A CLEAN NEW DAY AT THE BEACH

Bright, clear and airy, the shores of beach and bay appear freshly laundered this morning: “If seven maids with seven mops swept for half a year, do you suppose, the Walrus said, they could sweep the seashore clear?” I don’t remember if the Carpenter, who was reportedly walking close at hand, ever committed himself on this point, but something very much like it seemed to have come about. No maids or mops were in evidence, but all the old sand, water and sky we had endured throughout the winter and sultry grey spring were washed to a shiny newness.

This day had all the earmarks of a truly new day; to contemplate its ending, or imagine shifting its venue to unhappy hospital wards for example, seems unthinkable at the moment--where one goes or what one does on this day is irrelevant; being in it is everything and the response of choice can only be gratitude “...to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.” (Eph. 4:23, 24). Do you doubt? “…you must understand that in the last days scoffers will come, scoffing and following their own evil desires,… But in keeping with His promise we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, the home of righteousness”. (2 Peter, 3:3,13.).

Yet by now the nostalgic afternoon shades begin to extend across streets and walkways and this day is beginning to look like so many others. It will surely go where each day is lost to eternity, although this one has brought a message of prophecy and hope. One can be very grateful for that.

AWAITING A NEW KIND OF PAIN

Though it is dim and muggy this morning I thought surely, as I stepped outside, that the seasonal rains were over and now I can walk freely about the neighborhood on a daily bssis. I noticed some chalk-marks on the pavement near the red no parking strip on the curbing and at closer inspection they clearly read “Wet Pain”! In my reclining years, (not wanting to use the less delicate “declining years), I have had some experience with pains of various sorts. To my knowledge there has never been anything I could refer to as ”Wet Pain”.

The street was a bit wet, perhaps from the night before, and it occurred to me that these words were a weather report of sorts, some impromptu observation from a vaguely disgruntled neighbor perhaps. On the other hand, who am I to brush aside a pain that one day may be my own; just how it is dealt with could be crucial. Such a pain may be, like that well known thorn of Paul, (2 Cor. 12: 7-10), which enabled him to say “In my weakness I am strong”, in the Lord, of course. My guess is that such a reaction does not come automatically and may need some practice—it is never to soon to begin.

Musing as I walked, thinking maybe it is something experienced only in the bathtub, I noticed what you have already guessed; all the red curbing up and down the street was clearly marked “Wet Paint”. But I am alerted and prepared now for something that could occur to me at any time in the future, Praise God.

A GRAY DAY AT THE BEACH

We have recently had a few such days but from the bayside this one is striking for its complete, still, grayness. Gray sky, gray water, gray air all rendered more drab by the presence of two long, slender, wind-surfing boards pointed sharply at both ends, left leaning up against the dark skeletal dock near the water. They exert a fiercely discordant effect largely because those are the only colors out there except gray--they are bright red-orange, with purple accents—shades of Mauna Loa!

Looking in the other direction great merchant ships and oil tankers float at anchor on a calm, murky ocean, waiting to dock and discharge cargo. They invoke memories, worn and faded images of these same ships berthed and waiting to be boarded. It was important somehow to go aboard off one’s watch and get a special place out on the bow. Once the vessel leaves the breakwater and the harbor mouth in its wake, this vantage-point becomes an elevator plunging from 40 feet to six feet and back, above the sea spray; there were dolphins, and in some parts flying fish on either side--escorts out into that wide expanse of billowing sea air and an unknown future. “When ever I feel myself growing grim about the mouth; when ever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul;…--then, I account it high time to get to sea.”—so go the familiar lines of Melville.

Merchant ships are noted in Proverbs 31:10 and14; “A wife of noble character who can find?...She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.” In war-time of course, it was aviation gasoline and munitions, but the simile is appropriate; not that I could reliably manage a rowboat these days, but the lure is powerful and compelling. Especially on a gray day like this one I can just begin to note a touch of grimness around my mouth, a surge of November deep within, and feel mildly resentful at being caught up in a land-locked state of mind and body.

THE GOOD OLD TIME

The place around here is changing again. A word of caution: it is easy to confuse time and place. Yesterday morning a few canoes put out on the bay, some chronic beach people were back looking paler since the brief cold spell, and this morning bright spots of color from several beach umbrellas enliven the scene. I emerge to bask lizard-like on a stony wall while bathers frolic or relax in the sand, kids and roller-skaters race in the street, the sun warm and bright. There is a definite change in the air; “balmy” can in some contexts mean “crazy” and may indeed suit some of us intending to have summer fun so early in the year.

The day wears on and some compelling force I do not quite understand brings my attention to the changing light and shade; the effect is to shadow more darkly the backs of everything and highlight the details of each object in clear and bold relief. “Look away from the sun in the afternoon” is the painter’s axiom, “to see true color in nature”. Shadows have become more prominent and people moving in and out of them seem oblivious to the stage-craft, the drama, and the marked visual changes they are bringing about. The shadows are not oblivious however, and continue to inch longer and splash more widely along pavements and sandy stretches, mysteriously moving out from behind trees and figures into the open spaces. Things are changing; a different place and time—like last year and the year before, and the one to come, but different still than all the others. Time and life have already moved ahead perceptively--and lights will go on in all our houses later this day.

