This Life And Not Another

A Sermon Preached on August 23, 2009 at Trinity Episcopal Church, Portland, Maine.

Proper 16. Year B

So this morning we come to the end of the lectionary's four-week digression from Marks's gospel into an exploration of the sixth chapter of the Gospel of John, a multi-faceted reflection on Jesus as the bread of life. Unlike the synoptic gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, John's version of the feeding of the five thousand acts as a springboard for a lengthy discourse by Jesus.

The Jesus of John says, "I am the bread of life" and "the bread of God" that "comes down from heaven and gives life to the world." Jesus himself is that bread; people are to eat him. John's language gets even more graphic: "Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life...For my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink."

Obviously, the Jesus of John's gospel is speaking metaphorically--we are not here being urged to become cannibals.

The historical Jesus scholar Marcus Borg suggests that "the imagery of eating and drinking connects to a central religious metaphor for our deepest human yearning: hunger, and the closely related metaphor thirst. "There are those who hunger and thirst for God, for justice, for meaning, for life" Borg writes. "For John, Jesus is the answer to that hunger: Jesus himself is the bread of life who satisfies our hunger. Eat this bread and you will never be hungry: [For Jesus says:]'I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never be hungry.'"

And yet, as John makes clear in this morning's reading, his disciples are troubled by this teaching. "This teaching is difficult" they say, "who can accept it?" The gospel narrator says that, because of this teaching, many of his disciples turned away and no longer went about with him. We may wonder about the nature of the difficulty.

The difficulty, I believe, lies in its particularity, in its concreteness if you will. That is, John is not here being vague. Jesus is like eating and drinking--a vulgar comparison. And our yearning for God is like a hunger in the belly. Week after week, the eucharist reminds us that eating and drinking--those most fundamental human acts--are revealing of God's presence in us and among us. It's that simple. Nothing esoteric here, nothing special. And that very ordinariness offends many spiritual seekers, even today.

Which is to say, the spiritual life is not about some other life; it's about this life.

It's not about some other place; it's about this place.

It's not about some special state of mind or heightened consciousness; it's about ordinary, everyday mind.

And it's not about just anyone; as Christians we would say that it's about Jesus and, because it's about Jesus, it's about you and me in all our maddening and exhilarating uniqueness.

It's about nothing special and everything special.

And we secretly wish it were different.

A Buddhist teacher of my acquaintance, Larry Rosenberg, tells the story of a research study about the most frequently used phrases in Hollywood films. The phrase that won overwhelmingly was, "Let's get outta here!" Larry suggests that this finding points to a fundamental truth about the human condition. It's the bumper sticker phenomenon--I'd rather be fishing, golfing, playing tennis...whatever. You fill in the blanks. Wherever we are couldn't possibly be the right place to be. And whoever we're with, there must be somebody out there more interesting, more caring, more beautiful. We hate it that real life is so prosaic, that the spiritual life is so challenging because so mundane. We feel gypped, like we've been sold a bill of goods, and so a lot of us self-medicate or become self-involved or just space out.

The spiritual life is about the quality of attention that we bring to bear on what's right in front of us, however mundane, however boring, however painful, or not:

This lack of affordable health care that adversely effects the lives of millions; this homeless man looking for a handout on the corner of State St. and Park Avenue; this particular hue or cast of light on a distant cloud; this dear friend and co-worker just laid off, seemingly randomly, and for no good reason; this lone birdsong in the woods on a hot, muggy late August morning; this dying person before me, whose breaths come now, but shallow and intermittent.

As a hospice chaplain, I strive to be aware of the quality of attention that I bring to bear on my patients and their families. And often, it seems, I learn from others how to do that best. This past week I sat with a woman as she kept vigil at the bedside of her dying husband. As the patient was Roman Catholic, I called for a priest to come and offer the sacrament of the sick.

For some priests, perhaps because of their diminishing numbers and the corresponding demands placed upon them, this sacrament has become rote, a mere lifeless recitation. But for others it remains vital--a means of conveying life--an outward sign of the grace to be found even in the face of death.

