This blog has been quiet for a while, mainly because I didn’t feel free until recently to “go public” with the turn my discernment has taken. Now that it has crystallized into a decision, and I’ve told the Community about it, I’m free to share.

Someone has defined discernment as “turning down the volume on some voices so that you can hear others.” Our Lenten quiet time proved very deep here. A few weeks into it, a voice within me started coming to the fore, and it seemed to be pointing me back toward parish ministry. One Saturday morning in late February, for example, my first thought upon waking was, “You know, my REAL passion is congregations.” I noted it with interest, but at that point it was only one thought among many.

Over the ensuing weeks, though, the voice became clearer and more insistent. It seemed confirmed by some vivid dreams, such as missing a bus full of women clergy and being very agitated about it. I came to realize how deeply I missed preaching, and congregational life in general. Thoughts like these had come up before, but somehow this time they seemed to carry a different weight - more authority and less emotion.

In March I spoke at length with my spiritual director, and found myself very much at peace with the idea that it was time to move on. Nevertheless, I decided to sit with it through Lent, and not make any irrevocable decisions until after Easter Sunday. We had a wonderful Holy Week and Easter here - I’ll write about it later - but somehow I knew that they would be my last with the community.

Tuesday morning, I met with my mentor, Sr. Catherine Grace, and told her of my decision. She was very supportive, and not entirely surprised. Our thoughts at this point, subject to the community council’s approval, are that I will stay here through April, visit the city sisters in early May, and then take my leave of the community. I have a trip planned to the southwest during the first part of May, and then expect to be back in Massachusetts the middle of that month.

For a long time I’ve been intrigued by the possibilities of doing interim ministry with congregations, and this seems an ideal time to pursue that option. I’m in the midst now of writing essays for my on-line ministerial record, and hope to know by early to mid-summer where I’ll be in September.

I have no regrets whatsoever about my decision to come to community. The last year and a half has been a great experience, and has taught me many things. The work the sisters are doing here at Melrose is brilliant, in my opinion, and I hope to stay in touch after I leave.

Similarly, in no way do I feel that I have “failed” in leaving the religious life. Rather, the discernment process has “succeeded” for me, helping me to come to deeper clarity about my vocation, and to discover that my original call to ministry still seems to be alive and well.

I’ll keep you posted as things develop.

So! What happens once we’ve collected all that sap? Yesterday I had my first opportunity to see the process all the way through, so let me tell you about it.

Sap is quite perishable, so it’s important to get to work quickly. After harvest, we carry the buckets to the makeshift sugar house on our porch, and pour them through a filter to strain out any debris. From there it goes either into the evaporator, or, if there’s overflow, into a storage barrel. The evaporator is a rectangular, stainless steel tank, approximately four feet long, with a spigot near the bottom. It’s heated from underneath by two propane burners.

Once the sap comes to a boil, it gives off a lovely wall of steam. As it condenses, we add more from the overflow barrels. It’s crucial to monitor the level of liquid, lest we have hard candy in the bottom of the pan. This means that if we start the evaporator late in the day, someone is going to be getting up in the middle of the night to check it.

At some point, after many hours, the concentrated sap is deemed ready to come inside for finishing. We mobilize a bucket brigade (or rather, a soup pot brigade!) to transfer the liquid (which is first put through another set of filters) from porch to kitchen. The stainless steel pots are emptied into the finishing pan, a square, stainless steel pan large enough to cover four burners on the stove. We fire up the burners, and the second evaporation begins. By now, the sap has started to take on the color of syrup.

We monitor the level once in a while, skimming the surface with a small piece of wire screen, and adding any overflow sap to the pan as room becomes available. After a few hours, the liquid lets us know that it’s time to watch more carefully. The signal is a layer of small bubbles on the surface, which tends to start in one corner of the finishing pan, then spread to the other three corners. When we see these, we know that we shouldn’t stray far from the stove.

Gradually the layer of small bubbles spreads. We keep skimming, watching for the moment when they completely cover the surface of the pan. When the surface is entirely covered, the bubbles start to rise dramatically. That’s the signal to count slowly to five, and turn the burners off. The syrup is done!

One person fills the pint jugs, sitting on a small stool by the stove, and pouring from the spigot at the bottom of the finishing pan. Another quickly presses a plastic cap down on each, ensuring a good seal, and lines the finished jugs up to cool. Eventually, we will put tags on the jugs, proclaiming that the syrup contains nothing but “sap, fire, and love.”

