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"I don't know how to explain to you that you should care for other people." (Dr Anthony Fauci) One of the world's leading experts on public health, immunology and clinical responses to viral outbreaks, demonstrates one of the key qualities of critical and strategic thinking; intellectual humility. He knows there are things he doesn't know, and acknowledges there are some things he cannot do.

Dr Fauci isn't alone in being lost for words when it comes to explaining that selfishness is against a person's self-interest. Even harder to explain, that care for other people is essential for a community to survive and flourish, and therefore there are times when personal freedoms and rights are limited by the common good. Which brings us to physical distancing and wearing face coverings. 

It isn't that Dr Fauci is not persuasive, convincing, eloquent or endowed with authority. It's just that none of these matter to the person who makes their own self-interest their categorical imperative. But in the context of a pandemic, and the spread of a virus that is highly infectious, which exacts a high mortality rate, and is novel and therefore not yet fully understood, one of the major strategies in limiting spread and therefore threat to life, is human co-operation, caring for and about each other by the exercise of coordinated disciplines of physical distancing, wearing face coverings, hand hygiene

These are known strategies that suppress the spread of the virus. However, if significant numbers ignore such precautionary strategies then the virus spreads, people become ill, and significant numbers will die. Caring for other people has become a public health strategy. But that can only work well when there is near unanimous participation in the protective measures. 

Reflecting on the poignant honesty of Dr Fauci's words, as a Christian theologian, minister and public citizen, it becomes clear to me that something is deeply wrong when significant numbers of the community for reasons of their own, choose to ignore medical evidence, scientific consensus, and their own responsibilities to protect public health. In other words choose not to care for others.

Of course many such folk will have their reasons. Fair enough. I suppose those who passed on the other side of the man who fell amongst thieves on the Jericho road, they too had their reasons. Leave it to the Samaritan to demonstrate why it is important to care for other people. Amongst the nudge, nudge clues Jesus embedded in that parable is the Samaritan "seeing the man", a word always freighted with meanings – paying attention to, being considerate of, having compassion for. And if that sounds like too much freight, just listen to the further nudges towards loving our neighbour properly. Just read slowly the underlined phrases, each of them an act or attitude of caring for the other: 

"…and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. “Look after him,” he said, “and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.”

I have every sympathy with Dr Fauci. But of this I am very sure. When someone asks Jesus "Who is my neighbour?", it isn't out of altruism and a concern for other people. And when people ignore physical distancing, hand hygiene, and refuse or resent wearing a mask, it isn't out of care for other people either. I share the genuine perplexity of Dr Fauci when he says"I don't know how to explain to you that you should care for other people."

But I read that story Jesus told – told mind you! We read it – the first audience heard it, and some of them hated it! Jesus left no wriggle room. Love your neighbour as yourself. It isn't advice; nor is it a polite suggestion; not merely an attractive option you may choose to consider. It's the law of God. It does not come as invitation but as imperative; and it is not hypothetical it is categorical. 

There is something profoundly amiss with the moral core of a society when an eminent Doctor comes up against individuals in whom invincible ignorance is rooted in self-interest, which in turn thrives in a culture where 'ought' has been dissolved into self-assertion, and in which the common good is an irrelevance, even an obstruction to the claimed rights of the individual.

So yes. No wonder Dr Fauci is at his wits end trying to explain moral obligation to people for whom social responsibility, public accountability, moral obligation and the common good have little or no ethical purchase.

But that can never, ever, be the case for those claiming to be Christians and followers of Jesus. Hear it clearly. "Which of these proved to be neighbour to the man?" And hear the reply, "The one who had mercy on the man." Exactly. The one who went to considerable cost, risk and inconvenience for the sake of someone else. Call in question the science; insist on your rights as a citizen; resent the encroachment on your freedom; refuse to wear a face covering during a pandemic. But don't then claim to follow the teaching of Jesus, because he is on the side of your neighbour.

The story of the Good Samaritan long ago entered universal currency as a barcode of authentic discipleship. All of our self-serving arguments demolished by a parable establishing once and for all the categorical imperative, to love the neighbour, to show mercy, to go and do likewise.     