“Those hazy, lazy, crazy days of summer” are almost upon us—and also foreshadow their oncoming death. In these our times of quick changes, information glut, E-mail, cell- phone messages, and ubiquitous TV—shifting sands beneath us, one writer noted that it is important to always try to say something eternal. Surely nothing said here so far approaches that standard; specious times and tides are perhaps the most perishable of all.

Time, and place, and person—these you would be asked to identify to prove your sanity out here so early, but it is already proven that time and place are hopelessly blurred; the person, you, are the only eternal thing so far. Our Lord Jesus promised He would be with you forever, and will send the Holy Spirit to guide you, and that is perhaps what eternity is really all about. But then, maybe summer will prove to be eternal too.

EASTER EGG SUNDAY

I must truly confess that I sorely miss the near-sacred tradition of gorging myself on candy purloined from the Easter baskets of unsuspecting small children—usually ones own children, of course. Sweets obtained any other way on this day are never quite as soul-satisfying or as free from the ordinary guilt associated with gluttony. I take some bitter comfort from an obvious loss of stealth and dexterity in this maneuver over time, and in the fact that my children are old enough now to not only protect their trove from me, but are fully capable of stealing their own—from their own, so to speak.

I admit that in times past they have occasionally gotten wise to me, so over the years I have traded rather heavily on the passage from Luke that asks, “Which of you fathers, when his son asks for an egg, would give him a scorpion?”. This has left me with some assurance that I will be nipped by no scorpions in the course of secret retrievals—or even from behind innocent faces of mock-generosity.

These days it is a different time and place, and little kids here at the beach are different too, somehow. I won’t say they are stingy exactly, but they prove to be remarkably wary and amazingly quick in their protective actions. That being the case, and it being Easter Sunday, our dear Lord risen and all, I have fallen back on more honest means of procuring those eggs--but they never taste quite as good.

OUR WEEKEND ATHLETES

Saturday and Sunday mornings here at the beach are, compared to other days, marked by frenetic and blustering bursts of activity. Runners and joggers, skaters and bicycle riders, and yes, brisk walkers, come hurrying out as if, on these brief days, time is of the essence. Even with the recent cold, wet weather they are out there early--at times and under conditions which, from my protective kitchen window, I sleepily judge to be fit for neither man nor beast. They stream out from workaday confines in their “sweats” and Adidas and onto the breezy, sandy, surf-ringed pathways in order to gain or keep healthy bodies in proper shape; they have only the better part of two days in which to do it.

At these times I try to take some meager comfort in the familiar lines from Ecclesiastes 9:11,
“The race is not to the swift
or the battle to the strong,
nor does food come to the wise
or wealth to the brilliant
or favor to the learned;”
The very next line is even more conclusive, “but time and chance happen to them all.” Time, in this sense, I take to mean occasions, events and unexpected happenings, including the process of aging over time—and what I don’t have a whole lot of. In spite of my indolent refusal to join in those energetic activities I still have a fragmentary hope not to let time and chance catch me napping, as it were. After retiring from gainful employment I have jealously guarded my time as my own, especially these week-end kick-back days, and strive to keep them aside, mostly for loafing, which I think I do with a fair amount of grace and panache.

On the other days, of which there are usually five, except for holidays, days with appointments, or I-don’t-feel-much-like-it days, I realize one should manage to move around quite a bit more, since the body may be falling, just a tinge, into disrepair. You might also note food, wealth and favor are not particularly reserved for the wise, brilliant or learned and hence probably not for me either. By the same token, the swift and the strong may or may not win the race or the battle, nor probably should I--all of which leads me resolve from my window-sill to maintain at least a moderate and sedate level of exercise. The fervent hope is that like Paul, my efforts will be construed as the good fight, finishing the race and keeping the faith—I also pray for a quick cure for laziness.

MAKING MOVIES AT THE BEACH

Every year about this time we are notified that some studio will be filming in our neighborhood; for unknown reasons most of the birds seem to leave the area for 3 or 4 days of shooting, though no one has as yet credited them with obviously astute cinematic sensibilities. The huge trucks and vans come rolling in, lining the streets and sandy off-road way-sides; they are carrying a virtual small city of props, lights, reflectors, dressing rooms, hoists and camera dollies of every description. I happen to know this because a lot of it is unloaded across the street from my dwelling--but I do not venture outside anymore in its midst. I know there will be appetizing food spread over long tables for the film people and on a couple of occasions in the past I was offered something at breakfast or lunch—knowing full well, however, that someone might also try to press me into a leading role of some sort. I do not know why this always happens—I have heard some muttering about a “great profile”, but while I may be available for advice from time-to-time, (my expertise goes back to the 40s), acting is far too wearying a job.

