There was no moon to speak of Saturday night.
There is a near oppressive air to get things done before winter sets in.
The kids start back to school today --the school buses, empty because they don't use them to take kids to school but rather for school activities... --so the empty school buses ran through town blasting their horns at 7:30 to get the stragglers to school. There is a foot path that runs by our back yard --and moms with little ones decked out in new t-shirts and backpacks trekked hand in hand towards the school. Teenage boys spat and hitched their pants by the fence, waiting for the girls --or the scolding mother to shoo them on their way. Get on. You'll be late. Then the old guys come with their trash bags, picking up cans discarded by the cedar tree on the late weekend nights.
It is wonderful to watch all this over coffee --sitting on the patio.
And yesterday I travelled to three churches. First St. Phillip's, Dupree --and the church was packed --it had been too hot in July when we were due to meet. Yesterday, all the elders were there in force --and children ran in and out --all were excited to be meeting in their church home which has been closed for eight years. There is still no water or electricity and the cement pad floor is cracked and tilted in every corner --one corner in the order of about ten inches, which trashed the plumbing and electricity. But, who cares. The altar is there, the font there, we can sit here --and afterwards, we can gather at this other table in the back and talk. It's all good.
But, before the service we heard --C died, and the children are fighting. Bad. And M died, alone. And the neighbor's baby died --we need to pray for them. That's hard losing a baby. But the baby's heart wasn't right.
So we prayed. Talked about Christ being bread for the world --bread, which takes the wind and rain and sun and earth and fire and human hands to be bread --so when we eat bread, we are eating the whole creation --the Body of Christ. And we are what we eat --and how we are called in turn to be bread for the world. And then we shared bread. And after that, cookies. And Fresca.
And then I travelled to Thunder Butte, seventeen miles up a dirt road. and we talked about C's death, M's death --and did you know the neighbor's baby died. We need to pray for them, and us. That's too many deaths. C and M are not related, someone said, but they are both related to me.
And then two elders walked in late. J from Cherry Creek died. Tragic. Too young. And we just heard, R died. Jumped off that bridge this morning. Couldn't even swim. Left two teenage boys. And there's rocks in that water. They haven't found the body yet. Trying to fish it out now. Has the world gone crazy?
Too many. Too many gone this weekend. Must be the moon. There was no moon. It's really dark at night when there is no moon. Bad spirits come out then.
And so we prayed. And talked about Christ. And what does eternal life mean? In the face of so much death, how can it mean anything except that they are in the better place....? I said, no, not a better place --because when we say that around kids, they want to go there instead of staying here and live.
And then we shared bread. Offered our broken hope. And then we ate corn and macaroni salad and cucumbers in salt water. And orange cake.
Then I travelled to Bear Creek, back down the seventeen mile dirt road, down the highway a bit, and then back on another dirt road that went up the next creek valley. Deacon and I talked about how there must be a short cut from Thunder Butte to Bear Creek along a back road somewhere.
One person showed up for church... the rest were down at a pow wow quite a ways south. So we talked about all the deaths, particularly the young man who jumped off the bridge. The young kids all want to try it. No one survives it.
So we prayed. And talked about the circle of life... and shared bread and wine.
Deacon slept on the way home. And I saw the circle of life in living color. The sunflowers still courageously facing the sun. Birds gathering by clan and then huge tribes to travel to their winter camps, gathering in the air like rampant clouds in turmoil. Porcupines turning their bristly backs to us as we passed. The turkeys stop scared in the middle of the road, and then bend their knees in that backward way and run to hide in the tall grass, the comb, head and neck of the tom standing tall above the grass, looking round-eyed at me and me at him. The grasses laden the air with a sweet smell. The trees rustle and clatter and chatter of things to come, the hinges on the leaves broadening for an impending departure. I think I forgot to turn off the four-wheel drive when we turned on to the highway.
As we pulled in to the driveway, Joel comes out to greet us. He tells me, before I open the car door, that I am needed at the hospital. He doesn't know why. He helps Deacon from the car to her home. I drive the mile to the hospital, praying, preparing for the unknown before me, not emptying myself of the day so that I have room for whatever meets me at the hospital --but, instead, preparing to share the prayers and the overwhelming grace of the day. Realizing my cup runneth over.
As I pulled in to the hospital parking lot, I see the family and relatives. It's about R. The young man who jumped off the bridge. And there are the two sons. And his mother. Sisters. Brothers. Nieces. Nephews. I could have picked them out of a crowd for the disturbance in the air above them, if you know what I mean. Shock waves. Spiritual shock waves.
They want to see him. I will go with them.
All I will tell is that we could all smell the river on him. The river and her rocks and currents and deepness that rose to meet him with such force that it broke him.
And the tears that freely flowed from the gathered family will find their way to the river's rocky shore and salt her with their grief, sorrow and shock. And soon, soon enough, the sun will raise her depths to itself, gathering her waters on the shoulders of heaven, only to be poured and spilled out again as rain and snow to the waiting earth. The circle of life.
At prayer this morning (from John 5 ending at verse 29)
“Very truly, I tell you, the hour is coming, and is now here, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live. For just as the Father has life in himself, so he has granted the Son also to have life in himself; and he has given him authority to execute judgment, because he is the Son of Man. Do not be astonished at this; for the hour is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and will come out – those who have done good, to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil, to the resurrection of condemnation.”
What the hell?... I shudder at the thought... the resurrection of condemnation. No. I look it up. I pull Joel in to help.
Catecrisis is condemnation. The word used is
criseos --crisis. The resurrection of choice-making, choosing, decision, the cross-roads. It's that damn NRSV translation --the RSV translates the word as judgment...
--and every clue we have from Jesus, as God put judgment in to his hands --every clue we have is abundant love.
And we go on --and the word 'evil' --
phalos --isn't evil. It's the opposite of 'wisdom' --it's pettiness, carelessness, stupidity and the like...
Perhaps it's better translated and said --those who are righteous (not in the self-affirming way, but full of the Holy Spirit way), walk out of the grave free and clear. Those who missed the mark (the petty, careless and stupid), there's still work to be done.
That's what should be read, in my mind anyway. Joel approved.
So much is lost in translation.
Afterwards, when the funeral director arrived, we gathered with R's body in the room at the hospital set aside for ceremony, prayer and meditation; we cleansed our selves with the burning of sage and final prayers. Then I asked the woman who had carried the sage for us, to cense the body and say a final prayer. She prayed first in Lakota, then in English --Father, Grandfather, this is R. He was a good man who worked hard for his family and liked horses. Grandfather, in that place in the stars, let him ride horses again, Grandfather. That's all. All my Relatives.
Amen.
