Oh! What wonder
that I should be graced
to witness a small 
flock of singing starlings
suddenly fall silent,
and as if one body
lift from the branches.
A singularity
floating, swooping, soaring 
to music I cannot hear, but see.
An orchestra with wings.
A drab grey canvas brought to life
with poetic movement.
A performance of the ages, 
with an accidental audience of one
star-struck human awed
by the glory of it all.

Bless you, Starlings, for the 
exquisite wonder and delight
you bring to the world.
Bless you for honouring 
your calling and praising
with your bodies.
Bless you for showing us
the beauty of community
and being part of something
bigger than ourselves.

​- Wendy Janzen

This month we gathered together to practice lament, recognizing that grief work  helps to build our muscles for grieving when we find ourselves in the depths of grief. Though it is a vulnerable thing, lament is best done in community.

This passage from the prophet Isaiah seemed like it was written for today, as we carry grief for the violence and injustice happening in Gaza and Israel, and recognize that violence impacts both people and the more-than-human world.

Isaiah 33:7-9 (The Message)
But look! Listen!
    … men weep openly.
    Peacemaking diplomats are in bitter tears…
The peace treaty is broken,
    its conditions violated… 
The very ground under our feet mourns,
    the … mountains hang their heads…
    and the forests… ? Bare branches.

We suffer together with all creation. Wars and disasters decimate people, land, water, and the creatures who live in its wake. For our wandering & wondering time, we were invited to take time to be attentive to the heartaches and injustices of the world, of our lives, and of the land.  Where is God in the midst of grief and injustice?

Great Mystery, God of Peace, 
we stand together 
in community with all creation,
living and dying
​and longing for new life.
Receive our tears. 
Lighten our hearts. 
Heal our sorrows. 
Carry us forward. 
Amen.

​Here in Southern Ontario, October is a month of abundance - gardens, farmers markets, and orchards  overflow with vegetables, fruits, and herbs. 

In John 10:10 Jesus said these words - “I came so everyone would have life, and have it abundantly.” This kind of abundant life isn’t measured by productivity and success, achievement, wealth and power.

This abundance looks more like shalom - fertility of the land and the wellbeing of all inhabitants - human and more-than-human alike. This kind of abundance is characterized by peace, gladness, and joy in having enough to share. To live well, to live abundantly, we must overcome division and isolation and recognize that our own flourishing depends on the flourishing of all in the community of creation, of neighbours near and far.  

In the closing lines of Wendell Berry’s poem, The Wild Geese, are these words of wisdom: 
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

Take time to wander, and to reflect on what is here. 
Where do you see abundance?
How are you experiencing abundance in your life?
What wisdom is this season offering you today?

We remember that sometimes there is an abundance of pain, sorrow, heartache, injustice, and that, too, needs to be named and honoured. 

I go outside, 
and my mind expands
as far as the horizon,
as expansive as the sky.

Boxes keep things tidy,
contained, appropriately small.
I think we like to keep God 
in a box, sized to our liking,
neat and organized.

Outside, I am bigger than my self.
God is bigger here, too,
more obvious, more mysterious.
God teases me: Over here,
look, listen: Do you recognize me?

God blows through my body and 
shines on my skin, 
sings with the cicadas, 
and delights my eyes with 
colour and texture.

I lie in the grass and want to stay forever,
even when the ants tickle my legs. 
I am held in this moment
between history and future,
vultures soaring above,
microbes multiplying below,
living their own holy moments.

No takeout box can capture 
the extravagant excess 
of this numinous experience.
I can only take bits with me,
in my being, not in boxes,
gifts of my becoming.
​
- Wendy Janzen

Our September worship gathering was cancelled due to a thunder storm.

Our theme would have been Gelassenheit - a German word used over the centuries by Christian mystics, Anabaptists, and now eco-theologians and environmental ethicists. It is often translated as yieldedness, though some other words might be composure, tranquility, serenity, unhurried, calm, easy-going, and laid-back. Gelassenheit is a form of releasing ourselves from our egos or from anthropocentrism, and opening to mystery and connection with the world around us, with the divine among us.  

As I was thinking about the turning of the seasons, this idea of yielding came to mind. Summer yields to Autumn; the lighter half of the year yields to the darker half of the year; flowers yield to seeds, leaves yield to the earth, growth yields to dormancy. This kind of yielding is happening all around us.
“The idea of “waiting” in Gelassenheit is distinguishably different from our normal idea of waiting for something that is named, and is more about waiting upon, which has the feel of a gift being bestowed. … What Gelassenheit offers is the opportunity to look at another way of being… By letting that which is apart from us come to us on its own terms rather than on ours, we are in a listening mode whereby objectification ceases. An experience reaches us from beyond. … In silence and listening things come out to meet us.” (Sharon Harvey)

Set aside some time to go outside and open yourself to what is happening around you - wait upon creation, wait upon God's wisdom, and see what happens.

