A Different Cycle

Perhaps you’ve heard? The apocalypse is coming. And no, it’s not because the General Synod workbook is out. (Although in some areas it is rousing a lot of attention.) Rather, the disaster of which I speak is not really an apocalypse at all, although it will lead to an abrupt ending. Some have dubbed it:

Cicadapocalypse 2013!

(Insert menacing music here.)

Also known by “Swarmagaddon.”

Not an apocalypse or even a plague for that matter, it is the maturing and mating cycle for the 17-year cicadas, large insects of the family Cicadidae and the genus Magicicada. Across vast swaths of the Eastern seaboard from North Carolina north to upstate New York and Connecticut, Brood II cicadas (there are fifteen regional broods in all) are emerging from the ground to complete their 17-year life cycle, to mate, lay eggs, and then pass on to the nearer presence of the Lord. This life cycle makes them one of the longer-lived insect species around. But of even more interests to scientist and many nature enthusiasts as well is the unique 17-year cycle and how it evolved.

Brood II cicadas hatched upon twigs in tree canopies back in 1996. Then as nymphs they fell to the soil and burrowed into the ground where they have been living and molting and growing for 16 years, surviving off of nutrients they have sucked out of tree roots. In the Spring of their 17^th year once the ground temperature has reached 64 degrees Fahrenheit, they emerge for about five weeks to find that special partner cicada to mate with and die and the cycle begins again.

Around where I live their emergence has left visible evidence as the ground underneath trees is pockmarked by many dime-sized holes where they have come up from below. With blood red eyes, dark bodies, and of considerable size, they may look kind of ominous, but offer no harm to us humans for they neither bite nor sting. Their intentions are to begin the musical dance of love. The males have rigid plates on their abdomens that they snap producing alluring “come hither” songs that can reach 100 decibels and should the females like, they respond by clicking the wings. It’s a short courtship as their remaining days are short. By the time late July comes, many of the Brood II cicadas will be completing their lifecycles.

The bonanza of this year’s Brood—and it is indeed a bonanza as it supplies a boom of nutrients for various birds and small mammals that prey upon the cicadas—is one of 15 regional Broods of periodic cidadas. Of the 15 Broods, twelve have a 17-year lifecycle and three have a 13-year lifecycle. Last year, Brood I emerged in the Virginia/West Virginia/Tennessee region. Next year, Brood III emerge in the Midwest, so worry not Midwesterners, as you too will be able to experience the 17-year cicadas!

So why talk about cidadas?

This coming Pentecost Sunday’s Psalter lesson is Psalm 104, probably one of my favourite psalms. Firstly, for verse 15 speaking to and of God that the Lord makes “wine to gladden the human heart, oil to make the face shine, and bread to strengthen the human heart.” I join the psalmist in giving thanks for wine.

But lest we become overly utilitarian, there are verses 24-26: “O Lord, how manifold are your works! In wisdom you have made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. Yonder is the sea, great and wide, creeping things innumerable are there, living things both small and great. There go the ships, and Leviathan that you formed to sport in it.” God creates the sea monster to be. Simply to sport and frolic in the sea! Things great and small! I would add, even the cicada.

But there’s another element that the cicada helps me with, the rhythm of season and cycles. In the always on, twenty-four seven constant-ness of our work and society, there is another beat to which we move, or ought to move, or can move.

An Image of God

This is Prince.

This is the Prince of Peace, or rather a painting of him as the Good Shepherd.

This is a contemporary shepherd in the Palestinian West Bank.

These are sheep.

Another shepherd and more sheep.

And a few more sheep, plus a few goats.

How cute!

This is also a shepherd.

Prince is my dog. And while he looks rather regal sitting in that chair, he’s really a big lovable goof, a 72-pound goober of a lap dog, and one of the finest friends a person could have. The early years of his life were not so pleasant. I’ve been told, that he began his puppy years with a drug dealer in a crack house in Kingston, in upstate New York. Meant to be a tough watchdog, he was abused to harden up. But he never did. Fortunately, he was eventually rescued and adopted by a loving family. Unfortunately, after just a few years, they had to relocate and couldn’t bring a dog of his size with them. He was fostered for a while and eventually wound up with me. He turned twelve years old this past January, which makes him an elder for his Weimaraner breed, and has only recently begun to betray his age.

There are a few wooden steps that lead up into our church offices from the fellowship hall. Was a time when Prince would think nothing of racing up and down those steps, but now—perhaps from wisdom or caution, or maybe anxiety—he paces about the bottom of them and waits for me to walk up them beside him. He does them on his own; I don’t need to guide, carry, or cajole him, just walk beside him. After which he commences a quick smell-about the office, greets whomever may be there, and then lounges in “his” chair.

