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Author: Tim

Senior pastor of First Congregational United Church of Christ. Ordained in May, 1983. Called to First Congregational UCC in August, 1994. Retired July 1, 2018.
Soul

Soul

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Another poem, written today …

Soul

          wind, rock, shoreline, bay, mountain, island,
soul
          breath, horizon, ocean, headland, sun, tide,
soul
          Cadillac, Newbury Neck, Long Island, Naskeag, Isle au Haut, Megunticook,
soul

          what if soul is not contained within me
but me within soul?
          what if soul does not belong to me, “my soul”
but I belong to soul?

          what if I am what I appear to be
animated body: breathing, moving, lifting, eating, thinking, feeling, writing,
swimming, hoping, crying, laughing, reaching, growing, aging, dying, being?
          what if me is not some hidden, ethereal, immaterial , immortal soul
but what you see is what you get is me
          and soul, far from hidden, ethereal, immaterial, immortal
is like me, made of the same substance, made like me or me like soul?
          what if we are made not merely of the soil of the earth
but of the soul of the earth?

          when I look out from the outcropped granite on the southern flank of Blue Hill
          I do not merely see a view that pleases me
I see me,
          the me that is part of something much larger than me
soul
          and I am not merely in a place, but of a place
of this place

          wind, rock, shoreline, bay, mountain, island,
soul
          breath, horizon, ocean, headland, sun, tide,
soul
          Cadillac, Newbury Neck, Long Island, Naskeag, Isle au Haut, Megunticook,
soul
          in this moment, in this place, woods, pond, boulder, tree, you, me,
soul
          alike made of the soul of the earth
          in the image of God

Little Splat

Little Splat

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A poem I wrote today …

Little Splat

silent and still and slow,
    very slow
        is this what it is like to die?
silent and still and slow,
    very slow?

I am here for joy
    for the joy of emerald water
        pouring and twisting among grey boulders
        churning over drops and plunging into holes and piling up in frothy mounds
    for the joy of the dance
        pas de deux, me and the river
        lean, glissade, pirouette
    for the joy of comradeship
        eight days and eight of us, two thousand miles of road and sixty miles of stream
        paddling and paddling some more, talking paddling and dreaming paddling
    for the joy of the adventure
        Zoom Flume and First Island, Little Splat and Wonder Falls, Wonder Falls!
        launching boat and body over the lip of eighteen-foot Wonder Falls, exult!

and now,
silent and still and slow,
    very slow

not able to breathe, but able to see
    seeing only the subaqueous darkness
not able to move, but able to feel
    feeling canoe and me stuck, stuck between rocks, between foot pegs and saddle
able to think, but silent and still and slow,
    very slow
no panic, no terror, no dread, no self-pity, no despair, no regret
    only silence and stillness and slowness
and watching, watching myself, watching myself from outside myself
    and wondering, wondering, wondering
        is this what it is like to die?

I try again to move
    and I am out

there will be no dying today
    no second-guessing or rueing or wishing myself somewhere else
because I am here
    because I am here
because I am here for joy!

Timothy Ensworth

 

(In April 1991, I traveled to West Virginia with seven other members of the Maine Appalachian Mountain Club whitewater canoeing group. Along the way, we paddled the Indian and Hudson rivers in New York, and Stony Brook and Dark Shade and Shade Creeks in Pennsylvania. In West Virginia, we ran the Shavers Fork of the Cheat, the Middle Fork of the Tygart and Tygart Gorge, the Upper and Lower Big Sandy River, and the Cheat River. This poem comes from my descent of the Lower Big Sandy and a capsize at Little Splat.)

And then it was calm

And then it was calm

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I just reworked a favorite sermon. Let me know what you think …

I was scared.

Even I was scared. I’ve fished this lake since I was eight and swum in it since I was four. I know it. I respect its power. But I’ve not been scared by it. I’ve been in storms, some pretty wild storms. But I’ve not been scared. I know what the boat can do and I know what I can do.

But this time it was different. Too many people in the boat and some of them never in weather like this. They were panicking and I was scared. We couldn’t make any headway. We couldn’t manage the boat. The wind was too much. The waves were too much. The water was coming in, fast, too fast, faster than we could push it out. We used the oars to steady the boat, to quarter the waves, but it was too much. We couldn’t hold the angle, we couldn’t stabilize the boat, we couldn’t keep the water out. And the more water we took, the worse it got.