Father Kevin did not stand aloof at the foot of the bed but sat in a chair next to the patient's wife, holding her hand as they recited the prayers. He gently anointed the patient's forehead and hands with holy oil. He addressed the patient and his wife by name and did not neglect to mention their whole family in the prayers. In that the patient could not himself receive communion, Kevin offered it to the patient's wife on his behalf. He punctuated his speaking with silence. He wasn't in a hurry. He hugged the patient's wife before departing, offering his church for the funeral, encouraging her, saying that every Catholic was entitled to a church funeral, no matter how infrequent their attendance at Mass.

In the midst of death, every action of this gifted priest was a blessing of life and a celebration of abiding love, all through the quality of his attention.

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is" writes the poet Mary Oliver, "I do know how to pay attention."

In one sense I regret telling this story, as none of us need be a priest to manifest the sacred; we may all bring blessing to bear on any and every moment through the quality of our attention and the graciousness of our lives.

We can almost catch the glimmer of sadness in his eyes, the wistfulness in his tone of voice, when Jesus asks his disciples: "Do you also wish to go away?"

Peter answered him: "Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life."

To whom then can we go? To what other life can we appeal? The abundant life Jesus promises us is not about some hoped for heaven. It's about eternal life--this life--right now.

And the whole of the spiritual life is this moment lovingly attended to. And the next and the next and the next...

AMEN

Leave Taking

Last week, snow showers were forecast for Saglek Bay with low temperatures in the thirties. Wind is always in the forecast, no matter what the season or day of the week. Gary, one of the park rangers at base camp, said the northern lights become more common from mid-August on, as the daylight fades and gives way to darkness.

As we draw nearer to autumn, I find that the magical thrall of this trip begins to fade as well. Last weekend, we brought our daughter Bekah back to college in Washington, D.C and next week Anna begins school as well. Other priorities crowd in and I find that I am giving a great deal of thought to work, mulling over a possible return to active ministry in the Episcopal Church.

And yet, and yet...our trip to the Torngat Mountains still circles round close to my heart and lives on, as I trust it always will.

The Air Inuit Twin Otter took off late from the George River. Aboard were several Inuit elders on their way to park base camp for a week of meetings with park authorities. The Torngat Mountains National Park came about as a result of a land claims agreement between the native people and Parks Canada. They now collaborate in the management of the park. The plane would drop them off at Saglek and we, in turn, would get onboard for the flight back to Kuujjiak. From Kuujjiak we would catch a flight to Montreal, then drive on home to Maine.

At the airport the wind was blowing hard down the valley. Waiting out in the open for an hour or so, we sought refuge out of the cold wherever we could. We were treated to a visit by a herd of caribou that hung-out behind an outbuilding used as a garage for service vehicles and other machinery. Two parked themselves on a ridge overlooking the mountains, standing next to a fuel storage tank reserved for search and rescue missions. With cameras in hand, we slowly approached and were surprised when they showed no interest in moving on, as if posing for a photo with the perfect backdrop of the snow covered Torngats beyond. We zoomed in for shots that excluded the fuel tank, as if the caribou were standing out in the middle of nowhere which, in fact, they were. The bear monitors accompanying us got a good look through the telescopic sights on their rifles, without firing a shot. The caribou finally moseyed on and joined others of their kind up on the hillside.

At last the plane came within view, its landing lights shining brightly in the distance as it came in off the bay for its final approach. With the runway clear of caribou, it came down and landed, dropping off the elders as we stowed our gear aboard. On the flight back to Kuujiak, we all peered through the windows, getting last looks of the mountainous landscape we had just spent a week in. We caught a brief glimpse of the North Arm where we had set-up camp.

The place of spirits. The spirit of the land and of the polar bear and of the ancient peoples who have traversed that place. Such places are rare these days, such untouched places of wilderness where the original face of creation lives on unimpeded. Such is the vision that gave birth to the spiritual impulse, these elemental forces--of wind and mountain and sea- that shaped the soul of humankind. All else that has evolved as religion seems to me mere commentary on this primordial face. We so complicate it with our doctrines and dogmas, when at base it is so simple, yet so awesome.

May we have the grace to be still enough to stand in such places and listen; listen to that which came before us all and will live on long after we have gone, that which is our essential nature and our true home.

