Elderberries, hens and societal collapse

Straining the juice

Beautiful patterns in the nascent jelly

We went foraging a lot when I was a child, for blackberries, elderberries, and even firewood on a couple of occasions; the fun continued when we got home, with hot cauldrons of boiling jam and jars of jewel-like sweetness. To this day I have a very soft spot for certain preserves, elderberry and apple jelly being one of them – it has a very particular taste that doesn’t suit everyone’s palate, but it reminds me of those happy days foraging.

Not long after we moved in to our current home, I planted an elder tree in the garden, and for the last couple of years it has had enough fruit on it to make jelly, so yesterday I harvested the berries. I looked up a recipe online and stumbled across a blog post entitled Taking Care of the Elders, which brought me up short. The author of this blog encourages her readers to forage responsibly, only taking a maximum of 10% of the berries from each tree, leaving the rest for the wildlife and giving the tree a good chance of reproducing itself. I, however, practically stripped my tree bare.

In my defence, this is a tree that I had planted, not a wild specimen, and I couldn’t risk letting the juicy dark red clusters fall onto my neighbour’s pristine astroturf – but that isn’t the point. Despite having read Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants less than a year ago and totally taking on board the author’s mantra of reciprocity, respect, and restraint, I didn’t remotely reflect on that as I greedily, but at least gratefully, took all the ripe berries I could reach.

I’m clearly not the only person with this problem, as in many parts of Switzerland there are strict rules, for example about mushrooms: when you are allowed to pick them, and how many, in order to protect them for the future, which is important as mushroom picking grows in popularity. This tendency to take too much is part of a much bigger problem, as described in the book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Survive; why societies fall apart is obviously a complex question with many factors involved, but one analogy that stuck with me from this book was how often we choose to eat the ‘hen’ rather than sustainably eating her ‘eggs’.

Perhaps I can at least partly blame the culture I find myself in, with its very short-term perspective, fear of scarcity and the need to hoard to get through the winter? It pains me to say how very challenged I am by the Indian proverb “Store your grain in your neighbour’s belly”, as I am far more likely to fill up my freezer than to be generous towards others with any abundance from my garden.

I can’t promise to limit myself to only 10% of next year’s potential elderberry harvest, but I will at least remember this reflection and leave some for the birds.

Does the fruit of the tree of life have grubs in it?

This year, my fig tree is producing lots of fruit. Unfortunately for me, the birds in my garden also have a taste for figs and so I have taken to picking the fruit before it is fully ripe, since the birds swiftly demolish any that I miss. Even then, about half the figs I harvest contain a grub or two who have eaten their way through a good part of the flesh.

And so, as I was reading the words of my daily prayer for Sunday morning: Come and shelter under the tree of life, enjoy the cool shade and taste its fruit my mind went straight to my fig tree. In my imagination, I picked a ripe fruit and settled myself down on a shady chair – but I stopped myself short, did I dare take a big bite? What if it were full of grubs? Could the fruit of the tree of life have grubs in? Surely not, since heaven, where the tree of life is found, is perfect! Surely there is no place in paradise for grubs, slugs, nettles and everything else that causes me trouble?!

Of course, this is a philosophical question, it being highly unlikely that the afterlife will resemble life on Earth, and perhaps I shouldn’t make so much of symbols anyway, particularly apocalyptic ones? But it did strike me that perhaps at least some of the fruit of the tree of life would contain grubs. The insects they will grow into have a role to play in the ecosystem, just like the birds who enjoy their figs as much as I do.

It’s interesting to notice that I can come to terms with sharing the fruit of the tree of life with the grubs and the birds, while sharing the figs from my own tree is much more problematic. I think that, since I planted and tended the tree, I see them as my figs, that I have an exclusive right to them.

It looks like the problem here might be my selfishness and anthropocentrism! Maybe heaven, the kingdom of God, is where I can share my figs with the birds and the insects without begrudging them their share, after all:

The wolf shall live with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
and a little child shall lead them.

Isaiah 11:6

A form of daily prayer

My first-ever baby cucumber!

I have been meaning to put together a simple form of morning and evening prayer for a while now, and have finally managed to get it finished. I have unashamedly chosen my favourite passages and modified them to fit the pattern of the liturgy. I hope you find them helpful.

