Surrender

There aren’t many images of faithfulness left in our culture.  Beliefs are not the only dimension that has been co-opted by our relativistic society, so have our commitments.  To make matters worse the images that do remain are either laden with guilt for fear of consequence or purely motivated by self-interest and gain.   It seems as if faithfulness has become pragmatic, a means to an end.

Nature, however, reveals a different picture one that is not fearful or calculated but trustful: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them” (Mt. 6:26a NIV).  Instead of defiance, creation yields: an implicit confidence in the goodness of the ONE who creates, sustains, and completes all of life.  Firmly established and rooted in the soil of hope, the created order dwells within each season as a witness of surrender.

There is no better image of this than a forest of winter tees.  Seemingly stripped of fruitfulness they do not resist the season of hibernation but willingly acquiesce to sovereignty.  In winter, spring, summer or fall their posture remains the same: branches lifted to the heavens in an act of ceaseless praise and adoration.

I realize that this is an unusual claim, one that is far more literary than scientific.  BUT surely this is an aspect of what the Psalmist meant when stated:

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge.

They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them.

Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world”

(Ps. 19:1-4 NIV).

Could it be that the knowledge that creation reveals is a freedom that one experiences when all of life (in it’s various seasons) is lived from a posture of trust, i.e. a faithfulness that is born not out of guilt nor gain but love?  Surely this is the sentiment of the Apostle Paul: “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:12-13 NIV).

Maybe the words of a chorus from the Taizé Community capture best this sentiment of silent trust?

“In God alone my soul can find rest and peace

In God my peace and joy

Only in God my soul can find its rest.

Find its rest and peace.”

Simplicity

There is just something about stacked firewood that hints of a simpler life.  Maybe it’s linked to the manual labor required to locate, cut, split, load/unload, and stack it?  Maybe it’s the fleeting feeling of independence, a being “off-the-grid?”  Maybe it’s nostalgia-a flood of childhood memories that include the woodpile behind the house and the Sunday family naps around the woodstove?  Or maybe it’s the fresh scent of cedar kindling?

Whatever it is, I prefer wood heat and the entire process it involves. Though backbreaking work, there is a satisfaction that is experienced after a day of cutting firewood, a sense of preparation for the future that has been long forgotten in our immediate “here and now” cellophane-wrapped world.  The tasks of gathering, tending, and storing for future use teach profound lessons of moderation, self-control, stewardship, and gratitude.  Even the chore of stoking the fire in the middle of the night carries with it a monastic quality of marking time appropriately celebrating the gift of the temporal as a sacrament of the eternal.

The simple life is not merely doing with less.  It also involves a stewardship of what we have and what we consume.  Whether it is firewood, gardening, canning vegetables, sewing, or re-purposing worn out furniture all can be exercises of simplicity, a classroom to teach gratitude and generosity.