John Bunyan went to prison repeatedly over a period of twelve years, for refusing to stop preaching. As an unlicensed and non-conforming preacher he was a serial offender, described in Court as a "pestilent fellow." On his charge sheet he is described as one who "devilishly and perniciously abstained from coming to church to hear divine service" and that he is "a common upholder of several unlawful meetings and conventicles, to the great disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of this kingdom".

During his second imprisonment he started to write Pilgrim's Progress, and in one of the later sections appeared a poem which became the hymn, "Who Would True Valour See."

It is a hymn about stubbornness on points of biblical principle, faithfulness to spiritual conviction, refusal to be threatened into compliance or silence, and resilience through the hard times and painful consequences of fulfilling 'avowed intent'.

I remember sitting beside Gordon Wakefield, one of Bunyan's biographers, during a conference on Evangelical spirituality. Gordon was a fine scholar of Puritan spirituality and Methodist theology. We talked about this hymn, and those weird words 'hobgoblins or foul fiends.' Interestingly both of us understood those 17th Century scary words as a mixture of spiritual warfare terminology and code words for a Puritan pathology of mental ill health by people who understood depression, acute anxiety, guilt and inner emotional climates, with far more insight and honesty than our more sophisticated and often reductionist 21st Century terminology.

Bunyan wrote these words having been harried and threatened with everything from endlessly recurring cycles of imprisonment, to banishment from the Kingdom, and even hanging. He was not immune to fear, over-anxious sleeplessness, depression and despair of ever hoping again. Any careful reading of Bunyan's writings reveals a man for whom spiritual experience, emotional climate, physical health, psychological states and changing moods, are to be understood as the inevitable struggles of everyone trying to live an obedient Christian life, 'come wind or weather.' 

I mention all this because this hymn was used at the Thanksgiving Service for our special friend yesterday. We were unable to sing it due to public health restrictions, so I was asked to read it. Three and a half centuries on, Bunyan's words retain their realism and hopefulness for those who have tried throughout their lives 'to be a pilgrim', following after Jesus. Courage is not the absence of anxiety, but the enduring of it; and anxiety is not a negation of faith, it is the context within which we eventually discover God's hold is stronger than our own.

This hymn is defiant, confrontational, truculent even, in the face of contrary wind and weather. Bunyan is describing for us a dynamic of resistance to all that gets us down. But this is not mindless triumphalism, or a denial of real experiences of doubt, days of despair, periods of acute or chronic low-grade anxiety and the ache of longing for the return of hope. Presupposed in this hymn is the invasive and pervasive presence of the God of grace, and the reality of a divine love displayed in all its redeeming power on the cross, and demonstrated as God's new creation in the ultimate display of triumph, the resurrection of Christ.

It is the accompanying presence of the crucified and risen One who inspires in Christian hearts the avowed intent to be a pilgrim, and to follow faithfully after Jesus. We knew our friend a long time, and we knew her well. These old words by Bunyan describe so well the varied inner landscapes and changing climates of each human journey – the oscillations of doubt and trust, the ebb and flow of anxiety and courage, and fluctuating moods of sadness and gladness. And for those of us privileged to be fellow pilgrims in her life, they describe well that underlying determination, 'to be a pilgrim'.

On yesterday's hymn sheet we made the words gender specific, a tribute to a woman who 'was constant, come wind or weather.'       

Who would true valour see,
Let her come hither;
One here will constant be,
Come wind, come weather;
There’s no discouragement
Shall make her once relent
Her first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim.

Whoso beset her round
With dismal stories
Do but themselves confound;
Her strength the more is,
No lion can her fright;
She’ll with a giant fight;
But she will have a right
To be a pilgrim.

Hobgoblin nor foul fiend
Can daunt her spirit;
She knows she at the end
Shall life inherit,
Then fancies fly away,
She’ll fear not what men say;
She’ll labour night and day
To be a pilgrim.

Today I'll be conducting the Thanksgiving Service for a special friend. We met forty years ago and I was her minister for some years, and have been informal minister ever since.

