Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring" motivated us to save lost species

Dirt. Dust. Earth. Clay. It’s remarkable how many cultures around the world begin their creation stories with dirt of some kind. “Adam” literally means either “red clay” or “dust of the ground,” that is, dirt. Actually, the entire universe is dirt. The character, Willie Stark, in the novel All the King’s Men, wanting “dirt” on his opponents, put this spin on the word. "Dirt's a funny thing,” the Boss said. “Come to think of it, there ain't a thing but dirt on this green God's globe except what's under water, and that's dirt too. It's dirt makes the grass grow. A diamond ain't a thing in the world but a piece of dirt that got awful hot. And God-a-Mighty picked up a handful of dirt and blew on it and made you and me and George Washington and mankind blessed in faculty and apprehension. It all depends on what you do with the dirt. That right?” Yes, dirt’s not just a funny thing. It’s everything. Carl Sagan wrote, “The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.” Which is just a more refined word for dirt. I enjoy the writings of William Bryant Logan. In 1995, he published a book entitled Dirt. As Logan was doing research for his book, he often encountered people who wanted him not to talk about “dirt” — too filthy — but soil, earth, minerals, humus, or anything but dirt. Which says something about the human lack of humility. Get over it. We are dirt. And dirt is immensely useful for all kinds of things. Growing stuff. Making bricks, adobe, cement. Sculpting. Dirt is even useful for preaching. Jeremiah had a difficult job made worse because he never wanted it. He never wanted it because he knew it would get him into all kinds of trouble. You don’t have to be a prophet to know that if you loudly proclaim an unpopular truth, people will try, one way or another, to silence you. Jeremiah could clearly see Israel’s destruction looming on the horizon. He desperately wanted his people, the Judah which he loved, to forsake their idols, return to the Lord God, and avoid annihilation. He tried condemnation. He tried promises. He tried to act out parables to get through to folks. One of his sermons grew out of his visit to the potter’s house. Alas, what did he accomplish? He gave his name to the word, jeremiad, a long speech that bitterly laments the state of society, often predicting its downfall. Heedless of Jeremiah, fall Israel did. Now some 25 centuries later, we still have his words. What will we make of them? Do we hear a warning? Is there calamity brewing today? What is about to fall if we don’t change our ways? “So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. Then the word of the Lord came to me. He said, ‘Can I not do with you, Israel, as this potter does?’ declares the Lord. ‘Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, Israel.’” What a rich metaphor! Let’s extend it a bit. That lump of clay is not only Israel; that lump of clay is everyone and everything. The bad news is, everyone you hate is rolled into that mound of clay. The good news is, everyone you love and admire is in that mound of clay. Everything you see as ugly, everything you see as beautiful — all in that spinning lump of clay in the potter’s hands. And, of course, you and I are part of the clay, that pile of exquisite dirt. How does the vessel that the potter is creating become marred? The clay is not behaving the way clay should. It’s not sticking together. The water within it is not evenly distributed. The pot isn’t developing properly to fulfill its intended purpose. So the potter gathers the clay into a ball and begins again, doing so as many times as necessary. A pot may certainly be lovely. However, it’s usefulness comes from its emptiness. A vessel is formed to hold something — perhaps many things. Maybe water or oil or grain. Maybe the delight of the potter herself. Maybe beauty, kindness, justice. In his book, Dirt, Logan writes of clay acting as a womb for life, literally as well as symbolically. “[Clay] is the honeycomb of matter, whose activity is to receive, contain, enfold, and give birth.” Earth, our planet, is itself a sphere of clay inseparable from humanity. Earth gives birth to us. Oceans run in our veins. Rock forms our bones. Forests, prairies, marshes are our lungs exchanging oxygen and carbon dioxide. Microscopic beings compose our digestive system. Dirt covers us. Earth is us. Just look at all this stardust sparkling in the hands of the potter. We are not in control of what the potter does. We can try to resist, but ultimately it’s impossible, as Jeremiah discovered. Why not relax into those hands caressing the clay into shape? Even if we feel as though sometimes we are being pounded, pinched, or scraped, still we are held. Still, we are in the process of being molded in order to contain joy. Thanks be to God. Amen. 