The painting of the Good Shepherd is in the front of our sanctuary just behind the organ console. Originally it hung in our church building on Avenue B in the East Village of Manhattan. Avenue B was once considered to be New York’s “German Broadway”, the commercial heart of the German immigrant community. But by the turn of the 19^th Century into the 20^th, much of the German community was moving either uptown to Yorkville or out to Brooklyn and Ridgewood. Thus, the Avenue B Church eventually merged with St. Petri Evangelische Kirche in the east Williamsburg/Bushwick section of Brooklyn and became the Trinity Reformed Church of Brooklyn and they built a new church building in the growing German neighborhood of Ridgewood (Brooklyn and Queens). The two merging congregations brought reminders of their previous church edifices—brass bells from St. Petri’s and the Good Shepherd painting from Avenue B. The Good Shepherd looms prominently in our worship space.

Admittedly, the image of a too-white looking Jesus in a billowy clean robe doesn’t square well in my mind of what the actual Jesus looked like, or an actual shepherd for that matter. And on Good Shepherd Sunday a few weeks ago, I pointed out in the sermon how Jesus undoubtedly had a much darker complexion than many of us who have German backgrounds. Nonetheless, a white Jesus has sort of grown on me. All the many problems that entails aside—and there are many—I appreciate how God comes to us as one of us. Now Trinity Reformed is made up of folks from Asian and Latino heritage, even Middle Eastern backgrounds, as well as our German and other European-background folks, a full spectrum of skin colours. But the turn of the century congregation, these immigrants from Germany and Austria and other parts of Central Europe, that Good Shepherd image must of meant something for them. And I can appreciate that! Although, it is not the image I have of the Good Shepherd.

I think now especially, when hearing Psalm 23 my mind readily jumps to the West Bank and the Hebron Hill. I picture the Palestinian shepherds out among their sheep, leading them to fresh meadows, protecting them from harm—too often from the hands of illegal Israel settlers. I picture the men and boys who work so in sync with their sheep. The sheep really do know their voices and respond to their commands. But I don’t just picture the people who shepherd the sheep; I picture the dogs who also shepherd. These dogs are not like my lap dog Prince who is a pet and companion. No, these dogs are working dogs, they are shepherds. They work in sync with their people to keep watch over the flocks.

All this to say that words are one thing, but the images they connote can be another. NPR’s Morning Edition had report this morning about language and brain function and images. Very appropriate. I certainly grew up with an image of the Good Shepherd much like that which is in our sanctuary. While not completely accurate, I’m sure it was helpful at times. But now that image is expanded. Jesus looks different. God “looks” different.

Some years ago around Christmas time a friend and colleague shared with me about a book they were reading which focused on the shepherd to whom the angels announced the birth of Christ. I forget the book or the author. But the gist of it was an imaginative rethinking of that Lukan story where the angels sang and proclaimed the joyous news first not simply to human shepherds, but to dog shepherds. And thus the dog shepherds were some of the first to go and see this thing that has taken place and adore the newborn king. No need to alter the original story, but I like that image. I picture the men and boys and dogs—all the shepherds—who went to Bethlehem that evening.

Which brings me back to my Prince. He is now of the age where I have to shepherd him around differently, including the step into my office. But in so many ways, he also shepherds me. The unconditional love and presence of “man’s best friend” is like that of the real Good Shepherd. I mean absolutely no disrespect to the historical Jesus, but if we can picture a fair skin man in flowing robes journeying with us in green pastures and dark valleys, I think its can be fitting to imagine God with four paws and an undying affection for his beloved.

Not Feelin' the Peace

Does what we believe make a difference?

Or should what we believe make a difference?

Or rather, how do we believe what we believe?

And let me put it right out there, I mean belief especially about peace, as a Christian practice, as a way of faith, as being about Jesus. Is it? Do we believe it…or in it...or that’s it’s important?

And I suppose I’m coming at this from a few different angles. Firstly from a Heidelberg 1, “what is your only comfort” direction relating comfort not only to assurance but peace, probably the peace that passes understanding kind of peace. If we have this comfort—if we have this peace—is it also something that we are suppose to embody, to practice, to permeate? Another angle relates to last Sundays conversion narratives of Saul/Paul and I would include Peter. Saul goes from persecuting the early church to becoming one of them. He goes from practicing violence against them to participating in bearing the good news including practicing peace. Peter too. Although he knew Jesus before and he would then take up the sword to defend him, still he denied him three times. But in last Sunday’s gospel with the cookout breakfast on the seashore we have Peter experiencing a kind of conversion experience of letting go of his guilt and living into a new reality of feeding Jesus’ lambs and tending his sheep. Peter goes from taking up the sword to taking up lambs, from participating in violence to sharing in nurturing. This seems like a movement of discipleship in practicing peace.

