Beth Secules: The Woman With The Smile In Her Voice

 For a number of years, the O' Brians, Wilsons and Secules would meet once a week for dinner and a time of honest spiritual sharing and laughter. The three Toms would meet and Kay, Pat and Beth would meet for spiritual check ins. It was a way of keeping spiritually sane.

 Poem and Reflection for the life of Elizabeth (Beth) Humrickhouse Secules

On the Occasion of a Celebration of Her Life                        All Saints, Southern Shores, NC

December 18, 2021                                                                 Thomas E Wilson

The Woman With The Smile In Her Voice

I first met Beth Secules in the spring of 2003 when I was serving at a Parish where I had promised I would stay at least 5 years. That deadline had come and so I polished up my resume, updated my file at the Church Deployment Office and cast that bread upon the waters. Pat and I did visits to other places, but after many discouraging months it dawned on me that God maybe wanted me to remain where I was as my time in the wilderness.

Then, I got this inquiry from a church on the Outer Banks, asking me to respond in writing to a series of questions. Without enthusiasm, I wrote my answers down and sent them back. Soon came a phone call from a nice lady who wanted to set up a phone interview with the search committee. The night of the scheduled interview, I mixed my Martini and waited for the call.

The Committee was apparently sitting at a table with a speaker phone at the center of the table, sometimes I could hear some of them lean across the table in order to speak louder. Each member spoke, somewhat loudly, towards the microphone as I wrote each name and a comment of the voice on a chart.The chair had a solemn voice suggesting this was serious business. I wrote his name down on a chart, “Jack Mann” and “Chair” and “Serious” as he introduced himself. Some voices were all business- “this is a important job”, they seemed to say by their tone. Some seemed kind, a couple were tired. Then, this soft welcoming voice with a hint of a smile purred that her name was Beth and I could almost hear the “L” sound in her last name, which I later learned was Secules, but I wrote down Beth -dash- L.

I looked at the words, sounded out as “Bethel” and I remembered that Jacob in the Hebrew Testament where he awakens from his dream and says “Surely this is “Bethel - the place where God dwells.” “Bethel”, and that David comes from the town of Bethlehem and where Jesus was born in that place named “The place of Bread.” I write down “bread” and “dwelling of God”. My hearing of this word is what Carl Jung called a “synchronicity”- “where circumstances that appear meaningfully related yet lack a causal connection”. I call them God moments. That was the moment I relaxed, when I realized that this was a time I was going to be fed with God's presence. This was not just a job interview but a holy space. The ice melted in the leftover martini, for I had all the spirit I needed. Beth asked a question about a flippant answer I gave to one of the written questions. She asked because she was interested in knowing me beyond the inadequate answer that I had written.

Months later, during the in person interviews at the Outer Banks, I met the woman behind the voice with the smile. That smile was not just in her voice or on her face but in her whole being. At the end of that round of interviews as Pat and I were to head back to the other church, we were given a small loaf of homemade bread, which was the practice the church had for visitors to the church; another God moment slid into place. This was a place where the Bread of Christ was not in short supply.

We returned to accept the calling, buy a house and make a home on the Outer Banks. I should say we made many homes in that parish and the Secules house was such a home where we felt at home with the woman with the smile in her voice and her beloved Tom.

We did not know her when she was a teacher, dealing with difficult students, or Coach Secules' wife cheering him and his teams on. I think the smile was in her voice even in what might have seemed defeats. For her, every challenge bravely faced was a victory no matter the score.

That smile in her voice was especially there whenever she finished talking with her children or their families on the phone; even when she asked for prayers about what they might be facing in their lives. The only time I did not hear the smile when she and Tom reacted to the news that their son did not have his contract renewed from his Pro-football team. You could do anything to them, but you do not mess with her kids! The smile returned as she and Tom called their son to give him encouragement.

That smile was in the voice even when she was facing trying times, like when she would head up the baked goods tables at the madness of the annual Holly Days Bazaar. Her room was indeed “Bethlehem” -a place of bread and cookies and cakes and scones and so much more. It had Beth's smile.

