Eastertide

I love envisioning the Easter season as a living tide that sweeps us up into the arms of the vast ocean of God's love and carries us to a new shore. To be able to allow ourselves to be so vulnerable and so free requires both nothing from us and everything.  

I am enjoying being able to preach in a small chapel again. The San Lorenzo Church sold our large church property a couple of months ago and we are settling into a much smaller space in an historic chapel on the Eden UCC campus in Hayward. It is a building that is very much alive. Our tech requirements for our hybrid service take up a lot of room, but we and the building are adjusting. I know some of the people who had a long history with the San Lorenzo church building are still mourning the move, but I am grateful that when we welcome guests, we are not trying to make them feel comfortable in a cavernous building. God is calling and holding us close, and we must get used to that intimacy. 

I often return to Sister Joan Chittister's book, The Liturgical Year, The Spiraling Adventure of the Spiritual Life. In her chapter entitled "Easter Vigil, Easter Sunday" she writes:

 

"We are not, we know now with stunning awareness, made for this world alone. There is more to us than this. Life is about more than simply surviving. It is about reaching across the black void to the very reason for which we have come. We are here to grow to full spiritual stature, 'a little less than the angels' the psalmist calls it (Psalm 8:6)."

   

Blessings on your Eastertide journey. May you know, with "stunning awareness" that you are held. 

  

Rev. Sue Ann    

 

   

image: San Leandro, January 2023 

Acknowledging

 "No matter how we get trapped, our usual reaction is not to become curious about what’s happening. We do not naturally investigate the strategies of ego. Most of us just blindly reach for something familiar that we associate with relief and then wonder why we stay dissatisfied. The radical approach of ... practice is to pay attention to what we do. Without judging it we train in kindly acknowledging whatever is going on. Eventually we might decide to stop hurting ourselves in the same old ways."

Pema Chodron,The Places That Scare You

I love the phrase, "kindly acknowledging". It has stayed with me for close to a week. I recently viewed a newsclip where people were doing everything but kindly acknowledging one another. It saddened me that in that time when the community was called together, there was no real meeting. People were too entrenched and barricaded in their own ideas, beliefs, and fears to even begin listening to one another.

The Places That Scare You was first published in 2001, and she has published several books since then. I find I am drawing strength from her presence in this world. She is in her late 80s and she is still teaching and writing. As I continue to sort and clear out some of my books, I think I need to make some room for Pema Chodron.

As I sort, I have been reunited with some beautiful books. One of them is Gratitude by the neurologist and author Oliver Sacks, published two weeks before his death in 2015. As he wrote his last book, he knew he was dying. The final chapter of the book is entitled "Sabbath". He was raised in a Jewish family, but he was not a practicing Jew. This chapter is a touching memoir of being reunited with his extended family, and learning to understand the deep meaning of Sabbath. In the last paragraph of the book which he wrote when he was very ill, he concluded "I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one's life as well, when one can feel that one's work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest."

Today, I find myself living somewhere between these two thoughtful authors. I do not sense my work is complete, and therefore the time of experiencing life, its challenges and its encouragement, continues. I shall keep this lovely book. I have learned that at any stage of life, gratitude is a trustworthy guide. Yet, sometimes I do need to be reminded. I am grateful for that kind attention.

image: When the storms subsided this week, I checked on a neighborhood peony. It weathered the wild wind and rain quite well!

Water, Part 3

 On Saturday, Tyler and I decided to visit The Living Desert and Gardens in Palm Springs. It had been recommended to us a couple of times since our arrival. Because it was a Saturday, there were a lot of families with children who were quite excited to be out and about. At times I longed for a little quiet, but it is a beautiful, well funded zoo, so if you ever travel there, I do recommend visiting. 

When we finally decided that we had seen just about every creature we possibly could, we returned to the car to discover that the back window was shattered. Tyler called a couple of places to see if there was a chance the glass could be replaced that day. However, those who actually answered the call said the glass would need to be ordered, and that could take days.    