Photo Credit: David S. Heald Caribou at Saglek Bay

All Flights Cancelled

"All flights cancelled" came the word at 3:10 PM on Saturday. I was lying in the tent and commenced to take a nap, there being nothing else to do under the circumstances. We had arrived back at park base camp the afternoon before, after the queasy ride on high rolling seas aboard the Robert Bradford. Thankfully, Greg had figured the weather into our departure plans, allowing for one full day to be holed up in inclement weather. The Saglek Bay airport was nothing more than a gravel runway. Being closer to the Labrador Sea by a mile or two, it was vulnerable to the weather and to fog banks coming in from the frigid ocean waters. Word had it that the Air Inuit pilots would not come in unless the cloud ceiling was higher than 1,000 ft.

But base camp was not a bad place to hang out in. It was like an old-fashioned frontier town, it's main street with tents on either side, with a fast-flowing stream just outside the perimeter of the electric bear fence to provide fresh water. Generators supplied electricity to a large shelter tent used for meetings and social gatherings as well as to the kitchen/dining tent. There were two outhouses within the bear fence to be used when the fence was turned on (between 10 PM and 5 AM) and one outside the perimeter to be used during the day. The base camp helicopter was parked outside the fence, rows of red and black striped jet fuel barrels lined up alongside. The red maple leaf Canadian flag on one side, and the white, blue, and green flag of Nunatsiavut--the self-governing Inuit region of Labrador--depicting an inuksuk--the traditional stone cairn of the Inuit--on the other, marked the entrance to the camp.

The human population of base camp consisted of the Inuit bear monitors, kitchen staff, and several support staff, as well as the Parks Canada Rangers, several research scientists and their students, and a handful of Inuit youth and their counselors there for two weeks of camp. Peter, the helicopter pilot, was there for a two-week stint as well, to be relieved by another pilot when his time was up. Weather permitting, he would make several flights everyday, transporting the researchers to various far-flung points in the park or, as I've already noted, to check-up on hikers in the back country. In my eyes, Peter was a real rock star, piloting that machine with incredible skill and grace, over mountaintops, down valleys, landing on rocky terrain with apparent ease. Onboard the long-liner Robert Bradford, it was a three hour passage from park base camp to our camp at the head of the North Arm. By helicopter, Peter could make it in twenty minutes.

There were presentations by researchers both evenings we were at base camp. Folks would cram into the meeting tent after dinner and watch power-point presentations, enjoying the warmth cast by the gas stove in the corner. The first evening we listened to a presentation on the state of PCB contamination at what was the site of the Royal Canadian Air Force radar base at the mouth of Saglek Bay above the airstrip, operated between 1953 and 1970, and staffed largely by US Air Force personnel. The site was targeted for PCB cleanup in the 1990's. Happily, due to the cleanup and the passage of time, PCB contaminants in the environment have decreased substantially. The second evening, we heard an entertaining presentation by an ethnobotanist on the traditional uses of native plants by the Inuit of Nunavut and Nunatsiavut. As background to the lecture, several of the bear monitors, including John, were out on the land firing their rifles and adjusting their telescopic sights.

One woman researcher, studying for her PhD, was investigating the effects of climate change on native species of berries. Several others were doing research on one aspect or another of climate change. The presence of so many intense, intelligent scientists focusing their energies on the natural world was exhilarating. There was a Canadian college professor present whose area of study is eco-tourism. A young man from Bhutan, a student of eco-tourism in his own country, was also in camp. Our own group was a source of interest and fascination to many, as we were American hikers from Maine (there were no other hikers in camp), and had acquired fame by virtue of our heroic encounter with the polar bear. (Actually, the only hero in our midst that day was John; the only heroine, the bear herself.)

Sunday morning it dawned partly cloudy with blue skies, the clearing wind having come in the night. We made our farewells on the beach and again boarded the Robert Bradford, which ferried us and our gear out the bay and around to the airstrip. Immediately above the runaway there were low-hanging clouds, but the approaches were clear. The Air Inuit Twin Otter was on its way from the George River.