A year ago they were doing a thing called “She Spies”, probably a take-off on the old “Charley’s Angels” series. They used my entrance-way for many of the scenes and most of the action took place outside my kitchen window; I was in most of the shots though undetected by the busy crew. They did one scene with as many as six retakes and that just goes to show why it is such hard work; a gun had been dropped on my porch, purposefully of course, and the female lead, who appeared to have been originally cast for a production of the Ziegfield Follies of 1938, was supposed to rush up to retrieve the weapon and foil the baddies. Unfortunately, directorship not being what it used to be, they could not get her to reflect the right degree of aggression and militancy; she had to run a short distance beside a fast-moving camera rigged to roll on wheels, and I sensed immediately that her stiletto heels must make it difficult for her to dash out of hiding and appear menacing at the same time. After each take a stunt man would follow her steps with rather vicious gusto, throw himself on an imaginary gun and coming up in a crouch, finger firing as he came in order to illustrate for her the proper level of urgency; she gamely crouched with him, but still seemed to approach my porch as if inspecting an invisible array of weapons for just the right color combination. Any director worth his salt would have whispered that her boy friend was flirting with one of the pretty extras, or that a big once a year sale on Rodeo Drive was about to end, just to get the scene over with. By the way, that gun was picked up and put back after each of those takes by a man who, by law, was hired only for that specialized task; then, and only then, the cameras would roll again.

This year the series is called “Criminal Minds” and it is obvious to me they have already missed a big advantage. It is rather prosaic to expect criminals to have criminal minds, what else would they use to plan those things they do? The real interest arouser would be to change the title to “Criminal Bodies”. Imagine all that rapaciousness and mayhem committed without a single thought—as much of it may in fact be. They evidently plan to go ahead without my input as it is the fourth day and the last of the huge, bulging, air-conditioned vans is huffing its way down the road. Birds are flying back again, some with feathers ruffled, making plaintive noises of disapproval. Quiet descends on our street like an answer to silent prayer; some people hereabouts are breathing sighs of relief.

A NEW OLD PRINCIPLE

When first introduced to this beach-side community I was advised to avoid formality and wear anything I wanted to wear. In that pursuit I may have stumbled on a principle of life that should be recognized as inviolate and omnipresent for us all. It came to me when I realized that some of my clothes were wearing out. There had been a closet full of them when I retired and I continued to wear them, cleaning and laundering shirts, trousers, coats and jackets, some of which began to get pretty raveled and frayed. The important thing to note, however, is that the things that remained in the best condition were the ones I liked the least.

The principle applied to clothing would go something like this: Over time we will tend to dress ourselves more frequently in the things of which we are most fond, and will eventually be left with only those items in our closet we do not particularly care for—or more or less hate.

The principle applies to any number of things; another example is with foodstuffs. When I fill the pantry and larder by shopping for groceries, I find by the end of the following week I am subsisting on cans and boxes of things that are probably only palatable to chemists and for which I have no memory of buying. You see, the point is unavoidable: we wear or eat ourselves into a relatively miserable existence.

How about our furniture? Those comfortable and comforting but now worn, shabby sprung sofas and chairs may still, but not for long, stand beside pieces that are uninviting, stiffly formal and impossible to relax with or around or upon. What about those dishes and tableware gradually reduced to heirlooms which must not be scratched or broken under pain of death, or crockery that not only doesn’t match but were visually intolerable with oatmeal and good old stew in them over the years? I do not want to belabor the obvious, which I am now doing, but think if you dare of the various body-parts, muscles and sensory areas, that will eventually be the first to go.

This inevitable descent into a relative purgatory must be avoided at all costs. Its operational center is pure vanity and pleasure-seeking of course, but is that all bad? In Ecclesiastes 8:15, the writer finds life’s pleasures not only acceptable but commendable. “So I commend the enjoyment of life, because nothing is better for a man under the sun than to eat, drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany him in his work all the days of the life God has given him under the sun.” Living as I do under the beach sun, you may think I have written myself into a corner here, but I will show the case to be otherwise. To continue on the path of wisdom only requires that you either replace everything you own with things you like, credit card at the ready, or at least bring in only a few disliked activities or possessions at odd intervals and in the smallest increments possible. Even these you can whittle down as you advance in years. This, at least, is my advice and my plan, thank you.

STORIES IN THE NEWS

If, as philosophers have surmised, life consists of sturm und drang, here at the beach it seems to me the sturm of life is usually calmly taken along with its drang, but with relatively less urgency and a few grains of salt; recent news stories rarely appear to excite, or even rankle, these laid-back shore dwellers. Personally, however, as important news stories break on our informational shores, which they seem to do with greater frequency now, the less I understand or know, and the less secure I actually am of my position--and the more aroused and upset I can become about it; many of my neighbors must, beneath those cool exteriors, feel quite the same way.

But yesterday’s earth-shaking issues have apparently already become old and familiar; it is as if all their concerns quickly enter a limbo of out-of-date news-flashes, even when Christianity itself comes under fire! I suspect, however, if I should start a rumor that alien body-snatchers, many millennia ahead of us scientifically but incidentally lacking the skill to replace their own bodies are at work in the neighborhood, I could almost guarantee unruly mobs of peasants carrying oaken cudgels, haying-forks, pine-tar torches and sporting surly scowls, all in very short order, (perhaps with me amongst them).