That smile was in her voice even when her tears came with the coming of her illness, even when her tears came when her beloved Tom was dying, even when she herself was at the hospital on the last day of her life. The smile was not about a cozy happiness but about joy. Happiness is when circumstances combine to make life easier, but joy comes from an ingrained sense of thanksgiving. No matter what this world throws at us, we can choose to respond with a joy in thanksgiving for God's presence and strength given. I translate Psalm 30:5 as:

“While desolation endureth but a moment;

               in God's favor is life:

weeping may endure for a night,

              but joy cometh in the morning.”

Beth, the woman with the smile in her voice, understood that resurrection is not only what happens after we die, but is also what happens each day as we live into an abundant life every day of our lives on earth. We come together today because we still want to hear an echo of the joy of that smile in her voice in our hearts.

The Woman With The Smile In Her Voice

Writing down “Beth” to a disembodied welcome,

meaning what? A dwelling place for God or bread? 

Yet, she seems to be really listening to what I said,

which I hoped would continue in the weeks to come.

Finally, I met the woman behind the embodied smile,

which even persisted underneath rounds of chaos

beyond our control, but not beyond Holy presence,

giving her strength through journeys of many a mile.

How fortunate we were, we recipients of love given,

even when we did not deserve it, for love was a gift

freely given, not based on approval or relation's rift,

but flowing before we're even asking to be forgiven.

Hearing a smile in any voice is a proof we can tell,

when someone has lived and loved fully and well.

Vic James

 

A Reflection and Poem for the Celebration of the Life of Howard Victor (Vic) James

November 13, 3021         All Saints, Southern Shores, N.C.          Thomas E. Wilson

Vic James

As I tried to get my thoughts together for today, was struck with the Gospel lesson for last Sunday from John's Gospel on the Raising of Lazarus into a new life. The lesson ends with Jesus telling us, his followers, to unbind the dead person and set them free. There are two deaths we have to go through in this life. One is the death of ourselves as the center of universe. This is when get rid of the bindings of selfishness, and bitterness and get rid of the graven, and craven, image of the faraway Old Man Above the Sky, in order to become alive to the Holy who lives in the space in and between us and our neighbor and the Universe seeing all as a place of blessings. That is a death we sometimes need to go through several time a day. The second death is when our bodies die, removing all the boundaries between us and the Holy. This is the 2^nd death for Vic, on May the 5^th of this year.

 I was helped by a second passage of scripture which was from the Psalm for today, Psalm 46:5 “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, * the holy habitation of the Most High.” I found a way into a metaphor for Vic's first death.

Decades ago, I lived in a valley cut between two hills on the banks of a river in Upstate New York. In the summer I would swim in it, in the fall I would canoe in it, in the winter I would skate on its frozen surface, and in the spring, I would be in awe of the floods of the melting ice and snow making the fields rich for planting a garden. I went to church and memorized creeds and prayers, but whenever I wanted to get close to God, I would go the river. Years later when I would get so busy and far away from the Holy, I would retreat to sing an anonymous song: “Peace is flowing like a river, flowing out from you and me, flowing out into the desert, setting all the captives free.”

Being with Vic James was being on the banks of a river. Like the River, he had depths underneath the calm surface. Like the River, he nourished those he was with. Like the River, he had to keep adapting. Like the River he has pollution and abuse dumped on him, yet he kept on flowing. Like the River, he made glad the city of God living in him. Like the River, he generously bestowed blessings. Like the river, he absorbed the attacks, for he was bigger than the attackers. Like the River, he was made up of many tears and life. Like the River, you could count on him. Like the River, many times he was silent, and you knew he was listening, floating with you. Like the River, he was loyal. Like the River, I could count on him.

I have not seen that River in Upstate New York since my last high school reunion years ago, but it's Spirit is still flowing within me. It has been several years since I last saw my friend Vic James, but his Spirit still flows in my soul, flowing out into my deserts, helping set this captive free. Thanks be to God!

Vic James

Bindings come in many shapes and sizes,

there are those physical ones of course,

of hand and body or harnessing of horse;

but then there are the emotional surprises.