Photo Credit: David S. Heald Dish Towels Hanging Out To Dry At Park Base Camp

Onboard The Robert Bradford

We were picked-up in the North Arm on Friday by the long-liner Robert Bradford, owned and skippered by brothers Chesley and Joe Webb. That morning, Joe had netted a ringed seal ("natsik" in Inuktituk) and Ches' son Jared baked it in a pie onboard.

When offered some seal, I readily accepted, figuring that the opportunity might not again present itself in this life. I spooned out a hearty helping from the baking dish atop the hot cabin stove and set about the task of eating it. I was urged on by Jared, a young man of large proportions whose round red sea-faring face was all smiles as I dug into the pungent pie. "Do you like it?" he asked. "Mmmh...yeah..." I replied between mouthfuls, not altogether truthfully.

The weather had remained unsettled with occasional showers and the seas were rolling high as we slowly made our way down the fjord and back to the park base camp. The seal was--how should I say?--rather fishy and stringy. And the breaded topping or crust was soaked in dark seal grease. At some point, I vaguely sensed that I best not eat anymore. It might have had something to do with the rolling seas and a vague, though alarmingly persistent, queasiness arising in my belly.

I remembered the Bonine--"for all-day non-drowsy motion sickness relief"-- that I had tucked away in my fanny pack, having previously used it to good effect on our charter flight into the park aboard the Beechcraft King Air. I popped in two tablets of the raspberry flavored chewable pills. Then I gingerly stepped over and strategically positioned myself over the port side of the boat. Fixing my gaze on the horizon, I tasted the greasy seal meat as it rose up in my throat, now mixed with gastric juices. My head swam.

"How much further can it be?" I moaned inwardly. I was certain that I had turned a bilious shade of green. My tent-mate Josh was feeling no better and took refuge up on the deck of the cabin, with the fresh air blowing over the bow full on his face.

At long last I caught a blessed glimpse of the park base camp as we entered the long bay with calmer, sheltered waters ahead. Gary, a park ranger, warmly greeted us when we disembarked. Several of the bear monitors helped us haul our gear up to the tents. Terra firma never felt so good.

It was time for supper. In the mess tent, folks were already lining up for boiled caribou ribs.

Photo Credit: David S. Heald Robert Bradford Anchored In The Bay At Park Base Camp

Things That Go Bump In The Night

Several have asked whether I was scared or apprehensive after our encounter with the polar bear on our first day in the wilderness. My answer was "no," because I had complete confidence, not in the electric bear fence, but in John, our Inuit guide and bear monitor.

That being said, we were all vigilant and got in the habit of scanning the horizon whenever we walked about. Speaking for myself, I was most watchful in attending to "nature's call." The prospect of being caught with my pants down by a black bear while doing my "business" away from camp was sufficiently unnerving so as to sharpen my senses. With my awareness thus heightened, I soon came to relish these delicious moments of solitude in a spectacular natural setting.

One incident, however, got my blood pressure and heart rate right up there. Thursday morning, the park helicopter flew down the North Arm and touched down in the grassy meadow behind our camp. Jacko, John's brother and a park ranger, bowing low under the whirling blade of the copter, jogged over and handed John a candy bar. And, oh, by the way, he said, he had seen a large male polar bear in the next bay over. Better keep your eyes open. Off went Jacko and the machine gracefully lifted off, circled round, and sped down the valley and away. Silence.

We went about the day's activities--a long hike down the valley in the rain. Back at camp, I noticed that our tent was leaking, with little pools of water collecting in one corner and out in the center between our sleeping bags. I alerted Josh, my tent mate, and we in turn spoke with Greg, our gear guy extraordinaire from Chewonki. Greg erected a second fly on poles over the existing one, and fastened the corners down tight with stakes and rocks.

Now, as an aside, Josh is a big guy. Not tall mind you, but BIG. Not fat big but muscle big. This guy garnishes his morning cereal with steel bolts. By profession, he's a fitness trainer, so it's his job to stay in shape. With telephone pole arms and tree trunk legs, he weighs in at well over two hundred pounds, heavier than me, despite my being several inches taller. On our hikes, I was gratified to be able--more or less-to keep up with the guy.