We were going nowhere but down. We were going down and Jesus with us.

I should have seen it coming. The lake can kick up rugged weather with little warning, but I should have seen it coming. We were so eager to get away, to get away from all the people, to get away all from the clamor, just to get away. Even Jesus seemed anxious to go.

It was late. We’d been there all day at the water’s edge. We thought we’d have enough light to make the crossing. We wanted to go, Jesus wanted to go, and we’ve grown used to doing what Jesus wanted. But I know this lake. I should have seen it coming. I should have known better. I should have said something.

So there we were in the boat in the storm and I was scared. There was little to do. My body, hands and arms, were busy — pulling an oar, grabbing a gunwale, heaving a bucketful — but my mind was strangely still, watching, just watching. Watching the awesome power of wind and waves. Watching our futile gestures in response. Watching my friends. How real they were to me in that moment! How real the wind and waves were to me in that moment! How real death was to me in that moment …

I felt death draw close. I tasted my breath and it tasted good. I would die, but I would taste death, too.

I looked at my friends and they looked at me and without words we shared the awful exhilaration of that moment, poised at the threshold between life and death. I looked toward Jesus, and there he was asleep on the stern seat! I screamed at him.

It’s not that I didn’t understand his exhaustion. We were exhausted, too. But we were boatmen and it was time for us to do our job. Jesus had been doing his job all day. Jesus had been doing his job for many days. It was crazy — hordes of people, crowding to listen, pushing close to see, forcing us to the water’s edge and beyond. Jesus in the boat speaking in puzzles. People eager to listen even when they couldn’t understand. People waiting to see what he would do, waiting to see if the rumors were true, waiting to see something, because maybe there was something.

It was exciting to be near Jesus, to be among the company of his followers, to play a part in this remarkable movement was so stirring the countryside. But, at the same time, I wanted to be rid of the crowds, to have some time alone with this compelling man I had left home for. I was glad we were going away. I was glad we were going away with Jesus. I looked forward to those intimate conversations when Jesus would patiently answer our questions and open our minds and hearts to worlds we had not conceived before. But now the storm and Jesus sleeping.

I screamed at him. “Don’t you care?”

He had seemed to care so much, not just about his mission, but about us. But now, what difference does it make? We were going down with a holy man asleep in the stern. What difference does it make who’s asleep in the stern?

All that heady talk suddenly seemed beside the point, ethereal, unreal. The storm was real. The storm was everything that was real.

They say that calamity makes a pray-er out of you, but I say they say wrong. I had no time to pray, no space for the luxury of spiritual conversation. It was time not to think, but to struggle. It was time to live or die. Fear has a marvelous way of clearing away all the fluff. Death has a marvelous way of focussing the mind. You want power. Feel the wave. You want truth. Drink the wind.

I shook him, I screamed in his face, and he awoke. He sat up on the stern seat and he spoke. At least I think he spoke. It was hard to distinguish words from wind. He didn’t shout. He didn’t plead. He simply spoke. Not to us. Not, it seemed, to God. It seemed that he spoke to the wind itself.

And then it was calm …………

And then it was calm. Not the stale, ominous calm when the storm collects itself just before unleashing its fury. Not the heavy, burdensome calm when air hangs limp and stifling. Not the dead calm when it seems as if, for a moment, life itself is holding its breath. No, it was a calm of water moving, almost imperceptibly, but surely moving, gently lifting and receding, of air still, yet alive, breathing, filling, enlivening, refreshing. It didn’t happen suddenly. It didn’t happen slowly. It just happened. We were in the storm and then it was calm.

The water in the boat sloshed gently back and forth as we bailed. I wanted to look at him, but I didn’t dare. I wanted to hear him speak, but I didn’t know what to ask.

The lake was still, but my heart was not. The squall was passed, but something else now scared me even more than the storm. I had looked beyond life’s edges, I had been to the other side of the storm, and Jesus was there. Jesus took me there. And I didn’t know what I would find there …

Human Rights Watch Issues Report on Salvadoran Deportees

Human Rights Watch Issues Report on Salvadoran Deportees

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Yesterday, Human Rights Watch issued a report entitled, Deported to Danger, summarizing its findings after tracking the fate of Salvadoran asylum seekers returned by the United States to their homeland. They found that “in many cases the US is putting Salvadorans in harm’s way in circumstances where it knows or should know that harm is likely.” Many of those returned have either been killed or subjected to “sexual violence, torture, and other harm,” exactly the reason for which they sought asylum in the first place. The Trump administration is deporting Salvadorans discounting the very real threats they face upon return, “despite clear prohibitions in international law on returning people to risk of persecution or torture.”

