Some Thoughts/Tweets about Change

 10.9.21

Every day, changes ... most incrementally small, small enough to never notice, but added up, over time, change is evident. How I think, feel, walk, talk, sleep and eat. My "religion," too. Some elements remain, but most have changed, some discarded. I'm 77.

Change is life - from Adam and Eve to you and me - nothing remains static, everything evolves. Frightening to some people, disturbing to most, resisted by nearly everyone. We love stability, but stability is hell. Heaven is a process of constant discovery, renewal, with light.

Thinking about my career, reviewing the years, I changed things in the life of the church, and most always it was painful. Religion strives for stability. "I'd rather take my church to my grave than see it change," said one. "Besides, I'm too old to change."

I've always been a reader - from The Hardy Boys, to the Weekly Reader; from comics to biographies; history, poetry, mystery and espionage. My imagination full of adventure, courage, danger, and hope. I'd like to think that my soul remains supple in the hands of time and God.

Religion has mostly been my friend. Though for me as a career-minster, it's been an enemy. For me, religion has provided the means of thought, contemplation, review and revision. For others, it's a bulwark that cannot be moved; it's a hidey place; a blankie; an idol.

For religion to remain stable, it has to have idols - wood and iron, stone and gold. Golden Calves rather than the Mountain God of Cloud and Fire. What better idol than skin color; "my skin, my race, my way of life, my people, superior - all by God's UNCHANGING decree."

 Most every morning, before my prayer journal work, I say aloud: The LORD's Prayer, The Apostles' Creed, a prayer from The Book of Common Prayer (slightly modified), and the Hail Mary.

The first two, of course, were always a part of my growing up years, said every Sunday in church.

The Anglican Prayer added to my repertoire, and the Hail Mary, some many years ago.

I was long uncomfortable with The Hail Mary until I gave it some thought with a Rosary gift from the chaplain at Gethsemani Abbey, Fr. Matthew Kelty.

These traditional elements comprise, for me, a foundation - when all else seems fragile and fluid, or slipping away, I find these elements to be a reminder, an encouragement, to be steady ... or not to worry when my personal reservoirs of faith run dry ...

The mercy, the love, the goodness of God, doesn't depend upon me, though I'm a part of what God is doing. Not my decision, not my effort or faith ... but that of God. And all of it by grace.

𝑂𝑢𝑟 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛 ... 𝐼 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑜𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑦, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟 ... 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑑, 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 ... 𝐻𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑦, 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐿𝑂𝑅𝐷 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑒 ...

Sure, criticism abounds ... male language and such ... and I'm not blind or deaf to them ...

I say them, I would like to think, mindfully and carefully ... with awareness and sensitivity ...

And so it is, this day, Oct. 1, 2021 ... and God's Peace to all.

Ten Thousand Graves

Ten thousand graves ... 

Tended with care ... lush grass precisely trimmed.

Crosses mostly ... and Stars of David ...

Young men and women cut down in the prime of life.

They were brave and they were afraid ...

Their pictures reveal that haunted look ...

Of soldiers too tired to be afraid, 

And too frightened to find sleep.

Seasick and wet, 

They hit the beach …

Under the cover of …

Steel and smoke.

Death and tears abound …

Ahead, my friends, ahead.

There’s no going back now.

No stopping for any of us.

A continent enslaved awaits the charge.

Nations, yes, and then some, to be unshackled …

And the years pass us by quickly …

Memories roll beyond the reach of words …

Silent tears still shed …

By those who made it home.

Slowly, now, they join their comrades,

As we all do … with the passage of time.

Hand-in-hand; arm-in-arm … a band of brothers …

A chorus of sisters …

Smoke and steel … 

And a victory in hand.

And may those 

Ten thousand graves remain ever well-tended!

© Tom Eggebeen, 2010

Moab, Utah

I’m in Moab, an incredible piece of work … God’s handiwork, of course, sublime, extravagant, bold and stunningly beautiful, ever changing with the march of the sun across the bluest of skies, and the play of clouds, billowing or wispy, and sometimes threatening, heavy with the treasure of rain in an otherwise dry land, and with plenty of small canyons, meadows, and creeks, all running into the cold and powerful Colorado, places to charm the weariest of travelers and ease away the strain of life.

And the handiwork, too, of people - a cross section of humanity, prospectors and writers, rock climbers and dreamers, hardscrabble, hardworking folks, quick to smile and lean of limb, who love the dessert, or long for an escape - the retired, too, with some spare change, and the tired, as well. Many a dream here. Some didn’t come to pass, with their closed storefronts, and some born anew, with fresh paint and clever names, ever the hope of making a living in a place carved out of the imposing stone, like the tourist attraction, “Hole N" The Rock,” dug and blasted by hand, or carved by a millennia of wind and storm, cold and heat, and always the River rushing to the sea.