It has occurred to me, however, that I may be only visualizing reactions like those followers of Artemis, “Artemis of the Ephesians,” (Acts:19, 2-41), about whom riots regarding The Way broke out. What confusion, what alarms, violent reactions and urgencies to violence among the roistering crowds around the town square and on into the theater. These were people who had heard or fancied threats to their belief system and to what they saw as the sanctity and financial advantages of their preeminent goddess. How powerful then were the calm directives given by an ordinary city clerk urging legal assembly in place of rioting. Thus, words and reason seemed, momentarily, to stand up for faith in the Word; as in Psalm 46 (10): “Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth…The Lord Almighty is with us;”. One is presented there who is slow to anger and abounding in love--in this way the words of Paul finally were recorded in The Word.

But now I can’t decide whether my neighbors know something of which I had lost sight, or whether they just don’t pay much attention to the news.

SPRING AGAIN (BALLAD OF AN UNHAPPY MAN)

Have we not had enough of spring already, even after my last writing? I can’t seem to let it alone, but the reasons are far from clear. I am no fan of weather reports, I don’t usually find them either interesting or particularly believable, but three national surveys agreed that of the entire country, our area is today most spring-like. And to cap that I noticed for the first time this year there were a couple of gondolas out in the bay practicing their gala trips through local canals. The outside air confirmed the reports; warm and balmy, with perfumed breezes and greening plants—the whole nine yards. That is, until I met that downhearted fellow.’

He spoke to me as follows: This dawn found me reviewing my entire life—without one redeeming feature coming in with the sorry tide. This being the time of rebirth and change, I faced the prospect of a daunting task: give it up as a bad job or begin to redo the whole mess from scratch—I fell so low in spirits that some words of Isaiah came to mind, “But the wicked are like the tossing sea which cannot rest, whose waves cast up mire and mud” (57:20). The man certainly knew his Bible, but had apparently set it aside some time ago for other pursuits.

Isaiah is my favorite OT book; so literate, so incisively insightful, so painfully true. However, now that he thought of it, written therein is--”I live in a high and holy place, but also with him who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite.” (Isaiah 57:15). Off handedly I asked him what he thought should be the occupation of the contrite--he also asked himself: One word only came; repentance! It was then that the vision of an insurmountable task began to lose some of its impossible dimensions. While he still looked at an entire life of mistaken, often selfish, hurtful actions, where even its purposes were poor choices, and most everything came out plain bad, a choice to change everything might not be entirely out of the question—anything he does now can only be an improvement! Already so wrong, if change is his game, he couldn’t go wrong for going right. Besides, Isaiah says he is not doing it alone.

He seemed a happier man, and I reflected that if winter has indeed come and gone, can spring be not far behind--in fact, staring us in the face?

A CHANGE IN THE AIR

After a couple of fairly rainy days, this morning a few kayaks and sculls are energetically making their way across the bay. Patches of warm, bright sunshine countered by short and sharp gusts from the sea keep a few early walkers moving briskly along too. Our perpetual little sailboats cluster like white puff-balls over the blue-green water, but wind flurries strike and cause them to flitter like early spring butterflies on stubby white wings. In fact, the calendar insists that spring is about one week ahead of us.

The balance of this day, however, surely bodes little comfort out of doors unless one is addicted to raw edged, windblown walks, and the thunder-storms that are predicted in the area; winds hereabouts tend to increase after lunch time, although today a wayward breeze here and there is scented vaguely of lifted spirits. As early as Genesis 1:14 God said, “Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark seasons and days and years…”. In Leviticus 26:3,4 He said, “If you follow my decrees and are careful to obey my commands, I will send you rain in its season, and the ground will yield its crops and the trees of the field their fruit”.


With notable exceptions that has usually been the case, and the lights in the sky are giving their signs. I don’t know how careful or obedient any one has been; unusual warmth at earth’s extremities and melting polar ice-caps suggest to some a reckoning might be somewhere down the road, and we are advised to count our blessings only after the harvest is in the barn. Signs aside, we are blessed by a forgiving Father who knows both our foibles and our hearts—and if it comes to that, a new earth and a new Heaven will be mighty fine—dare I hope for new sailboats too?

A NEW FACADE AT THE BEACH

Passing by the new building site has been almost a daily event for several months. Each phase of the construction was duly inspected; razing of the old structure, the framing of wood and steel, the plumbing and wall-boarding, wire and tar-paper, stucco and plaster, glazing, and more to come. The crews usually wave to me from across the street and when the second-story roof was set in place the waving was even more celebratory than usual. Perhaps this camaraderie was partly due to the fact that as I lurched by with my walker I frequently assured them if they needed any help they could call on me.

