autumn paradox: a lesson in dying and rising...

September! How in God's name could it already be September 1, 2018? This morning, we played a farmer's market and clearly autumn was in the air. We played this same market three months ago at the start of the summer season, too. In-between sets I stood in stunned silence noting how so much of life has come and gone. Christine Valters Paintner writes that autumn reminds many of us of the impermanence of our existence. "It brings to us a deeper awareness that we live in a continual cycle of dying and rising." The spirituality of this season, therefore, invites us to notice what nature is trying to teach us. "The autumn leaves changing color," for example:

... are actually reverting to their original hue as chlorophyll is gradually blocked. As the trees begin to pull energy inward for the coming hibernation of winter, the chlorophyll in the leaves decreases and the vibrant shades we witness are the tree's true color. As autumn begins, we are called to reflect where we are being invited to surrender our masks and become more truly who we already are. With fall's energy of release, we are asked to consider the things, habits, beliefs, and attitudes that we are being called to let go of in the coming days.

(http://www.patheos.com/resources/additional-resources/2010/09/invitations-of-autumn)

I feel something of this as I look out on fields of rising golden rod basking in the wetlands sunlight behind our home. Like Paintner writes elsewhere, autumn has been paradoxical for me, a time of profound introspection. It "invites us to consider what we are called to release and surrender - what no longer serves us or what gets in the way of being present to the holiness of each moment - (and) invites us to gather in the harvest, to name and celebrate the fruit of the seeds of dreams we planted months ago." For decades not only was this the time when our children returned to school, but when I too resumed my liturgical and pastoral responsibilities. It was a fresh start with new adventures and challenges as well as the end of the simplicity of summer living. With neither children at home nor a church community to serve, I still sense the inward paradox of autumn speaking to me about letting go and becoming my truest self.

I hear the prayer of St. Francis saying: O divine master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it's in dying that we are born to eternal life. I hear the wisdom of Mother Earth singing much the same song. In the emerging church, the next four weeks are being called "the season of creation." It is a time to listen to the sacred in creation. An urgent cry to hear the holy beyond our anthropocentric biases and respond with compassion and justice. During the last decade of my pastoral ministry, my heart and habits were changed because God was calling me to surrender my arrogance and listen to the wind, the water, the animals, the trees and the mountains. Paintner believes that in holding this kind of release and receptivity together in tension, we find "that our letting go (often brings) the blessings of abundance."

Parker Palmer, a beloved mentor, observes that at age 76 "nature has become his trustworthy guide. All the “falling” that’s going on out there is full of promise. Seeds are being planted and leaves are being composted as earth prepares for yet another uprising of green."

It’s easy to fixate on everything that goes to ground as time goes by: the disintegration of a relationship, the disappearance of good work well-done, the diminishment of a sense of purpose and meaning. But, as I’ve come to understand that life “composts” and “seeds” us as autumn does the earth, I’ve seen how possibility gets planted in us even in the most difficult of times.

In the Christian tradition this is called "the Paschal Mystery" wherein the death of Jesus on the Cross becomes the Resurrection by the grace and love of God. This blessing is never automatic nor is it within human purview to control. And yet, at the same time, it is trustworthy and true. Living into this truth by trust is not simple. But it does give meaning and shape to our lives in much the same way as the spirituality of autumn. Parker writes:

The hopeful notion that new life is hidden in dying is surely reinforced by the visual glories of autumn. What artist would paint a deathbed scene with the vibrant and vital palette nature uses? Perhaps death possesses a grace that we who fear dying, who find it ugly and even obscene, cannot see. How shall we understand nature’s testimony that dying itself — as devastating as we know it can be — contains the hope of a certain beauty? The closest I’ve ever come to answering that question begins with these words from Thomas Merton: “There is in all visible things… a hidden wholeness.”

In the visible world of nature, a great truth is concealed in plain sight. Diminishment and beauty, darkness and light, death and life are not opposites: they are held together in the paradox of the “hidden wholeness.” In a paradox, opposites do not negate each; they cohabit and co-create in mysterious unity at the heart of reality. Deeper still, they need each other for health, just as our well-being depends on breathing in and breathing out. (https://onbeing.org/blog/autumn-a-season-of-paradox/)

To live into this trust - and I am a poor, bedraggled advocate of this blessing, to be sure - is not easy in our either/or, control mode culture. I am often assaulted by anxiety and have to practice a variety of breathing and walking meditations to reclaim God's equilibrium. I often tell others: I get it wrong at least as often as I get it right. But when I do get it right I know it is true. And even when I get it wrong, I trust it is right.

We live in a culture that prefers the ease of either/or to the complexities of both/and, we have a hard time holding opposites together. We want light without darkness, the glories of spring and summer without the demands of autumn and winter, the pleasures of life without the pangs of death. We make Faustian bargains hoping to get what we want, but they never truly enliven us and cannot possibly sustain us in hard times. When we so fear the dark that we demand light around the clock, there can be only one result: artificial light that is glaring and graceless and, beyond its borders, a darkness that grows ever more terrifying as we try to hold it off. Split off from each other, neither darkness nor light is fit for human habitation. The moment we say “yes” to both of them and join their paradoxical dance, the two conspire to make us healthy and whole.

Watching the quiet dignity on display at John McCain's funeral service at the National Cathedral called my heart back to Palmer's testimony. The tears I shed today with my nation reunited me with the invitation of autumn. And the promise of Jesus. And this paradox of living fully at this moment in time. So, like the pumpkins still on the vine in my backyard, I need to stay put for another year and grow ripe through another cycle of seasons. I will surrender a little of my desire to control my life and simply "behold" the gifts of the Lord as was revealed earlier this spring. And I will share the fruit of my heart and the Spirit quietly with those I love.

For when I try to fabricate a life that defies autumn’s diminishments, I end up in a state that’s less than human. When I give myself over to organic reality — to the endless interplay of darkness and light, falling and rising — the life I am given is as real and colorful, fruitful and whole as this graced and graceful world and the seasonal cycles that make it so. Though I still grieve as beauty goes to ground, autumn reminds me to celebrate the primal power that is forever making all things new in me, in us, and in the natural world.

Tomorrow the band will play a show at Infinity Bistro in Norfolk, CT. That will be sweet. Later in the week I will visit with a young man on a quest for deeper meaning in these weird days. We'll head up to Ottawa at week's end to join our community in the celebration of 46 years of compassion and tenderness at L'Arche. I'll sing some there, too and share prayers and study and work. As the month of September ripens, we'll have our grandchildren up for some harvest festival pumpkin picking. And still one more farmer's market with the band. I am so grateful.