continued south on the road we were on, we'd run into Route 219.So south we continued -- right into the heart of downtown Johnstown and "Thunder in the Valley," a huge annual motorcycle event.

Everywhere I looked was a motorcycle but nowhere I looked was a street where it was supposed to be.

Especially no Route 219 heading toward the interstate.Finally, Nancy spotted a sign that said "To 219" and up the ramp we went.

The opposite direction from where we'd be going.

It didn't make any sense -- why would we go north to find the road going south? And why were none of the roads where they were supposed to be?Ten miles later we came an exit for Route 219 -- 1/2 a block from where I originally turned on to the road that led to 219. How can that be, I wondered?

As I merged into the swiftly moving 219 traffic, I glanced up at the mirror and noticed the compass embedded in it. It told me I was going south -- and had been since we got on the road that said "To 219."

Which also told me that when I thought I was going south earlier, I had actually been heading north -- and had been moving away from my destination the entire time.

That's why MapQuest and the road atlas were worthless -- I was reading them "upside down."

All I needed to do to get going right was to look up at the compass. I would have seen clearly that I was going north, not south, and turned around.This all reminded me that it is precisely when I am certain that I'm going the right direction that I need most to check my compass. And in this case, I'm not talking about the one in the car. I'm thinking here about my sacred compass; the work of the Holy Spirit in my life. I may have checked the maps, the weather, the road conditions, and my own sense of direction -- but that may not be enough.

The car's compass was there. I just needed to consult it. The same is true of my soul's compass. Even -- or maybe especially -- when I've just finished a reading telling other people to consult their's.

- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Pray the Eternal to grease your weather-cock so that it turn well at the true wind of the Spirit and not remain caught by the rust of tradition in a position unrelated to truth."

-- Pierre Ceresole

As Way Opens: A Path of Discernment

Where am I supposed to go with my life? That’s the question. “To be or not to be,” is profound and fine for a Shakespearean drama, but if we’re asking the “What am I supposed to do with my life” question, then “To be or not to be” is moot. We be. Now what? The “where” question is as universal and old as humankind. It is as personal and contemporary as each one of us alive today. It especially presses upon those of us who sense that we are not merely human trying to be spiritual, but rather that we are deeply spiritual endeavoring to live as fully human. We begin our days with that “what” question. We awaken every morning with a cavalcade of choices before us – beginning with whether to even get up or not. Things get more complicated from there. The very act of making a choice – any choice -- takes us deep into the concept that our lives are more than our own. We belong to ourselves, to be sure, but we also belong to others in our lives. And most of all we belong to God. And God has plans for us. At least that’s what faith and a good deal of religious training tells us.

When I was in college I encountered a group handing out little buff colored booklets titled “The Four Spiritual Laws.” The first spiritual law was "God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life." That’s not a novel concept. It’s firmly rooted in Christian scriptures. The Bible and the whole of Christian history is full of examples of people seeking to determine what God wants them to do. They cast lots, set out fleeces, prayed, fasted, learned to listen to donkeys, went on retreats, climbed up on cacti, and more. Bookstores are crammed full of titles about learning God’s will – Amazon alone offers more 38,000 books on the subject in its religion section.While some of these books will offer you five easy steps for discerning what God’s directions are for you, this is not one of them. It is also not about taking charge of our lives in the accepted, self-help best-seller sense. It is not about twenty-one indispensable qualities of a leader or seven highly effective habits.

That’s because coming to an understanding of God’s direction for us is not that simple. It’s also amazingly countercultural – about learning to stop and pay attention rather than shouting and demanding attention. If we want to know what God wants, we have to go to a deeper place than a set number of habits or qualities and become men and women of spiritual quality and the habit of looking for God in every place our life takes us.

That deeper place takes us to the discovery that the act of deciding to seek God’s direction for our lives changes us. We find that such spiritual discernment is more about sensing the presence and call of God than it is about making the right decision. In a grace filled way, this process of discovery awakens us both to a life of constant creation and recreation. It shows us how we are less about being right or making the correct decisions than we are about the work of transforming ourselves. And in the process, we are also transforming the lives of the people around us and ultimately the world. When we pay attention, this is something our souls intuit, but it’s harder to get our minds around. What we do see is that nothing that involves transformation can be accomplished by a recipe found in The God’s Will Cookbook – take one dash of Bible, three tablespoons of prayer, and bake in the oven of God’s light.