I have mainly focused on passages that explore the glory of God as seen in creation, to help encourage a sense of awe, but have also chosen passages that point us to ultimate hope.

Since there are fourteen separate sets of prayers, I have put them as individual tabs on a separate page. You can access them here, or even download them as a PDF for printing, (print them as a ‘booklet’.)

1 Corinthians 2:9-16

My daughter finds deep symbolism in the stressed-looking mother opossum carrying her babies around, and felt the need to express this in clay 😉

I was pondering 1 Corinthians 2:9-16 on a train journey a few weeks ago – it’s rather dense text, and so my imagination took a bit of a leap. I’d like to share with you where I ended up. Once again, I wish I were an artist, because these verses conjure up a beautiful image that I struggle to describe in words.

Verse 10 talks about the Spirit who searches everything, even the depths of God, and so we start with the Holy Spirit reaching into the heart of God the Father.
Then in verse 11, we read that the human spirit, deep within us, knows what is truly human – our spirit reaches deep into our hearts.
Verse 12 tells us that we have received the Spirit that is from God, this makes a connection between our heart and the heart of God. The Holy Spirit joins with the spirit of our inner being, bringing us and God into union.

I imagine the Holy Spirit as a sort of dynamic loop of light flowing from the heart of God into our hearts, bringing love and peace. Once inside, the Spirit searches out our inmost being (Psalm 139:1-6), and then flows out of our bodies, bringing all we are living with into the heart of God the Father, where Christ is. This is an unbroken flow of the Spirit between our heart and the heart of God.

This action of the Holy Spirit changes our hearts and changes our minds, to the point that Paul dares to write in verse 16 that ‘we have the mind of Christ’. I am comforted by this intimate image of the love of God the Father being brought into my heart by the Holy Spirit, and that the troubles of my heart are then carried up to Christ in God, who understands me and transforms me.

It’s high time I wrote something about compost.

My compost heap has gradually been working on me. I no longer pull out the pervasive weeds that invade my vegetable beds in frustration, rather these days I do it with gratitude, as they will soon be transformed into food for my plants in the warm, dark womb of the heap.

This morning I decided that it was time to cut down the stinging nettles standing guard around it. Since the neighbours have kindly consented to donating their kitchen scraps to my garden project, I thought I ought to at least make the area reasonably accessible. As I was stuffing the felled nettles into the top of the heap, I noticed a seedling that had grown at the bottom – probably a courgette or a pumpkin – and it made me smile.

Compost can also be a metaphor for life. Everything that happens to us, good or bad, can be put on the inner compost heap, broken down over time with reflection and prayer, and then be transformed into something new and life-giving. We have to trust this slow but steady process, perhaps that’s what the words I was reading in the letter of James this morning were talking about?

Colossians 3:1-11

Limax maximus: slugs are my enemies, but this is a fabulous specimen, and, after all, we are called to love our enemies!

I was struck the other morning by the mysterious words at the beginning of chapter 3 of the letter to the Colossians. I had a sense of our inner beings being drawn out of a state of turmoil and darkness (3:1 you have been raised with Christ) into a place of warmth, light and safety (3:3 hidden with Christ in God).

Traditionally when we’ve thought of being ‘raised with Christ’ we’ve mostly talked about being forgiven our sins, about guilt and sacrifice, but as I read it, it feels like being raised up out of the consequences of sin – what has been done to us and how in our weakness and pain we have reacted – in an act of profound healing.

I had a good childhood, with a stable home and parents that loved me. But being a highly sensitive person, I took the inevitable knocks of life very hard. I became a very anxious child and suffered with inexplicable stomach aches that I now understand as an expression of my built-up stress. This later appeared in various forms such as free-floating anxiety and teeth-grinding. I tried to ‘leave it at the foot of the cross’ and ‘just trust God’, but it wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I realised I had to do my part and stop turning things over in my mind; viewing them from every conceivable angle in a compulsive attempt to solve the problem was only making things worse. Trusting God meant properly letting go, and with that came great relief.

I made a conscious step of faith aged 12, which I see as the beginning of my healing, of my being raised with Christ. If I were an artist, I would draw a figure in the bottom left-hand corner of the page drowning in a murky quagmire, or entangled in a forbidding thorny forest, unable to escape from their anxiety and distress. Then in the top right-hand corner there is an area of pure light where God is, out of which reach the hands of Christ to grab hold of the suffering person and pull them into the light. The person’s true self is also made of light, and that becomes visible as they are raised up out of their distress.