Sap, fire, and love, yes - and maybe a bit of patience, as well. All in all, I must say, it’s a deeply satisfying endeavor.

My plan for this gray Wednesday (February 27) had been to go upstairs and work on my sermon for Sunday week.  All that changed, however, when Bill came in with an announcement: The sap is running!  That meant it was time to drop everything else, grab some bright orange buckets, and head for the trees.

In fact, the sap was not only running - it was, in some places, overflowing the collection buckets. Down at “the lines,” where plastic tubing is used to link a stand of trees together, Bill said it was flowing like water from a faucet.

Our property has about 300 maples altogether; we’re tapping 95 of them right now. Some trees are quite close to the house, so several of us went on foot, taking a bucket for each hand. Bill, meanwhile, loaded his pickup with twenty buckets or so, and headed down the hill.

It’s a simple thing, harvesting sap from trees. Each maple has one or two taps driven into it, from which hang galvanized aluminum buckets. You gently slide the lid off the bucket, lift the bucket off the tap, and empty the sap into your collecting bucket. Then you replace everything, thank the tree for its gift, and go to the next tree.

So simple, and yet so astonishing. As I watch the sap flow, without noise and apparently without struggle, a deep hush settles over and around me. The sap runs clear and sweet - there’s nothing quite like a fresh, cold, cup of it - and the trees give so generously. How many times a day, especially in winter when the branches are bare, do I pass by stands of trees, heedless of the life flowing within?

For some reason, this thought brings to mind some favorite words of Howard Thurman, who tells us that “hope is the growing edge”:

“Look well to the growing edge. All around us worlds are dying and new worlds are being born; all around us life is dying and life is being born. The fruit ripens on the tree, the roots are silently at work in the darkness of the earth against a time when there shall be new leaves, fresh blossoms, green fruit…Look well to the growing edge!”

Each month, weather and calendar permitting, our convent hosts a Full Moon Fireside and invites any and all to come. During the warm months we gather down at the fire pit; in the winter we meet in our great room, around a roaring fire in the fireplace. We generally drum together for the first half hour, then have some kind of guided meditation, followed by conversation on a pre-selected topic.

This past Wednesday night was the first Fireside we’ve been able to have in a while. The November and December full moons had come too close to Thanksgiving and Christmas for us to try and host an event; in January, most of us were away. We won’t be able to have one in March, either, for Moon will be full on Good Friday.

This month, happily, several things came together to make it an auspicious night for a Fireside. For one thing, the sap in our maple trees is running now, and the steam of the boiling liquid was rising steadily from the evaporator on our front porch. Another factor was knowing that a total lunar eclipse would be starting just about the time the fireside was scheduled to end.

For days, the forecast had been for partly cloudy skies. We were praying that the clouds would part long enough for us at least to get a glimpse of Moon going into eclipse. At dusk, we were hopeful; looking out the kitchen window it seemed - could it be? - as though the sky were clear.

Our drumming began at 6:30, as usual. Sometime after seven, we forewent our usual meditation to show a portion of “The Future of Food,” which we’d been wanting to share with people for some time. This is a very powerful film about the industrialization of our food supply, dealing especially with the issues raised by genetically modified food.

Around 8:30, we looked east to a crystal clear sky and Moon, still rising. Some fifteen minutes later, we saw Earth’s shadow make the first small dent in the luminous disc. Bundling up, we went outside for a better view, watching transfixed as the stars got brighter, and as the shadow continued its slow progression, coloring the moonlight a strange and beautiful rust red. What struck us especially, in addition to the color, was that Moon in eclipse seemed less a disc, and more what it really is - a full, round sphere. This was particularly evident when we looked through a pair of binoculars.

It was a frigid night, so from time to time we took refuge, either indoors by the fire, or in the steamy makeshift sugar house. At some point, Sr. Helena Marie went into the kitchen and brought mugs for everyone, inviting us to dip them into the boiling sap. That put the seal on what was already a magical evening.

In my life I’ve had wonderful eclipse experiences, both solar and lunar. But never have I stood on a porch with friends, a mug of sweet sap warming my hands, watching a silver-yellow disc becoming a rust red orb. Truly a night to remember.

When Sr. CB and I returned from Trinity Institute in January, the first news we heard was that Buzz had disappeared. He had gone out late one afternoon, as was his wont, but hadn’t returned at his usual time to demand supper. Those left on the farm looked for him everywhere, for several days, but found no signs of him alive or dead.

