Lenten Silence: Charash, Be Still

Silence, Peter Mathios, Oregon, 2011

Best of any song

is bird song
in the quiet
but first you must have
the quiet.

  (Wendell Berry)

Our culture runs from silence almost as much as we run from sorrow.  We speed from work to meeting to major event while our kids ricochet from school to the organized activities that define contemporary childhood. In those few minutes when we could enjoy real stillness, we turn on iPods, radio, TV. We don’t hear birdsong. We don’t hear quiet. We don’t even hear each other.

Looking at verses about quiet in the Old Testament, I’m struck by how many old Hebrew words there are for the absence of speech. In English we have silence, stillness, quiet – with not much difference between the three. In Hebrew, I was stunned to discover more than thirty words that are translated into our three words. In Hebrew there are words that say “sitting still,” “lying still,” “standing still,” words for tranquil stillness, uneasy stillness, incapacitated stillness, enforced stillness.

Apparently, the Hebrews were deeply familiar with the various aspects of silence, so much so that the psalmists, using different words to say almost the same thing, expressed insights that are lost in our flattened translations.

In Psalm 28:1, the writer says “28:1 To You, O Lord, I call; My rock, do not be deaf to me, For if You are silent to me, I will become like those who go down to the pit.”  We can only get a hint of it in English: You Lord, strong silent stone, don’t be silent, speechless to me, for if you are silent, inactively still, I’ll become silent, incapable of speech, like those who are still in death.

In Psalm 81:1, the English translation says “O God, do not remain quiet; Do not be silent and, O God, do not be still.” It sounds like a triple repetition: “Please, speak to me.” But each of the original words has a different nuance, suggesting a different kind of quiet: Withholding action? Withholding speech? Peacefully at rest?

Silence, Johann Heinrich Füssli, Switzerland, 1800

Puzzling over those words, I find myself thinking about the different forms of silence. There’s the quiet of someone physically incapable of speech. There’s the silence of someone shut down, intimidated into speechlessness. There’s the silence of longing, when the one you most want to hear from is distant. There’s the silence of sleep, of reflection, of waiting. Peaceful silence. Ominous silence. The silence following disaster.

Imagine having words for each of those.   

One word I came across intrigued me: charash. Here are the various ways its translated, according to Studylight, a great website that feeds my interest in ancient, hard-to-translate words: cease, cease speaking, completely silent, deaf, devises, engraved, indeed says nothing, keep silence, kept silence,  plotting,  plow, plowed, plowman, quiet, remain silent, said nothing, says nothing, silent, still. 

Apparently none of those words quite get there: there’s a word we don’t know, hiding between those translations. Something to do with plowing, with preparing, with “devising.”

There’s a moment, in planning for something, when you’ve done all you can, and then all you can do is wait, with the next steps running through your mind, but the time for action still out ahead. Charash seems to point toward that moment.

There’s a time in a pregnancy, when preparations are done, the baby is due, and all you can do is wait. It’s out of your hands. Or was – before modern medicine found ways to intervene. Charash carries something of that motionless expectation.

The Delivery of Israel, Francis Danby, 1825, London

There’s a point in the story of Moses leading his people out of Egypt when they find themselves trapped between Egyptians and Red Sea. They’ve done all they can – Moses has been obedient in standing up to the Pharaoh, the people have been obedient in gathering their families and following Moses as fast as they can, but now they’re stuck. And God says: Charash. Exodus 14:14 is translated “The Lord will fight for you while you keep silent.” That silent is “charash.” Wait expectantly. Wait in stillness. Keep your eyes and ears open.

In Psalm 46, the psalmist describes God’s activity in the world, his power over nature, over kingdoms and nations. And God, speaking through the psalmist, says “Be still and know that I am God.” That “be still” is “charash.” Wait expectantly. Watch and listen.

Stillness can go in lots of directions. It can be lonely, discouraging, lazy, defeated. It can be peaceful, sleepy, companionable, joyful.

This Lenten stillness I find myself called to is something different. It’s an expectant stillness, the stillness of early spring, waiting for the daffodils to burst open, waiting for the buds to spring out into green.

It’s a generative stillness, productive in mysterious ways, as I set my own agendas aside and see where God’s power is moving.

It’s an attentive stillness: eyes open, ears alert.