The new structure is squeezed into a row of similar small apartment houses facing the bay and the morning sun. It is mostly of the Modern style, or perhaps because of Spanish type details here and there it could be called Moderne. In any case, with its straight and angular lines the rounded tops of two large windows and the entry-door insures that it will feel at home with its older, more venerable neighbors. Speaking of neighbors a young woman who lives nearby informed me that she grew up in the house that was demolished. Her grandmother had owned it for years and finally sold the property to renovators. I wonder now if that woman ever thought about what had been left in the rubble--or the layers under the latest rubble. What about the wells of Abraham or Jacob, built over older wells, or like Tells and digs of Egypt, and the whited sepulchers of old, what of dormant blessings

“…because of the Shepherd, the Rock
Of Israel,
Because of your father’s God, who
Helps you,…”.

I suddenly wanted to know, too late, what relic or lost art lay under the older structure. It is rumored that the Chumash of early California were no great shakes at building houses and the Clam-diggers, or the Wailiki were reportedly uninterested in architecture, but the centuries must be made of more than that. It occurred to me that soon the bright new place would be lost in the obscurity of its rows of counterparts along all the streets—in all the towns around, hiding perhaps forever what had been there before. Is it like that with people? Each one of us may indeed cover over ancestral lives that are now lost, but surely only in earthly rubble are things of value hidden. Fortunately no child of God is lost in eternity. The newcomer is welcome to stay too.

BEACH BUNNIES

Until recently, here at the beach little kids seemed like visitors from another planet, but that has changed. I began to realize how completely happy those tots could be—when the weather is warm they develop a peculiarity--at, or anywhere near the sand and water, they suddenly grow springs in their legs, leaping, dancing and running faster than any battery-powered bunnies could do. They laugh, scream, squeal and splash; they gaze with wide-eyed joy and wonder at seeing things for the very first time. They somehow make the familiar beach scene much more fun. I do not consider myself to be the playful type, but perhaps rather like Paul in 1st Corinthians, (9:22, 23), I tried to join in and become all things to all men—or in this case, to all little kids. Now that the weather is cooler they come bundled up and are usually pushed in strollers; since I miss the squeals and the laughs, I make faces at them.

As they wheel past my seat on the low wall, putting them momentarily almost eye-level with me, my “Crazy Willie” face usually gets their attention. I smile broadly right away and get back a smile, a laugh, or at least a look of round-eyed wonder. Encouraged by this I find that noises help and my little tea- pot routine with “Tip me over, pour me out” is sure fire. Anything for a laugh, I say. Voices work too; not only do I get a “frog” in my throat, I occasionally get a “dog” in it as I bark at them. Some times it is a “horse”, I have a “bird” in my throat when I “swallow”, and the “swoop and soar” may leave me “sore”. The kids often lean out of their buggies, looking back at me--and we wave. If all else fails I can go into my “man being hanged” routine as a last resort.
I have noticed, however, that during the recent week more and more “stroller pushers” are going by me from across the street. I get a rare wave or a smile but that’s about all. Perhaps it has become clear that I am no virtuoso—or my audience has become jaded with the same old material. Public fame being what it is, fickle and short-lived, I will just have to find another gig—or maybe add tap-dancing to my repertoire.

RAINY DAY AT THE BEACH

It’s not common hereabouts but usually well tolerated. Starting with a noticeable change in the air—which becomes cooler--with over-cast sky; the lavender, violet clouds merge into purple, with blacker edges here and there, serving to urge rain-people to walk out-of-doors.

It began with ...

a .

and a drop

and more drops

walking with wet faces

can be fun, with smell of

steamy wood, wet grass; even

damp dust from rainless days, is

fragrant. Now raindrops are falling,

falling on our heads—and all over this

land. Northern winds picking up speedy

delivery--rain commands its own perform-
ance—the choice to endure rain is not our own
choice to make. Big wet splashes are leaping up, up

from the street and filling the bay; looking more and more

like a regular gulley-washer now—the sort of rain only a

fool would not have brains enough to come in out of, at

once. Through windy coal-black sky and hills, the

soughing of wind and shriek of flailing, drenched limbs are

eerie, like the cry of poor damned souls. Overhead are

plumed branches, leaves and fronds thrashing, lashing,

and cracking loudly, wildly; heard amid the strange thick

darkness the bones of ancient dead warriors must come

alive—with Ezekiel the end-times witness, and the clash

and roar of warring armies—deafening rumbles and

groans, flashes of lightning. God bless all the sailors out at

sea in ships today, and all those souls on land, too. Signs

appear now in the sky, signs of further change—but

welcome sun rays break through and reveal the sloshed,

glossy-wet trees, now bathed in tints of warm amber-

greens and bronzes, starkly limned against the cold, grey-

black thunder-heads still looming above the churning

bay—contrast in lurid color and light. A fantastically

colorful rainbow arcs dramatically across the heavens—a

promise; the rain goes away as it came, from buckets-full,

to dribbles
to drops
to drips
to.s

And the land is new-wet and reborn, for a short time at least, the way the Lord first made it, the way He must have looked at it, and saw that it was good. So clean it smells good, feels good and everyone forgets--even little two-foot-high runaways splashing through lingering puddles in their best shoes and stockings--forget the darkness and revel in the heavenly light.

SUNDAY AT THE BEACH

Lots of days here start like this early morning; windless times that fishermen know well--boats glide easily and cleanly out to the banks. There is no rustling from nearly transfixed palm-leaves; water in the bay is glassy, fog-colored and reflecting only the silence. The ocean is moved by smooth, sprayless currents; a day perhaps to go after lenguada, the tongue-shaped flat halibut.

