A Few More Little Things

Back in late December, when I finished knitting my first sweater and my first Christmas stocking (nevermind that they are just two inches from top to bottom), I thought I might set a goal of knitting one of each during every month of 2010.  I would then arrive at Christmas with a couple dozen handknit ornaments to give as gifts.  Because who doesn't want a tiny sweater or stocking?!?

January flew by in fits of freezing weather and snow, but no sweaters.  February brought an honest-to-goodness snow day, but no sweaters...until I have found myself glued to the Vancouver Olympics!  Nearly every night, from the breathtaking opening ceremonies to the high-flying half-pipe to the amazing alpine races to the dazzling ice dancing (I can't tango on solid earth, let alone ice!), I have indulged in much more television than I ever usually watch.

In order to feel at least somewhat productive, I picked up some needles and yarn.

The patterns for these two sweaters are here.  Both are knit in the round, and the sleeves are put on holders while you finish the body of the sweater.  The red yarn is the same I used for my tiny stocking.  The green yarn is a single skein of wool (looks pretty as an ornament, but you wouldn't want to wear it - sooo scratchy!) that has been in my stash for years.  I think I pulled it out of a donated bag of yarn at church because the flecks of red and yellow and blue made me laugh.

These are so much fun to make!  I may try this pattern next.  Alpine, ski jump, and speed skating...and tiny sweaters!

Lent 1C

Homily preached at the Lower School Faculty Eucharist this morning...

Luke 4:1-13

At the end of a busy week, with many long, busy hours still to go, being led by the Spirit into the wilderness doesn't sound half bad.  Well, provided there's a nice shelter in that wilderness, with electricity and running water, and all the ingredients for a thick, hearty soup, and a cozy, down comforter, and a kindle full-charged, and an indefinite supply of General Foods French Vanilla Coffee...

I have wondered whether Jesus knew what awaited him in the wilderness, whether he was expecting something rather more retreat-ish than forty days of too little to eat and too much to endure.  The Spirit had led him there, Luke says.  Mark, always more urgent, says that the Spirit drove him there, Jordan River water still dripping down his neck, heavenly words still hanging round his head.  You are my Son, the Beloved.  With you I am well pleased.

It would not be the first time, nor the last, that a human heart wrestled with God.  I know, the story tells us the devil was the one who whispered temptations in Jesus' ear...Just think how much good you could do if you turned these stones to bread.  Just think how many would listen if you had authority over all the kingdoms of the world.  Just think how impressed they would be if they saw you riding the backs of angels...Aren't you hungry, Jesus?  You can feed yourself...

So it was, so it always is, that temptation sets the human heart against the heart of God and then steps back to watch what happens.  You can feed yourself, the devil still whispers in our ears, and our hearts swell with self-satisfaction.

We, too, have entered our forty days, this wilderness we call Lent.  The temptations we face are not peculiar to this desert, though - they are present with us each and every day.  And so we come into this season, led by the Spirit, to search our swollen hearts for the only words that can ever truly satisfy us, comfort us, feed us...You are my child, my Beloved.  With you I am well pleased.

Perhaps we will have opportunities for retreat in this wilderness time; perhaps not.  Perhaps at the Easter-end, or rather the Easter-beginnning, of our journey we will find that the world still more nearly resembles a wilderness than a warm shelter.  It is not,  however, not ever a God-forsaken place, the desert - indeed, it is where God waits to satisfy our hunger.  It is where the Holy Spirit leads us.  It is where Jesus stands close by, whispering in our famished hearts, I will feed you with myself... Amen.

Artwork: "Baptism of Jesus," by He Qi; "Temptations," artist unknown.

Ash Wednesday

The homily for our Middle and Upper School chapel services today...

Isaiah 58:1-12; Psalm 51; 2 Corinthians 6:3-10

About this time in February, three years ago, I watched for the first signs of spring in our yard.  We had moved to Jackson in late August the year before, when the summer heat had already baked everything except a few over-pruned shrubs and an over-grown magnolia.  I had never seen anything blooming in our new front yard, and was ready to be surprised by daffodils and snowdrops and irises.

Nothing happened.  Nothing came up.  Nothing grew.  Nothing bloomed.  For two years the only way you could tell whether it was summer or winter in our yard was if the grass was green or brown.