As I wrote last week, there are many things I grieve over, many things I’d like to see changed. I feel some days like the Israelites, confronting the Red Sea: Why did I even start on this journey? Where will it lead? Is hope even possible?

Yet God calls me to stillness: charash. Wait and see. The Lord will fight for you while you keep silence. Be still and know that I am God. He’s the one with the plow, the plan, the power. Charash.

The Watcher, Paul Henry, 1915, Achill Island, Ireland

Has my heart gone to sleep?

Have the beehives
of my dreams

stopped working,
the waterwheel

of the mind run dry,

scoops turning empty,

only shadow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.

It is awake, wide awake.

Not asleep, not dreaming—

its eyes are opened wide

watching distant signals, listening

on the rim of vast silence.

(Antonio Machado,
 translated by Alan S. Trueblood)

For more from this Lenten series: Looking toward Lent, Lenten Sorrow:  Lament and Nacham. 

As always, your thoughts and comments are welcome. Click on the  _comments link below to open the comment box.

Mystery Fruit

Last fall we said goodbye to a craggy crab apple tree that stood between our driveway and backyard. We had enjoyed its spring cloud of pink blossoms and the way they drifted down to carpet the ground below, but the trunk was rotting, it was a matter of time before it died, and we needed it out of the way so we could replace an old shed that was about to collapse around us.

The tree was cut down, the shed was replaced, and last spring I noticed that we suddenly had a sunny corner, big enough for a raised bed of vegetables. I edged it with lengths from a trunk of a locust that came down in a recent storm, filled it with good dirt from our compost pile, and planted potatoes, lettuce, beets, swiss chard, and beans.

I missed the pink blossoms, and the birds missed the bugs, crab apples, and nesting places they’d enjoyed in previous seasons. But it was great to have just-picked beans, the robins were happy with the worms in the raised bed, and the backyard bunnies quickly discovered the lettuce.

Mid-summer I noticed something odd. There was a vine growing from the corner of my raised bed. It had huge leaves – some almost two feet across – and it was heading off through the shrubs and hostas that grew near my vegetable bed.

I pull known weeds and thugs, but I keep an eye on plants I’m not familiar with. Sometimes they turn out to be exciting additions: native trees seedlings, unexpected wildflowers.  My guess was that the mystery vine was some kind of squash, maybe from a seed in my compost? I watched with interest as it grew.

And grew. And grew. When it threatened to choke something I redirected it. When it headed off across the driveway I moved it to the new arbor I’d put up over the walk.

Eventually, it bloomed. Huge, yellow-orange blossoms. Then small green fruit began to form. Larger, then larger.

Squash? Gourds? First there was one, narrow on top, heavier on the bottom, hanging from the arbor. Then another, more symmetrical, along the driveway’s edge.

One of my daughters congratulated me on my watermelons. Really? I went to look again. Almost overnight they’d taken on a classic watermelon shape: long, fat oblongs, bright, shiny green. How do you know when a watermelon is ripe?

A few weeks later, my other daughter laughingly pointed out that watermelons are smooth. Very smooth. My mystery fruit were creased from end to end. Pumpkins. She assured me they were pumpkins.

Sure enough. While smaller green fruit formed, the green on the largest fruit slowly faded from green to a dull orange. The orange grew brighter. And there they were: two beautiful pumpkins. My first ever. The most spectacular fruit of my backyard season.

I was telling about my pumpkins when someone asked why I didn’t pull the vine out. Why would I let something I didn’t plant take over my garden? 

There are lots of things in my life I didn’t plant. Mystery seeds take on lives of their own on the edges of my well-laid plans. I find myself watching with wonder as life unfolds far bolder than I imagined, and spectacular fruit takes shape while I wait to see what it is.

When I pause to look back, I’d have to say that the most rewarding fruit so far grew from things I didn’t mean to do. I didn’t mean to stay home ten years with kids, but things unfolded and drew me in and there I was, waiting to see who they’d become. I didn’t mean to get involved with local school politics, but the time with my kids brought me into the life of their school and there I was, leading the PTA in a fractured school at a critical time, with rich fruit for everyone involved. I didn’t mean to do youth ministry, but seeds planted decades before spread into something new; that vine took over while I watched in wonder. I started a youth ministry network without even thinking: the soil was right, the moment came, and that vine jumped to life before I knew it was there.