It must have been such a morning at the Sea of Galilee, when Peter and his brother Andrew came ashore to find a stranger waiting for them. It is recorded, “Galilee of the Gentiles—the people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.” (Mat. 4:15, 16). The brothers learned they were to be fishers of men, and followed willingly!

Here at the beach it is a Sunday; sea-birds in neat rows natter fitfully like parishioners restively waiting for the service to begin. The hush is almost chapel-like and a prayer rushes forth unbidden: “Dear Lord, let me be caught in the net of men such as those, and lifted up.” Amen.

WRITER’S BLOCK

When I write something that I think is both well-written and original, it is like telling secrets or revealing the answers to riddles. But the results then seem to me less interesting, like the punch line to a familiar joke; as if there is really no artfulness to the obvious. My tendency is then to resist writing down thoughts that come to mind in order to protect their pristine importance. The net result is an exercise in self-defeat; when I turn again to those undoubted gems of literary skill they are completely forgotten.

There is so far no way out of this predicament because if I write anything down the result is just ordinary at best—it remains great only if not written—and lost beyond recall. Of course it will also be forgotten by everyone else if written down, perhaps a sort of notoriety, but why share my lack-luster words with others?

The solution to the predicament is presented by Oliver Wendell Holmes, the elder, who recorded that he shared some lines of a humorous poem he had just written with his man-servant, who broke out in helpless laughter. “Ten days and nights with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man. Since then I’ve never dared to write as funny as I can.” I will just not write as splendidly as I can—or as funny, for that matter.

SIGNS IN THE SKY

Signs in the sky and over the waters! From my bayside lookout post there is a dark patch in an otherwise clear sky. There is a similar patch in the bay below. The water there is a warm gray, a dull mixture of blue and darker ochre, on either side it is the usual cerulean blue—sky-color to most painters. Here at the beach the map shows us further out from the rest of California shores than most surrounding terrain; there is sparse vegetation here. Little of this is indigenous to the area; nearly all of it, palm trees included, was carted in from somewhere else, and fire hazards in our local brush is not usually a problem. But today looks different.

A chunk of my distant panorama of the Sierras and local Anaheim Hills is obscured by smoke—and where there is smoke there is also the scourge of fire. “I read the news today, oh boy!” People up there in the hills are fleeing their homes at the very last minute (though it has been said that if there were no last minutes very little would get done in this world), taking the few most precious articles one can think of, almost always door-keys and hairbrushes. I don’t know if the lintels or sills of those doors were marked by more than the fire-inspector’s notes, probably not blood from a freshly slaughtered lamb. But the local exodus has begun and smoke marks a path across the waters—from this side we can only pray that all the children of God shall emerge safely, all the children, and that the evil flames of their pursuers be drowned.

ANOTHER DAY AT THE BEACH

Not many people know that as I walk daily with my indispensable walker around a modest circuit, I usually sit down briefly by the bay-side in order to inspect the day—and check out the action on the street. Even fewer know that when skate-boarders glide past me I often ask if they want to trade with me, walker for skateboard. Some times I even ask roller-skaters and cyclists. So far I have got quite a collection of blank or bemused stares and an uncertain laugh or two—but no actual takers. The closest I have come to a live one was when a toddler came toddling over and put a vise-like grip on my walker. Not understanding the childish garble I appealed to his nanny who, as it turned out, spoke no English. It was then made clear to me that he had asked “Es esto su jueguete?” (“Is this your toy?”). I reluctantly turned the kid down. Although I might have really enjoyed a ride in his stroller, the nanny seemed less than impressed by the idea. Whatever!

The reverie of sailing swiftly down the street, carelessly and carefree, is hard to let go, but this “incident of the playful child” reminded me that the common term, in Spanish-speaking countries, for my walker is “burro”. As I made my way back home, lurching along, plodding slowly, I was also reminded of Balaam and his little donkey. When he wouldn’t go as swiftly and directly as Balaam wished, the poor little beast was cursed and beaten—about the way I have occasionally felt towards my metallic mount. But the little “burro” was only obeying the Lord, and how bravely he persisted.

It came to me that perhaps it is not the Lord’s will that I sail down the street on a skateboard; for that matter, perhaps it wasn’t anyone’s will, even mine, truth be told. This thought has probably saved me from a most unkind fate, for which I thank the Lord.

NEWS FROM THE BEACH

This morning at the beach seemed, in a manner of speaking, strictly for the birds. No one else out there, they made the most of it; fishing once in awhile but mostly soaring and diving, dipping and gliding, they rose and wheeled as a flock. Of course someone had to ask, “Where would birds of a feather flock, if not together”? But they rose and fell gracefully and I must say, for the most part, gravely and soberly!

Such madcap antics should, as a matter of propriety, be accompanied by gleeful shouts, but their cries were low-key and raucously solemn. It came to me that these displays were actually deeply ingrained and, if likened to human mannerisms, ritualistic. After all such a bird flew tirelessly from the mountains of Ararat one day long ago-- and these descendents appear to know their job, to herald eternal hope for all humanity—officious and solemn this morning and every day. Or maybe they are just looking for rainbows.

