Traveling in Place

The Call to Stillness: A Reflective Commentary on Psalm 46

“Be still and know that I am God.”

These words have been echoing in my head a lot over the last year, because the temptation to be perpetually stirred up, distracted, and anxious is so strong. Everything is politicized. Nothing is filtered. The most powerful forces at work in society are invested in keeping us on edge. The “news” is a constant barrage of reasons we should be on alert. Our “smart” phones keep us distracted, interrupting us with text messages and alarms. We’ve recently learned about the alarming degree to which Russian government operatives have manufactured conflict by flooding social media with alarmist material designed to incite people against each another. And the President of the United States seems unable to stop himself from reacting impulsively in the moment and making himself the news on an hourly basis. When this state of distraction is publicly modeled from the very top and instantly disseminated through all the electronic devices that invade our personal spaces, our society churns in a state of heightened anxiety.

When the turmoil around me seeps inside of me, corrupting my spirit, the words from long ago come unbidden into my mind and then to my lips: “Be still and know that I am God.” This invitation is embedded in Psalm 46, an ancient Hebrew hymn that speaks to our time with unusual poignancy:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in times of trouble.

Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth should change,

Though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult. (Verses 1-3)

Living Water

When I drove up into the mountains last week for my annual spiritual retreat, I was disappointed to see muted autumn colors robbed of their usual brilliance. An unseasonably warm September devoid of any significant rainfall stifled what is typically a splendorous display of color. In the Western part of the Adirondacks, many trees were already bare, while others looked rather sickly with their pale yellow and orange leaves, and in the place of bright red was a flat pink. I enjoyed the short climb up Coney Mountain and the 360-degree view from its open summit, but it was clear from that vantage point that this was not a banner year for fall foliage.

I arrived at Silver Bay on Lake George just after sunset Thursday. The next morning, the sky was overcast. Clouds hung low around the mountains on the other side of the lake, and the wet air became misty. The fall transformation had just begun there, but as I walked the grounds around the retreat house, I noticed that some trees were showing off bright, bold hues. On Sunday, after rain had passed through giving way to sun and clouds, I made my way into the High Peaks, just about an hour from Silver Bay, and was thrilled to see vibrant
colors on the lee side of the mountains stretching down into the Champlain Valley. I hiked up Hurricane Mountain just outside of Keene. In all directions from its windy summit (the inspiration for its name) stretched out carpets of deep red, bright yellow, and orange foliage amid the evergreens as far as the eye could see.

The previous day and a half of rain cannot explain the rich color, which had been begun to turn in late September. I’m going out on a limb here, but I suspect that at least part of the reason the colors were so different in the High Peaks region than in the lower elevations of the Adirondacks was because those higher mountains make their own weather. The phenomenon is called “orographic lift.” A surface air mass is forced upward by the rising elevation, causing it to cool rapidly. Humidity rises to 100%, creating clouds and precipitation. So even when lower terrain suffers from a dearth of rainfall, the higher elevations stay hydrated. That’s why, on a perfectly sunny day, clouds sometimes encircle the tops of mountains. It’s also why hikers ascending past the tree line sometimes experience dramatic, unexpected changes in the weather.

God Cares

One day last week, I spotted what seemed to me a large and intimidating spider suspended just below eye level on our back deck. Its huge web was spun from the eave down to the back of a wicker sofa then to the facing of the door into our sunroom, completing a sticky triangle that effectively blocked passage. Without much thought, I went to the closet to get a broom so I could sweep it all away.

I called out to Martha, who was sitting in the living room reading a book. “Do you want to see a big spider and its impressive web before I get rid of it?” She came to the kitchen window and peered out. “Wow,” she said. And then, after a pause, “She worked hard all day.”

Those words turned the broom in my hand into a weapon of mass destruction. “So you think I should leave her alone?” I asked. (Notice she was now personalized.) “Your choice,” Martha said, walking away from the window and back to the living room. When she sat down again, she called out, “Why don’t you find out what kind of spider it is?”

