Today the ancient Celts would celebrate the festival of Beltaine, welcoming May as a month where the increasingly hot sun (the “tene” part of the word above) would warm the greenery enough to produce harvest. The “bel” portion of the word is a mystery, as it could stand for an ancient Celtic sun-god, Belanos, or could just be a form of the ancient word for “brilliant”

At dusk, having let their own hearth fires die out (which they only let happen once a year), the whole clan would ascend a nearby hill to get as close to the setting sun as possible. They’d set up huge poles and dance around them with flowers in their hair. They’d drink, and feast, and sing. They’d create flower garlands to adorn their doors or trees near their houses.

They’d create huge fires which they believed would help warm the sun, and they’d jump over the fires as a way of emboldening themselves for summer work, and if you were planning to be married soon, you’d do it three times for good measure. The elderly would circle the flames reciting prayers, and mothers would carry newly born infants near the coals as a way to ensure they’d be protected in childhood.

Fire, for them, purified the air of disease, and they believed that a bit of the hair from the same dog could be the cure, as they hoped setting these fires now would protect the unborn harvest from lightening strikes or other natural fires in the hot days.

As the fires smoldered each family would take a coal home to start their new hearth fire, and the rest was scattered throughout the crops for good luck.

If you stayed up all night on May-day, those who observed the sun rise would swear it danced for joy three times upon the horizon before jumping up in summer glory.

For the ancient Celts, April was the month of new life long before the Christians invaded their lands. They saw the blossoming of the ground and understood deep in their bones that resurrection was not only possible, but probable in this life (and others).

One of the things they took the time to do in these days was connect with trees. They imagined that the trees had their own kingdom, and their own way of communicating (which they do…Google the latest science on the matter!). Tolkien understood this, which is why the Ents played a lovely part in his fantasy world.

Here is the suggestion for deepening your relationship with trees (honestly, they would do this):

-Wander through different groves. Quiet your mind. Touch the trunk of a tree or two and pay attention to it.

-Take a leaf from a tree and rub it between your fingers.

-Sit against a trunk and imagine in gratitude that it gives you shade and fruit (whatever kind it gives) and life.

-Fall into a state of peace and just be with it for a while.

As trees awaken in these April days, the Celts believed humanity, the ground, and the animals would follow that energy and awaken, too.

I think they’re on to something.

On the Autumnal Equinox, my mind is brought back to those ancient Celts who knew the Earth was not just alive, but provided us with secrets on how to live.

Balance, Beloved, is more than hard to find…it is also hard to keep. The Earth only finds it twice a year, and is only able to keep it for 24 hours at a time.

But when it does, everything changes!

At the Vernal Equinox the world springs forth with color and newness.

And today? Well, Camus said that Autumn is a “second spring,” where “every leaf is a flower” beginning to blaze.

For the Celts, with over half of the fields cleared by now, it was time to take stock of the harvest, both within the barn of the heart and the barn outback. They would prepare for winter, using what the year so far has given to plot the next phase of life.

Blessed Equinox! Lean into the balance a bit, and learn how to live.

I’m preaching this Sunday again, and here’s the words that are coming out of my mouth:

“But here’s the thing, Beloved: I wonder if sometimes we’ve lost the key that Christ handed to St. Peter that day, ya know?

In this grand moment, at the pinnacle of both commerce, power, and life-giving water, Jesus asks the disciples who they think he is.

And they give various answers: a prophet from the past, a prophet of the present…

But Peter says, “You’re the promised one of old.”

The promised one of old.

The promised one who would shed light on the shadows, who would bring comfort to the grieving, who would convince the wealthy that the coins in their pocket belonged to the poor, and remind the poor that they are somebody, by God.

The promised of old who forgives sins, has a short memory of wrongs, loves the unloveable, and who would die to have us think or believe otherwise. Even die on a cross.

The Messiah.

And I don’t know if Peter knew what he was saying or, perhaps like me in most of my moments, stumbled onto a truth he couldn’t quite grasp, but in that moment Jesus hands him the keys to the car and says, “Carry on my wayward son…” as the band Kansas would say.

And carry on he did. And he would be a wayward son, as it were. In one breath calling him the Messiah, and in another denying he knew him. In one breath receiving the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, and in another being wishy-washy over who could be called a Christian as the early church began.