That night it continued to rain and the wind picked-up considerably, with gusts in the forties. It was dark. Wicked dark. I was slumbering away peacefully when "WHACK"--Josh's side of the tent was violently concussed by God Knows What. Josh was airborne and landed in my lap shouting: "Jesus Christ!!! What the f--- was that!!!" We later confessed that, at that moment, we both thought we were dead meat and expected that the huge clawed paw of a ravenous male polar bear was about to be thrust through the side of the tent, eviscerating us as it swept all away in its wake.

Benson called from the next tent: "Are you guys all right?" As I had had the wind knocked out of me by a guy who could have been a tackle for the New England Patriots, I caught my breath and gasped that we were O.K. "But what the f--- was that???" I yelped. It turned out to be the second fly, sprung loose from its moorings in a gust of wind, slapping hard against the tent. It was now flapping about wildly, making a racket. I also had to pee, badly. But was I going to venture forth into the black of that rainy night and run into God Knows What? No way. Bladder be damned, I was going to stay put.

The next morning, it became apparent that everyone was awakened by the ruckus in the night. The story went through many iterations throughout the day. Its most amazing feature was that a two hundred pound plus man could actually go airborne from fright. Take it from me, it's true.

Photo Credit: David Heald Tents in Camp, North Arm, Saglek Fjord

Botanizing

Our camp at the head of the North Arm of Saglek Fjord was on a grassy terrace situated above a rocky beach. Behind us, to the north, a valley crisscrossed by streams headed far into the heart of the Torngat Mountains. All around us, cliffs rose abruptly out of the sea to heights of almost 3,000 feet. High above, the ridgelines extend as far as the eye can see and catch the first rays of the morning sun and warmly glow in the arctic twilight late into the evening.

One could contentedly sit for hours, gazing down the length of the North Arm or up at the cliffs rising to the ridgelines or peering deep into the valley behind. Our immediate environment of grass meadows and alder and willow thickets showed signs of long human habitation, from tent circles to cairn gravesites to food caches. In the midst of what is much of the year an inhospitable environment, there is a delightful array of wildflowers. Due to the short summer, these plants must grow, flower and produce seeds fast. We were there at the peak of this brief season.

We were fortunate to have among our number Don Hudson, President of the Chewonki Foundation in Wiscasset, ME. Not only is Don a veteran of camping excursions far into the North, but he has his PhD in botany, with extensive study of arctic plants to boot. I made a point of watching him closely and asking lots of questions. Due to reconstructive surgery of his ankle several months ago, Don was somewhat hindered in his ability to hike extensively over considerable distances. He hobbled his "good" ankle after a day-long hike over rocky terrain, negotiating willow thickets and fording rapid-flowing streams.

Mid-week he chose to stay close to camp, venturing out with his Nikon and macro lens, exploring the beach, grassy meadows, and--under the wary distant eye of our bear monitor, John--rummaging about in the willow thickets on the lower mountainsides. For hours he crouched down low or crawled along on his belly, taking shots of wildflowers and other plants, no doubt oblivious to the passage of time.

One day, I detained him long enough to repeat for me a number of the more common species, which I jotted down in my journal--Labrador Tea (two species), one with small, narrow leaves, another broader and bushier; low-growing birches; Lapland Rosebay; bearberry willow (gone to seed); mountain cranberry; alpine billberry; river beauty; sandwort; yellow mountain-saxifrage; artic harebell, etc.. Sometimes he had difficulty remembering the common name for these plants, preferring instead the Latin names, which he reeled off with astonishing recall.

On a windy, rainy, cold afternoon he stood overlooking the North Arm and the great expanse of mountains and spontaneously, with gloved hand, pointed at every plant within sight and effortlessly named them with a dramatic voice befitting that of God at the beginning of Creation. That this scriptural allusion from the Book of Genesis occurred to him there can be no doubt--Don's father was a Methodist preacher. We stood in awe before him as he turned to every point of the compass, his voice building, his passion more and more evident with every grand declaration. Creation, indeed, was good.

On our last day in Labrador, back at the park base camp, while the rest of us went on a hike over the nearby terrain with a group of Inuit youth, Don pulled out his hardback tome of arctic flora and wrote down every plant he had seen, some eighty-five species in all. He reviewed his work on the First Air flight from Kuujjiak to Montreal, blissfully sipping on a Molson Golden Ale.