Instead, at the heart of discovering God’s direction is contained in the wisdom of the Quaker saying “as way opens.”

Friends drop this tiny phrase into conversation as easily as other folks do “Hello” or “How’re you doing?” “Will you be coming for dinner tomorrow?” asks one. “I will, if way opens,” answers the other. In some ways, it’s our version, in daily conversation, of “Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.” It’s become almost a Quaker cliché.

But, as with all clichés, there’s powerful truth lurking in this quirky Quaker conversational pattern. That truth is the belief that God’s revelation, even in and integral to daily life, continues for those who seek God’s way. God is at work within and around us, leading, guiding, sometimes when we least expect or feel it.

“As way opens” comes from a bit larger phrase, “To Proceed as Way Opens.” This means “to wait for guidance, to avoid hasty judgment or action, to wait for future circumstances to help solve a problem. The spiritual guidance which may come in a time of seeking or entirely unexpectedly, bringing suggestion for previously unforeseen action.”

As way opens about more than one time spiritual discernment. While its lessons can be used to help us make major life decisions – careers, life partners – and minor ones, as way opens is about a form of Christian discernment that takes us to the heart of the Christian life as living in God's will. It’s about discovering a fresh and deeper way to live a God directed life – a life that eschews simple spiritual solutions and takes us to the deepest, most soulful parts of our being.

It is about learning from God in the daily and life long.

As way opens is how we can come to see our lives, with all their experiences good and bad, as God-directed

-- Brent

Silence + Questions = Discernment

I've found that holy silence is an essential part of practicing discernment. As is asking myself queries.

Since Quakers don’t have a formal creed or prayer book against which to measure faithfulness, we developed the concept of asking questions of ourselves individually and corporately as a gauge of faith and practice.

This method began in the 17th century with the now quaint name of “Queries.”Queries are sets of questions rooted in Quaker faith and life as informed by Friends’ history, collective Quaker wisdom, and the Bible. The Queries are meant to be a form of guided self-examination.

In that sense, there are no outwardly defined correct answers. Rather the Queries give us a framework within which we can look at and consider prayerfully the direction of our lives.

You might find the following queries helpful as you develop your practice of discernment.

Relax your body and mind, breathe deeply, and think about the Query slowly and gently.

• Do I try to set aside times of quiet for openness to the Holy Spirit?
• Do I encourage in myself a habit of relying on God’s guidance for each day?
• Are my private holy silences a source of strength and guidance for daily living?
• In holy silence, do I respond to the leadings of the Holy Spirit, without trying to decide in advance what leadings may come?
• Do I spend time daily in prayerful meditation, Bible reading, or other devotional activities that help put me in touch with my spiritual center?
• Am I open to the healing power of God’s love?
• Am I aware of the spirit of God at work in the ordinary activities and experience of daily life?
• Am I open to new leadings from God?
• Am I ready to yield to God’s will?
• As my holy silence comes to a close, have I listened fully to all that has been spoken and unspoken?

(adapted from the "Quietude Queries" in Holy Silence: The Gift of Quaker Spirituality)

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Oh, why don't Quakers preach what you practice?"

-- John H. Hobart

Compass, Maps, & the Will of God

Compass. As a kid the very word conjured images of treks across trackless wastes, blazing trails through primeval forests, and other adventures unavailable to city boys. I didn't need a compass in a city composed of north-south avenues and east-west streets. One block north, two blocks west, two more blocks north and I was at my grandparents. Simple. Straight. No adventure.

"Compass" still hold an aura of mystery for me today in this time of GPS and turn by turn directions issuing out of my car's stereo speakers. It still implies a journey where no navigation DVD has gone and no satellites peer. And while there are few of those in my business life, they abound in my spiritual life.


