St. Andrew's-Wesley United Church

Rev. Gary Paterson

October 11, 2009

Bronwen Wallace… a fine Canadian poet, who died too young from cancer. The title of today’s meditation is a steal from her – “the stubborn particulars of grace”; the title of her best book of poetry. Listen to this poem, an exploration of blessings, of thanksgiving and sorrow, of making the most of what we get:

To come back, again

to those Sundays at my grandmother’s table,

but by a different way, so that I see

that thin spot in my father’s hair

as he bowed his head to ask

the blessing – what my grandmother

called it, not thanks – Bless

this food to our use

and us to Thy service,

in Christ’s name,

Amen. My father stumbling

over the words, perhaps in recognition

of what he was really asking for

(there, in the midst of things,

his whole family listening)

a blessing, on food they’d earned

casting metal, teaching other people’s kids

or planted, themselves, in the fields we’d see

as soon as we raised our heads, men and women

embarrassed by prayer, but sticking to it ….

To begin to see, a little,

what they taught me

of themselves, their place

among the living and the dead,

thanksgiving and the practical

particulars of grace, and to accept it,

slowly, almost grudgingly,

to come downstairs this morning

as the paper slaps

the front porch, look up, catch

the paper girl with her walkman on

dancing down the street, red tights,

jean jacket, blonde hair, making me

love her, perfectly, for ten seconds,

long enough to call out

all my other loves, locate each one

precisely, as I could this house

on a city map or the day I found

my son, swimming within me.

I try and hear it

in the way we make the most

of what we get, like the man I know

who says he’s held Death in his arms.

That’s how he puts it, trying

for a way to say wife or Ellen

and reach far enough to touch her

there, include the whispers

from the hall outside, the hiss

of the oxygen tank, still on,

the sounds his arms made

adjusting to her weight, this

angle of bone, this one

when her head tipped, finally, back.

And to say for myself, just once,

without embarrassment, bless,

thrown out as to some lightness

that I actually believe in,

surprised (as I believe

they were) to find it

here, where it seems impossible

that one life even matters, though

like them, I’ll argue

the stubborn arguments of the particular,

right now, in the midst of things, this

and this [and this].

The invitation, the challenge… to pay attention – to the day, your life, the specific moments, the details, the practical, stubborn particulars of grace. Out of this attentiveness arises a moment of wonder. You did not make this; you do not own this; you cannot control this. But it is yours to savour, to enjoy, to enrich, to share, and to pass on. And from this, arises the experience of reverence… reverence for every minute, for every wave and rock and leaf, for every living thing. Slowly you are filled with a gratitude that builds from deep inside, a rush, a warmth moving out from your very centre; feeling so thankful, and, at the same moment, being aware of that feeling.

For example, yesterday, an October Saturday afternoon, the sun warm upon the skin, face upturned to clear, blue sky. Standing in a pumpkin patch, a field of endless orange. Surrounded by my three daughters – Kate, Emily and Zoe; my three grandchildren – Abby, Zach and Benjamin; and my spouse – Tim. We are all here to choose a particular pumpkin, each of us her or his own, small and big, and to bring this piece of orange, this globe, to bring it home; laden with dreams of Thanksgivings, past and present, fields of abundance; mixed with the laughter; and, at the same time, spilling out with the anticipation of Hallowe’en.

And I found myself saying, “Bless” – without embarrassment. Bless this day; bless this good earth, the dark alluvial soil, this fecund field; bless these pumpkins, these children, this man I love. Bless these crowds of people, all the children running around, laughing, whining, exulting, crying; bless these parents, so patient, so loving, sometimes losing it. Bless, bless….

The Talmud says it is forbidden to taste the pleasures of this world without a blessing. (Noted in Barbara Brown Taylor’s book, An Altar in the World). Imagine your day… bless the moment of waking, the early morning light; bless the stirring of the bones, as you move from the warmth of the bed, joints limber or creaking; bless the hot water on your face, or from the shower; bless the morning coffee; oh yes, definitely bless the coffee. You understand what happens, don’t you – so busy blessing, that the day slows down to a liveable speed, as you stumble over the particulars of grace; they are everywhere.

An observant Jew will offer a hundred, two hundred blessings every day and each one begins in the same way… “Barach Atah, Adonai Elohem, Me-lech Olam – Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe.” To offer a blessing means to both not the particularity of thing itself, and to name the source of life from which everything comes, in whom everything is rooted; the Holy One in whom we live and move and have our being. If good news arrives, then Barach Atah, Adonai Elohem, Me-lech Olam, who are good and beneficent. And if it’s bad news, then Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, the Judge of Truth. (Again, from An Altar in the World)

What if you were to spend the rest of today, consciously and deliberately blessing what is unfolding all around you? Something as simple as saying grace: “Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service, for Christ’s sake, Amen.” Bless the people whose hands you will shake today; bless the golden moment when evening candles are lit. A world filled with the stubborn practical particulars of grace… yours to savour, enjoy, enrich, share, and pass along; yours to bless. Barach Atah, Adonai Elohem, Melech Olam. Thank you God.