It's always difficult to reduce the rich complexity and complex beauty of a life to words, however well chosen. My friend was neither forward nor outspoken about her faith. Her ways were gentle, patient, generous, practical and in all her dealings with others, compassion and understanding were default responses.

She kept two well worn and often read books by her bedside, one of which was The Prayers of Peter Marshall, the C of S Minister from Coatbridge, who went to the US and became chaplain to the senate.

One of his prayers echoes her favourite hymn which we won't be able to sing, but which will be played at the service. Here is the prayer, followed by the hymn. There is much to be said for a spirituality that refuses to make faith a means of self-assertion, and instead enables the person to listen, understand, come alongside, and share the journey as companion. When it comes to quietly spoken, and sometimes unspoken support of other people, my friend was a gifted natural.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, who was never in a hurry, we pray, O God, that thou wilt slow us down, for we know that we live too fast. With all of eternity before us, make us take time to live, time to get acquainted with thee, time to enjoy thy blessings, and time to know each other. Amen”

 

Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
Forgive our foolish ways!
Reclothe us in our rightful mind,
In purer lives Thy service find,
In deeper reverence, praise.

In simple trust like theirs who heard
Beside the Syrian sea
The gracious calling of the Lord,
Let us, like them, without a word
Rise up and follow Thee.

O Sabbath rest by Galilee!
O calm of hills above,
Where Jesus knelt to share with Thee
The silence of eternity
Interpreted by love!

With that deep hush subduing all
Our words and works that drown
The tender whisper of Thy call,
As noiseless let Thy blessing fall
As fell Thy manna down.

Drop Thy still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease;
Take from our souls the strain and stress,
And let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of Thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire
Thy coolness and Thy balm;
Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm.

John 15.5   “I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me and I in them, they will bear much fruit. For apart from me you can do nothing.”

The older translation was “Abide in me.” Like when we ask, “Where do you bide?” That lovely Scots word is about being at home, the familiar place where we do our living, where we belong. That’s what Jesus means. We are at home in Jesus, belong with him, like a branch that’s part of the vine tree, nourished, fruitful, exactly where we should be.

So much has changed, rapidly, radically and frighteningly, in these past four months. It is part of our humanity that we are social beings, but we are forcibly separated from others for our own and their safety. What we have come to rely on and assume as our way of life has been suddnely and disturbingly upended. Routines and relationships, careers and family, holidays and parties, conversations and crowded gatherings, all disrupted.

So what remains? We have had to learn with shocking speed, nothing stays the same when a pandemic strikes. Our way of life has changed, and will have to change going into the future. Change in itself is a good thing, a sign of growth and development, new ideas and ways of doing things. But managed and planned change is one thing; rapid and enforced change is something else, and comes at a cost.

Jesus knew that the disciples were facing the catastrophe of losing him. The crucifixion and death of Jesus would come as a shock from which the disciples might not recover. So he made a promise. He would come to them. He made another promise, the Spirit of counsel and comfort would come and be with them. Then he made a third promise, “Whoever remains in me and I in them, they will bear much fruit.”

And there it is. The still point in a whirling world. “Abide in me and I in you.” Whatever else changes the love of God in Christ remains, as a constant in a changing world. Whatever else passes and becomes history, the contemporary Christ stays with us, and within us. We are at home in Christ, and he makes His home in us; we live, yet not us, but “Christ lives in us and the life we now live we live by faith in the Son of God who loved us and gave himself for our sins.”

Reflection: John Wesley asked God, “Lord let me not live to be useless.” Whatever these next weeks and months hold, Christ dares us to be open to the presence of the living Lord, and invites us to abide in him and him in us. Our usefulness, and fruitfulness in the service of Christ requires that stable relationship of trusting love. Even if everything else around us is perplexing and uncertain, we are in the right place, near to the heart of God, whose love abides, and in whose love we abide.   

Morning has broken
Like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken
Like the first bird.
Praise for the singing!
Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing
Fresh from the Word!