A NEW DAY

This is the first day of the New Year and of all the rest of our lives. What have we carried forward from past days, and years? It has been said that an economist is a man who knows a great deal about very little, and who goes along knowing more and more about less and less, until finally he knows practically everything about nothing. So it is with me, and so it probably is with many others if we expect to become any wiser. Those who have attained a majority of years might try it for themselves. Think back to ages eighteen or twenty—recall how wise and knowing we were then. I would like to be so smart once again, if only for an hour. That is, of course, only about as long as such wisdom can bear the light of this day. If the truth be told, we learn more and more of how much we do not know, if we learn anything. How wise then, are the ones who finally recognize how little they know after all; and possibly also how relieved. (A case in point might be our Nation’s long-standing, revered economist Alan Greenspan. Unburdening himself of his great responsibilities only last year, beyond a couple of cautionary words he demonstrated admirable brevity in recommending very little for the future, clearly a wiser chairman). Here it is day two of this New Year and we have been facing the elements as never before; prior learning is not always immediately applicable to this unprecedented onslaught of air, earth, fire and water. Winds and floods, mud-slides and flames rage out of control as never before. We must learn new ways to cope, but where does one look for knowledge we have not yet learned? Here I am reminded of a line spoken by Reb Tevye when asked just how their ancient Jewish customs and traditions came to be the way they are. With wonder and almost joyfulness in his voice he says, “Well, I’ll tell you, I don’t know”! This ordinary man was expressing his wonder and glory for God, who already knows what is unfolding—and how inadequate our own understanding is beside it. He was evidently glad that God’s greatness is regularly proven by how far short of such reasoning we mortals fall. For wisdom we might do well to heed Matthew 6:33 wherein he says, “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness”. All else will follow.

A WINTER'S TALE

He was far from an imposing figure, standing there beside the dumpster; gaunt, rather ragged, and apparently down on his luck. I had glimpsed him first out in back of the apartment complex and finally dared to observe aloud, from a comfortable distance, that the weather was colder than usual, to which he heartily agreed. It was not common to see someone scrounging around near the garbage cans so late in the evening, and recent reports of identity theft lent some bravado to my curiosity. His manner, as I thought about it, seemed unexpectedly out-going, even amicable, so I ventured again, asking how life had been treating him; in the mood to hear a hard luck story or two at this juncture, my own life was proceeding easily enough. Gifts were all bought, the larder was full; the season was well in hand.

The lean and lanky stranger indicated that his condition was about as it had been for a long time. He explained that his present quest was for extra food and clothing which might be given to needy folks round about. The pickings are good here, he said, and added that it had been so very much worse recently in places like Sri Lanka, Africa, Pakistan, Florida, or New Orleans. Have you really been to those places I asked in surprise? That’s my job, he said, I visit people down on their luck and offer condolences, words of hope and of course, help wherever I can. But what kind of job is that? I asked, and added gratuitously that the working conditions must surely be grubby and hard. Well, he said, that is the way poor people have to live, and so do I--some have lost their jobs, their houses, some are still living in barns along with the cattle—and by the way, are you going to be giving something for the less fortunate ones this year? On hearing this I froze up a bit, inwardly at least, as that familiar old pitch for a hand-out was sure to follow. The man then remarked: In the past I have had easier jobs, but this is today. His form in the late evening gloom had begun, oddly, to take on a sort of glow, lighting the dark spaces around him. You see, he went on, once I was just a simple shepherd—now I am a messenger of the Lord, and my work is to show the light to a dark world. But what is that light, I stammered, beginning to think I might have a madman on my hands. The News, he responded, the Good News found in The Word! Many have yet to see the light. My companions and I first saw it so very long ago, a bright star high above a hillside, and I have been journeying ever since to tell the story. Mostly I talk to people who are to be greatly blessed, but as long as I’m here I may as well tell you, too. Unto us a child is born…

And all you dear ones know the rest of the story, so it is Merry Christmas to each of you once again—and Love, Always.
nlk--2005



"Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it." -- Hebrews 13: 1,2

REFLECTIONS ON THE GOLDEN RULE

There are skeptics out there, but as generally understood, the rule clearly embodies ways to carry on our spiritual life, to say nothing of the social relations that go along with it. I had wondered about some of its practical applications. Within Christianity the tenet is quite emphatic and is conjoined at all points with the command to love one another; once committed to obedience however, there are apparently some built-in conditions that cannot be circumvented or ignored. Implicit among them is that I should be prepared to know myself and what I believe, at least to the extent of daring to anticipate what I want and need from others. And that is to say nothing of the parallel requirement to understand what and how much I can and will do for those others. Knowing one’s self is part of the problem, (as Pogo said, “We have met the enemy and it is us”). What about our inner life that goes right on, with its deeper resentments, flashes of spitefulness and built-in prejudices of one kind or another --to say nothing of pet hates and resentments crowding in on a daily basis? In short, what about the inner applications of this rule? Apparently there needs to be a silent counterpoint in place even more stringent than mere outward politeness or manners will insure. At this moment a racket from the street interrupts my meditations and brings me smartly to my feet ready to quell the intrusion with sharply worded remarks --oops! The awareness of a rule not quite learned reveals there is something lacking in the way of preparedness.