Seeds start small. In fact, for a while, they’re invisible, somewhere in the ground, waiting for the moment when the cell wall softens and the soil is just warm enough. Some seeds wait years for just the right moment. Some seeds never start.

This fall, I’m watching a new vine, growing faster than my own mystery vine. Three weeks ago a handful of people moved into Zuccotti Park, a small urban park between Wall Street and the World Trade Center, a block up from the historic Trinity Episcopal Church. They had been gathering on Saturday evenings for over a month, discussing peaceful protest and how to be heard in a system where the rules, more and more, seem to be made by those with money, influence, power.

They call themselves Occupy Wall Street, and already that vine is reaching far beyond Zuccotti Park and Wall Street. Two weeks ago someone started an OccupyTogether.org website, which listed a handful of other locations. Last week the number of cities with meetings listed was in the hundreds. Now it’s over a thousand, with groups in every state, on every continent.

Who are they? What do they want?

They are people who feel shut out by the current political and economic systems. People who believe it’s no longer possible for the average American to have a legitimate say in how our country works, people who can’t find a job that pays enough to live on, who have lost their fragile economic hold because of unemployment, medical bills, situations beyond their control. Many share their photos and stories on wearethe99percent.org.

And what do they want? At first there was talk about “the one demand.” But over the last decades the rules have been changing in complicated, inter-locking ways. To address that will take a corresponding web of changes in election law, finance regulation, tax codes, defense spending, food production, energy consumption.

Trying to understand this vine, I’ve spent some time studying the fruit taking shape. It’s available for anyone to see . There are currently eight “official” proposed demands, but it’s a fluid process, with room to comment on existing demands or offer additional proposals, and an invitation to vote on existing suggestions. Last time I looked there were 27, with a month to vote on each demand listed.

There are plenty of voices suggesting this vine should be pulled out fast. The “occupiers” have been accused of being communists, socialist, fascists, anarchists, hippies, moonbats, and much much worse.

Jesus said “You can tell a tree by its fruit.” He also said “No good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit. Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers. Good people bring good things out of the good stored up in their heart, and evil people bring evil things out of the evil stored up in their heart. For out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks."

The fruit of angry, dismissive name-calling is obvious. We’ve seen too much of that already. But the fruit of a new attempt at direct democracy? I’m watching with hopeful interest.

On October 5, Trinity Church, Wall Street, just down the street from Zuccotti Park, issued an official statement of invitation to the protestors: 

Trinity Wall Street respects the rights of citizens to protest peacefully and supports the vigorous engagement of the concerns that form the core of the protests – economic disenfranchisement and failure of public trust. 

 As a prayerful community with a deep history of relationships in Lower Manhattan, Trinity continues its pastoral outreach and welcomes any of those involved in the ongoing situation to parish spaces. Many protestors have found the opportunity for rest and revitalization in Charlotte’s Place, Trinity’s new neighborhood center, and have expressed deep appreciation for the hospitality there. We welcome any of those involved in the protest for pastoral care and reflection. 

 With its long history, Trinity is also a place where meaningful conversations between people with divergent viewpoints can happen. We also offer our meeting spaces to groups for conversations and forums on issues of public concern 

 As the protest unfolds, I invite you to hold all those involved in your prayers: the protesters, neighborhood residents and business owners, the police, policy-makers, civic leaders, and those in the financial industry – all – and to consider the ways we might take steps in our own lives that improve the lives of others. 

 Faithfully, The Rev. Dr. James H. Cooper, Rector, Trinity Wall Street 

I’m thankful that historic church is playing a part in this important time, and thankful for the reminder to pray.

And thankful for the call to consider the ways we can improve the lives of others.

Where will it end? How far will the protests spread? What happens if demands aren’t met? What will the next steps be?

It takes time for fruit to grow. And this is a new vine, with fruit we’ve never seen before.

Join me in praying it will be good fruit, much needed fruit. Spectacular fruit.

From the Book of Common Prayer:

Lord God Almighty, you have made all the peoples of the earth for your glory, to serve you in freedom and in peace: Give to the people of our country a zeal for justice and the strength of forbearance, that we may use our liberty in accordance with your gracious will; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Please join the conversation. Your thoughts and experiences in this are welcome. Look for the "__ comments" link below to leave your comments. 