Those times when that old anger holds,

binding us hostage to the once upon hurt,

hanging on to us, rubbing our noses in dirt,

keeping minds captive, wrecked on shoals.

Vic became free of that hectoring time within,

by spending time helping others put down as kids

quietly, non-judging, unbinding, until he or she rids

themselves to forgive, for life's too short for them.

Forgiving is not forgetting, but peace replacing

all the bindings, setting free for love embracing.

Barbara Tucker: A Friend

 

A Reflection and Poem for Barbara Tucker: A Friend            Thomas Wilson

On the Occasion of a Celebration of Her Life                          October 30, 2021

A half century ago, I knew a lot of stuff. I knew facts, I knew theories and I thought I knew people inside and out. A half century ago, I was wrong, and over the decades I have come to the greater realization that I know very little. Over the decades, whenever I would play a part in the play, while I knew a lot about the character I was playing, I did not fully know them; I could only faithfully encounter them. Over the decades when I was counseling people, I thought I knew the people I was working with, but I came to realize that I would never fully know them; I could only faithfully encounter them. Over the decades when I was a theologian I knew a lot about God but I did not fully know the Divine - I could only faithfully encounter the Divine and I cannot know as fully as I am known by the Divine.

I have problems with Creeds because they are full of nouns. I will memorize them, but I always remember that God is not a noun but a verb, - and not just God but all creation. Einstein, over a century ago, wrote his General Theory of Relativity, and decades later, on his way to a half century later, he added an appendix: “The subtlety of the concept of space was enhanced by the discovery that there exist no completely rigid bodies. All bodies are elastically deformable and alter in volume with change in temperature.” Or as I translate it decades later; “there are no rigid bodies of people or ideas or experiences but all elastically deformable with changes in encounter.”

Aquinas said God was “pure act”, and Barbara, in the Image of God, was always busy and in action. She loved working on, or creating something for students, friends, and family. I met Barbara Tucker over 18 years ago. We have spent thousands of hours together. We have eaten hundreds of meals together. Killed scores of bottles of wine and laughed and laughed. One season of Epiphany, the season of light; John, Barbara, Pat and I went on a small group pilgrimage to the South of France together with a dozen others to encounter the light experienced by the artists of that region. It was an unforgettable journey of awe, and a lot of time was spent in silence encountering the divine spirit in art of Van Gogh, Monet, Renoir, Gauguin, Matisse, Picasso, Chagall, Cocteau, Cézanne and so many others; encountering the divine spirit in each other. There were several Priests in that group, so we had Daily Communion; our souls and bodies fed by the Body of Christ, which we wisely did not try to explain.

Yet, Barbara was never satisfied with too much quiet contemplation, for she was an extrovert and needed to connect to people. How I have listened to her pour out her soul and her heart. She shared her experiences with, and thoughts and feelings about, her husband, her children, her grandchildren, her extended family when she was a child, aunts, her sister, her nieces, her friends, her enemies, her acquaintances and her faith. She loved deeply often to the point of tears. She carried many wounds and forgave many more.

There is an old Yiddish proverb; “God creates people because God loves stories.” Barbara told many stories. The image I have in my imagination is of her leaning forward, putting her hand on the person with whom she was with, talking and sharing. She did love to talk. But she was a verb; and we don't know verbs, we can only encounter them. Another image I had as I tried to put together the poem, is of angels telling Barbara stories and the other angels nodding as they listen. When we finish here, please be like the angels in my vision and share Barbara stories. If you can; write them down and send them to her family, so her grandsons can pass on those stories to their grandchildren. Don't try to explain her, but just tell the story. Lewis Carroll. who wrote about Alice's adventures, passes on the advice: “No, no! The adventures first, explanations take such a dreadful time.”

Barbara Tucker: A Friend

How do you love someone with deep flaws?

By being aware she's doing same with you,

and everyone else, with the exception of a few

scattered memories of those, with just cause,

because they deeply hurt her cherished ones.