Unlike GPS and other wonders of modern direction finding, a compass does not give us step by step steps to our destination. It does, though, no matter what direction we turn, always point us to true north -- a destination most of us (unless we're named Amundsen, Byrd, Peary, or Henson) never reach in this lifetime. This is a metaphor for our spiritual lives and the work of discerning God's will for them.

There are many times I wish God would speak as clearly and as obviously as Mapquest or GoogleMaps. But the life of faith is not that way. Instead our sacred compass (the work of God's Spirit within us) points us to our spiritual true north -- the mind and love of God -- and asks us to travel by faith and use the various maps we've been given. Things like spiritual friends, the Bible, prayer, and other faith practices. Our sacred compass is that which is embedded in our souls that calls us to life with God -- life abundant and adventurous, even during those times we wish it was less so.


So, what "maps" do you use to help make sure you're following your sacred compass?

-- Brent

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"If we would amend the world, we should mend ourselves."

-- William Pnn

The DIabetic Dive: A Light Hearted Blog

I thought some folks who read Holy Ordinary might be interested in knowing that my Quebecois friend Chantale and I have started a new blog called The Diabetic Dive. It's an often light-hearted look at the "lows" and "highs" of living with diabetes. There are humorous stories and pictures contributed by Chantale, blog readers, and me. We also have a Facebook group called "The Diabetic Dive."

Our tagline is that the blog is "Written by professional diabetics and writers Chantale Perron and Brent Bill, authors of the forthcoming No More Lines: And Other Tricks for Making Diabetes Work for You"

If you are a diabetic, know a diabetic, or just enjoy light-hearted stories, I think you'd enjoy the site!

-- Brent

Having Fun with Diabetes

My friend and fellow diabetic Chantale (from Quebec) and I were having an email exchange about the joys (not!) of living with diabetes when we got a little silly. Maybe we were high. Or low. Sometimes it's hard to tell, though usually when I'm low I'm far from silly -- I'm just ornery or nasty. Well, by the end of our exchange -- which consisted of trying to think of a positive way to spin our diabetes, we decided to write a book together enumerating ways to have fun with diabetes. So I put together a book jacket that listed some of our ideas. Here it is -- and please let me know of any publishers you think might be interested in it!



Sweetly,
Brent

Quakers and New Media

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"And I cried in my spirit to the Lord, 'We are all thieves, we are all thieves, we have taken the Scriptures in words and know nothing of them in ourselves.' "

-- Margaret Fell

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Eternal God, take my life in your hands and lead me through these blind alleys with a heart free from meanness. I will be satisfied to furnish just a little mud for the Great Construction."

-- Pierre Ceresole

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"There is a time of preaching faith towards God; and there is a time to be brought to God."

-- George Fox

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"'I and the Father are One'. That means to me that I think of God in terms of Jesus Christ, that I pray to Jesus as representing the Father to my consciousness, or to the Father as I see him in Jesus. Carry that thought to Calvary itself. See in the crucifixion not merely a martyr's death, not merely a passing gleam of God's love, certainly not a sacrifice to God carrying a legal significance, but in truth the flashing into light of an eternal fact, the nature of God's relation to sin, of the pain we inflict on his heart by our own wrongdoing. Here is the wonderful dynamic of the cross. God calls you to him. He shows you his suffering, he shows you the hatefulness of the sin that caused it, and, in showing you his love, shows you the punishment of alienation from him, the hell of the unrepentant, in which we must remain until repentance opens the gate for the prodigal and gives entrance to the free forgiveness and love of the Father's house. In Jesus, in his life and his death upon the cross, we are shown the nature of God and the possibilities that are within our reach. We are shown the world as the Father sees it, are called to live in harmony with his will and purpose, to hate the sins that made him mourn, to scale the barrier of sin and discover that the way of penitence lies open and direct to the Fatherly heart. No legal bargain, but a spiritual conflict, an inward change, the rejection of the living death of sin, the choice of the new birth, of the purified self, the conversion from a low and earthly to a high and spiritual standard of life and conduct - here you have the practical conditions of salvation, and in the active, free and holy love of God, ever seeking entrance, ever powerful if we but yield the gateway of our heart, is the substance of the Gospel."