Practicing the Beloved Community by Choosing the Low Place 

Luke 13:10-17 10 On a Sabbath Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues, 11 and a woman was there who had been crippled by a spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not straighten up at all. 12 When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.” 13 Then he put his hands on her, and immediately she straightened up and praised God. 14 Indignant because Jesus had healed on the Sabbath, the synagogue leader said to the people, “There are six days for work. So come and be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath.” 15 The Lord answered him, “You hypocrites! Doesn’t each of you on the Sabbath untie your ox or donkey from the stall and lead it out to give it water? 16 Then should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen long years, be set free on the Sabbath day from what bound her?” 17 When he said this, all his opponents were humiliated, but the people were delighted with all the wonderful things he was doing. People come to church for all kinds of reasons. We had a paid choir in my first church, and a tenor would read his novel in the balcony when he wasn’t singing. I would joke with him afterwards, “I saw you listening to the sermon today. Be careful, a little Jesus might rub off on you.” A state legislator belonged to my home church in Iowa, and he had a big car dealership. That guy could sell a Chevy at the passing of the peace, plus a Ford at coffee hour. Some people come out of obligation, someone dragged them through the door, or it’s been the family church for four generations. In our more secular time, there is less social pressure, and I think most people come with good intent. You want community and to see friends. A little uplift and hope wouldn’t hurt. Music to stir the soul, ideas to guide wisdom, stories for the journey, finished by a good cup of coffee. Sometimes we come more needy, grieving, and hurting; other times it just feels like a good thing to do. We can come for all the right reasons and best intentions, but stumble into bad habits. Sunday morning can be very ordinary. Pass the peace to the same four people. Sing three hymns (if you are lucky, you like two of them). Glean a nugget from the sermon, pray, check in with Gary and Grace at coffee. It's just an hour or so out of the week. A decent hour, but ordinary. We could even start to critique the service, much like a movie. “Jesus is a good leading actor, but the supporting cast was a little weak. More character development would help, and more snappy hymns. Two stars out of four this week.” Sometimes we like church precisely because it is ordinary, even if it is predictable. We need just one place in our lives that isn’t out of control, making big demands of us, or edging us out of our comfort zones. But then it happens. A song reminds us of our mother or another loss. A tear forms, and grief surprises us. Someone shares a concern that breaks our heart, hits close to home. A phrase in the sermon shakes us up and challenges us. Sometimes it is an irritation, and other times it is the Spirit breaking in, and we can’t decide if we like it or not. What if it isn’t just another Sabbath in the synagogue, and God’s Spirit actually moves in among us and sits down? Since Luke doesn’t name where Jesus is in chapter 13, it could be any synagogue, or sabbath day, any time and place. On the third Sunday in August, a woman slowly walks to her usual seat, stooped as she has been for nearly two decades—nothing to see here, so far. When we read about someone with an infirmity entering the scene with Jesus, we expect them to get healed. But in real life, we hardly notice them. The text is a little strange, saying that a spirit cripples her, almost like she has a demon. The Message Bible inserts that perhaps she has arthritis. Our modern mind likes to diagnose, so we can suggest a medication to help, or an ointment or vitamins. We would rather fix and cure than care. The King James was translated into English before modern medicine, and it gets the Greek more precisely. She had a spirit of infirmity or weakness. The word is commonly used for physical weakness and also for being downtrodden or vulnerable. Luke could mean both physical infirmity and a spiritual vulnerability. Let’s think about this woman for a moment. Somehow, she walked to the synagogue despite being bent over. How far did she have to walk? Since