She would stand on her hind legs of passion,

and, she had such passion, for a compassion

on those pelted by life's vicious various stones.

Beware, she'd apt to bring a metaphorical gun

to a verbal knife fight. But then she'd holster it,

moving into an unaccustomed silence for a bit,

and then be still, living together under same Son,

to tell stories of friends she'd loved and missed.

Which we're doing 'fore she slips thru time's mist.

GOES: Guests of Ellen Strickland

GOES: Guests Of Ellen Strickland

There's a story of dueling Marys and Marthas

in our lives; but Ellen was harmony in both.

Kitchens, not slaved away, swayed in growth,

going deeper, not just resting on the surface.

Weaving space, welcoming guests in her heart

to rest, finding with her plenty of time and room

for healing One, who knew us before our womb.

Joining school children on past buses taking part

in a feast of accepting love she's setting before us.

We, who can never quite “get even”, no matter how

much we want, not just to win, but to place or show;

we've run out of time, competition is superfluous.

But in thanksgiving, we can take up her baton,

welcoming guests in our hearts in this new dawn.

Edward Duke Cowell Jr.: A Life of Quiet Thanks

 

A Poem/Reflection in Honor of Ed Cowell                       Thomas E. Wilson- Guest Speaker/Friend

On the Occasion of a Service of Remembrance        All Saints Episcopal Church, Southern Shores, NC

October 2, 2021                                                         Edward Duke Cowell Jr.: A Life of Quiet Thanks

I was talking to Carol a couple days ago and she was telling me how attached Ed was to an old couch and how he kept finding reasons not to get rid of it. He had brought that couch into the marriage 37 years ago and it had some age on it then. I don't know what meaning that particular couch had for him; a place to share, a place to look out the window at God's creation, a place to be still and look into his soul, a place to remember? We give meaning to persons, places and things, and what we are doing today is to stop and give meaning to Ed Cowell for how he touched us who loved him, we, the people who he helped in our life's odysseys, the communities in which he lived and made a difference, and the country he loved.

Let me tell you one thing I hold on to to remember Ed's love for me, his wife, his church and his community. Every time I pick up a cork screw I remember Ed. Let me tell you the story. Ed was not a drinker, neither was Carol, but he and Carol loved to entertain people who were. So, he had a collection of full wine bottles collected over the years. One night he pulled open the cabinet and asked me to choose one. I picked one from the back and it was a nice French wine that I thought would go well. I did mention that Ed was not a drinker, well that meant he was not all sure of how to store wine over the years. The one I picked's cork started to crumble when I started in with a corkscrew. The wine was a little bit beyond its time, but we, some of the others and I, drank it.We tasted it because it was a gift from Ed, he had always wanted the best for his friends; we had all received so much from Ed, all of us knew Ed's heart. I should have finished my glass and kept my mouth shut. I embarrassed him, to my shame. Later, I apologized and he laughed, for his love was greater than his pride.

Even years later, he would relate that story to me and we would laugh. Ed loved telling stories; stories without drama. In my business, I hear lots of stories; stories like a movie plot where the teller is either the hero, in command of the stage not taking a false step like Fred Astaire, or stories about being a sad betrayed victim to a boo-hiss villain. Rather Ed told stories about growing up in LIBET City, coming often to the Outer Banks as a child, his time in the service, his work (paid and volunteer), his love for Carol, his love for the churches he had attended, his devotion to All Saints and the people he met and admired. He would tell, with fondness, stories of the histories of the churches he attended, but never anything detrimental. He would not discuss theology or creeds, he saw no need to argue theology even as he would faithfully memorize the creeds. He was of the age, when he was growing up, to memorize the Ten Commandments, and they formed the basis of interpersonal actions with others of whatever faith. However, the letter of the law was less important than the love behind it, and the man knew how to love. He was a Patriot who loved his country, but he had no time for jingoism or arguing politics.