Human Rights Watch recommends that “instead of deterring and deporting people, the US should focus on receiving those who cross its border with dignity and providing them a fair chance to explain why they need protection. Before deporting Salvadorans living in the United States, either with TPS or in some other immigration status, US authorities should take into account the extraordinary risks former long-term residents of the US may face if sent back to the country of their birth.” And they specifically urge the following six steps …

  • The Trump administration should repeal the Migration Protection Protocols (MPP); the two Asylum Bans; and the Asylum Cooperation Agreements.
  • The Attorney General of the United States should reverse his decisions that restrict gender-based, gang-related, and family-based grounds for asylum.
  • Congress and the Executive Branch should ensure that US funding for Mexican migration enforcement activities does not erode the right to seek and receive asylum in Mexico.
  • Congress should immediately exercise its appropriation power by: 1) Refraining from providing additional funding to the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) for Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and US Customs and Border Protection (CBP) unless and until abusive policies and practices that separate families, employ unnecessary detention, violate due process rights, and violate the right to seek asylum are stopped; 2) Prohibiting the use of funds to implement the Migrant Protection Protocols, the “Asylum Bans,” or the Asylum Cooperation Agreements, or any subsequent revisions to those protocols and agreements that block access to the right to seek asylum in the United States.
  • Congress should exercise its oversight authority by requiring the Government Accountability Office and the Office of Inspector General to produce reports on the United States’ fulfilment of its asylum and protection responsibilities, including by collecting and releasing accurate data on the procedural experiences of asylum seekers (access to counsel, wait times, staff capacity to assess claims, humanitarian and protection resources available) and on harms experienced by people deported from the United States to their countries of origin.
  • Congress should enact, and the President should sign, legislation that would broadly protect individuals with Temporary Protected Status (including Salvadorans) and DACA recipients, such as the Dream and Promise Act of 2019, but without the overly broad restrictions based on juvenile conduct or information from flawed gang databases

If we indeed remain a government “of the people,” we must make our voices heard and work to reverse this cruel policy!

Dimpled Eye

Dimpled Eye

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dimpled eye

I look into your dimpled eye
        and it draws me
out of myself and into a place
        inscrutable and haunting and full of yearning
but for what?

You’re not like your “brother”
        who Tigger-like is everywhere at once
out there, in your face, ring around the rosie
        here’s my duck! here’s my ball!
wanna play?

You are alpha, first, but not last, in our hearts
        Stonington Bear
named for a most favorite place
        cold water and hard stone
                grey granite ledges clung by spruce and cedar and rugosa
        granite boulders, huge beyond imagining
                tossed and tussled on Little McGlathery’s outer shore
        solitary erratic just there, as if it were always there
                as if it will always be there, heedless of tide or my stare
        Lynne captured a harbor porpoise mid-leap
                frozen in her frame, but glistening, pulsating, wild
        once we paddled in mist, water’s surface quiet and uncanny, like glass
                troubled only by the dip of our blades or the rising of a porpoise
it draws me, draws me out, draws me away … and brings me home

I look into your dimpled eye
        and it draws me
is it wistfulness, resignation, distress, just old-body weariness?
        or do you just want to be loved, without seeming too eager
to draw me, draw me away, draw me in … to you?

Teach the “King”

Teach the “King”

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Birds, streams and wetlands, Nigerian immigrants, Palestinians, people counting on Social Security, civilians exposed to landmines … all facing a much more perilous future because of actions taken by the present US administration in just the last few days … and, “the best is yet to come.”

With nation and media fixated on impeachment, one executive fiat after another is quietly rolled out, rolling back years and even decades of hard-won protections for vulnerable people and a vulnerable earth.

