On the Road Again – Or, at Least, the Bike Path

It is part of my new “get fit” routine. Biking the Cape Cod Canal bike trail. It has been tough going, but I seem have worked up to ten-mile sessions, which on a fat tire bike gives me a good workout, even with its fifteen gears.

It may be making me physically fit, or fitter, though I think the jury is still out on that. Weight loss, maybe a bit; cardiovascular health, how do you tell?; lower body strength, maybe yes.

But what this new fitness regime has done for me is to make me more mentally and spiritually alive, of that I have no doubt. Mentally, I know a good ride clears out the cobwebs in a remarkable effective fashion. Maybe it is the ever-changing views along the twisting canal, the light off the water, the wind rippling the surface, the nods to roller-bladers and walkers and fishermen with their coolers and rods and bikes outfitted with white fishing rod holders banded to the rear fender. Maybe it is the concentration required to keep on pumping into a strong headwind. Maybe it is just being away from church and family responsibilities for a set period. All I know is that I come back physically exhausted, but mentally refreshed.

But what has been surprising to me has been how these rides have fed my spirit. I have an IPod, so slip the tiny earplugs in, select from one of my custom playlists (New Wave, Alternative Rock, Bruce, Lyle, Rachmaninoff or Beethoven), set my front wheel towards Bourne, and soon find a different kind of spiritual renewal. My mind wanders where it will, my legs pump to the beat, my lungs fill with air and then release it only to begin the cycle again, the sun shines and the wind blows and a sense of peace comes,

something that might even be characterized as prayer,

if only we could let go of rigid ideas of what form prayer must take to be prayer.

Plowing the Rain?

           The slow crawl into town this morning was caused, I eventually saw, by one of our huge New England snowplows, yellow warning lights flashing, huge wheels gripping the pavement, curved blade scraping all before it. In its wake, no snow, no slush, no ice. As I slowly made it by in the passing lane, I saw before it – no snow, no slush, no ice.  Just rain puddles. It was plowing the rain.

            In this week’s New Yorker there is a cartoon depicting two men sitting together at a bar or lunch counter, with one saying to the other, “I’m looking for an easier religion.”

            Plowing the rain may be easy for a snowplow, but no one would say that is what a snowplow is made for, or that in plowing the rain the snowplow is fulfilling its highest purpose.  No one hoping to get in shape goes to the gym for a workout and lifts one pound weights if they are capable of lifting far more, or trains for a marathon by taking leisurely walks around the neighborhood. We don’t tell our children that they can learn to play the piano if they practice a minute a day, or excel at school without doing homework. 

And yet how often are we at best half-hearted when it comes to our spiritual health, seeking only to plow the rain, and being too easily satisfied with its meager rewards.

Are you . . . fallow ground?

            Suburban kid that I was, I had no experience equipping me to question the elementary school teacher who taught us that one way colonial farmers ensured good crops was to rotate their fields, and every few years allow a field to lie fallow – they would plow the field, but not plant it, and let it rest for a year.

            Yet biologists and agriculturalists today tell us that the field which lies fallow for a season is anything but at rest. That field is full of activity and life – insects and earthworms and bacteria are hard at work regenerating the soil, breaking down organic matter, releasing nutrients, loosening compacted ground.  That field only looks to be at rest, when in fact it is really hard at work, preparing itself for a new growing season.

            I wonder sometimes if this also might not be true in our spiritual lives.  That when those inevitable dark nights of the soul arrive unexpected and uninvited, when a spiritual lethargy seems to grab a hold and we can summon little enthusiasm for church or matters of the spirit, when we feel that we have been abandoned and God does not care, if there is a God at all - - in short, when we might compare ourselves to a fallow field, barren and without growth or evident sign of life – that in fact we might be in a state of ferment below the surface, in a time of preparation, in a necessary stage that is a prelude to something we might not be able to imagine, but which is all the more wonderful for that.

            Maybe, in our bleak spiritual midwinter, when we feel as if we are fallow ground, this should be a cause not of despair, but of expectant hope….

Bridging The Tide

     What, if anything, is of the Spirit in this photogragh?

     At first glance, a bridge, a structure crossing the tide, connecting two shores, built to span the waters and allowing passage across.

     Perhaps reminding us of the hopes of many that, now the elections are behind us, the parties might come together, find a way to bridge their differences, and in some semblance of unity work together to address the very real issues that confront us -- issues of substance, yes, two wars and a precarious economy and infrastructure needs and so much more, but also issues that go to the heart of how we will behave towards one another. Thoughts of reconciliation.

     Those of the Christian faith might notice the structure undergirding the bridge, reminiscent of what Jesus dragged up that hill outside Jerusalem some 2000 years ago, and wonder about a bridge between humanity and the Divine. Thoughts of another sort of reconciliation, perhaps.

     And maybe those who know this bridge, part of the boardwalk in Sandwich, Massachusetts, will see something else.  Noticing the ladder that drops from the mid-point of the bridge, they will see the bridge as it is in summertime, at high tide, crowded with children and youth and an occasional parent, all waiting for a chance to clamber up on the railing and then, after a nervous deep breath, that exhilerating Oh-My-God! plunge deep into the cool , salty waters.

     Perhaps they will see not discord, not opposing shores, and not even a bridge.

     Perhaps they will see a yellow brick road.

     What, of the Spirit or otherwise, do you see?