One thing he was very strict about; he would NOT tell stories of the times when he would corner me asking if he could help a family in trouble and how much he would give, telling me not to let them know from whence it came. He would soft pedal any compliments made from me and others about how thankful I and they were for his volunteer work. And yet, he knew how to thank people for anything they did for Carol and him. He was a gentleman from the old school and we miss him, but, like his couch, his love is still here. The soul of Ed Cowell remains fully with God's Heart and still here in our hearts.

Thank God.

Edward Duke Cowell Jr.: A Life of Quiet Thanks

While well versed in today's economies

of exchange for profit, gain and thrift;

Ed followed a different practice of gift,

a free loving response to life's odysseys.

Consulting not just wallets or calendars,

but diving into his soul's treasure chest,

he would answer, not as if it were a test,

but dancing to Divine music in the stars.

Critics could say his stories were lame,

and his body was clumsy, not an Astaire!

But, how he could dance love, and care

for friends or strangers - partnering as same!

Wasting little energy on defending creeds,

he lived by spending time on caring deeds.

Deeds for which no trumpets loudly sounded,

but we, knowing him, saw faith fully grounded.

He's A Wrecker

A Reflection for 18^th Sunday After Pentecost      St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, Nags Head, N.C.

September 26, 2021 Thomas E. Wilson,               Guest Preacher/ Celebrant

Numbers 11:4-6,10-16,24-29   Psalm 19:7-1   James 5:13-20  Mark 9:38-50

He's A Wrecker

In the Hebrew Testament from the Book of Numbers, the Hebrew children are complaining loudly about how lousy life has been in the Wilderness and about the incompetence of their present religious leader Moses. If only, they weep, they could go back to slavery of Egypt where at least they had fish, onions and garlic galore instead of this tasteless, and oh so boring, manna. Yes, the former leaders in Egypt would abuse them from time to time, but it was better than this. Maybe it is not to late to turn around and say “We're sorry”. Moses was the wrecker of the old life! Ah, that was the life, back in the good old days!

Not to be outdone, Moses, their Religious leader, is muttering, complaining, and throwing a hissy fit to God about how thankless and useless the members of his parish were and how he was tired of putting up with their constant whining. He wishes he was back in his old parish where all he had to do was take care of his father-in-law's non-complaining and obedient sheep. God was the Wrecker of the old life! Ah, that was the life, back in the good old days!

The Hebrew children in the wilderness would not be the last religious parish to complain about how their present leader is and how good the old days were preferable. Moses would not be the last religious leader to keep revising their resume and how much better the old parish was compared to these ingrates.

Jesus, in today's Gospel reading, had this problem with his disciples. They, the disciples, knew how a religious organization needed to be run; first and foremost you need to protect the franchise. They saw someone outside their group who was healing in Jesus name, and that person did not have the organizational authority. They thought that this do-gooder is going to be a wrecker of the whole Jesus system.

I remember in a parish I served many years ago, there was a harried period of time when my wife was approached by a few women parishioners, weeping about how I, her husband, the present Rector, was instead of a Rec-tor he was really a Wreck-er and wrecking the parish. In the good old days, three Rectors and a Prayer Book back, the church was really something, they would weep!

In the meantime, I would mutter to my wife something like; “God was crazy to lead me to this place, from the old parish The call I heard to come here is wrecking my life.” In response I was filling my prayers with asking if I really wanted to be nailed to this cross, and taking a sneak peek at the openings in other dioceses. I moaned that thought I had discerned coming from God was really messing up my life!

So how is this resolved, in this Lesson from Numbers, in the Gospel lesson from Mark, and in the lives of so many of our churches? In this lesson. God does not smite the ones who are complaining. In this lesson Moses does not read them the riot act and point out that in the Canons, he was in charge. Nor did Jesus hunt down the independent healer, and quote from scripture. Nor did I quote canons or scripture in that Parish to prove my point. I had a Bishop once who pointed out to his clergy that if they quoted the church canons to parishioners as a way to buck up their authority; then they had already lost.

