Salmon Jesus

by Judy Bevilacqua

My husband and I call it Salmon-Jesus! It was the first thing I saw that morning, over 4 years ago, when I walked in the door as a visitor to St. Luke’s. I was immediately attracted to this unusual ceramic crucifix in the chancel of the church. But wait! It was not a crucifix at all, but a risen Christ. I discovered this sculpture was called the “Christus Rex” – Christ the King – and that it was made of high-fired clay by the potter, (and my neighbor), the late Bennett Welsh. This created in me an immediate connection and affection for my new house of worship. I had long been an admirer of Mr. Welsh’s work and also dabbled in art and pottery myself. So to find a church that had a value for art and such a non-traditional Jesus, was a soul-warming experience. After all, Jesus was pretty non-traditional and counter-cultural in real life.

I was told that this sculpture of the risen Christ symbolized the endangered church. There is Jesus, arms outstretched, against a backdrop of old growth firs. There are brilliant red, spawning, dying, wild, sacrificial salmon, leaping right through his glorified body. A small spotted owl hovers against the Savior’s breast. All seem a familiar part of our local culture and they are perfect reflections of the struggle for survival going on in our NW backyards - and indeed - the whole world. I can certainly understand these natural symbols of endangered species, but the endangered church? Hmmm. What correlations for the church do I gather as I behold this Christ each week at worship?

Lately, I am making meager attempts to learn sustainable practices in my gardening and eating, shopping and recycling. I want these values in the bloodstream of my spiritual life as well. How is the ecology of my church life? Does my own heart include wild places and wonder? Mystery, silence and reverence for the earth? If so, does that spill over into my community?

Do I possess a theology that supports sustainability? I looked up “sustain” in the thesaurus. The list of words poured out like honey! Listen to this: to bear up, support, to carry, encourage, to shore up, assist, comfort, to succor, give strength, to buoy up, to keep alive, to preserve, to perpetuate, to conserve, to maintain, to nourish, feed, to nurture! Shall I go on? Wow! Who wouldn’t like to go to a church that practiced sustainability!

After a bit of thought, one word seemed to epitomize all these amazing descriptions: HOSPITALITY. That one word probably drives the environmentalism at all levels of my life. Christian hospitality as I understand it, is the creation of sanctuary — an atmosphere in which all who enter feel loved, accepted and safe. It is why I love the ministry of the labyrinth and the garden around it. The bench and the birdbath beckon the stranger and welcome the weary. The labyrinth invites a slowing down for quiet and contemplation. It’s a haven of sustainability! A place for inner and outer sanctuary. Where heaven and nature sing.

And so also, “Salmon Jesus” whispers and winks this radical hospitality to us every Sunday during worship.

"But now ask the beasts, and let them teach you;

And the birds of the heavens, and let them tell you.

Or speak to the earth, and let it teach you;

And let the fish of the sea declare to you.

Who among all these does not know

That the hand of the LORD has done this?” Job 12:7-9

Learning From Our Roots; Honoring Our Neighbors

by Kyle Wiseley

All of us are aware that Christianity arose out of Jewish religious traditions. Jesus and his disciples were Jews as were Paul and the other authors of the Epistles. Three of the four Gospels were presumably written by Jews and scholarship indicates that the Gospel According to Luke and The Acts of the Apostles were written by a gentile who had converted to Judaism.

We are in the midst of this year’s Jewish High Holy Days. Actually the period began with the beginning of the Hebrew month of Elul and Rosh Hashanah, which falls 30 days later, is the beginning of the High Holy Days, which this year began with the celebration of the Jewish Sabbath this past Friday. It has a mutiple purpose: first, it is the celebration of the beginning of a new year and begins with the blowing of the Shofar, or ram’s horn, which signifies God’s call to his people; it is also a time of judgment – of personal introspection and acknowledgement of one’s sins; and finally, it is a time of remembrance of both Hebrew history and of loved ones who have died.

During the following ten days the people are encouraged to continue the examination of their lives and to acknowledge and ask forgiveness for their sins. During this time the doors of Heaven are seen as being open so that one’s name may be written in the Book of Life.

Yom Kippur, or The Day of Atonement, falls on the tenth day after Rosh Hashanah. This is the holiest day of the year for the Jewish people. There are various prohibitions of activities and customs including a strict fast and the worship services are the most solemn of the year. Hebrew tradition holds that at the end of the Day of Atonement the Book of Life is closed for another year.

So, what can we learn from our Jewish friends and their tradition which is so very different from the secular celebration of the New Year which occurs on December 31 and January 1? From my childhood I remember attending “Watch Night” service on New Year’s Eve – a service that began about 11:00 p.m. and included elements of repentance, prayer and celebration. At midnight the church bell rang in the New Year. This homely tradition, which was not widespread in our denomination even then, and by now has generally been abandoned, apparently hearkened back to a dim memory of an important religious observance in our roots.

Perhaps this would be a good time to be aware of what our Jewish brothers and sisters are doing during these ten days and emulate their spirit of self-examination and acknowledgement of our need for forgiveness, and to celebrate the renewed and joyful life that is available to each of us as we journey more attentively on our common spiritual path.