For a while, we held out hope that he’d been trapped in someone’s garage or barn, but four weeks later he still hasn’t shown up. We may yet be joyfully surprised, but we suspect that Buzz Lightyear, the Great Vole Hunter, has himself become prey - perhaps to coyotes, or maybe a great horned owl. It’s the kind of thing one learns to expect with cats who insist on going outdoors, as Buzz did. But of course we’re still sad.

I had a very soft spot in my heart for Buzz, who despite his strong feral streak was extremely affectionate. He also looked a lot like Theo, the black cat I gave up when I came to community. He liked to sleep in the Novitiate, on the third floor, curled up on someone’s bed. When I saw him like that, it always gave me the feeling that all was well.

Sr. Catherine Grace has written a great blog about Buzz. I’ll just share some photos. Here he is in some characteristic postures: (1) wanting to come in (not long afterward, of course, he’d be wanting to go out again), (2) in watchful alertness, and (3) sniffing the plants to see if there’s anything he wants to eat.

So long, Buzz, old buddy. I’ll be missing you!

 

After many years of preferring the Synoptics, I’ve come in recent years to love the Fourth Gospel. I’ve been helped along in this by John Sanford’s Jungian interpretations in Mystical Christianity: a Psychological Commentary on the Gospel of John, which cured me of any lingering temptation to try to understand these passages on a literal plane.

During Revised Common Lectionary Year A, we’re treated during Lent and Easter to a long series of delicious Johannine passages. It started yesterday, with Jesus’ encounter with the Jewish leader and Pharisee Nicodemus (John 3:1-17), and continues next week with the story of his conversation with the Samaritan woman (John 4:4-42). On March 9 the passage is the raising of Lazarus (John 11:1-45), combined with the “dry bones” prophecy of Ezekiel (Ezek. 37:1-14). I’m looking forward to preaching on these texts at St. Andrew’s Brewster.

We’re told that Nicodemus first comes to Jesus by night. He appears twice more in John’s narrative: first in chapter 7 when he speaks up somewhat timidly on Jesus’ behalf (”Our law does not judge people without first giving them a hearing to find out what they are doing, does it?” 7:51), and then at the crucifixion, when he joins Joseph of Arimathea to take Jesus’ body away for burial (19:38-42).

Suzanne came back from a weekend at Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, with a report of the morning’s sermon. If I’ve understood correctly, one of the brothers talked about the significance of Nicodemus’ journey - from coming to Jesus at night, when no one could see, to embracing him in the full light of day, at the foot of the cross. This brother then invited the congregation to compare this with their own faith pilgrimage - don’t most of us start tentatively, with a small glimmer in the dark? The brother’s interpretation certainly rings true for me, in terms of my own faith journey.

For the most part, the Pharisees get an unfair bad rap in the New Testament - a reflection of first century religious politics in which the early Jesus-followers were struggling to be recognized as Jews. Even so, Nicodemus strikes me as an almost sympathetic character, or at least someone with whom we can identify.

Even his questioning of Jesus, which some commentators portray as entirely doltish, sounds to me like good rabbinic sparring. In fact, it takes me back to my law school days (ancient history by now) in which professors would draw us out with questions. Even if he got a brilliant answer from a student, Prof. Aronowitz would press the student to explore its dimensions further: “Do you really mean to tell me, Ms. Smith, that…?” I wonder how he’d have responded if Ms. Smith had come back, Jesus style, with, “You are a teacher of the law, and you have to ask me?”

Identification with Nicodemus may be John’s point, actually. As Sanford says of all the characters in this gospel, “a meeting with Jesus is also a confrontation with himself.” So why should it be any different for us?

What is the purpose of Lenten fasting? Why do we make our lives more austere during these forty days?

Certainly not to feel “moral,” or “holier than thou.” All that does is stroke the ego, and thus defeat the whole purpose. As Jesus reminds us, those who try to impress others - or, for that matter, themselves - with their piety “already have their reward” (Matthew 6:2, 5, 16) - a reward of definitely lesser goods.

Nor does the prayer for Ash Wednesday in the Book of Common Prayer, beautiful as it is, quite say it for me. It speaks of “worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness” so that we may obtain from God “perfect remission and forgiveness.” Such penitential piety certainly has a place in Lenten spirituality, but I’m not convinced it should be the main event. It’s not that we don’t regularly fall into sin, and sometimes even into wretchedness. But excessive focus on these, I fear, puts us in danger of excessive self-centeredness.