Hungry

Certain passages of scripture rattle around my head, popping up at odd times, bringing more questions than they answer.

One that’s currently troubling me: the sheep and the goats passage, from Matthew 25. Jesus has been talking about the end times, the need to be ready, the need to keep watch. He tells the parable of the bridesmaids, who let their lamps burn low and weren’t prepared when the bridegroom came. Then the parable about the stewards: the ones who used the money they were given wisely and were rewarded. The one who buried the money and was cast out.

Then, tucked between that familiar stewardship parable and the plot to kill Jesus, comes this story:

 “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.  He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

    “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

    “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

  “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

 “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

Questions? Quite a few. But the one that interests me in the moment is a practical one:  Those people who ended up in the goat section – what if they really didn’t see any hungry, thirsty, naked, sick people? What if they lived somewhere like me – in a nice suburban house, in a safe, pleasant neighborhood? Who could fault them for forgetting to feed the hungry, or failing to care for the sick? Or somehow missing the fact that millions of people die each year because they don’t have clean water?

A few days ago, I turned the radio on and heard a woman’s voice: African, struggling with English, but passionate and firm. The speaker was Rose Mapendo, a survivor of the genocide in Rawanda, asked about current struggles and conflicts in other parts of the world. She answered without hesitation: “’I believe it's everybody's responsibility to take the action to save these people's life. There is many thousands of people who are seeking for life, who need my help, who need my voice, who need your voice, who need the world's attention to save their life.’”  

What if we don’t see them?

There’s a big conversation going on among our elected officials about budgets and priorities and ways to cut the national debt. The budget proposed by the House of Representatives would cut non-military foreign assistance by almost 50%. In human terms, 18 million people would lose access to food they depend on, including 2.5 million children who would no longer receive their daily school meal, their one real meal of the day. 4 million people would lose access to malaria medicine, and the successful malaria net program President George W. Bush pushed so hard for would be cut substantially.

Why cut foreign aid? Because we aren’t paying attention.

In January, a national poll found that 75 percent of people thought foreign aid should be cut.

But this may explain that opinion: another poll a few months earlier found that when people were asked what percentage of the federal budget currently goes to foreign aid, the average response was that 27 percent of our budget goes to aid. When asked how much of the budget should go to foreign aid, the response was 10 to 13 percent. (Fiscal Times)

So – when people say foreign aid should be cut, they’re picturing a cut from about 27% to 10% of the national budget. That’s a big cut. But it would make foreign aid a tenth, a tithe, of our national budget.

In fact, current actual spending on non-military foreign aid is about 1 percent. A tenth of what people say it should be. A tiny fraction of what people believe it to be.

With recommended cuts, that number would shrink to about half of one percent.

Should we know that? Should we care?

I’ve been repenting, in this season of repentance, of my own utter ignorance about the federal budget, the ways bills are passed, my role in our democracy.  I’m not big on numbers, budgets, percentages. But as I’ve been trying to read more about this issue, and trying to understand what’s at stake, I’ve come to wonder if complexity, distance, lack of interest excuse my ignorance, my poor stewardship of the rights I’ve been given.

What does it mean to have a voice in caring for the poor? Whose lives are dependent on my action? Who needs my help, my voice, my attention?

Last week, a group of leaders concerned about justice, hunger and poverty committed themselves to a hunger fast on behalf of the poor. Tony Hall, the head of the Alliance to End Hunger; David Beckmann, the president of Bread for the World; Jim Wallis, the president of Sojourners; Ritu Sharma of Women Thrive and Ruth Messinger of American Jewish World Service were among the initial voices, agreeing to form a “circle of protection” around those who have no voice. They are concerned that a global food crisis, paired with recommended budget cuts, would result in tens of thousands of deaths, and would set back significant progress in control of diseases like malaria.

As I’ve prayed, I’ve concluded that a first step in being a better steward is to join the circle: I’m going to pray for the Hunger Fast, for our political leaders, for those who will be hurt if aid to the poor is cut. I’m also committing to fast a meal each day through the next two weeks, to use some of the time in reading more about the way our national budget works, and to commit to writing letters to those who make decisions.

There are other ideas described on the HungerFast.org site. And lots of information available through organizations mentioned above.    

Not everyone can fast, even one meal. Not everyone has time to delve deeply into the politics of scarcity and hunger.