Sweet the rain’s new fall
Sunlit from Heaven,
Like the first dewfall
On the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness
Of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness
Where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight,
Mine is the morning,
Born of the one light
Eden saw play.
Praise with elation,
Praise every morning,
God’s re-creation
Of the new day!

I'm old enough to remember Cat Stevens singing 'Morning has broken' on TOTP. The lyrics were written by the children's author and poet Eleanor Farjeon, commissioned specifically for children and to match the tune 'Bunessan'. The subsequent history of the hymn is now inextricably linked to the name Cat Stevens (now Yusuf), but the authorship of the words is less well known and is often conflated with the name of the singer.

I thought of this hymn the other day while walking in the Bin Forest up at Huntly. It had been raining heavily, and the trees were dripping with run off water. The smells were pungent, amongst them wet wood, grass in full flower, the aroma of pine branches and new cones, and that leafy green smell that's hard to describe but seems to depend on rain and its aftermath of sunlight. 

I think back to the countless times I've heard this song, in church worship, at weddings and funerals, on radio as song and in orchestrated versions where on hearing the tune 'Bunessan' the mind defaults to Farjeon's lyrics, and for me, to Cat Stevens, singing accompanied by his acoustic guitar and Rick Wakeman's brilliant piano accompaniment and instrumental interludes.

And so a classic is born from the coincidence of a traditional Gaelic tune named after a village on Mull, a hymn written by a children's poet in the 1920's, a singer with an evocative and remarkably clear voice, and an emerging rock instrumentalist whose keyboard accompaniment make the hymn instantly recognisable in its first couple of bars.  

What is less obvious is the rounded theology of creation that is woven into the simple words. There are echoes of the Psalms in every verse. It is a hymn of praise inviting the singer to praise, and providing the words and images to do so. The rain, dewfall, bird song, sunrise, and grass are images straight from the great Psalms of creation praise, but transposed  to words simple enough for children, and profound in the imaginative stretch required to transport the mind to the Genesis creation narratives.

Words so familiar can become divorced from their literary precursors: 'Where his feet pass', God's recreation of the new day', and especially the last lines of the first stanza, "Praise for them springing, fresh from the Word."; these provide the essential biblical substructure of a hymn that is joyfully exuberant at the sheer extravagance of God's creative artistry, as everything is "sprung in completeness, where his feet pass." And God saw that it was good, very good. 

Something of that was felt and smelt in a wet forest, walking with Sheila and Andrew, and remembering Aileen, who loved this song, which we sang at her funeral thanksgiving service. The playfulness of Eden, God's work of creative completion, and God's recreation of each new day – these are hopeful, though at times poignant convictions which I hold to, and pray that each day they will spring fresh from the Word. 

I had an email from someone yesterday. It was one of those affirming, appreciative, encouraging surprises in the inbox, intended to make you feel better, more hopeful, and know you are valued. In this case the person assured me of their prayers, and they sent a biblical text they thought was 'just meant' for me. 

The text was "Behold I make all things new…", and is from Revelation 21.5. It comes at the end of the most spectacular imaginative writing in the entire New Testament. Like much in that book, this text is freighted with meanings from the Old Testament, especially Isaiah 43.18-19:

“Forget the former things;
    do not dwell on the past.
   See, I am doing a new thing!
    Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
    and streams in the wasteland."

Throughout my life as a Christian, over 50 years now, I have turned to the later chapters of Isaiah at times when hope was hard to come by and life seemed to be asking more than can be given. Isaiah couldn't be further removed from pop psychology, life and self-management, and the always look on the bright side way of coping.

So when Isaiah says God says, "Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past. See I am doing a new thing", this is neither command nor permission to relinquish our sorrows, erase sad memories, or try to disguise the wounds. God promises to make a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. The new thing doesn't obliterate the past, it redeems it, transforms it, turns aridity to fruitfulness, irrigates the places where nothing has grown for years. Wilderness is land, waste places have potential, all they need is water, and that's what God promises.