I wan't much of a gardener, but desperate for at least a little bit of color, I planted a few snapdragons around our mailbox.  I tugged at the tendrils of St. Augustine grass just as its brown season was beginning, found the loose soil beneath, and tucked the half grown flowers in close...and watched them grow.

After that, I couldn't keep my hands out of the dirt!  By the time the green season returned, I had planted some herbs and heather and lantana.  A friend who knows much more about growing things than I do planted roses and crepe myrtles and countless bulbs that had finished blooming, so that their flowers would be a surprise the next time around.  If you're watching for the first signs of spring in my yard this year, you won't be disappointed.  The grass is still brown, but there are green shoots everywhere, pushing soil and pine straw aside to make way for stems and leaves lengthening even as the days grow ever so slightly longer.

It is lovely that, in our northern hemisphere anyway, the church season of Lent and the earth season of brown-becoming-green coincide.  In fact, the word Lent comes from the same root that gives us the word lengthen, and at one time that was it was the name for this very time of year when the return of light and warmth bids us stretch our own winter-weary bones (and we are indeed weary of this winter!) and tend to the shoots and stems and other signs of new life as they appear all around us, bursting from the earth as from a tomb.

In this season of Lent, when things that grow are stretching toward the source of light and life, we are also encouraged to go deep, to consider those things that come between ourselves and God, to name the ways we have unintentionally and intentionally hurt ourselves or others, to be mindful of the ways in which our growth helps or hinders the growth of others around us.  Indeed, every faith tradition has a season or an annual observance during which believers reflect on their sins and through prayer and action return to a right relationship with God and with others.

The language of Lent, especially as it begins on this day, is filled with brown and brittle words like wrong-doing, sinfulness, mistakes, repentance, dust and ashes.  Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return, many of us will hear as ashes are smudged on our foreheads, a sign of our mortality, of our inevitable failure to thrive.

But then again... From the very beginning, when in the biblical story of creation God kneels down in the rich, dark soil and lovingly forms and shapes by hand a human figure and breathes God's very own breath into it to give it life, and calls it adamah, Adam, which is Hebrew for dust... From the very beginning, God, the maker of heaven and earth, has been covered head to toe in dust and ashes and dirt. Throughout the Hebrew scriptures, and into the Christian testament, the story of God and adamah, God and dust, God and us, has been a story about things that grow, things that live, things that stretch toward the source of light and life, things that make the world a lovelier place.

In the Broadway musical production of The Secret Garden, young Mary is delighted to discover the entrance to a walled garden only to find that the plants inside are brown and dead.  Her friend, Dickon, encourages her, scraping away at one of the stems to show her that the plant is wick:

When a thing is wick, it has a life about it, Dickon sings.  Somewhere there's a single streak of green inside it, waiting for the right time to be seen.  When a thing is wick, it has a light around it; maybe not a light that you can see, but hiding down below a spark's asleep inside it... You clear away the dead parts so the tender buds can form; loosen up the earth and let the roots get warm.  Come a mild day, come a warm rain, come a snowdrop a comin' up, come a lily, come a lilac, calling all the rest to come and see...

The season of Lent, especially as it begins today, is about remembering who we are - we are people made of dust and the breath of God, we are people made in the image of God, whose greatest love is getting down in the dirt and making something wonderful grow out of it.  Remember that you are dust...you are adamah...you are rich, fertile soil.  What is God planting deep inside of you?  What is growing there?  What keeps it from growing?  Today we are invited to begin the work of clearing away those dead parts of ourselves to that tender buds can form, of loosening up the earth and letting our roots get warm.  Come a mild day, come a warm rain, come Easter morning, we'll be called to come and see what new life is bursting forth... Amen.

Artwork: Photos from our front yard; cross of ashes, artist unknown; "Early Spring," woodcutting by Art Hansen.

Last Epiphany C

Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99; 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9:28-36 (37-43a)

One of the first things I learned as a camp counselor in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina was that I'm not very good at mountain-climbing.  During staff training, we went on an overnight campout like the ones we would be leading all summer.  We hiked for hours, up hill and down hill and through clearings and over rocks and fallen trees, learning all the trails through the woods.