My son lives here, and makes it home. A treat to be his dad, and more importantly, to be his friend. He cheers my soul and brightens the remaining days of my journey. My wife, dear wife, is here, too - with 54 years of marriage behind us, we push on with gratitude, looking to the panorama of mountains and sky as a constant reminder that we belong, but for a time, to something utterly good and glorious, and maybe something that transcends even the boundaries of time. But who knows for sure - that decision belongs to the Mountains, those mighty towers of stone and silence inviting our trust and our hope.

Thanks Moab, and thanks to our son!

Holy Week

It’s Holy Week, that strange and storied eight days, from Sunday to Sunday, beginning with a “triumphal entry” into the city of cities, a city rife with rumors and rebellion, under the iron fist of Rome and a local leadership bound and determined to maintain peace. The crowds roar their approval, with palm branches and cloaks laid down before the procession, the entry of Jesus and his disciples, from the Mount of Olives, on a donkey, rather than a steed of war - an image of hope and deliverance.

What was the crowd thinking?

Many things, I’m sure, but caught up in the moment of those days, that week, a time fraught with so much hope and so many dreams, the crowd welcomed Jesus. He had a reputation for tweaking proud noses, and irritating the righteous. The crowds loved that sort of thing.

But it didn’t take for the crowd to crow a different tune a few days later. Oh how fickle the crowds can be. Fame so fleeting, and then it’s gone. Another race, another bet.

The officials consider what needs to be done, and Judas conspires with them, for his thirty-dirty-pieces of silver, and what was he thinking?

With a kiss, just to make sure the police get the right man, Judas betrays him. Jesus is led away, beaten and bloodied, presented to Pilate, then to Herod, and then back to Pilate - a show of law and order, but a complete and total moral failure. Power always has trouble with truth … power understands power, but truth is another matter. Finally, the roaring crowds are given a choice: shall it be Jesus or perhaps Barabbas; a prophet or a rebel?

The story ends badly, at least for Jesus. He’s led to a cross, a Roman execution, in a most public place, to let the world know who’s in charge and who calls the shots.

Jesus is crucified, dead, and buried.

Of Barabbas, we know nothing.

Of Pilate? Well, it didn’t end well for him either. Rome wasn’t happy, and so he’s invited to an early retirement.

Holy Week - when the darkest of motives are exposed, when God’s presence in our world is utterly and completely rejected by the crowds, by the powers, by just about everyone.

It seems that one of the two rebels crucified with Jesus had some regard for him. And the women at the foot of the cross, too. And then Jesus is dead, and just to make sure, a spear is driven into his gut by one of the soldiers; was it the one who was struck by it all? Soldiers doing their job, but not always happy

about it.

Jesus is tucked away … hurriedly … in a borrowed tomb … the disciples slink away to gather their thoughts and plan the next move, but mostly to hide from the growing threat of retaliation against them. And that was that.

But we shall meet them again, in the next chapter. But for now, we have to wait. That’s part of the strangeness of Holy Week. Nothing is entirely clear; it’s a time of fog and fatigue, disappointment and despair … one of those times when we cling to one another, even as words fail us. We cry, and we cry out.

Until then …

Voter Suppression & 1 Corinthians 11.17

Voter suppression and 1 Corinthians 11.17ff - a place at the Table for everyone, and for those with a bit more in the larder, eat at home, drink what you want, and don't embarrass the poor with your abundance when coming together at the Table. Restrain yourselves, and learn how to eat together properly, recognizing in one another the love of God and the very presence of Christ. 

Strikes me that Paul's commentary on the Corinthian situation has some bearing on voter suppression, and the dreams of Lincoln and others, that voting belongs to all, regardless of class, race, or gender. 

Any effort made to exclude, however cleverly it may be disguised, is nothing less than a repudiation of Christ, and it's no wonder that so many are sick and dying in the throes of racist agony.

What think ye of this?

Mountains Snows - a Prayer

For the sun above, bright and clear.
For snow upon the mountains.
For fresh air and cold beauty.
O LORD, my God, my thanks.

And I pray, dear God, that I, in my own unusual way,
Might be the salt of the earth.
And the light of the world.

And if not the world, at least
My small corner of it.
My home, my heart, my circle of friends.

And of my friends, a word of thanks.
Friends present and friends new.
Friends old and friends long gone.

And for the women and men who write the books.
Who embrace the highest values of life and liberty.
Who follow in the steps of a Lincoln and an FDR.
Who challenge the prevailing moods with something higher.
Who listen, not to the clamoring mob, but to the cry of angel.

The push and pull of faith is just that, dear God.
No one fully knows your purpose.
Or the ways of the universe.
Yet, we know - love is everything.
Forgiveness is the heart of it.
Mercy can have no compromise.
Justice must be for all - and if not, it's not for anyone.

O LORD my God: my thanks.
You have been present and kind.
You have taken me by hand.
By calm waters and green pastures you have led.

I vow this day to be my best, as best I can.
To accept my limits, and those of others.
To affirm and lift up.
To speak peace and speak truth.
And if peace would be used to quash truth.
Then choose the truth and bear the cross.

Thank you for the bright sun.

The snow in the mountains.
The pleasure within my heart.
The hope of things to come.

In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Who daily teaches me the ways of life. Amen!