In that sense Isaiah was sending to the exiles a surprise in the inbox. A promise that all that seems wasted can be gathered up again into a future fruitfulness. The tears will remain shed, and more will come; the wounds will take a long time healing, and will leave scars. But out of all the suffering God brings new possibilities, there can be streams in the wasteland, and a way through what seems like endless and life-denying desert. 

That email yesterday came at the end of a long day. It included an early morning cycle run, a walk to the local farmer's market just re-opened after 4 months, and later a 3 hour forest walk enjoying the peace and invitation of a forest still dripping after earlier rain. Like everyone else I have found these past months difficult, tricky to navigate, at times seemingly unending in the slow blurring of days and timelines, and at times lonely when missing all those in whose lives we are invested, and whose friendship is an investment in us. So a walk in a forest gives time to think, to pray, to look and see, to listen to outer sounds and inner thoughts. 

Walking behind the other two for a while, looking at leaves dripping water, listening to ditches gurgling, examining flowers closely, there was a complete sense of Cat Stevens! "Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden, sprung in completeness, where his feet passed."

We came back, had a replenishing meal, watched an old film, and I came up to the study, to find a text sent earlier that day, "Behold I make all things new.", and the inexplicable hunch, that such a text "was meant". 

I started this series "Photos in a Time of Pandemic", as a way of reflecting on photos I had taken in the first two months of lock down. Now I've caught up with myself, and where events now are. Whatever these next months bring, it is impossible for us to forget the impact of a pandemic on our world, our country and our own small world of family, friends, church, work and all that we used to call normal. I have no idea what a text that says, "Behold I make all things new" will mean for all of us. But like so much in the life of faith, I don't need to know what will be what. More important to know that God will be there as well as here, then as well as now. And whatever blessing God brings, it will come as streams in the wasteland – that is, our past experience is not erased, it becomes a source of fruitfulness; and it will come as a way in the wilderness – that is, our future experience will be a way forward, following the one who is going before, and who makes all things new. 

At least that is my attempt at trying to make some sense, and some faithful response to a promise that comes out of the blue, "Behold I make all things new." Now and again, there is a surprise in the inbox, a reminder from God knows where, that we are part of something vaster than we know, and pulled into purposes that spring, as we will eventually see, from the eternal Yes of God to his whole creation. "Behold I make all things new."    

This is a much more prophetically edged poem than many in the Sabbath collection. The poet is compelled to interrogate his own values and motives as a poet, as a citizen, and as a human being capable of moral discernment and ethical protest. 

One of the reasons I admire and return to Wendell Berry's writing is precisely that unerring instinct for naming what is going wrong in a culture, and pointing to legitimate response. This poem was written the year the Allied coalition invaded Iraq in the so called "War on Terror". The justifications offered for those long years of conflict,with countless civilian casualties and the destabilisation of several nation states in a volatile region, have proven to be less than valid; the conflict itself still unsettled, and a road map to peace still uncharted.  

Berry went to the heart of the matter; the eclipse of truth by political, economic and military powers that hijack words and monopolise media. And his response was to envision a world where however rich, powerful and entitled those powers might feel themselves to be, protest was then, and is now, a moral and spiritual imperative. 

So Wendell Berry, one of our finest poets and novelists wrote a Sabbath poem about the power of silence. Not passive silence, but a deliberate self-imposed absence of words as a symbol of freedom. Against those who would restrict the freedom of speech of writers and musicians and painters, Berry claims on behalf of a true patriotism the freedom of silence; by which he means the refusal of the poet to allow his words, the refusal of the musician to allow their songs and music, the refusal of artists to allow their painting, to be enjoyed and co-opted by those who have hijacked the deepest freedoms of the human spirit. 

Berry is aware that the high arts have profound formative power for the nation, the land and the people. So they must never be prostituted in the interests of political manipulation and propaganda. Patriotic duty sometimes requires persons and a people to resist, protest, say no to what we are being told is our patriotic duty. The core values of that duty can never be dictated by a party, a political leader, or a movement.

The poet's point has wider application than the time and place this poem was written. Only a few days ago, The Rolling Stones went to Court to prevent their music being used at Trump Rallies. A rock group is refusing to allow their music to be co-opted for other ends, because they know the deep resonances, motivational and associational power of music, lyrics and concerted focus.   