Even more daunting, it apparently follows that in order to act lovingly towards others, I must first regard myself in a loving way, at least in order to decide what loving ways are; that is, the way I would have others behave towards me. Could I imagine loving myself, really, even if I have heard that God does? Compared to the process of accepting others, including strangers, into my care-circle the difficulty is that I am acquainted with myself intimately and perhaps too well. A confounding condition may be that in expecting largess from others, I must truly strive for humility! As Golda Meir paraphrased an old Jewish joke, “What makes you think you’re good enough to be so humble?” But that does put a crimp in my expectations; if I manage to start from a humble place, presumably I can require only a limited amount from others; certainly not a lot in the way of luxury, praise or appreciation for everything I may do or say. If the need for approval is my bag, I am already probably out of luck –that is, after all, a ringer for the sin of vanity. I should probably not, therefore, leave to the generosity of others what are, (in my “humble” mind-set), sacrilegious wishes for the betterment of my own image. Let’s say I settle for the expectancy that others would at least share their companionship and joy, tolerate me when I want to be left alone, and offer group support. When I am in short supply I hope they will share what provisions they may have in excess of their needs, and provide care and attention if I should be ill or injured. My comprehensive wish-list would probably also include intercessory prayer and occasional help with heavy burdens or tasks–-and love. There is the concomitant hope, of course, that others intend to do me the way they do themselves. Paring the list down, however, it is clear by now that I should not try to garner the “Life of Riley” from those other participants.

Also, this issue unavoidably involves the matter of my doing something for those others. What can I offer --how much, and when? (Jesus made it very clear who my neighbors are). According to the “rule”, that would probably be close to what I think I want and need --do unto others the same. Here arises another snag: what about those others who I may feel are very different from me, the lepers, the street beggars of Calcutta, prisoners-–or the poor, sick and diseased in my own city? What should I offer to them, do for them, to what extent be a companion to them, and for how long? In short, the commandment to do unto others could prove to be a real stumbling block to my future life-style. Can it ever be done fully? If you are anything like this writer, no matter what inspirational good intentions have brought you to the point of commitment, there is that quietly gnawing undercurrent of self-doubt born of “knowing yourself”-–that all too human track-record. In facing limitations honestly and openly the impulse to give the whole thing up as a bad job is ready to hand--or worse, tailor it to one’s own inadequate short arms and shorter temper.

The “rule” is perfectly plain and simple in Scriptures. An ancient Rabbi was once ordered to recite the whole Koran while standing on one leg; he answered “Do nothing to others you would not want done unto you, all the rest are footnotes.” And hear what Christ your savior says in Mat.7:12, “In everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the law and the prophets.” Further, “Thou shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it. Thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

But it has been said that “Love your neighbor as yourself…is a radical notion, perhaps the most radical notion possible”. (Bill McKibben,The Christian Paradox, Harper’s Magazine, August 2005). This writer, himself a professed life-long Christian, notes that as a Christian nation in 1004, we fell behind sadly in comparison with other rich nations. “What if we chose some simple criterion—say, giving aid to the poorest people—as a reasonable proxy for Christian behavior? After all, in the days before his crucifixion, when Jesus summed up his message for his disciples, he said the way you could tell the righteous from the damned was by whether they’d fed the hungry, slaked the thirsty, clothed the naked, welcomed the stranger, and visited the prisoner”. McKibben adds that”Because it is so counterintuitive, (meaning unlikely to arise by ordinary human impulses. nlk), Christians have had to keep repeating it to themselves right from the start. Consider Paul, for instance, instructing the church at Galatia: ‘For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment,’ he wrote, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” Says McKibben, “The last shall be made first; turn the other cheek; a rich person aiming for heaven is like a camel trying to walk through the eye of a needle. On and on and on—a call for nothing less than a radical, voluntary, and effective reordering of power relationships, based on the principle of love.” It is true that this rule is not easily followed and many Christians lose sight of their purpose in this life. The way is littered with the blandishments of personal fame and fortune—or simply the needs of one’s own kith and kin—but it is not an impossible task.

One thing I know for sure about this rule, Jesus said it and I must follow it –and from Holy Scripture (Phil. 4:13) I know I can do everything in Christ, who strengthens me. Need we refer back to the loaves and the fishes? So what’s to worry? As directed by Him, we are to seek first His Kingdom, where we can find the wisdom we need! Your arms and your hearts, in fact your love, can now be joined with those of your Heavenly Father. Prayer will give strength and provisions you could never provide all by yourself. How wonderful is the news, through the presence of Jesus Christ our Lord, anything one may offer to others in love can be provided by a power greater than one’s own. So spend all your love, there is no limit except in your faith, and even that is God-given. What can be lost as long as we stand ready to give and receive with the Lord?