This verse of our community’s morning Lenten hymn, attributed to Gregory the Great, comes closer to expressing it for me. It’s verse 4 of Hymn 152 in the 1982 Hymnal:

Give us the discipline that springs/ from abstinence in outward things/ with inward fasting, so that we/ in heart and soul may dwell with thee.

A beautiful Ash Wednesday prayer, from Englishwoman Janet Morley, in All Desires Known: Inclusive Prayers for Worship and Meditation (Harrisburg: Morehouse Publishing, 1988, 1992) also speaks to me:

O God/ you have made us for yourself/ and against your longing there is no defence./ Mark us with your love/ and release in us a passion for your justice/ in our disfigured world;/ that we may turn from our guilt and face you/ our hearts desire. Amen.

For me, what Lenten austerity is really about is turning, shifting our focus. It’s about taking away some of the props and distractions that we’re used to counting on, forcing us to seek deeper and more lasting sources of sustenance. Thus we’re drawn more deeply into prayer, into a more immediate relationship with the Holy One, “against [whose] longing there is no defence.”

In Lent, we’re invited, as Martin Smith tells us, to do what Jesus did, and hand ourselves over to the Spirit. What this does is expose us to the truth (in Greek, aletheia or “unhiddenness”) which “happens to us when the coverings of illusion are stripped away and what is real emerges into the open.” This truth “consists not in new furniture for the mind but in exposure to the reality of God’s presence in ourselves and the world” (A Season for the Spirit, p. 6).

As I mentioned a few days ago, my spiritual director invited me to think about one or more specific intentions for Lent, something to guide me through these forty days. As I pondered this, I knew that “giving up,” in the usual sense, was not the point; the community’s Lenten practice is austere enough already. So, what else might I do?

For inspiration, it made sense to turn to the book that has been my Lenten companion for the last five or six years. This is Martin Smith’s book of daily Lenten meditations, A Season for the Spirit: Readings for the Days of Lent (Cambridge: Cowley Publications, 1991; it’s now been reissued by Seabury). Martin is an Episcopal priest and former brother and superior of the Society of St. John the Evangelist (SSJE). Over the years, I’ve found his Lenten book to be a continuing source of insight and comfort. Even though I’ve read it five times, I always seem to find something new in it.

Opening it this year, I found almost immediately what I was looking for. In the very first meditation, for Ash Wednesday, Martin writes about how Jesus was driven into the desert, “a place of forces that cannot be resisted, flash floods and winds from which there is no escape” (p. 5). In going into the desert, Jesus handed himself over to the Spirit, which, like the wind, blows where it chooses (John 3:8).

Martin continues,

Perhaps this word “surrender” should be enough for my prayer on this Ash Wednesday. Not the surrender of submission to an enemy, but the opposite, the laying down of resistance to the One who loves me infinitely more than I can guess, the One who is more on my side than I am myself. Dwelling on this thought of letting go, and handing myself over to the Spirit, will bring me much closer to the experience of Jesus than the word “discipline”… (p. 5).

This year, I feel drawn to make ’surrender’ my prayer for Lent. In doing this, it’s important to keep in mind that, for me, surrender is a tricky concept. In my life I have often yielded too quickly when I should have stood up for myself, or engaged in uncritical surrender when I should have asked questions - some of the traps for the Enneagram Nine. I must remember that surrender is different from resignation. Also, that it’s the Heart of Life I’m surrendering to - not another person, not any particular institution, not some notion of “fate.”

For my prayer practice, I’ve posted Martin Smith’s words in several places, including my prie-dieu in chapel, and am using “surrender” (or sometimes “help me surrender”) as a mantra in silent meditation. Saying the mantra while working through a set of wooden prayer beads seems to help me stay centered. A prayer shawl over my shoulders keeps me mindful of “the One who loves me infinitely more than I can guess.”

In January, knowing that my prayer life had hit a rather drifty stage, my spiritual director suggested that for Lent I become more focused. “Why don’t you draw up one or more specific intentions?” she asked. “We can talk about them next month.” She proceeded to schedule our next appointment for Shrove Tuesday - Ash Wednesday Eve, in effect.

As early as elementary school, I remember hearing kids talk about what they were going to “give up for Lent.” If asked about Lenten intentions, “giving things up” may still be the first thing many people think of. Others deride this whole notion, and say that what we really should be doing in Lent is “taking something on.”