-- John Wilhelm Rowntree

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"The main difference between ourselves and most other bodies of Christians arises from the emphasis we place o the the Light of God's Holy Spirit in the human soul -- potentially in all human souls, and known in actual experience as these [human souls] are turned towards the Light and are obedient to it. This direct contact between the Spirit of Christ and the human spirit we are prepared to trust as the basis of our individual and corporate life."

-- Christian Life, Faith and Thought in the Society of Friends (1920)

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"Without time eternity would be beyond our grasp, and without eternity time would be too limited to require our reverence and worship."

-- Howard H. Brinton

30 Days of Hearing -- Passover

"Why is this night different from all other nights, from all other nights?" Those are the words I should be hearing tonight. Tonight is Passover and I was invited to attend the seder at my friend's (and little Jewish brother) Aaron Spiegel's home.

But, alas, the angel of death did not completely passover our family and so I am, tonight, instead of remembering Passover with the Spiegel's, composing the words for a funeral service of my Uncle Vinnie.

Ah, the angel of death. Whose visitation comes to us ready or not, in season or out, in the fullness of our old age or in taken too soon of youth. Whose whisper we hear in our soul's ears almost from the earliest days of our lives. Of whose presence we are always reminded ... whether in a formal Passover meal or in the diseases and wars and traumas that beset ones we know and many we do not.

And yet, ... yet... we live in the face of that visitation. And, tonight, I being the one not dead, am writing a meditation and continuing to live. And I am comforted, too, by the presence of the ever living Christ. Not in a "happy" sort of way, but in the way that, as Isaiah says, he was ... " a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." As Emily Dickinson once wrote, "When he [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."

Evangeline Paterson's poem "Deathbed" (which I will read as part of my uncle's service) says,

Now, when the frail and fine-spun

Web of mortality

Gapes, and lets slip

What we have loved so long

From out our lighted present

Into the trackless dark

We turn, blinded,

Not to the Christ in Glory,

Stars about his feet,

But to the Son of Man,

Back from the tomb,

Who built fires, ate fish,

Spoke with friends, and walked

A dusty road at evening.

Here, in this room, in

This stark and timeless moment,

We hear those footsteps
And

With suddenly lifted hearts

Acknowledge

The irrelevance of death.

Fitting words indeed, for Passover or Passion Week or Ordinary Time.

"Why is this night different from all other nights?" Not to diminish Passover or its rituals, which I hold dear, but one reason is because this night is a night in which I am alive and others are not... even others which were alive just awhile ago. And those words remind me that I am called to live my life fully and well in the days and nights that remain to me. And that, as a Christian, there is One who has made the angel of death irrelevant.

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- Silent Stones

I have never heard a stone speak out loud. Some -- ones that were especially pretty or interestingly shaped -- spoke of beauty to me. But not with a voice I could hear with the large ears affixed to the side of my head.

But I thought about stones speaking this morning when our worship leader read the Lucan passage of Jesus' Palm Sunday entrance into Jerusalem --

When he came near the place where the road goes down the Mount of Olives, the whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen: "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!" "Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!" Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, "Teacher, rebuke your disciples!" "I tell you," he replied, "if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out."

The idea of stones crying out captures my imagination every time I heard that passage. Here's all this human hubbub going on and Jesus says, "if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." Is he speaking metaphorically or are his words, like Paul's in Romans 8:22 (We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time) literally true.

A few years ago, moved by this passage, I wrote a poem about this. Now, I am no poet (as my poet friends will attest), but still, I offer it as a reflection --

Yes, we stones

stayed silent as the master

passed. Silence is our nature,

we sit and bear witness. Let

God's other creatures with gaping

mouths shout Hosannas. We sat

silent the next week long and then ...

.. then came the loud creatures again,

picking us up, hurling us, our Hosannas stillborn, other

words flying Heavenward. We at last found our voices,

filled with tears though

they were.

He answered, "I tell you,

the very stones would cry out."

