As I was preparing the sanctuary for Ash Wednesday’s worship service, I was reminded of the words of Mary Oliver. As Lent begins tomorrow, the poet reminds us about the power of presence and the power of the moment. Her words can provide a transition point for us as our journey to Calvary begins again as the Body of Christ. . .
In her poem entitled “The Poet Dreams of the Mountains,” she wrote:
Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old gray mountain, slowly, taking
the rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
that we have smothered for years now, a century at least.
I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,
and peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.
I want to climb some old gray mountain, slowly, taking
the rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
that we have smothered for years now, a century at least.
I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,
and peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.
This morning it was so still in the sanctuary that it felt like a practice of ‘resting often.’ The heater purred along as I walked around the worship space carrying the paraments to the communion table and gathering the unused bulletins to recycle. Each item that I moved carried its own sound. . . candles bumping on the pulpit, the smooth slide of fabric on the communion table, the sound that a ladder makes when extended and then stood upon. Even the sound the smooth purple silk made on the large wooden cross as the drape was hung, it was moment of worship that transcended the task itself.
It was a moment of peace.
Mary’s poem reminds me about the urgency of "the now” that we confront as the church. The frantic pace of the news, of politics and policies, spins like a tornado and that can make it hard to focus on what is foundational, what is unmovable. It can be hard to practice peace when the world from which we come is so hectic. It is hard to find a transcendent moment when tasks pile up and commitments abound. It is hard to notice the beauty of God’s creation when our eyes cannot focus on the gifts that God presents us each day.
Up on the mountain the reality of the world is still in view for us. But on that mountain there is also the possibility that we can commune with our Creator in a personal way. Up on this mountain we and God can commune together and I can begin Lent differently.
I wonder, what Mary Oliver’s word say to you? I wonder where are the places, or the moments, where you can find space to ‘rest often’ and be with God?
Blessings
Rev. Derek
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