there was no Uber, I assume this was a hardship. The text doesn’t mention that anyone was with her. How did she get through her days? Did anyone care for her? She had been like this for 18 years. That is a very precise number. Not many years, not as long as anyone could remember, but 18 years. That means she was familiar to the people of the synagogue. She didn’t suddenly come that day. So why did she walk in alone? Why isn’t she even named in the passage? Perhaps she shuffling to Sabbath, with great effort, possibly pain, faithfully coming every week, and while people recognized her by sight, they didn’t know her name or how she lived. But Jesus notices her. This quality of attention that Jesus has for the people around him always impresses me more than any miracle performed. I’m not a miracle worker, but I would think if you had the power, miracles would be easy. I’m more impressed by how Jesus noticed people who others overlook. Many biblical accounts begin with Jesus’ focused attention. He sees Zacchaeus up in the tree and asks him to come down. He sees a widow put two pennies in the offering and sees her faith and dignity. He hears Bartimaeus calling out when others are trying to silence him. Jesus considers the children wanting to come to him being held back by the disciples. Noticing what is happening with people in the moment is the beginning of creating sacred opportunity. I can’t work miracles, but I can see people. If you don’t notice, everything just stays ordinary. Sometimes the Sunday rituals themselves get in the way of noticing people. I have a lot on my head on Sunday. Did I get all the announcements? Are the nuances of the sermon right? Who is visiting and who is missing? I forgot to return a call. Did the Deacons put grape juice in the pitcher? Why did we pick this hymn? I don’t really like it. You might have your own inner dialog. Joan is wearing a pretty shawl. Did she knit that one? Joe has put on some weight. I hate the passing of the peace. Or, I can’t wait till the passing of the peace! I wish we clapped more. I wish we had never clapped. I wonder what the new renovation will look like. It takes some focus to be present to why we are here, to be together in the presence of God. Showing up is generally better than not showing up. We get some benefit by being here. A little osmosis occurs. But Sabbath is a much thicker concept than just doing what is expected of us at the right time. We are meant to stop so we can be in God’s presence and truly be renewed for the rest of the week. That takes focus. I try to stay mindfully present, so that I am worshiping with you, not just performing, not just thinking ahead to remember to announce the following hymn. But Jesus takes this presence to the next level. He notices the bent-over woman, the one everyone recognizes, but can’t come up with her name. “Woman, you are free from your infirmity.” True to form, something out of character happens in the middle of church, and some people love it and, as always, someone doesn’t. I don’t blame the synagogue leader, really. He wanted things to go as planned. That’s how he kept order, how he kept the community functioning, how he managed his own expectations. Maybe that’s even how he kept his own fear and weariness at bay—by sticking to the script. We all do it. We build routines to feel safe. We lean on familiar rituals to give life some structure. But sometimes that structure starts to matter more than the people it’s supposed to serve. Sometimes the way we’ve always done things becomes a shield that keeps us from seeing what’s actually happening around us—or from letting God interrupt us. But Jesus didn’t come to keep things running smoothly. He came to set people free. That’s what the Sabbath is for. So today, I want to leave you with a simple invitation. You may not be able to work miracles, but you can notice someone. Just one person. Someone who’s always here but easy to overlook. Someone who may be bent over with something you can’t see. And maybe that someone is also you. Because we all carry something, we all have weeks where we shuffle in with a weight we don’t know how to name. And most of us would give anything—not necessarily to be fixed, but simply to be seen. To have someone notice. To hear that gentle voice say, “You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. You are set free.”  That, too, is holy work. And maybe that’s what Sunday is really for.