How does God solve the problem? God calls Moses to call forth prophets. Prophets are not people who tell the future, but people who share a vision of God being present in the middle of everything. Prophets share a vision of Grace and redemption. Prophets are not bound by loyalty to institutions or cliques. They share the truth of the Holy being in the middle of the Profane. The past is never forgotten, the future is still before us, but Prophets place themselves in this Holy Present where God is sharing God's abundant Grace. Prophets are regular dog-faced people who allow God to touch their soul, to be as Jesus will say, “salted with fire!” Salted, being preserved and seasoned, and being set on fire of the flame that does not consume that Moses found in the Wilderness.

Madeleine L’Engle tells us in her A Stone for a Pillow:

“How do we tell the false prophet from the true prophet? The true prophet seldom predicts the future. The true prophet warns us of our present hardness of heart, our prideful presuming to know God’s mind. The ultimate test of the true prophet is love. A mark of the true prophet in any age is humility, self-emptying so there is room for God’s Word.”

In this lesson from Number, Eldad and Medad, who were not in the tent of meeting where the others, received the gift of prophecy, still receive it, abundantly sharing God's vision in and through this very moment. Moses does not call forth a franchise agreement but says, “Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets.” From Eldad and Medad to Isaiah, to Amos, to Hosea, to Jeremiah, to John the Baptizer, to Paul, to Augustine, to Francis, to Julian of Norwich, to Martin Luther, to Dorothy Day, to Martin Luther King, to John Shelby Spong, to Desmond Tutu, to Michael Curry and even to the unnamed outside the church do-gooder and healer in the Gospel lesson for today; all of them and so many of millions more were prophets in their generations; all of them “salted with fire”.

In my life of any parish I have worked in, when I start to throw myself a pity party, God graciously gives me and the parish, prophets who see the present as alive with God's loving presence. I was blessed in every one of the places I served, prophets did not lament the past, nor pine for a rosy future, but lived with courage in God's present, inviting others by more deed than word, even in the giving of cups of water for a thirsty soul, such as mine. Prophets don't try to prove anything, they just share by their words, deeds, and their lives how God is healing in this broken world.

I tell you: in this room, there are scores of people who are ready to be prophets. You don't have to go to Seminary to be a prophet. As Moses marveled; “Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets.” I say to you- BE STILL- LISTEN – God is calling each of us to be a prophet. See what God is doing in our daily lives, and share it by deed and word- even with a cup of water. We are surrounded by Grace. God's grace is flowing, like a river, over, in and through us. As the collect for today underscores: “Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, running to obtain your promises, may become partakers of your heavenly treasure,”

He Is A Wrecker

He is a wrecker; things were all right before he came.

Before he came, there was a sure sense of knowing what

was what, and how it all fit together. Except, there's a but,

in that all of our stuff lacked, what we could call a flame.

A flame that burned, whose heat we'd feel if we got close,

close enough almost to sizzle, afraid that we'd burn,

burn in a way as if to teach us something we'd learn,

and change us from the top of our head to our toes.

We don't really want that kind of change, we want the old

stuff that is comfortable without challenging us to think,

of adopting any other options of which we aren't in sync.

In fact, instead of flames we'd prefer to stay out in the cold.

Yet, Grace, not he, calls us away from our home made igloo-ses

to live in new places of growth where she, not we, chooses.

"What Is That?"

Reflection for Proper 13, Year B                       Thomas E. Wilson, Guest Preacher

August 1, 2021                                                             Holy Trinity Episcopal Hertford, NC

Exodus 16:2-4,        Psalm 51:1-13               Ephesians 4:1-16           John 6:24-35

“What Is That?”

Thank you for having me here today. I am a retired Priest and it has been my honor to have known and worked with the last four of your Rectors. I have been here for many meetings and services in the 18 years I have been here in this diocese. However, this is the first time I have spoken from this pulpit during a Sunday service, so your Rector can get out of town this week for a well earned vacation.

Last week, Robert started off his reflection with a story of a previous vacation when he had been snorkeling in the ocean and looked down to see a gigantic shark. It was a good story but in all honesty I have to warn you my story doesn't have any sharks. Your task, when Robert gets back, is to say this line; “Gosh we missed you! That guest preacher was OK, but in no way does he come close to you.”

Practice that line.