But we’ve been given voices, and votes, and many without voices or votes are dependent on us using them wisely.

I’ve been spending time with the Ash Wednesday Litany of Repentance. Here’s part:

Accept our repentance, Lord, for the wrongs we have done: for our blindness to human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty.

For all false judgments, for uncharitable thoughts toward our neighbors, and for our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us.

For our waste and pollution of your creation, and our lack of concern for those who come after us...

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation.

   That we may show forth your glory in the world.


 Please join the conversation. Your thoughts and experiences in this are welcome. Look for the "__ comments" link below to leave your comments. 

Paying Attention: Next Generation

     There was a child went forth every day,

     And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, 

     that object  he became,

     And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day… 

     or for many years 

     or stretching cycles of years.

     The early lilacs became part of this child,

     And grass, and white and red morning glories, and white and red clover, 

     and the song of the phoebe-bird,

     And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, 

     and the cow's calf, 

     and the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-side… 

     and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there… 

     and the beautiful curious liquid… and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads… 

     all became part of him.   (Walt Whitman ) 

I’m realizing that for me, any discipline I think of shapes itself in my mind in terms of those who demonstrated it for me, and those I want to share it with. There’s a generational aspect to this: we’re shaped by those before us, and we’re called to pass on what’s of value to the generations following us.

I’m deeply thankful for my grandmother’s example of attention to nature. Squirrel antics, bird calls, unfamiliar wildflowers, strange cloud formations: she treated the small occasions of nature like personal treasures. I can remember going to visit when she was in her seventies and eighties. She’d have things to show, treasures to share: a new groundcover she discovered, creeping its way under her shed. Or a baby maple tree, discovered growing along the road, potted and ready for a trip to a friend’s back yard.

Warm ripe tomatoes, eaten off the vine. A glass of iced tea under the lilacs to celebrate their fullest bloom. Those gifts of attention stay with me, and shape the way I view the world. I remember the afternoon, back in the sixties, when she pulled her Chevy convertible to the side of the road, to stop and see where the mockingbird was: she hadn’t heard one since her childhood in Oklahoma. And there it was, on a telephone line, singing its unmistakable song. I still think of her whenever I see, or hear, a mockingbird.

I’ve done my best to share that attention with our kids. They accuse me of dragging the family to “squirrel  museums,” and laugh that I signed them up for “nature tots.” I confess to both accusations. Now there’s another generation to pay attention to, and with. We prowl through Black Rock Preserve, searching for fossils, or poke sticks in the Black Rock pond, looking for fish. We visit the butterflies in the Springton Manor butterfly house, borrow nets to search for sulphurs and skippers, then head off to the fields to greet the goats and sheep.

Apple picking at the nearest orchard has been part of our family tradition since our children were small: wealth on a tree, followed by cider, cider doughnuts, and a baby pumpkin or two. Our own scraggly tomato vines prompt conversation about seeds, time, things we can control and things we can’t, the pleasure of a ripe tomato, the waste of picking one that’s not. A new Saturn peach tree surprised us last summer with a small harvest of perfect little peaches, ,and little Ellie surprised us by devouring her first peach in three quick bites.

My grandmother also taught me to attend to need: to look beyond myself and see the pain of others. There was nothing easy about her life, and yet I don’t remember hearing her complain. Instead, I remember her calling attention to, and insisting on kindness toward, those in need around us. Skippy – a boy older than us, but challenged in ways we didn’t understand – was always welcome in our yard. And if he invited us to his house, a block away, to see his monkey, or swim in his pool, a glance from Grandma would quiet our objections.

A multitude of pets helped me learn to pay attention. So did younger cousins. Children who have nothing to care for, no smaller living things to attend to, can miss the joy of empathy. Learning to make a cat purr, taking time to tame a parakeet, facing my own fear of the dark to go out at night to reassure an anxious duck, entertaining cousins while the grownups talked on and on: those were skills of attention I’m thankful to have learned.

And so I look for ways to pass those skills on to others. The parakeet and duck are incidental, but the ability to see what pleases another creature, and then provide it, seems essential.  The ability to see what’s needed in a situation, then finding a way to offer it, doesn’t come naturally. It comes through the trial and error of caring for a smaller sibling, friend, or cousin, the afternoons spent cutting and pasting to make a card or gift or other offering for someone sick, or sad, or lonely. It comes from helping to plan and prepare for a party or celebration, thinking about what might please the guests, then feeling good when everyone has fun.