Stay

by Kathy Douglass

I went to a reading a few weeks back. It was filling up by the time I arrived. I wound my way through uneven rows of dented metal chairs, set in crooked lines on the hardwood floor between European Architecture and Science Fiction at Powell’s Books on Hawthorne in Portland.

I’d been intrigued by a blurb in the local paper about the young writer who’d be the guest.I sat with the appreciative group of readers, writers, seekers, on-their-way-to-somewhere-elsers who’d stumbled in with a cup of coffee and a bit of spare time.

I love being read to. Living on my own makes that tricky, so I attend readings when I can.

The young writer, she was delightful. Honest, nervous, funny. A little amazed that anyone would come out on a school night to listen to the words she’d had the courage to write. She read to us from her newest collection of narrative pieces. They were genuine, heartbreaking, tender. She received the polite applause with an embarrassed grin, and then patiently answered the questions that invariably get asked at these gatherings: “How much time do you spend writing every day?” “How do you disguise your characters so your family won’t recognize themselves?” “How can I get my own book published?” Her answers were gracious and thoughtful, as if she were hearing these questions for the first time. She took the cap off a new Sharpie pen, grabbed a book off the stack fresh from the publisher, and signed her name over and again on the flyleaf that still smelled of bookbinding glue.

I was glad I’d gone. I was glad to spend a slice of evening with other grown-ups who like being read to. I’d gone intrigued and left intrigued.

But it isn’t this young writer’s work or her particular story that has stayed with me since that evening. It was what someone else said along the way. Truth has a habit of doing that, showing up unannounced, making its presence known when we’re not looking or listening for it. She mentioned, as she spoke to us, of a writing workshop she’d attended some time ago where she had been under the instruction of one of her favorite writers: Katherine Dunn, an award-winning novelist and poet. Katherine, during her own Q and A at this workshop, had said the following to the writers leaning in to capture her every word: “I don’t write so I can escape. I write so I can stay.”

“I don’t write so I can escape. I write so I can stay.”

The young writer told us of the deep impact this bit of truth had on her. I left Powell’s that night knowing just how she felt. These are the words that resonated with me that evening, these are the words that resonate with me still.

“I write so I can stay.” So I can stay. Stay.

I picture that award-winning writer, staying, choosing to be present. Staying with a character til his or her voice finds itself. Staying with a plot idea until it unfolds and sets out on its own winding path. Staying with the doubt that she can ever write another story until the doubt passes. Staying with the noise of everything that’s calling her away from what she truly loves to do… write, to be… a writer. Staying with the noise until she can stare it down, until quiet takes its place and she can pick up where she left off. Not writing so she can escape. Writing so she can stay. Allowing space and time and stillness so truth can weave itself into the narrative.

We struggle sometimes to allow for space and time and stillness. There are so many escape routes, so many getaway cars. They screech toward us, we hop in and disappear. We grab hold of any distraction, and the very things that need stillness are avoided: an unspoken concern, an unuttered doubt, a bit of wound unattended, the weight of what overwhelms. Even a bit of hope or joy unexpressed.

The noises, loud and large, drown out the voice that is still and small. The voice that says “Come to Me. Be with Me. Stay with Me.”

My friend Elliott told me that he doesn’t possess the “fight or flight” instinct that’s inherent in most of us. He admits he’s all “flight or flight”. When confronted, escape is his only option. It’s all “get me outta here”. I smiled at that, just because it sounded a tiny bit familiar.

“The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you… He will rejoice over you with singing… He will quiet you with His love.” (Zephaniah 3:17)

What if, increasingly, instead of escaping, we could “stay”. What if, tiny breath by tiny breath, we could allow ourselves to be quieted.

What if we could stay with our own story as it unfolds. Find our voices. See the path come into view a step at a time, and trust that we are not alone in the staying.

My heart is not proud and my eyes are not haughty, I am not concerned with lofty things

I have stilled my soul like a babe with its mother

And my hope rests in God, both now and forever

I have stilled, stilled my soul, oh my soul, be still

Be still my soul

I have stilled, stilled my soul, oh my soul, be still

Be still my soul

(Lyric from Psalm 131)

Set aside, for a moment, the instinct to fight, to flee, to escape.

Take a tiny breath.

Allow for the stillness.

And stay.

The Thin Place

by Ian Doescher

Have you ever heard something called a “thin place”? A thin place is a specific location or a particular situation in which one senses that the divine realm and the human realm are very close to one another. The isle of Iona is known as just such a thin place. On the island, you can sense the presence and profundity of those who have been there before—Christians from throughout history as far back as St. Columba.

Thin places are not just geographical regions, though. Thin places can be times in your life when something happens that seems to make the line between God’s realm and our human realm almost nonexistent. Recently, I was with a couple whose five-month-old grandson recently died of SIDS. The husband of the couple said he had a sense that the child’s death was connected deeply to everything around him—an early fall leaf dropping from a tree, the laughter of his family, the shared grief of all those who have lost loved ones. He is in a thin place right now.

Thin places—particularly those that result from various life situations—can’t be planned or anticipated, but we should watch for them and take advantage of them when they come. In the thin place, we go searching for God only to find that God is already waiting to meet us.

“God said, ‘Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.’ Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’”--1 Kings 19:11-13