An interesting article in, of all places, Williamsburg's Next Door Neighbors. That's one of those magazines that comes unbidden in the mail, that you glance through quickly before throwing it into the recycling bin. But I was interested in the short feature on Ron Grossman, a doctor in town who is also a member of the Williamsburg Area Bicyclists. In the piece, Ron makes a doctor's typical pitch for exercise as part of a healthy life, but then he adds: "It helps me sleep better. It matches up my physical fatigue with my mental fatigue."

That strikes me as a good measurement of weather we're exercising enough, for it to be a part in a healthy balance of daily activity!

I plan to get out on my road bike this afternoon, after this morning's Theologian in Residence presentations. Looking at the weather report, that means I'll be out when the thermometer climbs above 90 degrees!

In fact, the next three days are forecast to be above 90 degrees. When is the last time that happened in April??

We sure are experiencing climate changes. Overall, average temperatures are increasing. You hear all the time about the stress that is causing to all kinds of wildlife.

Are the rising temperatures caused by human activity? That's an intense political controversy.

I like the approach of Larry Rasmussen, the Theologian in Residence at St. Stephen two years ago. Rasmussen doesn't use the term, "Global Warming" (even though there is no dispute that average temperatures are rising) because that phrase provokes the political flash point. And, he asserts, the political debate diverts Christians from the point of our calling to care for the earth. We do that becuase the earth is God's creation. We care for the earth because God's wants us to!

A practice that, at once, is an act of Christian discipleship, and an act of patriotism, and a way to save money? That's right! It's driving the speed limit on the Interstate. (See yesterday's post.)

Here's another suggestion. Never buy bottled water again.

Instead, go to a bike shop and buy a water bottle. Four bucks. A leak-proof top. An opening wide enough to insert ice cubes. Re-usable thousands of times. (How much would each use save you? How much is a bottle of water?)

Here's why this is an act of Christian discipleship: because it's an act of caring for creation. You would reduce the use of oil that would otherwise go to producing your throw-away water bottles (not to mention the pollution of that production process).

It's also an act of patriotism. Less oil used means less money going to oil producers who hate us.

It's also an act of economy. How much does each bottle of water cost? Money saved! That means more money to give away! Hey! Another Christian faith practice -- generosity!

(By the way, I'd suggest that you go to Bikes Unlimited to get your water bottle -- because there you can get a Bianchi water bottle. You know, of course, that Bianchi is the coolest bicycle brand in the world.)

What if everyone drove the speed limit on the Interstate? (I know, I know. I'm dreaming here.)

Right off the top of my heard, I can think of four benefits

Your vehicle would use significantly less gasoline. (Did you know that, if you buy a new car and drive the speed limit, you will do better than the window mileage sticker because that mpg rating assumes you will speed?) Using less gasoline is patriotic. It puts less money in the pockets of oil producers who hate us.

Since you would be burning less gasoline and producing less pollution, you would thus be caring for God's creation. (That's a Judeo-Christian practice.)

You would be cultivating patience. (That's a Christian practice.)

You would be more relaxed, because you wouldn't be jockeying for position in a constant attempt to gain 17 seconds at a time. Think of the better mood you'd be in when you arrive at work, or back home to your loved ones!

Actually, I'm not dreaming, wondering if more people would drive the speed limit. I'm hoping! (Hope is another Christian practice.)

I love to play in New York City, so last week was a wonderful, restorative break after the demands of Holy Week.

The high point of the week was being able to hear a recital by our daughter, Emily and two of her friends, featuring voice, piano, flute and guitar. (One of the three was required to give a recital, as a course requirement at Columbia, and the two others decided to participate for fun.) It's stunning how much musical talent there is in NYC. All three of these young women have performance degrees. For all of them, perfoming is an avocation.

We ate in a Thai restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall knishe bakery, an Irish pub, two Italian restaurants, a Cuban restaurant, an Indian restaurant.