I had never been on a campout like that, and it wasn't long at all before I started having second thoughts about my new summer job, about whether I would be able to identify poisonous snakes, light campfires in the rain, carry a pack taller than I was, negotiate footholds in roots and rocks, tie the right knot in the right place at the right time...and all of that with homesick campers hanging from my elbows!

Late in the afternoon, we started up the trail to Eagle Rock, where we were going to spend the night.  The climb wasn't too bad at first - a winding old dirt road that nature had begun to reclaim, gently sloping its way uphill.  But then, at a mysterious point it would take me all summer to find on my own, we turned suddenly off the road and started climbing straight up it seemed to me, until the path curved around and rose up straighter still.

About halfway up, I knew I had to stop.  I could barely breathe, my legs were burning, and my face was red hot with exertion...and embarrassment.  I asked if we could rest for a moment, bringing all twenty or so folks to a complete halt on the side of a hill fit only for Olympic downhill skiing.  But they all put their packs down, pulled out canteens, and caught their breath even as I struggled to regain mine.  I dreaded the moment we'd start up again, but at that point on the trail it would be just as difficult to go back down as it would be to keep climbing, so...we climbed.  And as we inched our way up the mountain, a few folks stayed close by, cheering me on from behind and pointing out the easiest path in front of me.  How strange, I thought, that we had been hiking together all day, but I hadn't really paid much attention to everyone else when all I could think about was how difficult the hike was for me.  In the end, the only reason any of us made it up to Eagle Rock was because we helped one another climb.

It was hard to take it all in at the top.  The air up there was sweet and pure - you could breathe deeply.  The sound up there was the sound of the sky itself, of rushing wind and vast, sparkling silence.  The breeze was cool on our hot skin, and the mossy ground gentle beneath our aching feet.  And the view up there, oh, the view - you could see, I mean, really see everything.  It was glorious.

I wonder if Peter and John and James were breathless from their climb up the mountain, if they had to stop halfway up the hill.  I wonder if they were caught up by the view from the top, if their feet were glad for the moss and their sweat-soaked brows glad for the cool breeze.  Luke tells us they were weighed down with sleep.

I wonder when everything began to change.  Did the air shimmer?  Did it first turn golden-yellow, as when a thunderstorm ends just at sunset?  And while Jesus was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white... It was glorious.

The story of the Transfiguration is told every year on the last Sunday after the Epiphany, the last Sunday in this season that has been full of the light of revelation.  The Magi observed a bright star and followed it over mountains and across deserts to reach a newborn king.  A voice from heaven called Jesus my Beloved Son as he stood dripping by the side of the Jordan River.  I will make you fish for people, Jesus had called to the fishermen-now-turned-mountain-climbers, and they left everything and followed him.  We have heard all of these stories, and now we come to this last and most brilliant epiphany, when Jesus was revealed in a new light - or, rather, in a very ancient light, the light of the glory of God.

One dictionary defines glory as "the unapproachable and mighty manifestation of the immediate presence of God."  Indeed, both Moses and Elijah had experienced God's glory on mountaintops before, awesome encounters with God so far beyond what their sense could comprehend that God had veiled their faces and shielded their eyes and covered them in a cloud.  And yet, had they not also encountered God's immediate presence - God's glory - in manna and flowing water, in still small voices, in healing touches, and in the kindness of others?

I am drawn to another definition of glory, offered by Frederich Buechner.  "Glory is to God what style is to an artist," he writes, noting that great works of art - paintings, sculptures, arias, sonnets - great works of art are saturated in the rich and recognizable style of the artist who created them.  "The style of the artists brings you as close to the sound of their voices and the light in their eyes as it is possible to get this side of actually shaking hands with them."

The view from the top of that mountain must have been dizzying, what with Jesus' changed appearance and dazzling clothes, the sudden companionship of salvation history's holiest men, and a mysterious cloud overshadowing it all.  It is no wonder Peter desperately wants to stop the world's spinning and contain the moment his senses cannot comprehend.  He does not yet understand that God's glory has been with him all along, that it climbed the mountain with him, and that it will accompany him back down again.  He does not yet understand what Paul will later say, that in Christ the veil has been removed and set aside, that in Christ God's glory now has eyes for looking love on the world and hands for healing its hurts and feet for walking through the valley of the shadow of death...and for climbing mountains.