Then I would draw another picture, this time of God the Father holding the figure together with Christ at the centre of a warm embrace. It is a place of utter peace, love and rest, of light and wholeness… and there is room for everyone in the all-encompassing arms of God (3:11 there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free; but Christ is all and in all!)

My experience is that the move from being in the quagmire to being aware of our safety in the arms of God does not take place overnight. As with every relationship, it develops in stages and continues to grow. Verse 10 says [you] have clothed yourselves with the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator. This present, active process started, at least as I understand it, at the age of 12, and since then my faith in God has been growing and changing in a surprising (and very non-linear) journey of discovery, and there is still so much more to learn!

Does God love us more than the dinosaurs?

When my children were small, I felt that in order to be a ‘good mother’ I ought to take them swimming, even though I didn’t really want to. It was always such a joy when the pool was unexpectedly closed, because that meant we could pop over the road and spend the afternoon in the local natural history museum. The dinosaur section remains our favourite, and we aren’t the only ones who feel that way: a friend’s son said that he couldn’t believe in a God who would let the dinosaurs be wiped out. That got me thinking… there are hints in the Bible about a future restoration of heaven and earth, but we have no idea how or when, so what follows is neither theology nor palaeontology, but just where my imagination takes me!

Why do we assume that God loves us more than the dinosaurs? Do you know how much longer they lived on the Earth than we have done? 600 times! They roamed an abundant planet filled with horsetails and ferns, giant millipedes and dragonflies, and mysterious creatures that the fossil record only hints at.

And yet, God did not spare their majesty from the comet’s strike. She surely wept over this devastation, such great loss of diversity, curiosity, and life – but God picked up the pieces and started again. She nurtured the beings hidden in refugia that were spared the worst of the calamity. These persistent threads of life not only survived, but thrived as God guided their evolution into ever-widening variety, spreading to fill every ecological nook and cranny until the Earth was teaming with life again; and God saw that it was good.

One particular ape caught God’s eye. She called them up onto two legs and taught them language, love, and art. She gave them the freedom to choose good, the capacity for reason, and a desire for union with the divine. Since God had called them out of the primordial earth, she named them earth creatures – Adam – reminding them of their connection with the soil. But Mother Earth did not give Adam an easy time, there were poisonous plants and dangerous animals, the heat, the cold, and conflicts with other humans. These struggles against the forces of nature were the crucible in which we grew and developed, learnt to master our surroundings, and made our lives more comfortable – but as the balance of power shifted too far, the price was paid by other humans and by the rest of the natural world.

God saw our increasing alienation from her, from the earth, and from each other. She spoke in many ways, but we struggled to hear. In Christ, she communicated directly by becoming human, and showed the way for us to live in harmony with all things. But still we struggled to hear.

In time, we discovered vast stores of gas, coal, and oil, made from prehistoric plants and plankton buried deep underground millions of years before even the dinosaurs made their appearance. We were cold, and we knew no better than to burn them, precipitating our own extinction, and the extinction of most of everything else. God is not sparing her reflected majesty in us, but is surely weeping over the loss of so much diversity, curiosity, and life. Perhaps one day, she will pick up the pieces of what survives in the refugia and start again? Lovingly storing us, and everything we have dragged down with us, deep underground. Then, in millions of years, with characteristic patience, who knows what new life God might draw out of the earth?

God is a woman baker

Fenugreek seeds

The following is a reflection on Matthew 13:33 that I gave in May 2023, inspired by the work of Robert Farrar Capon on the parables of Jesus.

About 20 years ago, I bought this book about the parables of Jesus. Since then, it has been sitting on my shelf, periodically inviting me to return to it: I know it is full of great wisdom, but it is hard to understand and even harder to explain to anyone else. I find that rather ironic, as the parables themselves can be like that. Rather than giving us doctrines set in stone for all time, Jesus gave us parables that are wide open to interpretation. So, when I saw the Gospel for today, I thought it was high time I made an attempt to share with you some of the wisdom hidden in this rather challenging book.

Oh, and just to add one more layer of complexity, today’s parables are about the kingdom of God. Jesus talked a lot about the kingdom of God, but never really defined it; here he gives us five images to consider: a mustard seed, some yeast, treasure, a pearl and a drag-net. I’m going to look at just one of these images to see if we can shed any light on what Jesus meant: the parable of the yeast.