Last week, my stepson was visiting on the Outer Banks, and since he is a Chef, and I am only passable cook, his mother and I took him out to an expensive restaurant. After we got our drinks and ordered our entrees, suddenly there is was! What is that? And what is was, was a small loaf of home made bread. Just sitting there with some small plates with butter and knives It smelled great. It looked beautiful, but what was its purpose? What is that?

Was its purpose to help us to gain more weight to all the pounds that I had put on in the time of the pandemic? OR Was it a sign of welcome? Was it to prepare us for the time that the three of us could share in community, to share the love that we had for each other? Was it there to remind us that we were guests, not just customers that were paying for the entrees and drinks? Was it a reminder of thanksgiving that we were encouraged to treat the other patrons of the restaurant and the staff with respect! Was it a sign that we were connected to something beyond our table? Was it something that we could take home into our daily life? The answer of course is “Yes!”

The Hebrew Testament story is about bread, the manna in the wilderness. The word manna does not mean bread you bake in an oven, but is is what they called the stuff that formed on the ground during the Exodus. They called it “Manna”, which is a word translated as - “What is that?” They used it for food, but it was more than that. It was the building of a community dependent on a daily substance shared with each other. This bread, this manna, could not be hoarded for individual use, since it would spoil. There was enough for everybody and it was a daily reminder that they needed a power greater than themselves to give them all they needed for the journey. This is a journey in which there was no first class, business class or tourist class; they were all equal in the sight of God. The Manna- “What is that?”, wasn't all they wanted, but it was all they needed.

Every year at the Passover Seder, observant Jews gather in families and communities where they celebrate what God has, and is, doing in our lives. In that observance, there is a song of 14 verses, where each verse remembers an act of kindness by God in each step of the entire Exodus story. At the end of every verse there is a response, “Dayenu”, “even that would have been enough”. Manna is in the 9^th verse of giving thanks.

"If He had drowned our oppressors in (the sea)it, and had not supplied our needs in the desert for forty years Dayenu, it would have sufficed us!

If He had supplied our needs in the desert for forty years, and had not fed us the manna Dayenu, it would have sufficed us!

If He had fed us the manna, and had not given us the Shabbat Dayenu, it would have sufficed us!"

This 10^th Dayenu is the transition from God's gifts of kindness for one's own needs for safety and security to moving to a deeper relationship with God and neighbor. Shabbat is the day of rest in order to get closer to God.

The next, the 11^th, has to do with the encounter with the eternal at Sinai, being open to grow deeper,then the 12^th kindness is Torah, the teachings of how to live a gracious life within a community and dealing with neighbor,

THEN the 13^th kindness, the moving into a Promised land where they remember that they once were slaves and would no longer treat others as they had been treated, now putting the bitterness of the past behind,

THEN the 14^th kindness, the building of a Temple, a becoming of one with the eternal and living into a new future.

There is more to come after getting fed the bread from heaven and getting your own needs met. For the mathematicians in each one of us: 9 out of 14 is 64%.

One of the things I used to do before I went to seminary was to teach Social Work and Counseling in a college. If any student in my classes had said that they were pleased to get a 64%, I would have questioned their desire to take that course seriously. I always thought that people taking my classes ought to make a commitment rather than just showing up. To quote from the Mae West 1933 movie, I'm No Angel, “It is not the men in my life that count, it's the life in my men!”

In the Gospel lesson from John for today, Jesus sees the people who keep coming back and he notices that many of them have reached the 64^th percentile of the journey; they come because they want to continue to be fed. The old, “I come because I benefit from attending the meetings”, reason. The writer of John's Gospel relates:

Then Jesus said to them, 'Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

For Jesus, “showing up” is the first step, but then he invites them to believe. The word “believe” does not mean an acceptance of a fact as a mental exercise; like I “believe” there is a city in Nebraska named Omaha. I believe because I have gotten insurance and steaks from companies in Omaha, Nebraska. However, beyond what I get, I have no real need to clutter my life up with Omaha. I am sure it is a lovely place, and maybe when I drive back out to see my daughter in Colorado the next time, I might be tempted to take a right in Kansas City on to I-29 and go an extra 180+ miles through Iowa and Nebraska. It will take a commitment of time, energy and resources. Who knows maybe it is worth it? Some people say it is a lovely place and I have read about it, seen movies about it. To really believe in Omaha, I would have to make a commitment to enter into life there, and help share the bread of God for the life of the world by changing my life priorities by working with other residents of Omaha to deepen our shared commitments to justice, peace, community and faith. To be prepared to die in Omaha.

