Mother Martha’s Meditation---Week of Lent I

 

I love this psalm verse. I especially love Mendelssohn’s rendition of it in the anthem “Oh, for the wings of a dove, far away, far away would I roam.” On Sunday morning, I had one of those days that I would like to fly away…all before I got to church. As I made the transition from sleep to wakefulness, I noticed that the dog, Futhi, was beginning to stir, eagle-eyeing me and my movements as usual in anticipation of her early morning walk. At about the same time, I began to notice the sirens. In Baltimore, we often hear a siren in the background. This was different. There were many sirens coming closer and closer. As I exited our apartment house door, I saw a voluminous brown cloud enveloping the horizon just to the north of our complex. I couldn’t tell what building was on fire, but it was serious. By the time I returned ten minutes later to the building, firefighters were hooking up the fire hydrant next to our building and winding the hose down the street and around the corner. The front entrance to the complex was now blocked off. My mind began to ponder how I would drive to church as I took my shower. I settled on a plan--I could take the “backway” through Druid Hill Park. AS I exited the garage, I then noticed that the firehose was blocking my exit from the garage. Would I break the hose by driving over it? Could my car even make it over the large hose? What to do. I summoned up my moxie and aimed the car over the hose. After four large bumps for each tire, I was clear. I was free and on my way to church.

 

As I rounded the curve by the Baltimore Zoo, another ominous sound. A small bell. The “Check Engine” light was now on. My car has a lot of miles now and is rattling a bit more each day. Since the snow, it was rattling a bit too much. I tried to ignore it. I muttered at the state of affairs. The car wasn’t supposed to do this so soon. It wasn’t even time for the scheduled oil change yet. Could I make it to church? With my hands clutching the wheel, the car made it to church. No parking close by. I drove around the bock a few times with the rattling increasing. My mood was not, shall we say, improving. As I finally settled into the 8 am service, I tried to quiet my mind. A hard task. My mind continued to try to solve all problems associated with a recalcitrant car: Could I get the car to my afternoon teaching in Monkton? If not, could I get home?   What about the week to come and my schedule? Bryan had the other car in Western Maryland with the Rite 13 retreaters. He was still on his way back, so there was no back-up car yet.   The temptation to obsess over the situation, the inconvenience, the unfairness of it all was great. There was a piece of me that wanted to fly away to a place to be at rest---like the next verse of the psalm: “I would flee to a far-off place and make my lodging in the wilderness.” Yes, a quiet place in the woods—in a cabin, a cup of tea, a book, and no need for a car! Slowly but surely, the service pulled my mind back to Jesus in the wilderness, to the work at hand. As the morning progressed, I began to be strangely comforted by the familiar Sunday ritual.  As I stood next to Erv+ at the altar and prayed the Eucharistic prayer at the 10:30 service, a sense of peace flowed over me. It would be all right. Whatever the rest of the day or week held, it would be all right. And then I realized, the wilderness holds no great rest and escape. In the wilderness, we find other temptations, other trials. It is by being connected to God through our community of faith, through our beloved family and friends, that we find our balance, our rest once again. As I drove home to discover the backway now blocked, I found myself able to gently ask the police officer blocking my route home if it was possible for me to drive there. He let me though. As the afternoon sun began to set and Bryan and I made our way up 83 to the service station in tandem, I had regained my balance. There is no need to run away. All we need is right here all along. Lenten Blessings, Martha+ 

 

 

 

 

 

Once upon a time, there was an orphan tiger cub who was adopted by goats and brought up by them to speak their language, eat their food---and to believe that he really was a goat. 

 

Then one day, a huge tiger came along. The goats all scattered in fear, of course, except for the little tiger who thought he was a goat. When he saw the tiger, he was afraid---and yet somehow, not afraid. The great tiger asked him what he was doing acting like a goat, but all the young tiger could do in response was to bleat nervously and continue nibbling at the grass.

 

So the great tiger took him to a pool where he forced him to look at their reflections side by side and come to his own conclusion. When this failed, the big tiger offered the little one his first piece of meat.

 

At first, the young tiger was repulsed by the unfamiliar taste of the meat. But then, as he ate more and began to feel it warming his blood, the truth gradually became clear to him. Lashing his tail and digging his claws into the ground, the young tiger raised his head high and the jungle shook with the noise of his mighty roar.

 

A fable by the 19^th century Hindu saint Rama-Krishna