Books are another way to learn to pay attention. Owl Moon was a favorite: a gentle book about looking for owls on a cold winter night. Miss Rumphius was another: about learning to see beauty, then finding a way to share it. The Alphie books, by Shirley Hughes, prompted conversation about what it means to be a friend, and how good it is to offer a hand, or a toy, or a kind word, just when it’s needed.

My husband grew up with a tradition of bed-time questions, and I learned a similar practice of reflection at a camp where I worked: What did you learn today? What was a thing of beauty? What are you thankful for? Quiet conversations at bedtime can prompt attention throughout the day. There are always new things to be learned, new beauty to celebrate, gifts to be thankful for, if we take time to pay attention.

Just a few minutes ago, the little girl next door rang the bell, selling Girl Scout cookies. She reminded me of my years as a Girl Scout leader, and set me thinking about how much I’ve relied on programmatic involvement as an avenue for engagement with the next generations. My grandmother was never a Girl Scout leader, camp counselor, youth leader. Yet, even in her eighties, she had young friends: the girls down the street she met on her walks, the children, and grandchildren, of people she’d led to Christ. In paying attention to nature, and to others, she was also attentive to openings God gave her, to share that attention, and to befriend those much younger.

It’s easy to focus our attention on those closest to us: our children, their children. Yet, I’m fairly sure their attention is enlarged by our own larger attention.  As I include them in reaching out beyond them, they reach beyond my own reach, until we have widening ripples, moving outward, with a deepening understanding of God’s love and grace, for us and the whole world around us.

   I tremble with gratitude 

   for my children and their children

   who take pleasure in one another.

   At our dinners together, the dead

   enter and pass among us

   in living love and in memory.

   And so the young are taught.  
                       (Wendell Berry)

Please join the conversation. Your thoughts and experiences in this are welcome. Look for the "__ comments" link below to leave your comments. 

Paying Attention Part 2: Amos and Aluminum

In thinking about spiritual practices and daily disciplines, it’s occurred to me that if a practice is purely personal it somehow misses the point. That is, our practices in some way need to reach beyond us, or they become more about us than a means to engage with God and the world around us.

I find I go back to Jesus when I’m trying to evaluate an idea; his practices always brought him right back into the heart of God’s work in the world. He withdrew for fasting and prayer, only to face head-on assault and temptation. His daily times of solitude and prayer were preparation for the teaching, miracles, and confrontations ahead.

In talking about the practice of paying attention, in An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor talks about paying attention to food, where it comes from, the conditions that bring it to our table. She talks as well about the paper in catalogs, the realities behind the goods in those catalogs, and the need to approach even catalogs, or chicken dinners, with reverence:

“I understand why people snort at thoughts like these. I have laughed the same kind of laugh when people start talking earnestly about things I would rather not talk about. Reverence can be a pain. It is a lot easier to make chicken salad if you have never been stuck behind a chicken truck. It is easier to order a cashmere sweater if you do not know about the Chinese goats. And yet, these doors open onto the divine as surely as showers of falling stars do.”

I wonder, though, if there isn’t more to this idea of paying attention than bringing us to a place of reverence. It seems it should also bring us to a place of action.

In other words – if the things in our lives are brought there through processes that desecrate God’s creation, or that harm and abuse workers along the way, it may be that paying attention should be the first step toward change.

I was re-reading the book of Amos this week, as part of my Martin Luther King observance, and was challenged, as always, by the phrase King quoted again and again: "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever flowing stream." Streams start small, but gather strength. Righteousness starts as a trickle, then becomes an ever flowing stream.

Interesting that Amos was a shepherd and “dresser of sycamore figs,” his income clearly tied to the land and its proper use. In warning of God’s judgment against His people, he seems to be speaking to those who have stopped paying attention to the conditions that created their comfort:

"I will strike the winter house along with the summer house, and the houses of ivory shall perish, and the great houses shall come to an end,” declares the Lord. “Hear this word, you cows of Bashan . .  who oppress the poor, who crush the needy, who say to your husbands, bring, that we may drink.” (Amos 3:15-4:2)

The words are harsh, and I would guess the women of Bashan, so unkindly called “cows,” would object that they had nothing to do with the poor or needy, hadn’t hurt anyone, and were simply minding their business, enjoying the good things God gave them.

