I snapped a photo of the sky, seen above. There’s no filter here. Through the clouds, the sun is shining like a rainbow halo. Apparently, some call this “sundogs.” That’s new information I had never heard before, and upon cursory googling, I still don’t know how this phenomenon got its name.
Its scientific name is parhelia, a concentrated patch of sunlight that can sometimes be seen at 22 degrees on either side of the sun. This is refracted light through hexagonal ice crystals in cirrostratus clouds.
When I looked up to take this picture, I only saw the sun and a very blue sky. I suppose there’s usually more than we can perceive with our own senses.
A person looks at the nigh sky, filled with stars.
Sometimes, I marvel at who is in my life. Sometimes, I am stunned to ponder that I could begin alone then become connected to who after who after who after who.
And this never ends.
It’s like a Big Bang, really. A Whole Universe of Belonging.
We each start as a singularity. Then each one of us bursts forth, brought into an abundance of connections, born anew bit by bit through the particularities of relationship.
And these particularities create build form nurture cultivate and renew.
They expand.
This is an ever expanding Universe — this Cosmos of who after who after who after who.
Two wooden tables and four chairs are turned over. One has a sticker of an American flag on the bottom.
A blessed Table Flipping Monday, y’all.
A few years ago, my friend Sarah made a suggestion that the Monday of Holy Week ought to be considered Table Flipping Monday. Of course, that’s a pretty humorous title, but Sarah also helped me think about this . . .
During the last week of his life, when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, the very first thing he did was walk into the center of communal, religious life and hold it accountable. He went into the Temple, the most holy place, and was horrified to discover that some were making unjust money as they oppressed the Jewish people in their religious devotion. He turned over the tables and chased out the money changers, quoting Jewish scripture, saying, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you have made a den of robbers.’”
I want to be careful about how I talk about this story, in large part because throughout history, Holy Week has been an occasion when Christians have oppressed Jews and even caused violence. When I think about this day, I don’t aim to criticize the Temple or the religious heritage of which Jesus was fully a part.
Instead, I want to consider the ways in which my own religious tradition ought to be held accountable. That includes this painful history we have caused our Jewish siblings. And it includes a host of other abuses fully expressed in the present.
Religion can give life and meaning, and it can be twisted as a tool for oppression.
There are a multitude of ways in which tables ought to be flipped over. In fact, accountability and truth telling can be acts of spiritual devotion in and of themselves.
Jesus rages against the oppression and manipulation of others. Today, we need prophets and holy agitators to follow into this calling. I offer my gratitude today for people who hold my tradition and our actions to account.
One of Christianity’s foundational teachings involves a holy leveling – an inverted shift where the marginalized become the most empowered and the most powerful are brought into humility.
But way too often, we fall far short of this vision. Today can serve as a day of confession.
I’d like to share this poem by Pádraig Ó Tuama. It can be found in his book, In the Shelter: Finding a Home in the World.
Neither I nor the poets I love found the keys to the kingdom… and we cannot force God to stumble over us where we sit. But I know that it’s a good idea to sit anyway. So every morning I sit. I kneel, waiting, making friends with the habit of listening, hoping that I’m being listened to. There, I greet God in my own disorder. I say hello to distraction and privilege, I greet the day and I greet my Beloved…I recognize and greet my burdens, my luck, my controlled and uncontrolled story. I greet my untold stories, my unfolding story, my unloved body, my own love, my own body. I greet the things I think will happen and say hello to everything I do not know about the day. I greet my own small world and I hope that I can meet the bigger world that day. I greet my story and hope I can forget my story during the day, and hope I can hear some stories, and greet some surprising stories during the long day ahead. I greet God, and I greet the God who is more God than the God I greet. Hello to you all, I say, as the sun rises above the chimneys of North Belfast.
I fell asleep to a podcast last night, and then, they played all night. When I woke up, I heard this conversation between Krista Tippett and Janine Benyus on an episode of On Being — “Biomimicry: An Operating Manual for Earthlings.”
These were the first words I heard today, and I’d like to share them:
Krista Tippett: I’ve been thinking in these last years about how culturally, I think we essentially ask capitalist questions as our starting point just instinctively: “How soon?” “How much?” And I’ve been paying attention to the questions in the chapter you’ve mentioned and other questions you’ve thrown out there, like “What’s worth doing?” “How shall we live here?”… the questions, “What would nature do here?” “What wouldn’t nature do here?”
Janine Benyus: Yeah, there’s this set of questions that we ask because biomimicry looks at nature as “model for emulating” — measuring to judge the rightness of our actions… The questions that go with that are, “What would nature do here?” and “here” is the most important part of that, because that’s the context. “What would nature do here?” “What wouldn’t nature do here?” is that measure part. And then, “why?” and “why not?”
That’s the mentor part. That’s the part where, if you have a mentor at work, and you’ve been there a while, something weird happens. You don’t know what it is. You go in, close the door, and say to the mentor, “Why did that just happen?”
“Oh, let me tell you about that.”
So life knows how to live here. Over 3.8 billion years, you know? It does. We have spent 250 years of Western science, asking about nature, and now, we’re starting to ask to learn from nature. It’s exciting! It’s a completely different way to do science to learn from rather than to just learn about, right?
That’s the switch. That’s really the profound switch. It calls on us to sit down, get out our notebooks, and pay attention in a whole different way than when we were just measuring. You know, natural history — my field — started out with, you went out in the jungle, and you didn’t ask. You shot it and brought it back. Our natural history museums are filled with drawers, and that’s when we were asking the “What” question. “What are you?” Not, “How do you live here?”
Smuggling Grace 