Such a reprieve seemed only fair. So I leaned the broom against the sunroom door and found my laptop. I searched “types of spiders” and scrolled through the images. I found a picture that seemed to match the creature I was eyeing with some trepidation, and then clicked the link to the website where it was identified. The fearful arachnid blocking passage from the sunroom to the deck turned out to be a “garden spider” whose bite was “unpleasant but harmless to humans.”

I closed the laptop, picked up the broom and went to the living room. I reported my finding to Martha and said, “I can’t very well destroy Charlotte. I guess I’ll leave her there as part of the protected wildlife in our backyard.” She looked up from her book, her face beaming with a triumphant grin.

The Cost of Unrestrained Freedom

August felt like October. Now, September feels like July. That’s unsettling, but it could be a lot worse. I’ll take unseasonable temperatures any day over multiple once-in-a-millennium, tornado-inducing hurricanes that spawn record flooding and wind destruction.

In fact, I have been hearing Central New Yorkers express a newfound appreciation for our signature winters. Rather than reflexively complain about them, now folks are starting to realize how even deep piles of snow are far preferable to the hazardous risks endured by other parts of the country. Heavy lake-effect snow (which can be beautiful to behold) is gentle compared to the fury of wildfires, tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, and hurricane-force winds.

It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it? Who knows? As the planet continues heating up and sea levels rise, cool inland places like Syracuse may become highly desirable, but only for a while. Changes to the climate do not leave any location unaffected. Weather weirdness is going to be the norm for the foreseeable future.

When the abnormal becomes normal, everything looks different. We begin to appreciate things that once caused us to grouse. We begin to notice and respect what we used to take for granted. We start examining our lifestyles to see if we are part of the problem and how we can become part of a solution. At least, that’s the hope.

The concern is that human ability to adapt and create is matched by the equally creative ability to persist in the denial of uncomfortable truth. It is ironic, but probably indicative of the human condition, that denial of anthropogenic climate change is highest in those places that are most at risk of its devastating effects. Climate science deniers are most heavily concentrated in the Deep South, where

A Late Summer Hike

Rain and responsibilities conspired to keep me off the hiking trails this summer – until Friday. On the first day of September I grabbed a late season chance to challenge myself with a good, long, strenuous trek up one of the Adirondack High Peaks.

I choose Sawteeth, which stands 4,100 feet in elevation, making it the 35^th highest among the 46 over 4,000 feet. The peak is aptly named because of its multiple summits that, from a distance, give the appearance of teeth in a saw blade. It rises sharply above Lower Ausable Lake and stands just south of the Great Range.

There are two approaches up Sawteeth. The shorter route begins on the Weld Trail toward Gothics and takes a left turn up the north slope. The longer route is called the Scenic Trail. Following the advice of others who have experience with this peak, I ascended by way of the 3.1-mile scenic trail and descended by the shorter 2.6-mile route, making a circle of 5.7 miles. But that’s not the entire hike. Before getting to the actual trailhead at the east end of the lake, it is necessary to walk the entire length of the privately-owned Lake Road. The distance from designated parking for hikers to the lake is 3.9 miles, so the trek covered a total of 13.5 miles. From end to end, the Lake Road gains 700 feet in elevation. The ascent up Sawteeth nets another 2,275 feet.

Sawteeth’s summit doesn’t feature a broad expansive view in all directions, but it is spectacular in its own way, and the Scenic Trail includes a little of everything – a challenging scramble along the lake shore over big boulders, several severely steep climbs that require use of all four limbs, and occasional ladders leaning against massive rocks that can’t be scaled without them. But this arduous climb is made much more bearable by five outlooks that afford gorgeous views of Lower Ausable Lake and the peaks to the south, east and west. The sheer drop at the edge of the outcrops is enough to make your fingers tingle, but they allow the hiker to see the lake from higher and higher perches, and eventually to also see Upper Ausable Lake and distant peaks stretching out behind it.

Unexpected Crossing

The other day I witnessed something truly wonderful. I was driving home from Syracuse on the Lake Parkway. As I entered the last curve before reaching the village, I could see ahead of me that traffic had stopped. Had there been an accident?