I’m not part of this latter group. For one thing, by this time of year, I’ve usually “taken on” plenty! Also, over the years, I’ve found it personally helpful to practice some kind of Lenten austerity - usually giving up sugar. In my new life, of course, this has gotten much more intense. If you read yesterday’s post, you’ll see that our life changes quite a bit at Melrose during this forty-day period. We are, indeed, giving many things up for Lent!

What’s helpful for me to remember, though, is that this austerity is only a means to an end. We give up accustomed ways so that something different can happen. We let go of some things so that a new thing may come in.

One fast I haven’t mentioned is the “Alleluia fast.” For Lent, we simply stop saying or singing “Hallelujah” or its Latin equivalent, and this goes on until Easter. But it takes some of us one or more glaring mistakes to catch on. I knew about the Alleluia fast, but did it stop me from singing the very first Alleluia in the morning office, when I should have omitted it? Of course not! Embarrassing - but I did have company.

In reflecting on how this had happened, I realized that I’d simply been on automatic pilot. One of the things Lent does, I think, is help us get off automatic pilot and learn - as Thoreau would put it - “to live deliberately.”

In my next post, I’ll let you know in what direction my Lenten intentions are heading, in what might be considered a 21st century version of “Walden.”

Lent begins today, February 6 - almost the earliest in the year Ash Wednesday could fall. (February 5 would be the absolute earliest, for a March 22 Easter.) My UU colleague Tricia Brennan tells us that Lent/Easter won’t occur this early again until the year 2160, and notes that if we google the question “how do you know when Easter is?” we’ll learn everything on the topic (or more) than we’d ever need to know.

It was only Saturday that we celebrated the Feast of the Presentation, commemorating the day that Mary and Joseph brought the infant Jesus to Jerusalem to be consecrated to God (Luke 2:22-39). Now, four days later, we have him in his early thirties, being led (or, as Mark’s gospel puts it, “driven”) into the desert for forty days.

Some of my more alert church school students, quite reasonably, used to question the chronology of the liturgical calendar, which has Jesus born (Dec. 25), then baptized as an adult (early to mid-January), then consecrated as an infant (Feb. 2), then “transfigured” midstream in his ministry (the Sunday before Ash Wednesday), then driven into the desert as a prelude to that ministry (Ash Wednesday itself). But of course literal chronology is not the name of the game here.

Yesterday was Shrove/Super Tuesday, an odd juxtaposition, perhaps. We went out together in the morning to cast our primary ballots, and then came home and directed our attention toward final pre-Lenten preparations. Last night we had our own version of Mardi Gras - an eclectic, fat-laden supper of pancakes, fried potatoes, quiche, cookies, and (in a nod toward something healthy) “killer kale.” Those of us who drink wine had our last glasses until Easter, and the chocolate has been put away till then.

Since we won’t be watching TV or seeing movies (exception: see below), we stayed up late watching two lovely ones last night: “Ratatouille” and “Off the Map.” Our original plan was a double feature of “Off the Map” and “Bagdad Cafe,” but we couldn’t find the latter in our local video store.

Lauds (our morning prayer service) was at the quite civilized hour of nine, followed by Eucharist with the imposition of ashes. We’ll have Vespers with meditation at 5:30. In the house, we’re keeping silence and observing a modified fast: Unbuttered bread and coffee or tea in the morning, brown rice with cheese sauce at 3:30. (I’m told the brown rice is a scaling down from something that had its origins in a simple meal of plain fish, but had grown into an elaborate production of sauced fish and seafood.)

Our Lenten observance was decided at a house meeting by consensus. We will fast from the following: (1) desserts (except simple ones - fruit or pudding - on Sundays), (2) meat on Wednesdays and Fridays (we rarely have meat anyway, so this is somewhat academic), (3) TV and video (except for “edifying” movies during Sunday evening recreation), (4) alcohol, and (5) sweets (including chocolate but not including our own maple syrup). We also decided to observe an “attitude of silence” (work conversation only) except on Sundays. The introverts like this last provision better than the extroverts do.

We also decided to scale down on food shopping (”We will eat from our own stores, purchasing only raw milk and minimal butter.”) and observe portion control (each sister to implement her own version, with single, reasonable servings and no seconds).

So far I’ve told you about the “what” of our Lenten observance; in future posts I promise to say more about the “why” - and specifically why it has become an imporant part of my life.