Igniting Holy Fire without Getting Scorched

Looking for wild raspberries in thorny times

Why Chasing More Might Cost Us Everything

The bold simplicity of the Lord's Prayer

Luke 10:38-42 38 Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him. [ a ] 39 She had a sister named Mary, who sat at Jesus’s [ b ] feet and listened to what he was saying. 40 But Martha was distracted by her many tasks, so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her, then, to help me.” 41 But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, 42 but few things are needed—indeed only one. [ c ] Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” Some of the most stressful conversations we have are not with strangers. They’re with the people we love the most. A sibling. A spouse. That family member who knows exactly how to push your buttons. These are the people with whom we share a house, a history—and often, a little simmering resentment. In Luke 10, Jesus walks into such a moment. He arrives at the home of Martha and Mary. On the surface, it’s a story about hospitality. But if we look closer, it’s a scene charged with emotional tension, family patterns, gender dynamics, and spiritual choices. This is more than a tale of housework versus prayer. It’s an invitation to choose the better place—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. Let’s set the scene. Martha opens her home to Jesus and his disciples. It’s likely her house, suggesting she’s the older sister and the household head. In a culture where hospitality is sacred and women’s roles are clearly defined, Martha springs into action. The meal won’t cook itself. Loaves and fish do not appear out of nowhere. She mobilizes all her formidable skills to make sure everything is just right. Mary, meanwhile, chooses a different posture. She sits at Jesus’ feet, listening to him teach. This is not only a radical choice—sitting in the place of a disciple, usually reserved for men—but also a deeply spiritual one. She chooses presence over productivity, contemplation over control. And this drives Martha up the wall. She stews. She stirs. She slams the cupboard just a little too loudly. Finally, unable to contain it, she bursts into the room and says, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” How much undercurrent, blame, and passive-aggressive martyrdom can you fit into one sentence? "Don’t you care?" is more attack than inquiry. It puts Jesus on the defensive. When someone says, “If you loved me, you’d do X,” it creates an emotional trap. Even if you have a good reason not to, your refusal now feels like rejection. Martha had options. She could have quietly asked Mary to lend a hand. Or even gone big and asked Jesus to send a couple of male disciples to chop vegetables. But instead, she triangulates—pulling Jesus into the middle of a family conflict. In family systems theory, this is a classic move: draw in a third party to reduce relational tension between two people. But it rarely helps. The third person usually ends up carrying everyone’s emotional baggage. Jesus, however, does not take the bait. He doesn’t side with one sister against the other. He doesn’t reorganize the disciples into a dishwashing brigade. Instead, he addresses the deeper issue—not the tasks, but the anxiety behind them. “Martha, Martha,” he says. The repetition of her name is tender. Throughout Scripture, when God repeats a name—“Abraham, Abraham,” “Moses, Moses,” “Saul, Saul”—it signals love, urgency, and a call to deeper awareness. Jesus is not scolding Martha. He’s reaching out to her. “You are worried and upset about many things,” he continues. The Greek here is vivid. The word for “worried” means pulled apart internally. The word for “upset” refers to visible turmoil, external chaos. Jesus names both Martha’s inner anxiety and the way it’s spilling out into the room. And then he says: “Only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen the better place, and it will not be taken from her.” Tradition often interprets this as an endorsement of contemplation over action. But it’s more nuanced than that. Jesus isn’t saying that working hard is wrong or that hospitality is unimportant. He is gently pointing out that anxiety distorts our relationships, our spiritual lives, and our ability to be present. Let’s be clear: both Mary and Martha have valuable roles. One is serving; one is learning. Both are essential parts of discipleship. But the key difference is not what they’re doing—it’s the spirit in which they’re doing it. Mary has chosen to sit, to be present, to listen. She is in the better place because she is in a less anxious place. We see this dynamic again in John’s Gospel. When their brother Lazarus dies, it’s Martha who marches out to confront Jesus: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Later, at Lazarus’ resurrection dinner, it’s Mary who anoints Jesus with perfume—an extravagant, emotional act that upsets the status quo. Mary consistently chooses presence and intuition. Martha thinks she is the one holding everything together and bears the emotional load. Then that self-imposed weight becomes too much. That’s the invitation for us. To choose the better place—not the easier place, not the passive place, but the calmer, grounded, centered place. The place where we are not ruled by our worries, our need to control, or our fear of being unseen. When we’re anxious, we often act like Martha. We move into over-functioning. We control, we micromanage, we lash out. We triangulate. And we lose our connection—to others, to God, even to ourselves. Jesus doesn’t reject Martha. He doesn’t tell her to stop serving. He calls her by name and names her struggle. That’s grace. That’s the beginning of healing. So how do we choose the better place? First, we manage our own anxiety. In tense situations, we often try to fix the other person or control the outcome. But the most powerful thing we can do is stay grounded ourselves. Slow your breathing. Pay attention to what’s happening in your body. Ask yourself, “What is so challenging for me right now? What do I really want?” The first rule of leadership or crisis management is to manage yourself. When you regulate your internal state, you have a chance to shift the emotional temperature of the room. Second, we address anxiety before we address content. Whether in family conflicts, church meetings, or workplace drama, the temptation is to argue over the facts. But anxious systems don’t respond well to logic. The conversation will be driven by the most reactive person in the room unless someone introduces calm. A wise pastor once told me, “Don’t let the most anxious person in the room set the agenda.” Be the person who restores calm, so creative solutions can emerge. Third, we practice presence. Mary sat at Jesus’ feet not because she was lazy or irresponsible, but because she was fully present to what mattered most. In our multitasking, distracted world, that’s a revolutionary act. To put down the phone. To stop mentally editing your to-do list. To listen—to another person, to yourself, ultimately for the still, small voice. “Be still and know that I am God.” That’s a spiritual discipline. Finally, we let go of control. So much of our anxiety is rooted in the fear that if we don’t handle everything, it will all fall apart. But that’s not the good news of the gospel. The truth is that we are not God. We are not the Savior. We are invited to rest in the presence of the One who is. So maybe the better place is not just a location in the house, but a posture of the heart. The better place is the place where you breathe instead of brace. The place where you listen instead of lash out. The place where you connect instead of control. And here’s the promise: “It will not be taken from you.” When you choose presence over panic, peace over pressure, Jesus says that space is yours to keep. The better place is not about escaping your responsibilities—it’s about inhabiting them with less fear and more grace. So the next time the kitchen gets hot—literally or metaphorically—the next time you feel alone, overwhelmed, and unseen, remember this moment. Remember, you don’t have to fix everything. You don’t even have to win the argument. You just have to choose the better place. Claim the place of calm. The place of connection. The place where you listen instead of lash out. Where you breathe instead of break. Where you stay grounded in love, not driven by fear. Choose the better place. And let it hold you. What better promise could there be for us?"