As I read it to you again, just notice what image comes to your mind: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.’ What image does that conjure up in your mind? I see a rather domestic picture of a woman at home in her kitchen kneading a modest ball of dough ready for the family meal.

My husband bought a bread machine about a year ago. In typical fashion, I chastised him for the unnecessary purchase, but then, of course, I am the one who has ended up using it, so I can say with some authority that it takes 400g of flour to make our usual loaf.

The woman in the parable used three measures of flour, which doesn’t sound like very much, until we go back to the original Greek, where we discover that the word for measure is ‘sata’ and that three sata is a little over a bushel of flour – which, in today’s money, is 21kg of flour. Let that sink in, 21 kilograms. That’s enough to make 52 loaves of bread.

This is such a large quantity of flour, that we could understand it to represent the world, in fact it’s so disproportionately huge, that perhaps it represents the whole of creation?

Can you imagine trying to deal with enough dough for 52 loaves of bread by hand? It’s hard enough work kneading the dough for a single loaf, hence the aforementioned bread machine, but the mixing, the kneading, the handling of such an enormous quantity of sticky, heavy dough is a job for an industrial machine, not an individual person.

So, what might this tell us about the woman in the parable? Well, she has very strong arms and is extremely determined – despite the challenges of handling such an enormous quantity of dough, she gets the job done. This woman is far removed from the domestic goddess I had originally imagined!

What a fantastic image of God!

Not only is this one of those few female pictures of God hidden in the Scriptures, but it is a powerful one. God as a woman baker has a job to do and she is doing it with gusto. She has taken on a project that is not easy; the parallel between the unwieldy lump of dough and the current state of the world is obvious.

But back to the kingdom and what this parable can tell us about it.

Firstly, the kingdom has always been there. No competent baker would add yeast part way through the process, it’s mixed in right at the beginning. Similarly, God’s kingdom has been at work ever since the very beginning of creation, right from the big bang. The kingdom didn’t start when the Word became flesh in Jesus, but in the person of Jesus, God showed us his face and told us his name and sent us out to share that good news with everyone.

Secondly, the kingdom is everywhere. The yeast isn’t reserved for a special portion of the flour, it’s mixed into the whole. The kingdom of God is seeded throughout the whole of creation, not just in the church or so-called Christian nations. God has done amazing things through the church and the world would be much poorer without it. As well as nurturing the spiritual growth of individuals, the church has a rich artistic and cultural heritage, and in many places it is a lifeline for struggling communities, and I could go on.

However, it is also true that God’s kingdom has not been limited to the activities of the church. Just as the yeast leavens the whole dough, God is also at work in the wider world – think of the wisdom of Buddhism or of indigenous communities, the creativity found in cultures very different to our own, and the amazing knowledge and insights gained by peoples all over the world. What is more, not infrequently, the church has been dragged kicking and screaming into the kingdom that God has already been advancing in the world; just as an example, we are rightly shocked that women didn’t get the federal vote until 1971 in Switzerland, yet in the Church of England, women had to wait until 1992 to be ordained priests, and 2015 to be ordained bishops!

Thirdly, just as the yeast cannot be separated from the flour, so God’s kingdom cannot be separated from the world. Which takes us back to the very end of our other reading this morning from the letter to the Romans.

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God – it might not always feel that way, but God’s love is as inseparable from his creatures as the yeast is from the dough.

Fourthly and finally, the kingdom is mysterious. The Greek verb translated as ‘mixed’ in this parable actually means to hide: the woman hides the yeast in the flour. Once it’s in the dough, yeast is invisible to our eyes, but it is there quietly doing its work, slowly but surely leavening the whole batch. Similarly, we cannot ‘see’ the kingdom, or even define it, but we can see its effects: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them (Mtt 11:5). God has hidden the kingdom in the world, he is transforming creation before our very eyes even though we cannot always see it.

We live in a time of great change, and our instinctive reaction is often fear. We see the decline of the church in the West and, understandably, lament. Is the yeast still leavening the dough?

Perhaps theologian Phyllis Tickle has something helpful to say about this. She points out that about every 500 years, the church goes through what she describes as a giant ‘rummage sale’ – what she means is that it cleans its house, which is a difficult process, but that something new emerges.

