This Church is Open

Hello, everyone.

(Greens from my garden --- a bounty)

I'm writing in a time of quarantine for the coronavirus, COVID-19. I have never had an experience like this one, but other folks did, of course --- many years ago, the world was plagued by such plagues as this, and did not fare as well as we have so far. I may write about medieval plagues and the church at some point, but today I'm opening my own church door for any believers or seekers or unbelievers who want to see what it's all about. My home church is a little greenhouse attached to my house, and so far, I'm the only full human member. I have guests, though, occasionally, and they include both people and other creatures. For example, Fernando and Poncho, two toads who have made my acquaintance. Fine fellows. Also, I have many slugs who are eating their share of my greens. I haven't given them names, but this is a matter of prejudice that i need to address. Add to that the itinerant mosquito and other flying insects, a stinkbug or two, and earthworms. I imagine before too long a rabbit will find its way in there, as I've started leaving the greenhouse door open on these warmer days of March.

What I mean to say is welcome.

In this blog, I want to talk about church. That's my overarching theme. I don't promise that I won't go far and wide and deep within that theme -- so far that you may have to give me a nudge and say, "What does this have to do with church?" And that is an excellent question because I've been asking myself that when it comes to all the division that exists within and without churches today. This is part of the reason I don't go to actual churches much anymore, though I grew up "in church." I call myself a recovering Southern Baptist, and that's only a little tongue-in-cheek.

So... I'm opening the door. Come in any time, and sit on one of my red pillows. There are no other pews. This is a tiny church. See you soon.

Comments

Reaping What I Sow

That's the essence of karma, isn't it, and really the core of the golden rule as well: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you... because that's probably how it's going to work out. The hurt we caused years ago may come back to humble us in the form of a humiliating sting or a gaping heart wound today. We often reap what we sow, and it's great in the garden. It can be great in everyday life, in our spiritual work, too, if we are sowing good seeds full of grace and compassion. (painting by Carol Wisniewski ) I don't know if you've ever caused any pain to other people, but I have --- and I've written about it before, and worked to forgive myself, and all those kinds of spirtual practices, but I still regret it. I've never understood when people say they don't have any regrets. I remember hearing a friend say that once in front of his wife, whom he had hurt terribly at one time -- to the point that they divorced, but later remarrie

Cicada Song

(borrowed from Obviously Chloe They're back, and they are mighty --- out in full force, showing off. Cousin to the leafhopper and froghopper, I hear. And while I listen, I am also tuning in to Jubilee Circle , the community church I attend (virtually, at the moment). The service began with a gentle piece on violin. Via Positiva Theme: remaining open. Hearts wide open. One blink away from being fully awake (thank you, Pema Chodron). We need something to wake us up. Drumbeat, sage, find the four directions, and listen to the voices of the cicada. Most of the time it lives underground, growing for years into an adult. Cicadas drink the sap from trees, and in large swarms cause destruction. This year is the once in 17-year mating cycle, according to Jason Slotkin of NPR. Cicadas mean summer. They are invested in mating. What is it, friends, that we are investing ourselves in? Does the soul stand a chance in this withering political climate? Have you heard of the cicada kil

When the Roof Caves In...

Two nights ago, while I was sleeping, a heavy rainfall crushed the greenhouse roof, which was not much after all but PVC pipes and plastic. We had a couple of pipes we put in for reinforcement (propped up) when it rained, but we didn't know it was raining, and isn't that just how it goes? The rain comes, the roof falls, while you're sleeping. No fear, congregation. As I was taught, the church isn't the building. It's the creatures who inhabit it, in a spirit of community and grace and all good things. Only a few of the plants were bruised and disorganized, but well glory... everything is alright. Look here, new green shoots, new underfeathering, leaves widening and spreading. We are alive. One of my favorite poems is really a hymn because what is a hymn but an act of praise, a song, a poem? Here's the whole thing (go on... you'll be glad you did): "Sestina" But oh... this line: Time to plant tears , says the almanac. Yes, time to plant

Church in the Greenhouse

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