I expected to see the flashing lights of a police car or an emergency rescue vehicle. But as I slowed to a crawl, I was delighted to spot a gaggle of Canada Geese strolling single file across the highway! Four lanes of traffic were at a complete standstill while these birds waddled at a leisurely pace from one side to the other, unconcerned about the potential hazard of their circumstance. Just when it appeared that the parade was over, another few geese that had been sitting in the grass stood up and followed the others. Then a few more got up and did the same. None of them was in the slightest hurry, but each one stayed just close enough to the one ahead of it to make sure the traffic remained at bay. By the time the entire entourage had crossed, cars in all four lanes were twenty or more deep.

The longer this went on, the more I laughed. How remarkable that these unassuming geese innocently strolled across one of the busiest roads in the county, and dozens and dozens of motorists stopped to let them pass. Some of those drivers were no doubt in their usual hurry. Some were probably cursing out loud about the injustice of having to wait. But they were trapped between other cars operated by people who accepted the plain fact that the geese controlled the road, and there was nothing anybody could do about it short of unleashing senseless carnage.

Embracing Everybody

Whatever else you may think of the political paroxysms jolting American culture right now, you cannot deny that we’re all getting a national civics lesson. I don’t think I have ever heard as much conversation about checks and balances, the Electoral College, or even the independence of the Department of Justice, as I have in the last six months.

I’ve also noticed a subtle but certain shift in the public perception of the Christian faith. I have lamented for most of my adult life how the term “Christian” has been captured by the hard right-wing American version of the faith. The term “Christian voter” has been associated with a political agenda mostly concerned with regulating sexuality and women’s bodies while devaluing people who do not fit within prescribed parameters of acceptability.

This version of Christianity increasingly became identified with one political party, and reached its high-water mark in the election of 2004, when Republican voter turnout was driven to record levels by ballot initiatives in several swing states that defined marriage as the union of one man and one woman.

But over the next decade, the electorate became younger (as the largest generation in American history reached voting age) and Americans generally became more open to diversity in general and same-sex marriage in particular. States began passing laws making marriage more inclusive, and in 2015, the Supreme Court declared that recognition of gay marriage was the law of the land. Except in the staunchest regions of the Bible belt, the decision was greeted with either celebration or quiet resignation. Most of the country had already made the shift that the high court was codifying.

This last Friday evening, Susan Arbetter, host of “The Capital Pressroom” on New York public radio, interviewed New York Assemblywoman Deborah Glick, the first openly gay women to serve in the state legislature. She was invited onto the

A Wet, Cloudy Holiday Weekend

The long Independence Day weekend has begun – with more rain. While the weather forecast is for a bright, sunny July 4, the cloudy, wet conditions seem more appropriate. As I’ve listened to parishioners talk about the state of the nation, I’ve noticed one emotion overtaking all others. Earlier in the year, sharp anger clashed with a smug triumphalism, and a lot of folks just seemed to be holding their breath and expressing measured hope that “things will work out – they always do.” But now, people on all sides in this very purple part of a mostly red and blue country are just...well...sad.

“What has become of us?” one woman asked rhetorically with tears stinging the back of her eyes. Another said to me, “It just seems like we’ve lost our way. We are so divided.” People who have been cheered by progress toward greater social acceptance now feel a mixture of fear and disappointment. At Thursday night’s summer worship service, during which we sang, “O Beautiful for Spacious Skies,” I didn’t sense a lot of energy for a patriotic celebration. Exhaustion seemed much more in evidence.

As we enter the holiday weekend, the most prominent news stories do not inspire pride. A crude, personally demeaning tweet from the President has drawn bi-partisan outrage. In any other era, such an irresponsible outburst might well have prompted a swift Congressional censure for undermining the dignity of the office. But today, it will likely blow over as another painful example of the new normal. A commission appointed by the president to look for evidence of voter fraud has requested from the states personal information on every voter in the country. The effort has been met with bi-partisan refusal, perhaps best summed up by the Mississippi Secretary of State, who said the commission could “go jump in the Gulf of Mexico.” A hapless Congress limps home for the holiday break after revealing divisions within the majority party that, at least for now, put significant policy legislation beyond anyone’s political grasp.