Patty and Emily saw "Guys and Dolls" while I spent an afternoon in the Strand bookstore. (I also spent time in Book Culture shop, near Columbia University. The entire state of Virginia does not have a single book store that compares with either one of those!)

Patty and I went with Sheldon to the Village Vanguard one night to see the Paul Motian Octet + 1, and to the Jazz Standard another evening to see the Fred Hersch Pocket Orchestra.

We spent one afternoon in the Museum of Natural History, and another afternoon soaking up the Fricke Collection.

And then to get back home -- where the leaves are out and the air is warm, the wisteria vines and azaleas and irises are blooming...

What joy!

God is so generous! Life is so good!

Favorite bumper stickers during the trip:

"Science is not optional."

"Stop Bitching. Start a Revolution."

Oh no! Harry Kalas has died. Since 1970 he announced Phillies games, and became a dear friend (in my imagination), as can only happen while listening to a voice for hours and hours and hours. He was the best baseball announcer I ever heard. I am very sad.

Gethsemane

by Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,
maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.

Well, the Chicago White Sox got in a game this afternoon. I enjoyed the pictures from yesterday -- when Opening Day was postponed due to snow. As I looked at the groundskeeper shoveling snow off the field, I thought of all the early season baseball I shivered through when I lived in Chicago during seminary.

The wonderful thing about baseball in Chicago is that there is a game every day!! Either the Sox or the Cubbies are at home every day of the season. The terrible thing about baseball in Chicago -- in April, anyway -- is that it's COLD! The few of us at the ballpark would huddle together, under blankets, with thermoses of hot coffee. Because only true fans would brave such cold to see a game, the conversation among the fans was elevated. There were no stupid questions and comments. (In other words, there were no stupid questions or comments, but we were total idiots for being out in that weather!)

Since I lived on the South Side, the home team was the Sox. They played in that ancient and magical place, Comiskey Park -- the kind of ballpark that new ballparks try to imitate, and only come close to succeeding.

General Admission tickets were $2, and big league clubs played Sunday afternoon double headers. (Remember, this was the '70s. There was outrage in the late '70s when Mike Schmidt signed a contract during that decade that paid him $560,000 a year! Wow. How money has changed the game.)

I remember in particular one Sunday afternoon we went out to Comiskey to see a double header between the Sox and the Twins. Two bucks. We figured we'd see Rod Carew hit eight times in the two games -- so here's how we figured out the price of admission. We were paying 25 cents per Carew at bat. That alone was worth it! Everything else was a freebie, thrown in!

This morning: rain. Again.

Since I couldn't commute by bicycle this morning, I decided to do my best Mark Hinders impersonation. I walked from my home to my office in the house of the church.

As Mark does every day, I plugged in my i-Pod. The volume was low -- too low, actually, because as clusters of cars pulsed past me (from red traffic lights that had turned green behind me on Jamestown Road), the noise would drown out the music. When the car noise faded away, I could hear the music again.

I didn't mind it happening, because it made me think of how intermittently I hear God.

I experience the voice of God to be quiet and constant: "I love you. You are of infinite value in my eyes. Receive my grace and forgiveness, grace upon grace."

But, often, my false self makes itself known. This is my judgmental, critical self, turning the judgment and criticism in on myself! "You're no good. Everything is falling apart, and it's your fault. Why aren't you working harder?"

These destructive messages drown out the quiet voice of God.

My spiritual director once advised me: "When that judging self pops up, just say, 'Oh, hello. It's you again.'" I gently and firmly push that false self along on its journey. The noise of those destructive messages fades away.

And what I hear again is that quiet voice of God, that voice which never stops speaking: "I love you. You are of infinite value in my eyes. Receive my grace and forgiveness, grace upon grace."

The Poet Thinks about the Donkey

by Mary Oliver:

On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.

How horses, turned out into the meadow,
leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
clatter away, splashed with sunlight.

But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.

Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.

I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.