To believe in Jesus is about entering into life with him, in him and through him. He invites them, and us, into eternal life. Eternal life does not mean just living after you are dead, but living into the eternal, in this time and place, to see with wonder and awe through the eyes of the eternal,

to commit time, energy and resources,

Dayenu!

to forgive constantly even those people who don't “deserve it”,

Dayenu!

to love our enemies,

Dayenu!

to live as we are constantly aware of the loving presence of the eternal in our lives,

Dayenu!

to have a life as if what I want is almost irrelevant compared to trusting the guide on our journey,

Dayenu!

to turn the other cheek,

Dayenu!

to trust in the wisdom and power of the eternal greater than ourselves,

Dayenu!

to care for our neighbor,

Dayenu!

to live as if all of this life is a gift of kindness.

Dayenu!

Dayenu! In case you were counting, that was the 9^th commitment, Even that would be enough, but thank God, there is even more kindnesses to come!

What Is That?

Surrounded by a bunch of “What Is That?”s

occurring within my dreams, or waking life,

or times of prayer, or unasked times of strife,

reaching beyond simple dismissal of “that's that!”s.

Everything has a life in this growing creation,

where a rock is not just a rock, but a product

of forces bringing it together in an economic,

beyond just staying in one's own station.

The artist continues to do her work,

calling me to change, grow deeper,

until that time of meeting a reaper,

when I'll finally see hadron and quark.

Asking that question is what's important;

for only then can we see infinite portent.

Marian Wilson"s Mother's Day 1946

 

MARIAN WILSON'S MOTHER'S DAY 1946

My pregnant mother had her first Mother's Day

in California with my six month old brother,

and me, two months in the womb, as the other,

as our parents start planning a new place to stay.

She was an Ohio girl, loving Southern California,

where winter never intrudes, and fruit's always fresh.

The war had ended. Now to start civilian life afresh:

Dad to finish school and Mom to leave her Nirvana.

She, by trial and error, did the best for her kids; teaching

by example how to be parents, loving the burdens,

giving her plenty of stories, and gist for my sermons,

when I try metaphors of God's love in my preaching.

She taught us about the Divine, not in words but in deeds,

when helping us, her prize flowers, not turn into weeds.

Pink Moons, Ibis and Grackles

 

Pink Moons, Ibis and Grackles

The Pink Moon was shining last night,

but its not color wasn't the attraction,

for it was still Leto's daughter's chariot

reminding us to look beyond distraction.

Looking for signs of hope to meet change,

for time when blossoms come to shrubs.

The next morning, a flock of White Ibis

returns to the yard, searching for grubs.

The Ibis, strafed by pestering grackles,

bends, stretches, focuses on their work,

bringing joy to those of us marveling,

reminding us to stop being a jerk.

In my mind, grackles try to steal seeds

of concentration, on doing faithful deeds.

When Dream Collide

 

When Dreams Collide

Coming back from mid-afternoon walk,

dog on leash led the walk up the stairs,

one flight - which should have been two,

old man deep in his old man memories,

of time when a girl, her face now lost,

in the curtains of time, but, oh, the laugh,

still lingering, and the old man smiled,

as the dog turned into an entrance,

not the one next floor where home was,

as the old man opening door, wondering,

what had happened to decoration? Then the

new couple moving in, busily unpacking

looked up and nervously smiled at them,

an intruder and dog, in their new dream.

The old man's embarrassed laugh began,

wondering if they were making a smiling,

silent vow to lock the door from now on,

behind memory's curtain, the girl laughed.