As we drove back to Desert Hot Springs, we pondered our choices.  We could change our plans and leave Sunday. We could stay an extra day or two and wait for the glass to be delivered and installed. Or we could simply leave Monday as planned. Ultimately, we decided to leave Monday, knowing that rain was headed to the Bay Area later that day.   

We talked about visiting a UCC church in Palm Springs on Sunday. However, I decided that what I really wanted to do was take a walk in the local neighborhood and try to understand it a little better. Tyler went off in search of duct tape in case we needed to secure the large plastic bags that the hotel gave us to try to protect our things from any rain. 

As I began my walk, I initially discovered nothing new. This area that I will call downtown because we never came across anything else that looked close to what one might call downtown, was not thriving. I did pass by a storefront Latino Pentecostal church whose doors were closed, but I could hear them singing, "When the Saints Go Marching In" in a combination of Spanish and English, accompanied by a drummer.  Across the street was a large Catholic church building. Their parking lot did appear to be full. I also passed by a couple of other church buildings that had locked doors and empty parking lots.  

At this point I turned left and began walking back to the hotel. In a couple of blocks I was stunned to discover the remains of a spa whose broken sign read something like "Sahara Resort and Spa". One of the women who worked at the hotel where we stayed mentioned that there was a spa that had been so vandalized by the homeless that it was being torn down. I was certain I had found that spa, although I do not think the homeless were the only ones at fault.    

There was rubbish everywhere. The pools were filled, not with healing water, but with graffiti and trash. Windows were smashed and fences were broken. Almost all the walls that had not been torn down were scrawled with graffiti. It really was like peering into a war zone. On one wall, near the entrance was what was probably the original map of the property.  I learned that there had once been a chapel on the property. I could not tell in which building it had been located, but I sensed it may have been on the second floor, maybe next to a room that was blocked off with an unhinged wooden door, slightly askew. On it were large bold black printed words: "I still live here. Keep out."  I felt no invitation to do otherwise. 

It was in the moment of reading that a chapel had been present, that I felt I was seeing not just vandalism, but desecration. I took no pictures; I picked up nothing. I simply prayed, and then left. As I walked down the street towards the hotel, I looked down and saw a rock that was roughly in the shape of a heart. I paused for a moment to take it in. This stone was not carved; over time it simply turned into the general shape of a heart. I felt more than heard the words, "Let the earth speak."  What I will do with those words I do not know, but I think these three posts were in response to that request. I  know that the earth and her water, her plants, and her creatures are struggling to live. They are not putting up signs to keep out, but perhaps giving us ones that say, "Tread lightly. Listen to the ancestors. Learn your place in all of this. We know that you, too, are struggling." 

These are words I can take to heart.  

Water, Part Two

 Joshua Tree National Park is only about 40 minutes from Desert Hot Springs, and we felt we would be foolish to have driven all the way from the Bay Area and not visit the park. When we arrived at the ranger's station, we were able to talk to a wildly competent ranger who explained the layout of the park. As she handed Tyler his requested map, he asked her about the entrance fee. She asked a few questions and then advised that I was eligible for a discounted annual senior pass, and Tyler, young though he may be, could benefit from this discount because we were travelling together. I am quite delighted to be a card carrying senior supporter of our National Parks. 

 As the ranger suggested, we decided to take the park  road to Key's View. The weather was chilly there, but the view was clear enough and high enough that we could see the desert stretch before us into distant mountains. When we looked to the left we could see the Salton Sea. What we could not see is that the lake supports no life, not even on its banks. Its toxicity is due to a high concentration of salt and chemicals that resulted from the reduction of the flow of the Colorado River.    

We moved to a lower and warmer elevation and took a couple of short hikes. Here was where my out of practice packing was revealed. I had forgotten to pack my hiking pole. Despite my mastery of three flights of stairs at the hotel, I really cannot hike without my pole unless the ground is fairly level. My balance is undependable, particularly on a descent. We returned to the map. 