The freedom of silence is a revolutionary act of non-alignment and non-compliance with the powers that be. The refusal of the poet to validate the practice of word devaluation; the refusal of musicians to have their music exploited in the interests of the powerful; the refusal of artists to allow image to be used as a way of distorting meaning and manipulating reason, emotion and conscience. These are revolutionary acts that are statements of freedom.

            Sabbath Poem VII 2003

When they cannot speak freely in defiance

of wealth self-elected to righteousness,

let the arts of pleasure and beauty cease.

Let every poet and singer of joy be dumb.

When those in power by owning all the words

have made them mean nothing, let silence

speak for us. When freedom’s light goes out, let colour

drain from all paintings into gray puddles

One the museum floor. When every ear awaits only

The knock on the door in the dark midnight,

Let all the orchestras sound just one long note of woe

……..

All that patriotism requires, and all that it can be,

is eagerness to maintain intact and incorrupt

the founding principles of the nation, and to preserve

undiminished the land and the people. If national conduct

forsakes these aims, it is one’s patriotic duty

to say so and oppose. What else have we to live for?

It was raining, I remember that.

It was in Edinburgh, in 1976, and I was standing beside Greyfriars Bobby getting soaked by persistent drizzle.

I was waiting to cross the road to the small Christian book shop on Forrest Road.

It was one of my early solo book shop crawl expeditions to Edinburgh, and I knew what I was after.

I had been to James Thin's but they didn't have the blessed book.

Maybe the recently opened Christian Book Shop on Forrest Road would have it, they said.

Walked past the National Museum of Scotland heading for Forrest Road. 

Inside the shop I spoke to the proprietor and asked for the newly published book.

Ah well, he wisnae sure about the book, whether it was "sound" or not.

Read it with discretion he warned!

"Aye right", I said, inwardly.   

I bought it, and over the next week read it from cover to cover.

Forty odd years later I still have that book, and recall the pleasure of its weight in my brief case. 

It was Leslie Allen's commentary on several minor prophets, amongst them Jonah.

To this day Allen's volume remains on my shelves as a favoured option on those prophets.

In these days of easy access online to your door delivery somethings has been lost; the chase, the handling and perusing and the smell and the heft of a book you know you're going to buy – and the bookseller, someone who has opinions on what you buy, and is not backward about coming forward with them! 

I don't remember the first time I saw lichen. I know it grew on old drystane dykes I used to climb over, on the first farm where I was old enough to go stravaigin across the fields. That was in deepest Ayrshire in the 1950's.

Over the years since, I've interrupted countless walks to stop and admire and wonder at lichen's and mosses. The intricacy and durability of these botanical miracles, the range of colours, mostly pastel, the way they soften and transform the shape of stone, wood, bark and other surfaces barely hospitable to organic life and growth.

Yesterday walking in the Bin Forest just north of Huntly, I was again fascinated and in my element, enjoying again these miniature masterpieces of organic architecture. It's an old forest, still managed and harvested, but a lot of the fallen trees, broken branches and older wood has lain for years, and have become lichen plantations.

One old tree stump, hollowed out over the years, has now filled with moss and lichen, and it is a marvel of artistic innovation and natural beauty. A photograph doesn't do justice to the textured diversity in such a microcosm of delicate invasion, but it is one way of remembering the several minutes of contemplative joy at such wondrously casual achievement over years.

The Victorian John Ruskin wrote some of the most polished prose in the English language; some of his descriptive writing reads like a literary version of a Monet garden. The overall impression is of beauty, delicate tones and shades and softened shapes somehow coalesce, forming an image that has accuracy of emotional impression, rather than descriptive precision. Yet to gaze at a Monet lily pond is to have the deepest and most durable inner impression of precisely that moment of physical encounter. Ruskin's prose can be like that. His description of mosses and lichens in Modern Painters has that same quality when emotional impressionism becomes a vehicle of visionary description. 