“Be still and know that I am God.” - Psalm 46:10
All around us, we see summer yielding to autumn. What lessons might we learn from adopting a similar posture? 

A little prayer inspired by a daily chore and the mysteries that happen as my food and garden waste transforms into fertile soil.

Bless these scraps
these left behind treasures.
Bless this little pile of transformation
where death and life intermingle
and miracles happen.

​Amen.

- Wendy Janzen

Our August worship gathering began with a picnic, moved into a tree identification walk, and ended with our worship gathering. We took time this month to better get to know the trees who host us each month at Bechtel Park. Among the trees we identified were three varieties of oaks, black walnut, beech, ash, black cherry, maples, ironwood, hemlock, and willow.

Our worship theme was inspired by this blog post written by an acquaintance of mine, Ragan Sutterfield, called the Hospitality of Oaks. 

“The Lord appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day.”  - Genesis 18:1

Ragan points out that oaks are the most hospitable trees.  They provide acorns, of course, to feed birds and squirrels. But their generosity extends far beyond that.  Oaks are the exclusive larval host plant for over a hundred different butterfly and moth species.  That means that the caterpillars of these insects can only eat the leaves of oak trees.  Such an abundance of caterpillars also means an abundance of food for birds, many of which rely on them to feed their young. 

The bark and branches of the oak is also a favourable place for other life to grow, from lichen and moss to ferns. The hospitality of oaks is not only on the outside, either. As they mature, oaks tend to hollow out, creating a space for animals in the enclosure of the tree’s healthy and living outer layers.  
​
Given their abundant generosity, it was a grove of oaks that were the real hosts of Abraham’s encounter with God at Mamre. It was the oaks that provided a hospitable space for Abraham’s tent, and in turn created a hospitable space for him to encounter God through welcoming three visiting strangers. Abraham was only able to extend hospitality to the visitors because he first received hospitality from the oaks.

During our wandering time, we were invited to engage with a tree - any kind of tree. Reflect on its hospitality, and the gifts it has to offer. Or reflect more generally on the hospitality this forest offers you today, or recall a memory of a particular tree that has nurtured you in a particular way. 
​
In all of this, how does the hospitality of trees invite us to encounter God, and God's hospitality toward us? What can we offer in return?

Look: See how
the morning sun
touches this 
one patch of 
leaves, just so.
Light, bringing
colour, illuminating
space, drawing
my attention
to this moment.
Now it's shifted,
diffused, 
sun climbs higher,
slipping behind 
clouds.

Had I missed 
this moment,
would anything 
have changed?
So many similar 
fleeting moments,
like the squirrel 
dancing in the 
supple branches 
atop a willow
or the bumblebee
buzzing by on
her way to
breakfast.

This morning,
I pay attention, 
notice the light,
the life, the
intersection of
the universe
and my existence
here in this moment,
in this ordinary place.
I find myself in
sacred space,
and am 
changed.

​- Wendy Janzen

Water, Wind, Earth & Fire - the elements that are the building blocks of all life. Elements is also the word that we use for the wine and bread of communion. Our July worship gathering  connected and played with the interconnection between the communion elements and the elements of the earth/God’s provision in the natural world. Thomas Merton said that the elements can act as spiritual guides to help us on our sacred journey. The qualities of these elements invite us to pray with them, helping us to know the nature of God.

Henriette shared this quote from Barbara Brown Taylor:

“To lie with my back flat on the fragrant ground is to receive a transfusion of the same power that makes the green blade rise. To remember that I am dirt and to dirt I shall return is to be given my life back again, if only for one present moment at a time. 
​
Where other people see acreage, timber, soil, and river frontage, I see God's body, or at least as much of it as I am able to see. In the only wisdom I have at my disposal, the Creator does not live apart from creation but spans and suffuses it. When I take a breath, God's Holy Spirit enters me. When a cricket speaks to me, I talk back. Like everything else on earth, I am an embodied soul, who leaps to life when I recognize my kin.”

We wandered, reflecting on the elements, and were invited to respond afterwards by sharing the elements together in the ritual of communion. On our altar, we had the elements of life - bread which comes from earth, juice filled with water, a feather representing air, and a flame of fire - this is the stuff of which we, and all living things are made.

-Have you ever heard 
the evening song 
of a hermit thrush 
drifting across a still lake?

Their whimsical trills
weave and bounce
through the treetops
and reverberate joy
for living this moment.

I imagine God 
must have been 
so delighted when She 
heard it the first time
that She closed her eyes 
and whispered: so good!

​- Wendy Janzen