I was very curious about a spot on the map marked Oasis of Mara, which is just off Twentynine Palms Highway.  We drove north through the park and stopped at the visitor's center. We then walked the short loop around the oasis and learned some of the history. At one time the women of the Maara'yam, who were living in the San Bernardino Mountains, were having trouble giving birth to boys. For tribes who lived in isolated wilderness environments, both male and female children were needed to ensure the tribe's continued existence. A medicine man told them to go into the desert to the first place where they found water. He assured them that this would be a good place to live and "many baby boys would be born." The fathers were instructed to plant a palm tree every time a boy was born. Eventually, 29 palm trees would be planted. There is now a town and a highway known as Twentynine Palms. I am not sure that is the respect that this area deserves, but at least some sense of connection is kept.  

The oasis is small, and certainly not lush as the word implies, at least to one who has grown accustomed to our terrain here in the Bay Area. Yet, to the Maara'yam, this oasis is a place of healing and the palms, like all plant and animal life, are ancestors. In other words, it is a holy place. We European Americans need these reminders of viewing land not a potential development site or dumping ground, but as a sacred living entity. As we walked, we came across a woman teaching some young people about their ancestors. Witnessing that small gathering gave me hope. I like to think that as we turned left on Twentynine Palms Highway to return to our hotel, we did so with a little more knowledge and respect. Sister Water, as St. Francis called her, continues to find a way to make her ways known to us. Let us be grateful, for we cannot live without her. Surely the Salton Sea has taught us that much.   

In the next day or so, I will share Water, Part 3. 

 

image: A beautiful Joshua Tree. I really could not get a good picture of the oasis. Perhaps my vision was just not ready to see. However, once our eyes became acclimated, we noticed several other oases. These are formed when the earth's crust is cracked, as on a fault line. The San Andreas fault stretches into this park, but there are other fault lines as well.

Beginning with Water

 Tyler and I returned last night from our trip to Desert Hot Springs and Palm Springs. I am grateful that Tyler found our hotel and spa in Desert Hot Springs. We really are not resort people, and I appreciated that we stayed in a place that was not quite as perfect as Palm Springs appears. In fact, deferred maintenance was quite apparent. However, I really enjoyed the earnestness of the friendly staff. The mineral pools were fun and lively with both travellers and locals, and the cafe offered pretty good food. We certainly did not avoid Palm Springs. We had some lovely meals there, and we visited both the Palm Springs Art Museum and the Living Desert Zoo and Gardens, and we were glad we did. But it was Desert Hot Springs that touched my heart.   

 When we arrived at DHS, it was after dark and really windy. Once we turned off the main road, there was little to help us feel that we had made the right choice. It felt almost abandoned and we were worried we might find our hotel in the midst of the giant wind turbines and their glowing red lights. However, we continued on, and when we arrived at the hotel we were greeted warmly. Our room was clean, but could have certainly benefited from some refurbishing. It was also on the third floor, and there was no elevator. That had me worried the first night, but my body, yes, even my arthritic knee, adjusted quickly.  

The morning sunrise and the snow capped mountains that we could see from our room calmed our concerns and we began to make some plans. We decided to visit Cabot's Pueblo Museum which was originally homesteaded by Cabot Yerxa in 1913. One of his first essential tasks was to find water, so being a practical man, he began digging. He discovered both hot mineral waters with a cold water aquifer nearby. He then built his fascinating museum and home from various found items, including telephone poles. He had the eye and spirit of an artist, and his home reflected sensitivity and balance. Tyler and I found his watercolors to be beautiful, as were many of the items he collected over the years.

That visit had me thinking about the necessity and sacredness of water. We started that day, and every day thereafter, in a hot mineral pool, which was delightful. Yet, it was the visit to the museum that helped me understand just how unique these pools are. Desert Hot Springs is about 20 miles from Palm Springs. It has several new housing developments with modern homes, but much in this community of approximately 32,000 residents is dilapidated and in need of repair. It is a puzzling dichotomy.   

I have more to share, which I will do over the next few days. 

