From My Nature Journal: Lament

I wrote a blog entry five days ago I had planned to post today. But then all hell broke loose in Minneapolis where we are temporarily living and working, sparked by yet another fatal incident of white on black police brutality. Peaceful protests immediately abounded, but, very quickly, and of course in the cloak of darkness (the typical timing of the prince of darkness), nearby districts exploded in rage. The city weeps. Our nation, already brought to its knees with the rest of the world by the coronavirus, has also erupted both in protest peaceful and fury crazed.

It makes my intended entry seem somewhat untimely today. The entry is certainly not inappropriate to the moment, as it is on the subject of respite, something we are also deeply in need of these days, but we can get to that later, perhaps next week. For now, it is just a time to lament.

My heart is too broken to carefully write at length about lament right now, so may I just call it out? Briefly?

Psalm 77 has it this way: My cry goes to God! Indeed, I cry to God for help, and for him to listen to me. In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord. My hand was stretched out in the night, and didn’t get tired. My soul refused to be comforted. I remember God, and I groan. I complain, and my spirit is overwhelmed. Selah… My spirit diligently inquires: “Will the Lord reject us forever? Will he be favorable no more? Has his loving kindness vanished forever? Does his promise fail for generations? Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has he, in anger, withheld his compassion?” Selah…

Yes, I lament. So does creation. Are you remembering that? Yes, creation laments. Creation groans, creation longs for the peace that is only possible through the Prince of Peace. (See Romans 8:22-27)

Creation laments. Creation groans. Creation

longs for the peace that is only possible

through the Prince of Peace…

Perhaps a key for us is in that strange little word selah. In both private and public reading, many gloss over it as if it were a comma out of place or a printing error. Scholars are not even absolutely certain of the meaning of the Hebrew word. It appears very occasionally in the Bible’s Wisdom Literature at the end of a section, and may have been a musical interlude. It may also have been simply a reminder to pause and reflect on what had just been said. Or done.

Even so, it is a selah moment for me. For us. For Minneapolis. For us all. Reflect. Reflect deeply. Bring any pain to the light of day before God. And let it result in a working for justice in the name of Jesus.

To the peaceful memory of George Floyd.

To the prayer that the Prince of Peace will heal. Not only our pain. Not only our failings. Not only our rage. But also our broken and unjust systems.

To the end that ALL God’s daughter’s and sons would “…do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with [their] God.” (Micah 6:8)

Selah.

~~ RGM, May 30 2020

From My Nature Journal: A Small Examen

I’ve written briefly before on the examen as a centuries-old, daily spiritual practice (see September 22, 2013 post). The examen, or examination of conscience, is a discipline whereby the follower of God takes intentional time, typically near the close of the day, to consider the manner in which they served and represented their God that day.

Recently I came across another excerpt from Church of Scotland minister Alistair Maclean’s Hebridean Altars, a lovely little fragment that can serve as a tiny examen for those so inclined. The Altars are a beautiful collection of Celtic Christian prayers and praises that Maclean compiled from oral and written tradition in his native Hebrides, an archipelago off the west coast of Scotland. First published in 1937, it consists of over a hundred petitions, sayings and poems, along with brief commentary, and highlights the down-to-earth manner in which Celts expressed and lived their faith life. You’ll quickly notice why I find this little selection so appealing, and why I chose to share it on my nature blog.

When the shadows fall upon hill and glen:

and the bird-music is mute:

when the silken dark is a friend:

and the river sings to the stars:

ask thyself, brother,

ask thyself, sister,

the question you alone have power to answer --

O King and Saviour of all,

what is Thy gift to me?

and do I use it to Thy pleasing?

I love this. In similar fashion to the lyrics of the traditional hymn Day is Done, sung to the tune of Taps, it employs the circadian rhythms of nature as a jumping off place for daily spiritual reflection. In amazingly few words, the first lines completely and effectively draw one in to the mood of the night, and then challenge the thoughtful person to consider their personal condition with two simple questions: God, what are Your blessings in my life? And, Do I employ them for You?

What is Thy gift to me?

And do I use it to Thy pleasing?

One of these days I am going to share more thoroughly here on the examen, but for now, this charming text can get us there. Reflect on it tonight as God gives you opportunity, and consider passing this along to others who may find nature an important spiritual pathway.

~~ RGM September 26, 2016

P.S. Interestingly, I believe the compiler of Hebridean Altars was the father of the popular novelist of the same name who lived later in the 20^th Century. Remember The Guns of Navarone?

P.P.S. No extra charge: On the same page that the elder Maclean shares the above piece, he also includes this gem which can in like manner be used as a mini-examen: Take me often from the tumult of things into Thy presence. There show me what I am and what Thou hast purposed me to be. Then hide me from Thy tears.

QOTM...*: Mark Buchanan

(*Quote of the Month)

All living things thrive only by an

ample measure of stillness.

                  ~~Mark Buchanan

We’re ‘back home again’ for a few days in John Denver’s Colorado. And though the late January ground is free of snow (except for some very small remnants in heavily shaded places from a modest blast a couple weeks ago), the forecasters say we will get a bit tonight. That’s great. It IS winter after all.

There’s something about snow that settles me. Granted, I dislike clearing a foot or more of it off my driveway, but that doesn’t happen often so I’ll gladly take the bitter with the sweet. But back to that settling impression. I don’t know if it’s the deadening of sound that falling snow or a fresh blanket produces. Or maybe it’s the paling and blanching of winter’s stark lines – the bare tree branches, the blunt edges of rocks, the sharp angles of other land features -- or the purifying whitening of drab, brown ground. Perhaps it’s the near hypnotic effect of watching the flakes come down, like being before some panoramic, big-as-the-horizon lava lamp. Or maybe it has something to do with the forced care of driving, or even walking, that a blanket of fresh snow requires. As I said, I don’t know what it is, but these combined effects always still me deeper than a snowfall stills a southern city. They still me physically, mentally and emotionally, even spiritually. My spirit slows, temporarily more reflective. The only other natural vista that comes close to giving me this blessed impression is being before a body of water.

At any rate, looking forward to the snow tonight has turned my thoughts toward stillness today and its occasional dearth in my life, but its general famine in our culture. Surrounding ourselves as we do with a greater cacophony of sound and flurry of activity than is healthy, we do well to slow down. Our need for generous amounts of still moments is why God gave us sabbath.

I recently read again Mark Buchanan’s The Rest of God: Restoring Your Soul by Restoring Sabbath. It is winsomely written, and though lacking the philosophical and theological depth of a classic like Abraham Heschel’s The Sabbath, I find it an enjoyable and motivating read. Here is the full Buchanan quote, from a chapter called In God’s Time: Stopping to See God’s Bigness:

The root idea of Sabbath is simple as rain falling, basic as breathing. It’s that all living things -- and many nonliving things too -- thrive only by an ample measure of stillness. A bird flying, never nesting, is soon plummeting. Grass trampled, day after day, scalps down to the hard bone of earth. Fruit constantly inspected bruises, blights. This is true of other things as well: a saw used without relenting -- its teeth never filed, its blade never cooled -- grows dull and brittle; a motor never shut off gums with residue or fatigues from thinness of oil -- it sputters, it stalls, it seizes. Even companionship languishes without seasons of apartness.

I need to hear this.

More than that, I need to heed its admonishment, both daily and at other special moments. So we’ll get up into the mountains over the next few days and enjoy the fresh powder. Sure, we’ll hike or snowshoe, doing something active, but I also hope we’ll have a warm enough day that Gail and I can pull out our sling chairs, find a nice place to just sit in the sun, take in the beauty, and be still.

~~RGM, January 31, 2015