Thanks, Don, for your abiding passion and love of the natural world.

Photo Credit: David S. Heald River Beauty

Our Inuit Friend

As firearms are not permitted in the Torngat Mountains, park officials encourage visitors to engage the services of an Inuit guide. The wisdom of such advice was made evident on our first day in the park. If John Merkuratsuk had not been with us when we encountered the starving polar bear, things could have turned out differently, to the physical detriment of not only the bear but to ourselves.

We were immeasurably enriched by John's presence among us. Not only was he our bear monitor, but he became our friend and companion. Utterly self-reliant, he was yet quick to offer help and support every step of the way. As we set up camp, John hefted heavy rocks from the beach to act as anchors to secure the tents from the almost constant winds gusting down the North Arm of Saglek Fjord. He was ever vigilant, scanning the horizon for any further threats from wildlife. When we hiked, he walked ahead of us with his rifle, or behind, if he felt the territory warranted it. He pointed out the fresh tracks of wolves and black bears and other creatures along the stream beds, judging when they had last passed by.

Even though he smoked, he kept up a quick hiking pace, nimbly and agilely negotiating the rocky terrain. He wore no high-tech gear like the rest of us. A baseball cap, a hooded sweatshirt, wind pants, boots and heavy duty rain gear sufficed. On rainy days he wore a pair of rubber waders. When we had to stop at stream crossings to take off boots and socks, or slowly step from slippery rock to slippery rock tentatively balanced on trekking poles, John forged on in his waders. Sometimes he would toss small boulders into the stream to create secure foot holds for the rest of us following behind. Back at camp, he would fetch water for cooking before any of us noticed that there was a need.

Early one morning, after a day of rain, I watched him down on the beach picking up two large driftwood boards and propping them up slant-wise between boulders. He strung a piece of old black fish netting between the boards to make a clothes line for our soaked gear. Another day, I saw him squatting down on his lime green crocs, intently studying a pile of tangled fish net and slowly and painstakingly unravelling it, hoping to reuse it to catch arctic char.

He had a wry, understated sense of humor that emerged more and more as the week went on. The second day, after a long hike, we returned to camp and found that the electric bear fence was not working. John sat down cross-legged on the ground, and with Greg Shute, re-read the instructions, trying to figure out what the problem might be. It was finally determined that the energizer was poorly grounded in the rocky soil. After considerable trial and error (by grabbing hold of the fence wire to see if we would be shocked--how else are you going to figure it out?), it was re-positioned in such a way that it worked...sort of. I asked John if he thought that the fence would actually deter a polar bear. He smiled and, as he walked away, said: "No comment."

John, reticent and private by nature, tolerated our frequently asked questions about Inuit culture and language. Steve Hyde carried 3X5 cards in his breast pocket and could often be found asking John what the word was for such-and-so, then jotting it down with his pen and tucking it away. By the end of the week, we had all learned a few words of Inuktituk. On the way back to the park base camp aboard the long-liner Robert Bradford, one of us spotted a large yellowish-white object on shore. Alerted, John held up his binoculars, gazed intently for a few moments, then yelled: "Nanuk!" The boat swiftly changed course to draw closer in to land. The huge male polar bear, estimated to weigh-in at 1,500 pounds or more, spotted us, lumbered down the shore, then stepped into the water and slowly swam away.

For the most part, John kept his own company, content to sit on the bench he had made out of a beach board balanced on two piles of rocks, gazing out the North Arm, the mountains rising up a thousand feet or more all around, his barrel-shaped coffee mug and rifle placed within reach beside him. I will always remember him this way. Although he lived with his family in Nain for much of the year, it was clear that John's true home is that vast wilderness place. He knew it intimately, respected it completely, and instinctively embodied his interdependence with it all.

Back at the park base camp the day before our departure, when he returned to his own semi-permanent tent and hung-out with the other Inuit bear monitors, I missed his close presence in a visceral way. He still looked out for us though, coming by early to make sure that we knew that breakfast was on.

Photo Credit: David Heald John Sitting on His Bench