I (Wendy) recently started a course called Earth and Climate Chaplaincy. In our first session together, we talked about “trepidatious joy,” that mixed feeling of dread or despair that mingles with wonder and joy.

When we open ourselves to the world, to the beauty and goodness around us, it also breaks open our hearts to the brokenness we find. Whether it be wars and genocide, weirding weather, or dying species, there is plenty to lament. And still, we also experience joy in life.
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During our wandering time at our March worship gathering, this was the invitation we offered before the wander: take note of what emotions you are carrying with you - are you bringing grief you need to express, or are you leaning toward wonder and gratitude, or something else? Whichever it is, take time to feel it, and as you wander notice anything here that is echoing or mirroring your mood or feelings. Where (or how) does the outer landscape reflect your inner landscape? Spend time there, and release what you need to release: silently, verbally, or symbolically with an action or gesture.

Our February worship gathering was led by Lisa and Leah; and the theme was love - not romantic love, but love for the world, and in particular love of place, this place where we gather for worship. Our readings for reflection include these two:

My help is in the mountain
Where I take myself to heal
The earthly wounds
That people give to me
I find a rock with sun on it
And a stream where the water runs gentle
And the trees which one by one give me company.
So must I stay for a long time
Until I have grown from the rock
And the stream is running through me
And I cannot tell myself from one tall tree.
Then I know that nothing touches me
Nor makes me run away.
My help is in the mountain
That I take away with me.
- Mary Wood 

Psalm 96: 11-12
Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it. Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them; let all the trees of the forest sing for joy.

What you love about a particular place or the wild world in general. What are the things that you love most about being in nature, about being outside amongst the more-than-humans? What does it do for your spirit? How does it change you? What gifts does it offer you? Where do you feel loved by the wild world?

Our January worship gathering focused on the theme of Refuge/Refugia. 

Winter is a season when we, and the creatures and plants around us, seek refuge from the harsh elements. It is also a metaphor for challenging and stressful times, like the times we live in with climate disasters, wars, and polarization. 

Our winter book study is on the book Refugia Faith: Seeking Hidden Shelters, Ordinary Wonders, and the Healing of the Earth by Debra Rienstra. Refugia is a biological term that describes little pockets of safety, hidden shelters in harsh conditions or times of disaster and crisis, where life persists and out of which new life emerges. Author Debra Rienstra writes:

“... even amid destruction, the forces of life yearn for renewal. A refugia faith, similarly, regards our dire conditions honestly but immerses fear and despair in longing for God's promised new life.” (p 31)

Refugia are places to find shelter, but only for a time - they are not an escape or a place to stick our heads in the snow and ignore the realities of life. More importantly, refugia are places to begin, places where the tender and harrowing work of restoration and renewal takes root. Winter doesn’t last forever; trees don’t stay in dormancy forever; animals don’t stay in hibernation or in their burrows forever; birds don’t stay in their winter nesting grounds forever. 

We can create places of refuge to protect us and renew us through the hardest times, and then launch from there into the next season or stage of regrowth. 

Psalm 46 says “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change…”
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Where do you see places of refugia in the world around you? Where do you go to seek refuge?

Our December worship gathering, as always, combined themes from the Advent season and the coming winter solstice. It is no coincidence that we celebrate Advent when we are at the darkest point of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. The return of the sun symbolizes the coming of the Light of the World, Emmanuel: God With Us. 

While we want to be mindful of not polarizing light and dark, or demonizing darkness, we do acknowledge that there is destruction and brokenness in the world; as a result all of us, and all of creation is in need of hope and healing. This is what we celebrate as we light candles and wait for the sun’s shift back toward lengthening days.

Just as there are different types & stages of light, twilight, and darkness, we experience light and darkness differently in our own lives. The intensity of darkness varies. Perhaps it is a constant companion - one you are more or less comfortable with. Perhaps it is a veil that you long to have lifted. Both light and dark play important roles in our lives and in creation. 

“Sing, starry sky and every constellation, for what the Eternal One has done. Shout for joy, dark soil underfoot and deep caverns below; Erupt in joyful songs, mountains and forests, and every tree in them! Sing joyfully, for the Eternal One has rescued Jacob; the splendor of God will be revealed...” (Isaiah 44:23, The Voice)

Leah invited us into a time of wandering with this invitation: "Sometimes when I enter into our wandering & wondering times, I find having a phrase or words to repeat to myself…kind of like a mantra. So today I offer you the opening line of the song The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel, which says 'Hello Darkness, my old friend'. We invite you to use that phrase as an invitation to lean into the darkness today during your wanderings & wonderings."

After wandering and sharing with each other, we listened to this song Find the Light by David Ramirez as we lit candles. 

Our closing blessing was A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark by Jan Richardson:

Go slow
if you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see.

Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle.

I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave.

But this is what
I can ask for you:

That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name.

- in Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons, Jan Richardson

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. 

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? 

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.  
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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. 
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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?

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. 
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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.