all things must pass...

For the past few years I have been writing in much the same vein as Barbara Brown Taylor. She, of course, is better known and, at times, a much better writer, too. That said, in her recent book, Holy Envy, she and I are on the same wave length when she writes: "(Being a pastor) was a good life for a long time. Then it was not."

Ask me what happened and I can offer you a variety of stories that are all true: I was not a skilled leader; I was gone too much; I succumbed
to compassion fatigue; I lost faith in the church.All these years later there is another story that sounds as true as any of those, which goes like this: the same Spirit that called me into the church called me out again, to learn the difference between the living water and the well. (Holy Envy, p. 5)

Like others who have gone through a staggering and profound change - whether traumatic or ecstatic - our story needs to be shared again and again until we ourselves fully believe it. Ms Brown-Taylor and I have been telling ourselves and anyone else who would listen that "the same Spirit that called me into the church (also) called me out." It was moving to me to read her using the very phrase I came upon four years ago: just as I was called into ministry in 1968 I was now being called out almost 40 years later. Affirmation arrives in unexpected ways, yes? Dianne affirmed this for me again earlier this week while we were sharing breakfast on our deck. "I was finishing the laundry" she said, "and I kept looking at your white Eucharistic robe. I am so glad you are free and happy now and healthy enough to enjoy these days after putting in so much time in a role that had come and gone for you." We sat quietly for a moment before I replied, "You know, I mostly only miss celebrating Eucharist. And some of the deep pastoral connections. But, I am really a weenie when it comes to conflict and church politics. I hate it. I learned to manage it reasonably well, but I always hated it." She smiled and said, "Even more so for the last 15 years." 

Which led my heart to a song by my favorite Beatle: George Harrison. He wrote some brilliant, odd songs that were uniquely beautiful. There came a time when he could no longer stomach the internal strife of his band mates - and became exasperated at their unwillingness to celebrate his musical creations - so the so-called "quiet Beatle" left the Fab Four. Eventually all of the Beatles called it quits, too and Harrison put out a triple album entitled, All Things Must Pass. Many of the songs on that masterpiece had been written for Beatles albums, but Mssrs. Lennon and McCartney were too interested in their own prowess to share the glory. So in time, their loss became our gain when All Things Must Pass was released in 1970. "Isn't It a Pity" along with "Beware of Darkness," "My Sweet Lord" and "What Is Life" had been set free to intrigue and satisfy those of us who yearned for more from Harrison.

The title track, "All Things Must Pass," has been running through my head since my birthday last week. It teases me when I try to figure out what to write, it pops up while I am doing gardening, or house work, or even while heading out to play a gig with my own band mates. "All things must pass... all things must pass away." I realized I was singing that chorus this afternoon while pulling up the weeds and grass in a raised flower bed that will soon host wildflowers and a butterfly mix. Oddly, I am not exactly sure what is passing away right now except to say being away from L'Arche Ottawa and my friends in Canada for the past four months is over. It hurts my heart to be away for so long. I think I'll be planning a few more music benefits with a variety of artists over the next year, too.And doing a little more spiritual direction. More than that, I am not sure.

And that ambiguity is probably appropriate: a few days ago I stumbled upon this quote from Fr. Thomas Merton: "You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope."

For some reason I feel like this poem by Richard Jones he calls "Eggplant." 

I've never liked the taste,
which, I think,
is a shame,
because some days
when my wife goes to work
and I walk to the grocery store,
I stand in the produce aisle,
admiring those gorgeous
purple fruits––
wine colored,
sensuously curved––
and can't help but reach out
and pick one up, just to hold it,
so silky smooth, so luscious looking
I almost fall in love,
but then remember
who I am:
a man not fond of eggplant.
Nonetheless,
I linger and look
and there in the bin
under the misters and lights,
I find it––
the perfect eggplant,
the glossy flesh unblemished,
meat firm under the fingers,
the stem and cap
bright green.
The fruit heavy in the hand,
I place the eggplant
in my cart,
taking special care,
knowing an eggplant is delicate
and wounds easily.
I carry the grocery bag home
through a light rain
and arrange the eggplant
on a white tablecloth,
the opulent purple orb
lustrous in the window light
and quietly beautiful
as if lying on satin sheets.
Then I sit in the wing chair.
The house grows dark
as the rain falls harder
and I wait for my wife
to come home from work,
shake off her raincoat,
turn on the lamp,
and behold the eggplant.

There are things to accomplish this week - and then a quick retreat into the Eastern Townships of Quebec. Then lots more commitments here. But it is going to be interesting to see what is, indeed, passing away.