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- The Sound of Music

No, not the movie musical, the real thing. The sound of music performed live. That was one of my experiences yesterday. My friend (and former student) Patricia Morrison and her friend Mary Shapiro passed through town last night while one their musical tour. They performed at the Earth House Collective for a small, but appreciative crowd.

From their opening with a cover of John Prine's "Angel from Montgomery" (one of my personal all time favorites) to their closing with the audience joining in on refrains of "Love," "Forgive," and "Smile," it was a delightful evening.

I do admit to being easily caught up in the joy and energy that surrounds experiencing music live -- watching and hearing it be made. And, for an old folkie (not old fogey... though I am that, too, I suppose) to hear clean, clear melodies and harmonies accompanied solely by acoustic guitar, well that's an evening well spent.

As I listened to Patricia and Mary's music and reflected on it today, I was struck again by the wonder of creativity. Here came two creative women, sharing their faith and music through wonderfully crafted songs, with engaging tunes and thoughtful lyrics. And, true to the folk tradition, they got the audience involved in music-making, too -- singing, playing the zydeco tie or shaking a gourd, or clapping along. Above us, contra dancers shook the floor. The place was alive -- and literally jumping.

We hunger for beauty and meaning and creativity. And many of us, for whatever "good" reasons, put off much of our creativity as we age ... we put away the Play-doh, the kazoos, the story-telling that gave us so much joy and hope when we were young. That kept us entertained and engaged in life everlasting. I include myself in that "many of us."

I am, therefore, grateful for those among who do not do this. Who keep working with God in amazingly creative artistic ways ... be it music, visual arts, film-making, or just playing with Play-doh. They remind us the incredible creative activity of God and how we are invited to participate in it. And how it blesses and changes us to do us.

The sound of music -- performed live by two caring, loving women -- reminded me of that last night.

-- Brent

PS Be sure to catch Patricia and Mary if they're coming your way!

Quaker Wisdom for Today

"How can we be sure that God is real, and not just a creation of our wishes? ... there is a wholly different way of being sure that God is real. It is not an intellectual proof, a reasoned sequence of thoughts. It is the fact that men experience the presence of God. Into our lives come times when, all unexpectedly, He shadows over us, steals into the inner recesses of our souls, and lifts us up in a wonderful joy and peace. The curtains of heaven are raised and we find ourselves in heavenly peace in Christ Jesus."

-- Thomas Kelly

30 Days of Hearing -- What's In a Name?

This morning in Meeting for Worship, when it was time to share prayer concerns, there seemed to be an inordinate number of requests from a group as small as ours. It must have been a rough week for our little Friendly family of God. I was most moved though by some words of Homer Dorrell. Homer and his wife Gladys are two of the most faithful Friends I know. I can't think of a time when I've been to Meeting and they haven't been there. Homer is a very sweet man and he asked for prayer for his eyes, on which he had recently had surgery, and for continued prayers concerning his health. He also mentioned that he knew he was suffering from some dementia and thanked everyone for treating him so well. The part that touched me most, though, was when he said that because of his dementia, "I may forget your name, but I always remember you."

I smiled inside (and probably outside as well) when he said that.

I am blessed (I've decided took look at that way finally) with a name that gives people trouble. "Brent Bill" seems pretty straightforward to me. And I've never had any problem with keeping those two names in their correct order. But some others get it backwards "Bill Brent" or mangle it in other ways. My favorite is "Jay Brentabill." When I was a young person, I had one fellow who got so tired of trying to figure it out that he said he was just going to give up and call me "Charlie."

And, I have to say, it is pretty important to me that people get my name right. After all, it is a big part of who I am. And getting a person's name right is a mark of respect -- it says, "I care enough about you to learn your name."

Still, after hearing Homer this morning, I decided that, so long as Homer recognizes me as a friend of his, I don't care if he remembers my name or not. I'd much rather he remember me as a friendly face than keep my name straight. I'd rather he'd see me and smile with recognition rather than spend time searching his memory banks for a name he may or may not be able to dredge up

Besides, there is One who knows my name and who will never forget it -- or me. And He is watching over both Homer and me.