And with sickening frequency, scenes of violence remind us of how the cloth of the country is tearing apart. Lately, it hasn’t been suicide attacks plotted in faraway places, but shooting sprees by disgruntled Americans fed up with Washington politics, their work environment, or just the presence of people they don’t understand, that have taken the lives of innocents and terrorized survivors.

In truth, we’ve been spiraling downward for at least a half-century. I think an

Birding around the Lake

I never thought this would happen to me. I’ve become – wait for it – a “birder.” Spotting birds, identifying them by their plumage, and learning their calls has never held much interest for me until this year. Back in March, I posted about all the birds we were attracting with feeders hung on the tree just outside the church office windows. It didn’t take long for me to get hooked. I started bringing my camera and long lens with me to work. Once I removed the screen from that window, my office became the perfect blind for taking close shots of cardinals, chickadees, woodpeckers, nuthatches, sparrows, titmice, and others who became regular visitors. (A sampling of those pictures are included in that post.)

Well, once I had experienced the joy of watching birds come to a feeder, I couldn’t stop there. Our recovering Onondaga Lake is surrounded by trees, wetlands, and forests that attract all sorts of fowl. In addition to the gulls, doves, ducks, and geese that park visitors can’t miss, Onondaga Lake is also home to mute swans, ospreys, herons, red-tail hawks, and (in season) bald eagles. The patch of forest near the upper end of the lake between the West End trail and the Lakeland trail is teeming with swallows, yellow warblers, goldfinches, redstarts, and orioles (and I’m sure others I haven’t seen yet). Of course, red-winged blackbirds, robins, catbirds, and swallows are everywhere, but the tree swallows with the shimmering blue feathers are especially numerous along the newest portion of the trail between the amphitheater and the fairgrounds. Along the most remote parts of the trail, out of earshot of highway traffic, you can hear dozens of birdsongs echoing in the canopy of tall trees all around you. You won’t see most of those birds, but if you are patient, you’ll catch a glimpse of vivid color streaking across the trail or hopping from limb to limb. It’s an easy way to lose all sense of time.

Compare and Contrast...

Do you remember those “compare and contrast” essays you were assigned in school? Today’s news presents us with a subject that is crying out for just such an exercise.

President Donald Trump meets Pope Francis.

Both men are masters at using the media to their advantage. Both of them tend to stray from their scripts, speaking off the cuff and making the bureaucracies behind them very nervous. Both men can fairly be described as disruptive – challenging taboos and questioning long-held assumptions. Both have been heralded as outsiders seeking to give voice to those who have been forgotten by the centers of power. Both are loved by those who admire their willingness to shake up the status quo and hated by those who regard them as traitors to the traditions they represent. Both have sparked fascination and ire around the world.

But they are also as different as they are alike. Francis long ago took a vow of poverty. Trump has devoted his life to getting rich. Before being elected Pope, Francis spent his entire adult life as a Jesuit priest ministering to the poor in Argentina. Before being elected President, Trump made millions in the real estate business. Francis is deeply skeptical of global capitalism. Trump is himself a global capitalist. Francis refuses ceremonial trappings and privileges that separate him from the masses. Trump luxuriates in the gold-plated surroundings of his Manhattan tower. Following the examples of previous popes, Francis has written an encyclical calling on nations to adopt policies that will protect the environment and slow climate change. Trump has publicly called climate change a “hoax” and wants to free industry from regulations aimed at reducing carbon emissions. Francis favors liberal immigration policies that give hope to people escaping desperate circumstances. Trump wants to severely curtail immigration in the interest of national security.

Last night, on the eve of Trump’s visit to the Vatican, Cardinal Peter Turkson offered his own succinct “compare and contrast” assessment. He noted that both men seek to rid the Islamic world of violence. But while Francis calls for peaceful dialogue between nations and religions, Trump concludes a weapons sale to Saudi Arabia.