Peter held the keys to the kingdom, but sometimes lost them.

Beloved: we hold the keys to the kingdom, but sometimes lose them.

We lose them when we fret so much about money that we lose sight of mission.

We lose them when we worry so much about who is not here than we do about who has shown up.

We lose them when we worry too much about who shouldn’t be let in to the graceful kingdom of God than we worry about who we excluding who is loved, by God.

By God.

We lose the keys to the kingdom all the time. And in this post pandemic world, as you’re waiting for your next pastor, I want to say to you: the keys of the kingdom of God are yours! Do not lose them!

It’s about mission, not budgets.

It’s about whose here, not who isn’t.

It’s about all-encompassing love, not gate-keeping.

The keys are here…and even if sometimes we lose them, you know, they can be found!

They can be found.

So what if you lose them?

Well, let me tell you.

Our nanny said, “I’ve lost the key.”  And I said, “No worries, I can go and make a copy.”

And you know where the copy is made?  Well, for our home key, it’s probably made at Ace Hardware or Lowes, you know?

But for us, for the faithful, for the Beloved community of which you’re a part of, the copy of the key of the kingdom is made here: at this table.

This table where everyone is invited forward, and no one leaves without something: some bread, some wine, the body and blood of Christ, or at least a blessing.”

I preached today or Churchwide Chapel for the Feast of Mary, Mother of Our Lord.

Feel free to take a read if you’re interested:

“If Mary reminds me of anything, she reminds me that even God’s entrance into the world started with fear and doubt and trembling and humility and uncertainty.

The one who would cast the mighty down from their thrones first sat in a highchair.  The one who would lift up the humble of heart was birthed by a visionary young woman the world only saw as humble, but who knew in her being that she was called.

There’s just something about Mary…”

“I just keep re-living my mistakes,” he said, face down.

“You mean, you keep making the same mistakes?” his friend asked.

“Not really,” he said. “I mean that I just can’t forget them.”

It was clearer now.

“Remember,” his friend said slowly, “that time you defied the odds and got that recognition for a job well done? It was just like, last year, right?”

He looked up. “Yes,” he said nodding.

“How about you replay that record. You haven’t heard it in a while.” And his friend sat next to him and together they remembered the things worth remembering.

Today the church celebrates one of our calendar-contingent feast days: The Feast of the Ascension.

Or, in German, Himmelfahrt (which is much more fun to say).

In Norwegian it’s Himmelfartsdag (even more fun to say).

But, I digress…

The Feast of the Ascension follows the Biblical pattern of 40, and finds itself a square 40 days after Easter. That Biblical pattern of 40 is meant to be a touchstone for those who pay attention.

40 days and 40 nights of the floating ark.
40 years of wandering for Israel.
40 days of temptation in the desert for Jesus.

This is not coincidence, Beloved, but rather a repeating tracer by Biblical writers to say, in a concise way, that 40 is “when you’re at your wit’s end” and you can’t take anymore.

When it comes to the Ascension, though, it’s flipped. The Biblical account notes that Jesus appeared to the disciples, and a few random folx, for 40 days and then exited stage left. It’s kind of like the Divine has “had enough.”

Why?

Because if Jesus had stuck around, the disciples never would have. We love to get attached to things and then depend on them for the hard lifting, right?

If Jesus had stuck around, the church would never learn to lean on one another (I mean…they’re still struggling to do that 2000 years later, right?).

Just like birds are kicking the chicks out of the nest in these May days, saying, “You’re made for this!” the Ascension is a way to explain that Jesus isn’t showing up in the same way anymore.

So you, Beloved, have to.

In fact: you’re made for this.

-art by Bagong Kussudiardja (Indonesian, 1928–2004), Ascension, 1983

The Blue Jay

My boys will look
at a Blue jay
and turn to the coloring page
and, choosing the yellow crayon,
go to town on the bird before them.

They call it a “blue jay,”
but it is canary yellow.

And instead of saying, “that’s wrong,”
which is my instinct,
my training by a world
that thinks in boxes…
(like damned auto-correct for the
creative heart)

I’m now just jealous.

Of that kind of insight.

The kind of insight that can see
what is
and riff on it like a jazz player.

The kind of insight that can make
a new world
using bits and pieces
of this one.