These ‘rummage sales’ are linked to what is going on in the wider culture and she cites the following events, each following on from the one before after about 500 years: we start with the incarnation of Christ, then the emergence of monasticism as the church went underground at the collapse of the Roman Empire, next the Great Schism that separated the church into the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox branches, and most recently the Reformation. We are now 500 years on from that, and the time is ripe for great change in the church again.

We don’t know what will come next, but we don’t need to be afraid: the yeast of the kingdom is slowly but surely continuing its work.

So where does this leave us? It seems to me that the overarching message is to patiently trust God. To trust him in that holy ambiguity that our chaplain talked about last week. He has been at work in the whole world since the very beginning, is at work now, and will continue his work until it is finished. We needn’t despair, because although it is often a mystery to us, the kingdom is growing. It isn’t something we can drive and still less something that we are responsible for, rather we are invited to join in with it. And I know that you are already joining in the work of the kingdom in many ways, through your friendships, families, work, voluntary activities and much more, both through the church and elsewhere. So I encourage us to keep I up the good work and be open to whatever else God might be calling us to do.

One last thought about this parable; the dough is indigestible in its current form, and it won’t be edible until the yeast has finished its work and the loaf has been baked. So too, our world is indigestible in its current form, there are so many things about it that outage and upset us, that cause us pain. Despite the unwieldy, almost impossible task, the woman baker of our parable got the whole dough leavened. Let us trust that God will similarly transform the whole world through the work of His mysterious kingdom.

Deep Rising

We sang the hymn Eternal father strong to save at church this evening. According to Wikipedia, it was written in 1860 by William Whiting, who was inspired by the dangers of the sea described in Psalm 107:

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm does bind the restless wave,
Who bids the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.

I wanted to change the preposition in the last line from ‘on’ to ‘in’, because having seen the film Deep Rising, I have become aware that the extraordinary creatures living on the deep ocean floor are under threat from devastating mining operations for the ‘green’ energy revolution. The extraction of metals from the seabed for electric battery technology is having catastrophic consequences for the creatures living in this fragile and mysterious ecosystem.

Verse 4 of this hymn is my prayer for all the inhabitants of the seabed:

O Trinity of love and pow’r,
Your children shield in danger’s hour;
From rock and tempest, fire, and foe,
Protect them where-so-e’er they go;
Thus, evermore shall rise to Thee
Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

Author: William Whiting (1860)

Can we call a truce with nature?

Slugs 1 - 0 Inner Gardener

I am often tempted to idealise nature. However, after a recent trip to the forest I realised that I had brought a passenger home with me, a tick that was potentially bearing encephalitis, which got me thinking about the perfectly good reasons that set us on the path to our current alienation from the more-than-human world. Here are some musings.

Untamed nature has always tried to destroy us – think wild animals, pests and diseases. She doesn’t give up food for us to eat easily. We have had to tame her, to become gardeners, to clear the weeds and manage the fertility of the soil, to make a safe space to feed ourselves and to rest. It has been a constant battle against slugs and aphids, ergot and blight. But we mostly subsisted.

Revolutions agricultural and industrial raised many of us out of the mire into a, by many measures, far better standard of living. But they were also apocalypses of a kind, destroying ecologies, damaging mental health, and making us into cogs in a machine.

But even that wasn’t enough. We pushed on, wanting to protect ourselves entirely from the forces of nature. We further mechanised and digitalized. Those of us who could hid ourselves away in semi-sterile boxes, while the rest of humanity and the more-than-human world paid the price for our comfort. But nature keeps coming for us in dry rot and black mould, in vermin and viruses, in coughs, cancer and cholera.

We can’t escape our vulnerable flesh. Even though we have forgotten it, we are a part of nature, nature that is designed for balance, for birth, death and resurrection. Resurrection of our organic flesh means composting, as our bodies decay and feed the worms, the atoms that compose our bodies are brought back into the cycle of life. We resist the call of the compost bin before it is ‘our time’ – but who decides when that is?

Can we call a truce with nature? In any case, she won’t leave our efforts untouched, but keeps showing herself, as weeds breaking through cracked concrete, lichen on fences and sodden moss on untrod tarmac.

If you found this helpful, I highly recommend that you read Window Poems by Wendel Berry