I am also coming at this from the angle of whom I understand Christ to be and what the Holy Spirit enables. That he is the Prince of peace and that the Holy Spirit brings about peace.

So I’m trying to understand if this is so, do we believe in the way of peace?

I am fully aware that the Reformed tradition is not part of the historical “peace churches.” I am fully cognizant that there is both a history they espouse that we don’t directly share and a theology of just war that we lean upon. But all that still, aren’t we to be about peace? Not pie-in-the-sky-peace, or hippie-peace (no offense to hippies), but honest to goodness God commanded loving thy neighbor, Christ following, Spirit empowered peace?

I’m pondering this as North Korea is bellicose with intimidation and accusation and bombs have gone off in Boston and we as a nation are pandering to the gun lobby while we are droning and bombing enemies and communities on the other side of the world. And too, I’m irritable having not had my morning coffee. And I’m irritated at the state of the world. And I’m irritated at the response and presence of the Church. And I’m irritated with myself, because I don’t particularly see the way of peace in my own attitude quite often. I don’t find in myself—attitude and perspective, let alone practices—much peace being done.

So I ask, does what I/we believe about peace make a difference? Or should it? And how?

I lead to believe it does or should.

But I’m not really feelin’ it. So now what?

And you?

Hawks and Doves

For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight. I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and delight in my people; no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress. No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days, or an old person who does not live out a lifetime; for one who dies at a hundred years will be considered a youth, and one who falls short of a hundred will be considered accursed. They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat; for like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be, and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their hands. They shall not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity; for they shall be offspring blessed by the LORD-- and their descendants as well. Before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear. The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox; but the serpent--its food shall be dust! They shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain, says the LORD.                                                                                                                                                                         –Isaiah 65:17-25

I’ve been observing over the last several weeks a pair of mourning doves, Zenaida macroura, as they assemble their nest upon one of the window ledges of an upstairs guestroom. The industrious couple has been gathering vegetative detritus and debris from the churchyard and reapportioning it to hold their eventual brood. What I first took notice of was how incredibly useful old dry Hosta leaves and stems were to them. Passing daily past a couple of old gnarly yew trees in the courtyard surrounded by a generally verdant blanket of green Vinca, the brown leftovers of last summer’s Hosta plants stood out. “You need to clean that up” I’d tell myself, but never seemed to get to it. So I was happily surprised to see them being taken up with such gusto by my windowsill neighbors, pleasantly hearing the whistling sound of the dove’s takeoff each time they gathered their building supplies. It gave me a kind of The Lion King/Hakuna Matata/Circle of Life feeling to see how last year’s yard wastes would become this year’s bird nest.

The Mourning Dove is a beautiful songbird and its commonality should not take away from that grandeur. So common, it is spread throughout much of North America and with full-season habitation in all of the lower 48 states, the dove is one of the most widespread species of songbirds. It shares its haunting call of cooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo and cooOOoo that it is one of the most recognized birds by sound, a sound that contributes to its name of mourning, which I personally don’t find a mournful sound, but rather, very comforting. So abundant, the dove is also a common game bird. Which is sad to me. Hunting for food and wildlife management makes sense. But mourning dove populations don’t really require management by hunting—they are an abundant species which have an already high mortality rate. Although they can be eaten, it is generally just the breast that is consumed—which seems a rather wasteful kill for just a couple puny pieces of meat. More often than not, the birds serve as live targets and many are wounded.

So about that high mortality rate…

Early last week—Monday morning of Holy Week actually—I was greeted in the church courtyard by the striking presence of a hawk having just made a kill and enjoying her breakfast. At first I was like, “Cool!” It’s a pretty cool thing to experience wildlife in New York City, beyond say rats or cockroaches. With a pretty constant din of traffic, various sirens, and the rumble of the elevated train along with concrete and bricks consuming most of the view in any general direction, the connection to nature and wildlife is grounding and sustaining. It is beautiful. It is also harsh. As I approached the hawk more closely awareness dawned on me and recognition of what and who her meal was: a mourning dove.

It was one thing to feel all The Lion King/Hakuna Matata/Circle of Life about the Hosta plant, quite another about the mourning dove that I’d been watching build a nest these last few weeks. Sure enough, the nest construction has stopped. The dove who became the hawk’s breakfast had a partner although I’ve not seen him or her around lately. (Doves are usually monogamous.)

