February 13: Context

They sat in the section of chairs to the far right in the "Celebration Center." Ten women dressed in brightly colored dresses with beads and beautiful embroidery spread out in a section that holds forty or fifty people. Some sat in silence, others nervously pulled at their clothes and paced around the front. One looked for a safety pin, calling out to all who gathered early, worried that her apron was hanging too loosely. Another checks to make sure all of them had their song books. One left hers in the hotel room. Her roommate laughs and asks, "What did I tell you this morning? Huh? What did I tell you?"

They are from different tribes, located in a region that spans three states. All of them are pastors, students, mothers, and employees in jobs outside the church and home. They were invited to lead worship for the second day of a conference of clergywomen for their region of the denomination to which they belong.

It snowed five or six inches the night before, so the conference participants were slowly trickling in. I arrived early to tear down my display and load it up to leave as soon as the opening worship is over. One of our students belongs to the group leading worship. I wanted to hear her prayer, to be a supportive presence. She shared with me the night before that she was nervous, that they were all nervous.

They opened with music, nine of them standing like a choir, each dressed in the traditional style for women of her tribe. Another stood in front of them to lead them. They sang several hymns in the different languages of the tribes from which they come. They are Methodist, so they have made a commitment to itineracy. For them, that means learning the languages of new tribes each time they move to a new church. All of them are multi-lingual.

I sat and listened, aware of a growing discomfort. I watched as they stood representing cultures that have been overtaken by western ways and felt sadness for the losses they've experienced. I heard the tunes of hymns so familiar to me that I could sing them in my own language without looking at a hymnal. They are part of my culture, many of them passed down through many generations, and the best way I know to describe the feeling in my gut hearing them sung in the languages of Native American people is disonance.

I wonder what they would sing if Christianity, the faith of a foreign people trying to escape persecution in another world, hadn't been imposed on their ancestors. The host pastor for the conference thanked them as we transitioned from worship to the plenary session. She told them what a blessing it was to have them share their culture with us.

I slipped out and got into my car to begin the long drive home, and as I drove, I was haunted by the questions, "Why does it make us westerners feel so good to hear our story sung in another's language?"

January 14: Church

Ropes blocked off the pews in the back 3/4 of the sanctuary, urging the hearty few to sit close to the front. The room seemed larger than it is. There were too few people to dampen the sounds of laughter and spirited conversation. The ceiling extended high above the tallest of those gathered. There was no symbol to adorn the walls or chancel, save the tall, clear windows on the sides, and the table in the rear of the chancel with flowers and two single candles on either side. A large, arched window in the front opened to the world beyond the walls of the church.

The soft, intricate sounds of acoustic guitar closed the space and brought us nearer to each other. I stared out the window. Evergreen gave way to the scribbled limbs of bare trees that reached high into the white sky. Power lines crossed at various angles, adding imperfection to the perfect grid of the window. A sheering curtain of sleet and freezing rain fell, gradually gathering on the limbs and lines, coating them and threatening to weigh them down with the ice that collected. And in the quiet of the sanctuary I heard these words lifted on a soft tenor voice:

Far beyond the grasp of hands,
or light to meet the eye,
past the reaches of the mind
There find the key to nature's harmony
in an architecture so entwined.
Like the birds, whose patterns grace the sky
and carry all who join in love expanding,
The message of peace will rise in flight
taking the weight of the world upon its wings,
With the oneness of everything.

Peace is in the dance of trees
who stir before the first breath of wind
is yet perceived
Trust in the song, becoming one with the dance,
and all mysteries can be believed.
Like the sorrow of the clouds,
whose tears fall caring on the soil undemanding,
Lessons of love are giv'n that we
might rejoice in the music they bring
Of the oneness of everything.

From the chords that sound of molecules,
spinning billions to a cell,
the call resounds afar,
To the sun who warms the dancing earth,
and whose song
holds it close on the journey of a star.
Songs of lives long past who touch our own
are written in the earth forever giving.
And now to maintain the harmony
gives to us all lives worth living
In the oneness of everything.

Still we seek to find a truth
that we might understand,
and reduce to terms defined
Vast and immeasurable time and space
all so overwhelmingly designed.
Oh passing years, just might I know the faith
that winters in the heart
to be reborn in Spring.
To hear and to feel the pulse of life
enters my soul as a song to sing,
Of the oneness of everything.*


*Words from the song "The Oneness of Everything," by Jim Scott who sang and played in our worship service this morning.

January 7: Tears

His face was distinguished. An older man, his hair was grey and thinning. He wore wire-frame glasses which rested on his long, crooked nose. Tall and lean, he sat up straight. A tailored blue tweed blazer rested perfectly on his broad shoulders. His lips were thin and slightly grey. He sat in front of me, to my left, immediately in front of the window to which I turned when the words of the sermon touched me. It was an intimate moment in the service, and the intimacy took me by surprise. The minister's words captured the human experience so marvelously, so powerfully. It felt like he was peering into the soul of each one there, knowingly telling of our failures and our need for grace. When I turned to the window, the light from outside sparkled in the thin stream of tears running down the man's face. He didn't move. For a moment, his lips trembled. He swallowed hard, then reached to wipe the tears with the palm of his hand. His wife moved in closer, putting her hand on his leg, and without looking at him, patted it, her shoulders square and strong. How had his life turned from what he'd planned? Did he make a mistake? Had he been betrayed by someone he trusted? What did the words of grace and promise mean to him? I don't know his name. I know nothing about him. But, in that moment, I knew him as my brother, another in need of the grace that redeems those things we want to forget.