70 degrees of Separation






Saturday, September 15, saw a most beautiful occasion to retreat - to come away, to separate - from the routine task of our life in Owensboro. Rather than cleaning our house, which we needed to do; rather than polishing my roughly hewn sermon, which I needed (and still need) to do; rather than pulling the cord that fires the engine that turns the blade that cuts my yard; rather than anything else, Kendra, Zoe, and I wanted simply to play.

And so we did.

The Botanical Gardens of Owensboro provided us a welcome opportunity to be outside: the annual Scarecrow Festival. A scarecrow is a device (traditionally a mannequin, I understand) that is used to discourage birds (a la crows) from disturbing crops. Not only do crows feed on recently cast seed, they also gather nightly, starting with groups of a half dozen which then unite to form a group of 20 to 30 and so on until the flock is quite large and noisy. It is their habit to return to the same place each night. Having a scarecrow gets one's crops a bit closer to viability, which is a gift on which we all depend.

In the Japanese mythology compiled in Kojiki in 712, a scarecrow appears as a deity, Kuebiko, who cannot walk, but knows everything of the world (so says Wikipedia).

Interestingly, a book published in 1881 declares one of the most effective scarecrows to be a "fowling piece" (read: gun) and the sound of exploding gun powder, both of which crows have known to be fatal to their race. Really? Hmmm.

Thanks be to God "the most effective scarecrows" didn't show up at the annual festival we attended. No guns, only lots and lots of beautiful children, gorgeous (albeit a bit dry) gardens, the smell of a cookout, painted faces, temporary tatoos, and some really nice photography on display.

Being there - outdoors in the 70 degree relief - made us want to commit the entire day to play. Which we most unashamedly did.

In fact, we left the festival and went down by the river to play.

My mom tells me that I flew a kite when I was 9-ish, though I don't remember it. If I did, that would have been the last time. Now, at 32, I was ready to have another go. The temptation toward frustration was too easily observed. I resisted. I learned to wait. On the wind. Which is 80% of what being in church is like. And I'm kinda used to that.

And then...she flew.

My kite reached heights for which the manufacturer of the spool of kite-string didn't prepare. Thanks to the remnants of decommissioned flyer, I found other string, then more still, only finally to tie the leash of the dog of my dear friend/neighbor/colleague to the end. 250 feet or higher.

I lost it in the sun.

There is something to be said about life and kite-flying and salvation, isn't there? We tend to like to think that we have some control over things, that we can exercise our perceived rights, that we can govern the forces that bind us. But we don't pull the strings do we? We simply watch, wait, and, when the time seems right, we let go. It's a game of tenderness and generosity. It's about patience and expectation.

I'm guessing young Mary, young Jesus, young Paul chased a kite or two. I'm guessing that they, too, fought the urge to curse the darn thing when, after running nearly a mile, it just lagged behind them, bouncing, snagging, drooping on the earth, never to seem interested in its purpose. I imagine that our forebears in faith enjoyed very much the sensation that accompanies the event horizon: just when you want to fold it up and go home, comes the breath of God, and away she goes, up into the noonday sun.

Life and love, ministry and work, neighborliness and neighbors - it's all in the letting go.

Zoe, do not let us drag you into the fray of our own making, where the desire to control consumes our capacity to let go and to love.