God is beyond all of our seeing and hearing and touching and knowing, but the witness of scripture is to the awesome entry of heavenly mystery into human experience, to how the appearance of that mystery ever changes so that we might ever see it in a new light.  And still there is no mistaking who the changeless Artist is, the one who paints glory as both dazzling light and dusty feet, who sculpts messiahs and mountaintops, who brings forth epiphanies and everyday life.

For all of creation, itself art in motion, reflects something of the glory of God, as though reflected in a mirror writes Paul.  The view from the top of any mountain, the coolness of any breeze, the gentle spring of moss, the hand that helps you climb, the companionship of friends along the way - are not these also great works of art saturated with the style of the Artist who created them?  The sound of our voices raised in song, the sight of our community gathered in prayer, the touch of a hand at the peace, the smell of the wine in the chalice, the taste of the bread that fills us with the Body of Christ - are not these also great works of art saturated with the style of the Artist who created them?

A third scholar defines glory simply as "God's visible manifestation."  There was no mistaking the visible manifestation of God's glory at the top of the mountain that day, but Jesus had not changed.  God's glory was on display in him each and every day of his life for those who had eyes to see and ears to hear.  It was visibly manifest in his choice of company, his eating, his touching, his smiling, his weeping, his need for rest, his willingness to let children hang from his elbows.  It was visibly manifest in his willingness to receive a crown of thorns, his face bright red and burning, his breath ragged, his life ceasing.  But death could not contain God's glory, and so when light dawned on the third day, Jesus revealed God's greatest masterpiece, resurrection, and invited us all to shine.

There may not come for us a dazzling light or a voice from heaven.  Such epiphanies, such transfigurations, are rare and perhaps unbearable.  Instead, we are slowly changed from one degree of glory to another, one mountain at a time - and there are many mountains along our way.  You know, nothing really changed about the climb to Eagle Rock - the hill was still steep, I was still out of breath, and I still worried about poisonous snakes.  Nothing really changed, except that the kindness of my companions awakened my senses so that I saw myself, those who were with me, and the woods in which we walked in a new light.  There were lots of little epiphanies like that over the course of that summer, little bursts of light like the stars overhead or the fireflies in the trees or the sparks above the campfire.  Each little encounter revealed something more of God's immediate presence, God's glory, in every day life - a helping hand rolling up tarps and sleeping bags, sharing an extra canteen of water, singing as we walked the trails, catching the unchecked smile on a homesick camper's face when she saw the view from the top of Eagle Rock... It was glorious.

In this season of Epiphany, we have hiked together with sisters and brothers in faith from the wilderness of the Jordan River to the wilderness at the top of a mountain; in a very few days, we will enter the wilderness of Lent.  Many of us carry heavy packs.  There are roots and rocks to negotiate, knots to tie, and lines to cut. The way is sometimes narrow and winding and steep.  We may get stuck on the side of a hill.  We will all at times need to stop and catch our breath.  In the end, the only way we will make it to Easter Morning is if we help one another climb.  And along the path, if we have eyes to see and ears to hear, if we have hands to reach out and tongues to tell and hearts to beat and spirits to serve, we will slowly be changed from one degree of glory to another, and begin to shine with the likeness of Christ, the Artist in Residence.  Amen.

Artwork: Lake at Kanuga Conference Center (we hiked around it before starting up to Eagle Rock); "The Light of Christ has Come into the World," by Barbi Tinder; "Luke 9:28-34," by Chris Cook; "The Transfiguration," by Cornelis Monsma; "Blue Transfiguration," by Macha Chmakoff; "Transfiguration," by Lewis Bowman.

Snow Day!

The alarm was set to go off in time for me to check the news and see if school was cancelled so we could sleep in... Two minutes before it was scheduled to sound, though, the sudden quiet of the power going out woke us all up.  Since my inservice day had already been called off, I had actually planned to get up early and start the morning with a cup of coffee and a book and the silent fall of snow.  Instead, we all got up early and started the morning in the cold and candle-lit dark as we watched the snow drift down and...here's the impossible part...not melt!

When it was finally light enough, Little Charlie and I went outside.  I wore my new hat!  The snow was just right for catching on the tongue and making snowballs that exploded into puffs of white when they struck the coats of giggling and delighted moms and little boys!

A neighbor told us she had heard that the power wouldn't be back on until Saturday.  By mid-morning, though, when we went outside again, resigned to the reality that we'd be cold whether we were inside or out, we saw this.