Teach the king to judge with your righteousness, O God …
He rescues the poor who call to him,
     and those who are needy and neglected.
He has pity on the weak and poor;
     he saves the lives of those in need.
He rescues them from oppression and violence;
     their lives are precious to him. (Psalm 72:1, 12-14)
Bagaduce Chorale Christmas Concert

Bagaduce Chorale Christmas Concert

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One of the joys of my newly retired life is singing with the Bagaduce Chorale, a seventy-voice regional chorale ensemble that meets weekly in Blue Hill for rehearsals and performs three concerts each year in December, April, and July. Below is a playlist of songs from our most recent concert, a Christmas Concert performed three times on the weekend before Christmas. This recording comes from our last performance at St. Savior’s Episcopal Church in Bar Harbor. I sing a solo in the third song, “Angelus Ad Virginem.”

Let Them Be! — Part 2

Let Them Be! — Part 2

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I am grateful to Shirley Duncanson who, in a comment on my original post, provided links to news articles by CNN, Slate, and the Washington Post that give broader context to the situation with the Cottage Grove campus of Grove United Methodist Church as well as a link to a letter sent by Grove’s lead pastor, Dan Wetterstrom, to the people of both congregations of the yoked church. You may read his full letter here.

I am grateful for the greater clarity provided by the letter and by the in depth reporting, nevertheless, my primary objection remains. For the sake of a church that may come to be, Methodist officials are prepared to sacrifice a church that is. The “re-launch” of the Cottage Grove congregation will mean closing the church as it is and starting over. Current members will — eventually — be welcome to worship at the “new” church, but “Wetterstrom did say that the current members who simply want to attend worship at Cottage Grove are encouraged to wait 15 to 18 months to return.”

Why encouraged to stay away for up to eighteen months? Surely because the Methodist leadership wants to allow time to ensure that a “new” culture takes root in the church, and that the existing culture — patterns of worship, congregational leadership, social interaction — are erased. Because in their view, this culture has failed. Wetterstrom again …

The town of Cottage Grove is not a dwindling rural outpost. It is a fast-developing suburb of the Twin Cities, expected to grow in population by more than 20 percent in the next 20 years. By definition, a church in a setting like that is failing if it is not attracting any of its new neighbors.

Is failing. Cottage Grove is failing because it is not adding more people. William Willimon, a United Methodist bishop and well-known author and speaker, is cited by the Slate article …

Willimon, who has made his own similar decisions to close and relaunch struggling churches, said that accusations of age discrimination paint the church’s last remaining members as victims. But he views younger people in the community as victims, too, because they do not have a church that meets their needs. Meanwhile, he said, the United Methodist Church has effectively been subsidizing a small weekly gathering of friends.

It is hard to say otherwise than that the decision is a matter of numbers: bodies and money. The church as it is is failing because it is not attracting greater numbers and it is not “paying its own way.” Now I do understand the desire to renew and grow the church and I do appreciate the mission of the church “to make disciples of Jesus Christ” too among the many newer residents of Cottage Grove not presently served by the church. But I question the way this “re-launch” is being handled.

Current members of Cottage Grove are being invited to serve on a transition team, but they were not permitted prior consultation or vote in the decision itself. And they are being asked to stay away for eighteen months! Jim Baker, the church founder and still member of the church says …

It was a bolt from the blue, handed down from on high and very shocking to the current members. The congregation was eager and totally open to a new approach, and particularly to [the idea of] a new minister [being] appointed or to start[ing] a renewal process. But they really wanted to be included in that.

He continues …

If the policy is to go into these ‘dying’ congregations and clean them out to make way for new blood, that’s really not very kind, and I think it’s counterproductive.

“Dying” merits the quotation marks, because though the present Cottage Grove congregation is small and elderly, it is very much alive. In Baker’s words, it is “tightknit, loving, and committed.” Yes, there may come a day when it must close its doors, but in the meantime, the church is being church.

In my opinion, this is the crux of the issue: What is church? Is the church an idea, an ideal, an imagined notion of what a church in Cottage Grove “should” look like? Or is the church not an idea or an ideal, but the people, the people who are there, the people who gather week by week, worshipping God and serving each other and praying for the world? The measure of a church is not growth, but faithfulness, and my faith tells me that God honors and rewards faithfulness, that God is blessing and will bless the folks of the Cottage Grove church as it is.

And the leadership of the United Methodist Church would do well to acknowledge and honor that faithfulness, too, not so easily terminating and disregarding this faithful and beloved community, but supporting them and encouraging them and working with them to be the church God is calling them — and us — to be. Disciples will be made, not by remodeling worship spaces and updating liturgies, but by faithfulness itself in action.