Here is Ruskin in gorgeous full flow: 

No words that I know of will say what mosses and lichens are. None are delicate enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green- the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine filmed, as if the Rock Spirits could spin porphyry as we do glass – the traceries  of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, aborescent, burnished through every fibre into fitful brightness and glossy traverses of silken change, yet all subdued and pensive, and framed for simplest, sweetest offices of grace…

 Yet as in one sense the humblest, in another they are the most honoured of the earth children. Unfading as motionless, the worm frets them not, and the autumn wastes not. Strong in lowliness, they neither blanch in heat nor pine in frost. To them, slow fingered, constant hearted, is entrusted the weaving of the dark eternal tapestries of the hills; to them, slow-pencilled, iris dyed, the tender framing of their endless imagery. Sharing the stillness of the unimpassioned rock, they share also its endurance; and while the winds of departing spring scatter the white hawthorn blossom like drifted snow, and summer dims on the parched meadow the drooping of the cowslip god – far above, among the mountains, the silver lichen-spots rest, starlike on the stone; and the gathering orange stain upon the edge of yonder western peak reflects the sunsets of a thousand years.

               Sabbath Poems

                     2002 

                       X

Teach me work that honours thy work,

the true economies of goods and words,

to make my arts compatible

with the songs of the local birds.

 

Teach me patience beyond work –

and, beyond patience, the blest

Sabbath of thy unresting love

which lights all things and gives rest.

 

For decades Wendell Berry has written and spoken, argued and protested, enacted and demonstrated  what true economies are. The economy of agrarian stewardship; the economy and ecology of words; the economics of community; the economy of friendship, love and neighbourliness – each of these he has described, explained, and most of them he has incorporated into the way he lives his own life.

Behind his lifelong persistence and patience with alternatives to frantic, grasping human wastefulness is a fully confessed love for the natural order as a divine gift. Berry is a critical friend of Christianity, acknowledging and at times exposing its distortions, failures and responsibility for much that has gone wrong with the way the world is exploited and pushed to the edge of ruin. 

But when he listens to the songs of birds, watches a river carve a landscape, lies on a forest floor and sees a green cathedral illumined by light refracted through a million leaves, he knows he is celebrating someone else's work. And he wants emulate its creativity, beauty and exuberant hopefulness. It is deeply human to create, and to take such care and imaginative skill so that work becomes an art form.

The prayer for patience giving way to Sabbath blessing is a further acknowledgement that all around us is gift. The One addressed in this poem is ceaselessly active, a sustaining and recreating love that is the light of life, illuminating, vitalising and energising and enabling to be. These moments of address to the divine by giving thanks and surrendering to the beauty and miracle of this place and this moment, are clues to Berry's overall vision.

Panentheism is the conviction that God is active, present and invested in all that God has made, the belief that 'thy unresting love lights all things, and gives rest.' Running through this poem are two dispositions familiar to readers of Berry; contentment to receive the gift of life and shared existence with the earth; responsibility to receive that gift gratefully and to add to its value, not diminish its richness. The economies of goods and words are constructive, conserving, and creative all at once. 

I read this poem and sense in my own responses a deep emotional, almost physiological agreement, a recognisable longing to make my arts compatible with a world serenaded by the songs of birds, local birds. The arts of words and goods, economies of community, sharing and compassion, receiving gratefully the gift of life and our world, and responding with arts that enrich and do not diminish the gift it is. 

That word local. Berry uses it often. He is an apologist for the local; people, fields, woods, towns, roads, rivers, the known locales that give a person place, identity and relationships.

When it comes to local birds, these past months of lock down, I have been out on the back roads on my bike, past fields and farms, woods and the occasional burn. Every time I have seen and heard goldfinches, yellowhammers, wood pigeons, skylarks, sparrows, blackbirds, coal tits, chaffinches, blackcaps, and others that flitted past or sang their pieces in the distance.     

And so this brief Sabbath poem becomes a prayer to be taught a way of being, a way of seeing the unresting love that lights all things, and gives rest. It is a gentle rebuke to living for things, pursuing the limited goals of acquisition and functional possessiveness. Berry is right. "Teach me work…and patience beyond work…"