-- Brent

30 Days of Hearing -- Kinship

I heard kinship today. It came not so subtly cloaked in the rip and snarl of chainsaws, the deep rumble of the diesel tractor, and hum and hiss of the hydraulic log splitter. What made this cacophony of farm work day noises sound like kinship was that, today, they signified that my youngest son Tim was here working next to me.

Tim and I have had our difficulties over the years (as have many fathers and sons), but have been more in contact the past six months or so. It's not that he lives a far away geographically -- like his brother Ben who lives with his family in Japan -- but that our lives and lifestyles have been very much different. That is not a judgement statement, just a statement of fact. That made spending almost a whole day together working on the farm very special for me.

I was delighted when Tim called recently. He wanted to know if I'd like to grab some lunch, which I would have liked to have done except I was in Washington, DC when he called. Then he said maybe he could come out and help with some farm work, if I'd like him to. So this morning he drove out from Indianapolis and, side by side, with noisy chainsaws and tractor, we cut firewood, cleared out brush honeysuckle, and split a little wood. We also enjoyed a nice lunch and watched a little basketball.

It was a good day.

As he drove off, I was reminded of a Kenny Rankin song that I just heard yesterday. It's titled "Peaceful" and has the lines

I had a son while on the run/ And his love brought a tear to my eye/ And maybe some day he might say/ That I’m a pretty nice guy

That would be my wish. That Tim might say that about me and do so while remember the good times like today, chainsaw noise and all.

And I say, easily, "He's a pretty nice guy." Indeed.

-- Brent

PS The picture above is from Tim's facebook site... I guess the silly apple does not fall far from the tree. Oh no!

30 Days of Hearning -- Screaming Monkeys

I saw, out of the corner of my eye, something fly by my office door, screeching as it went. More than a little bit startled, I went to see what it was when another zoomed by, howling as it went. It was an "Amazing Flying Monkey."

Yikes!

One thing you need to know about me is that I don't like screechy, flying things (hmmm, that could be a description of me in an airplane when I forgotten to take my "anti-gravity pills.") I've been especially afraid of flying monkeys ever since I was a kid, thanks to those evil critters in "The Wizard of Oz."

In this case, these "super stretchy screaming monkeys" were a lunchtime purchase by my friend Nancy who brought them back and was launching them like slingshots screechingly down the hall. Soon, others were joining in -- including me. And, indeed, after sufficient whining, Nancy gave me one of my very own to keep.

Nancy had become quite adept at shooting them and her's traveled a long way, screeching the whole time. One was shot (not by me) into Aaron's office -- it fell howling into the space of no return between his desk and the wall. The launcher had to retrieve it with a set of salad tongs from the kitchen. Then Aaron locked his office door. Tim, our leader, just came out of his office, shook his head, and went back to work. Isn't dignified for the president to consort with monkey-launchers, I guess.

Besides the screaming of the airborne primates, the main sound was laughter. Giggles. Guffaws. Belly laughs. It was just soo silly.

It was, of course, inevitable that somebody would get hurt. I could almost hear the Santa Claus in "A Christmas Story" saying, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid." Sure enough, there was an injury -- the tail of my monkey tore off as I was launching him. Poor monkey. I don't know whether to take him back to the toy store and ask for another, or not. Seems a bit of a silly thing for an almost 59 year old man to do. "May have another flying monkey, please?"

My standing there with a monkey tail in one hand and and a screaming monkey stuck on the fingers of my other hand was a source of great amusement to the others though.

It was good to laugh. Really good. Good as in "just what I needed" good.

As I laughed, I thought about how God wants us to enjoy life. I didn't ponder it a long time -- seemed like that would be counter-productive. To get ultra-serious about how God likes us to laugh. But I did remember the verse from Nehemiah 8 -- "Then he said to them, 'Go your way. Eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions to anyone who has nothing ready, for this day is holy to our Lord. And do not be grieved, for the joy of the LORD is your strength.'"

Ah, a little fat (like maybe on a t-bone?), a little wine (Côtes du Rhône would be nice), and a screaming flying monkey or two. Rejoice. Rejoice in the Lord always...

-- Brent

PS If you know any monkey tail sew-ers, please let me know... still haven't made it back to the toy store.