Yet as I read and think about Amos’ words, I can’t help concluding that God holds us accountable for the source of the things we enjoy, even if we don’t really know where they come from, what they cost, who has paid in what way. "Hear this, you who trample on the needy and bring the poor of the land to an end.” He speaks to those who “buy the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals and sell the chaff of the wheat.” (Amos 8:4, 6). There’s exploitation here, of both people and land, and God is calling his people to give an account.

I’ve been conscious, for some time, of the exploitation that takes place in some of our daily products. Coffee, for instance, is often harvested by forced labor, sometimes by children, in conditions physically harmful to the workers and the environment. Am I responsible for paying attention to the journey from bean to cup? I believe I am, and buy my own daily Equal Exchange coffee at Ten Thousand Villages, a fair trade supplier committed to improving the quality of life of small cooperatives throughout the world. A recent Christianity Today article describes ways churches can be involved in seeking justice in this area. My own church, I’m glad to say, sells coffee supplied directly from church partners in Kenya.

So yes, I pay attention to coffee. But what about all the other things I eat and drink in a day? Cocoa is another product deeply implicated in child labor. How do I find cocoa that hasn’t been harvested and sold through exploitation of the poor? ? And chocolate? As much as I can, I buy those at Ten Thousand Villages from the same company, Equal Exchange.

And what about all the other goods that find their way into my home?

I had never heard of bauxite until a few months ago. As far as I know, I have none in my house. But I have plenty of the primary product of bauxite mines: aluminum. Bauxite is strip mined from the surface of the earth, or mined in open pits, then processed with heat, electricity, chemical catalysts, and large amounts of water. The environmental implications are huge: polluted water, acid rain, toxic air-borne dust, destruction of habitat, loss of topsoil, and a heavily metallic red sludge that is left when the process is over.

One account I read offered these numbers: for every ton of aluminum gained, 35 tons of bauxite ore need to be mined, and after introduction of clean water, the process yields 40 tons of red sludge and polluted dust.

I don’t understand the science behind it. What I do understand is that our inexpensive aluminum chairs, aluminum foil, pie plates, roasting pans and other products are bought at the cost of the health, environment, and long-standing way of life of poor people around the globe.

One other thing worth noting: aluminum is 100% recyclable. It’s incredibly costly to produce, but relatively easy to re-use.

So what does it mean to pay attention on this issue? An environmental blog discussing this in detail suggests:

 “Consider becoming an 'aluminum Scrooge' by using as little aluminum as you can, while recycling or re-using what you must use.... Find a lid for that yam pan! Give the leftovers to friends in re-usable containers! 

Recycling really changes the sustainability equation for aluminum. Despite its high recycling potential, however, just half of aluminum cans are recycled. Each one that is thrown away is like throwing away a full can of gasoline in wasted energy. And it’s not just about putting the cans in the bin; it’s about using less, and reusing what you can. It’s also possible to buy aluminum foil made of recycled metal. And, of course, to drink fewer sodas in cans.

 Think of it as a gift to the world’s rivers.”

I love rivers, and would love to save them. But the world is more complicated than that, right? And my recycling efforts won’t change the steady march of multinational business across the globe. Yet I need to start somewhere.

Two resources to help in paying attention, to this and other issues:

The Better World Shopping Guide. Book, iphoned app and website all offer advise on spending money in ways that honor workers, protect the environment, and care for communities. Our family has made changes based on what we’ve learned, and we've discovered some great new companies and products in the process.

My Recycle List  Website and downloadable iphone app give specific locations and ways to recycle almost anything.

Am I responsible for the whole world? No, just my footprint in it, and the footprints of those who walk with me. Which demands I pay attention.

          “Stubborn Ounces”

            (To One Who Doubts the Worth of Doing Anything If You Can’t Do Everything)

             You say the little efforts that I make
             will do no good: they never will prevail
             to tip the hovering scale
             where Justice hangs in balance.

             I don’t think
             I ever thought they would.
             But I am prejudiced beyond debate
             in favor of my right to choose which side
             shall feel the stubborn ounces of my weight. (Bonaro Overstreet)


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