During those early weeks of nest construction I was thinking a lot about how I like things neat and tidy: a neat and tidy house, a neat and tidy yard, a neat and tidy life. Even my theology often, likes to be neat and tidy. We could insert a joke about how we Reformed-types especially like things to be done decently and in order—neat and tidy, but that’s not just our tradition or personality, that’s a very human reaction I believe. And neat and tidy has its place, to be sure. But in the construction of the nest I was reminded of how “our” version of neat and tidy may not serve in the bigger picture sort of way. Had I cleaned up that yard waste, my birds would have not so readily had nesting materials available to them.

These thoughts were not consuming me, merely background conversation in my head.

But then the hawk came.

With my biological training I have great appreciation for both the dove and the hawk. As I said above, it was really cool when I first saw the hawk. But then the loss of the dove set in. Sure, there is a neat and tidy ecological explanation—or probably, more dynamic than tidy. Again, these have not been a consuming thoughts, rather, background conversation in my head.

But for the timing, at the beginning of Holy Week. This backyard drama of life and rebirth, death and loss has played out just beyond my office window. And I can’t help but see it connected, somehow, to God’s Easter vision in Isaiah…

Would be too trite to say keep building nests? Would it be too bromidic to long for a time when the hawk and the dove feed together?

So four days after Easter does the vision still stand even if its not so neat and tidy?

I am especially thinking today of those who have kept the vision in a world not so neat and tidy. I think of Rev. Dr. King’s words in Memphis on April 3, 1968:

Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!

And so I'm happy, tonight.

I'm not worried about anything.

I'm not fearing any man.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

My Neighbourhood

Home is that place that nurtures and sustains you, where you are with your kindred, where you find rest and comfort, are safe and supported. It is as Merriam-Webster defines a “congenial environment.” Or it ought to be. Looking back over the various blog postings I’ve made here at the Twelve, I find myself often returning to this theme of home. And not just here. Why, just the other day in a sermon I referenced—rather embarrassingly—the late ‘90’s teen-pop TV show Dawson’s Creek to get to a Randy Newman song sung by Chantal Kreviazuk, Feels Like Home. (Take a listen! And as to the Dawson aspect, the song was apparently on the Creek’s soundtrack, not that I associate with or really know anything about that…) Sometimes in regards to culture (even pop culture), often ecological, and usually of the personal, I dwell a lot upon “home” as place, relationship, and even way of entering into a deeper experience of the holy. Perhaps it’s influenced by my evangelical roots and the picture of Jesus knocking on the door. But mostly it’s because of verse 14 from the Prologue of the Gospel of John, “And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” Lived among up perhaps better stated more colloquially, “pitched his tent.” I wonder at the immensity and the subtle reality of God making God’s dwelling among us not only in the person of Jesus Christ but in the Holy Spirit too.

It is with that mindset, with thoughts of home permeating my heart that I wish to use this space to commend to you a new short film of only 26 minutes called My Neighbourhood. For a limitted time, you can watch the entire film online at the Guardian. My Neighbourhood concentrates on a child as he is becoming a teen, eleven years old Mohammed El Kurd, a Palestinian who lives in the neighbourhood of Sheikh Jarrah in East Jerusalem. He and his family and many neighbors are forced to give up their homes as Israeli settlers move into them. In a very short amount of time, the viewer is able to see how resentment and hate develops, fosters, and grows. Animosity and enmity is not where this story ends, however. We also meet Zvi and Sara Benninga, Jewish Israelis residing in West Jerusalem who develop a relationship with Mohammed and join in regular protest to save the neighbourhood of Sheikh Jarrah.

Three years ago a group of about twelve delegates from the Christian Reformed Church and the Reformed Church in America joined a Christian Peacemaker Team group for two weeks in the West Bank of Palestine. We went to Sheikh Jarrah, participated in the protest, and actually met some of Mohammed’s family who were camped out in front of their home that has been taken over by settlers. It was a profound and personalizing experience of an issue far too ignored or generalized in the US media.

This week as President Obama is visiting Israel and the occupied Palestinian territory of the West Bank and much of the media’s coverage will be given over to rhetoric and ruhmors of wars with Iran, I urge you to remember Mohammed and Zvi and Sara and the countless others—Israeli, Palestinian, and international—who are working towards a just peace in Palestine and Israel, who are reminding and showing the world what is happening, who are peacefully but courageously protesting the injustice of horrors of the occupation. Please join me in prayer that all might find a true home with peace and security.

The Guardian currently is showing the film, My Neighbourhood online, but this is for a limited time. To find out more about the film, go to http://www.justvision.org/myneighbourhood.