   

    

The Morning Collect

  I continue to make my way through Robert Benson's book In Constant Prayer. This morning I have been reading about a prayer form known as a collect. When I first read this book years ago, I was not interested in a prayer practice that included keeping part or all of the daily Divine Office. However, I seem to be needing more routine and ritual now. Maybe it is my age. Maybe it is because the beginning of the Lenten journey is close. Maybe it is the slow realization that most, if not all of my strategies developed for finding shortcuts rather than for deepening discipline (I believe this is what Jesus would call the narrow gate), have not resulted in a particularly sustaining harvest. Probably all of the above and more. 

Regardless, this prayer stirs my heart and I am grateful that my heart can still be stirred. This morning I am reminded that I never address God as "Almighty". Why? I really cannot say. It is probably time to figure out why.  I recently had a dream where a gentle male figure kept telling me that there is one more thing he needed me to do. In the dream I argued with him partly because I was getting ready to board a plane. However, he quietly repeated himself several times. I finally softened, and I sat down to listen. I am awaiting further instructions, and so I "stretch out my hands"*, and learn to pray.     

  

"Deliver us, Almighty God, from the service of self alone: 

That we may do the work You have given us to do, 

in truth and beauty, and for the common good; 

for the sake of the One Who comes among us 

as one who serves, 

the One Who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, 

one God, now and forever. Amen."    

 

Image: San Leandro, February, 2023

 

*Psalm 143:6

On Dry Ground

 Those of you who receive my weekly SpiritCare meditations have already seen the bulk of this post, so please excuse the duplication. However, Psalm 143 is staying with me, and I feel the need to share this a little more widely. I am cleaning out my bookcases (a slower process has never existed), and I came across Robert Benson's fine book, In Constant Prayer. In it he mentions a writing practice of rewriting what you wrote the day before to help launch you into a new day of writing. In a way, that is what I am doing here. In the February 15 entry of The Rule of St. Benedict, Sister Joan mentions that on Saturdays Psalm 43 is to be read. I think Psalm 43 will be one of the daily lynchpins for my Lenten journey. Three times a day I will pray and offer up these small and rather wrinkled hands of mine to the Holy One. Three times a day I will lift my hands to God. That is what I am doing now. 

I do not yet have a photograph for Psalm 143. Perhaps one will be revealed in the new few weeks. Yet, I do like the one attached. It reminds me that my prayers are already being answered.

"I stretch out my hands to you; 

my whole being is like dry dirt, 

thirsting for you." 

Psalm 143:6, Common English Bible   

    

Meditation: 

On Wednesday, February 22, Christians around the world will begin the Great Lenten Journey. Some will start by attending an Ash Wednesday service, where they may hear the words, "You are from dust and to dust you will return." Others may hear, "Repent, and believe the Gospels." I remember one year going to an afternoon service yearning to hear the words that would remind me of my physical mortality. I was tired and seeking respite. Instead, I was given a packet of seeds and was told something about butterflies. I was not yet ready to hear of an upcoming sprouting of wings. I needed to hear the words about the ground of my being.

I have been sitting with this Psalm of David this morning. As is often the case with David, he was feeling under siege, and was afraid. He, too, was probably tired. He tells God that he is feeling weak, and for David that probably was a frightening idea. David then pours out his heart and tells God that he is stretching out both hands. Here he is confessing that he has no weapon, no shield. His only hope lies in this tremendous thirst to know God. He must trust that God is listening, and will reach back in return.  

I believe there is a strong connection between our hands and our hearts. When I envision David reaching out with both hands to God, I see him as being fully engaged with the heartfelt cry of his heart. If you are wondering what to do for a prayer practice, I suggest that you begin the morning with holding out both hands to God, and repeating David's words, or speaking your own. Silence is perfectly acceptable as well. We can also pray our prayer quietly before we undertake a task, or we are about to eat or drink. Let us practice dedicating all our actions to God. I also suggest finishing our prayer by putting our hands together, bowing slightly, and praying "Thy will be done." 

 

 I would love to hear how your practice is going. Blessings on your journey. 

  

Prayer:  

"Tell me of your faithful love come morning time,

because I trust you. 

Show me the way I should go, 

because I offer my life up to you."  

Psalm 143:8