We had pancakes and hot chocolate for lunch!  The afternoon was spent outside again, playing with neighbors and pets as the snowflakes finally grew fewer and further between, and the above freezing temperatures were melting the snow.

Back inside, inspired perhaps by the wisdom of filling your lap with wool on a cold and snowy day, a new knitter was hard at work!  The sun came out by late afternoon, a beautiful end to a beautiful day!

My New Plate Cozy

At least that's what my husband happily decided to call it when he saw it blocking over one of our dinner plates.  He knows it's really a hat, but couldn't be stopped from smiling at the thought of individually be-sweatered plates stacked cozily in the kitchen cabinet.

I started this hat, you may remember, the last time it snowed in Mississippi.  By all rights, that should mean I started it years ago, but no, it has snowed three times this winter alone.  Temperatures have dropped below freezing more than enough times to validate knitters living south of the Mason-Dixon line.  Still, imagining that winter was surely giving way to warmer temperatures and gallons of rain even as states north of here are frozen and covered in snow, I declared that perhaps I would have a completed hat by the next time it snowed here.

But the groundhog saw his shadow a few weeks ago, and according to NOAA, there is 100% chance of heavy snow tomorrow night.

Just in case, I have a hat blocking on a dinner plate.  I'm ready.

Specs for the Debbie Bliss Plate Cozy Cabled Beret:

One and a third skeins of Lion Brand Wool-Ease (which is soft and springy but may not actually have enough wool in it to block - we'll see), sizes 5 and 8 circular needles, cable needle, counter (which is only really useful if you remember to press the little button, which I often don't).  
Cast on 110 stitches, knit flat and seam up at the end.  I won't do it this way again, because it turns out I really don't like seaming.  I think if you omit one stitch at the beginning and end of each row, you can join and knit in the round. 

Knit Together

The saints went marching up to Tupelo for the 183rd Annual Council of the Diocese of Mississippi.  "The Challenge of Mission" was our theme for the weekend, which we spent praying and singing and talking about how God has called us as individuals and as a church to go out into the world.  For some that means traveling across oceans and even continents, visiting Episcopal and Anglican communities in the Sudan, Uganda, Haiti, the Virgin Islands, Honduras, or Panama, to offer medical care or school supplies or simply to build meaningful mutual relationships.  For others it means walking down the street to welcome a homeless person into your parish hall where coffee and breakfast are served every morning.

(Yes, I knit a little during some of the business sessions, but then so did lots of other folks.  All the pictures in this post are their various projects, knit either for loved ones or as part of a prayer ministry in their community...)

We heard stories about how mission challenges us to think outside the box, to learn new languages, to embrace new traditions, and to open our hearts to people who seem, at least on the surface, very unlike ourselves.  One priest new to the diocese, by way of the Diocese of Minnesota, said that the Mississippi Delta has taught her that phrases like "might could" are as useful as "you betcha," and that sweet tea is far superior to its unsweetened counterpart.  Of course her reflection was light-hearted, but it revealed that even within our own country - and I suspect this is also true within our own states, even our own cities - there are diverse cultures and traditions to be learned and celebrated and respected.

There was tension at times, as there always is in families.  There is enough diversity of culture and tradition and belief within even our own Episcopal community that we are challenged to consider perspectives not our own, and to walk side by side with those with whom we disagree because, as Bishop Gray reminded us, the simplest creed is this: Jesus is Lord.  Jesus reigns, and that reign was in his life and death and resurrection, and in the life of the church at its best, manifest in love.

And so it is love that knits us together.  I pray that we will continue to hold in graceful tension the many threads that make up our community of faith that is the Episcopal Church, and that within the Diocese of Mississippi we will take up more and more of those threads in our hands and hearts.  I would love for us to sing from our African-American hymnal, to say a prayer in Spanish, and to use more expansive language when we describe God.  Our failure to weave these threads and others like them into our worship is our greatest challenge to mission.  Praying shapes believing...

The saints went marching back home in time for the kick-off of a game that would bring not only Episcopalians but believers (and non-believers) of all stripes together.  We'll all get back to work now, here in the mission fields of our day-to-day lives, whether we travel far away or simply walk down the street.  Go in peace to love and serve...and to knit together in love...