I’ve spent the summer exploring the lakes in Wisconsin’s Northwoods, from the Apostle Islands of Lake Superior to little-known gems like Wolf Lake and McKinney Lake. Growing up near the ocean, being near water recharges me. Last week Cindy and I took our granddaughters on their first camping trip to Wisconsin’s Northwoods. They’re about two and three years old, so one is just starting to talk and the other could give her preacher grandpa a run for his money. During the day it was quiet nature walks and rowboat rides. At night, KPOP Demon Hunter dance parties. One likes Huntrix, the other the Saja Boys. We stayed on a body of water called Lake Rest. There was not much rest, and yet I thought of Mary Oliver’s poem, “At the River Clarion,” and how holy our lakeside moments were, alternating between the quiet and rambunctious.
She writes:
“I’d been to the river before, a few times.
Don’t blame the river that nothing happened quickly.
You don’t hear such voices in an hour or a day.
You don’t hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.
And it’s difficult to hear anything anyway, through all the traffic, the ambition.
“I don’t know who God is exactly.
But I’ll tell you this.
I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a water splashed stone
and all afternoon I listened to the voices of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck a stone it had something to say,
and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing under the water.
And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me what they were saying.
Said the river I am part of holiness.
And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water.”
To truly appreciate water, I think you have to experience places without it. I’ve camped in many deserts, from Death Valley and Joshua Tree to Nevada’s Black Rock desert. But the most profound preview of a world without water was when Cindy and I moved to San Antonio to serve my first church. We drove into town on July 4, 2008, and it was raining so hard we had to stop because the streets were flooded. Our car was becoming overwhelmed with water so we pulled over and ran into the one open restaurant we could find. “Is this normal for July?” we asked the host. Her eyes went wide as she shook her head. “No, not normal.”
It rained like that for a week. We lived on the San Antonio River and marveled at the amount of water stuffed into that tiny overflowing river.
And then the rain stopped, for a year. And another. Apparently some form of falling moisture was recorded, but we didn’t see it. The third year was the driest year on record for Texas—and that’s dry. Every night the news reported the exact level of Edwards aquifer, and when it dropped to 600’ we were allowed to water our plants once a week, with a hose. Special water police patrolled day and all night to catch violators. Do we even know the name of our aquifer?
When the rain finally returned, I learned a new meaning of thanks. I sometimes still marvel at northern rivers and lakes, all that water, just sitting there—where other places are so dry.
The poet writes:
“Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and each of you too, or at least of his intention and his hope…
I only know that the river kept singing.
It wasn’t a persuasion, it was all the river’s own constant joy
which was better by far than a lecture, which was comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.”
Water is where life began. It’s what we’re made of. “Giant, ugly bags of mostly water,” an alien species on Star Trek called us. We are, after all, mostly water. Without water we humans can last about three days.
So water’s symbolism for beginnings is apt. If the church is like a river running through our lives, from birth and babies running around, to the community that will remember and celebrate your life when you’re gone,
if the church is like the river running through our lives,
the ritual of holding water in our hands only to pour it out
is fitting as we begin a new cycle of showing up,
pondering the big questions, learning and growing,
remembering who we are.
The poet writes,
“Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.
Let us live it, gesture by gesture.
When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?
And should we not thank the knife also?
We do not live in a simple world.”
Some congregations have folks bring back water from their summer travels—and a lot of UU churches have stopped this because it can be a little classist. Some folks have the resources to grab a vial of water from a Swiss glacier. Some of us may have spent the summer working, without the time, resources, or ability to travel. I’m grateful for my quick trips up highway 51 to sit by nearby lakes, and for the many weekends I spend at Rock Cut while serving this congregation.
I think of Rock Cut’s Lake Pierce.
And the poet reminds me to look:
“Along its shores were, may I say, very intense cardinal flowers.
And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them, for heaven’s sakes–
the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,
they are so happily obedient.
While I sit here in a house filled with books,
ideas, doubts, hesitations.”
The water gathered here this morning may have come from a tap, but it’s connected to the deep underground Ancell and St. Peter Sandstone aquifers, each fed by a deep underground network. Molecules of this water have been a part of that Swiss glacier we may never see, the Pacific Ocean, or the rain falling on Texas. These molecules have been in someone’s body, nourishing their life. Some of these molecules have been returned to the sky, breathed out by other bodies.
You can’t meditate on water without feeling connected; it’s in our bodies.
And so we step, connected, into the river of this new church year.
What a year is ahead for us.
I am so excited about the work we will do together in this second year of transition, from Rev. Matthew’s ministry and all who came before him, to something completely new. New things flowing into this community.
But don’t be trapped into thinking this coming year is all about that new person. For our brave search committee, it mostly is. But for us, this coming year is also about you. You! And there’s work for you to do, for the search committee can’t possibly do it by themselves.
Here is the work for you:
First, be heard. There’s a congregational survey that needs your participation. This survey is a critical piece of the search packet every minister interested in us will examine. When I’ve been in search, the survey is a key piece of intel for me. I read it over and over. The rest of it is informative. The survey is vital. It answers vital questions: What’s your theological makeup ? What are you curious about? How are you connected to the community? What do you value in a minister? A key indicator of congregational energy is what percentage of a church’s membership took the survey. Technically, it should be nearly everyone!
Second, show up. Twice, to both major events this fall. On Friday, September 25th, the Committee on Ministry (aka, the Transition Team) will reflect on the stories we gathered up during our spring listening circles. We dipped into the river of our lives, scooped up some of your individual memories and dreams—and now we’re going to pour them back together, consider them, and do a little dreaming. All with the purpose of lifting up what’s important here, determining the direction we seem to be heading, and dreaming about what our future looks like.
The second workshop is the 4B workshop on November 14th: Break Barrier, Build Beliefs. There we will explore our conscious and unconscious biases around identities that your potential new minister may hold. We will move beyond categorical thinking to a wider circle of understanding.
That’s it: two workshops and a survey. I know, the learning and information seems a lot, but as our poet Mary Oliver concludes:
“And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river
keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its
long journey, its pale, infallible voice
singing.”
This year is another part of your journey, your lives, your infallible voices singing. I’m glad to be a part of it.