Dan Beirne

Walking through the woods, a little boy came upon several rows of snowmen, hundreds of them, all standing in rank.  They stood up straight, looking forward and aloof.  Each was slightly distinct: some were more jovial than others, and some more slender.  Some were taller, and some shorter.  It also appeared that not all had gotten the scarf memo.  They stood there, intimidating still, in the middle of the woods. 

As the boy stood there staring at them, no less still than they were, a little bird flew in through the pine trees.  She was a winter Cardinal, bright red and alive with color.  After flitting about a bit, she landed abruptly on one of the snowmen’s spindly stick arms.  She hopped her way onto his shoulder and looked intently at the side of his round head.  Cocking her head to the side, she looked at him in a very curious manner. 

The Cardinal then hopped twice more, until she was immediately in front of the Snowman’s invisible ear.  Then she leaned in and, much to the little boy’s disbelief, she lifted her little wing to cover her beak. 

The Cardinal was whispering something to the Snowman.

It was only for a moment.  As soon as she finished, she hopped back once, looked at him steadily once more and then flew off into the pines.  After the little boy lost sight of the bird in the distance, he returned his eyes to the snowman, one of many in rank.  Suddenly, the little boy became aware of the fact that he had been holding his breath for a few moments now, in anticipation, he supposed, for the snowman’s response.  This thought made him scoff, and breathe out suddenly, laughing nervously.  He looked around to make sure no one saw him being so silly.  “What’d I expect,” he thought to himself, “He’s just a snowman.”

Returning his eyes to the snowman once again, his heart skipped a beat.

The snowman was staring at his stick hands. 

The little boy was certain that he was not in that position before.  He had undeniably moved.  Before the boy could react, the snowman began to move again.  Lifting his head slowly, he looked around at the other snowmen around him with an expression that looked remarkably like disbelief-its hard to be sure with mere coal and carrot as a means of expression.  The snowman rotated 360º, staring at his fellow men of snow, and then he looked to forward again. 

“What is this strange sensation?” the snowman thought to himself.

Suddenly awake to the substance of his being, the snowman breathed in deep and felt more than he had ever felt before.  Sensing a tickle but not seeing anything near him doing the tickling, he closed his eyes to discern from where it came.  It was the snow.  Snow was falling on a hillside near by, and this man of snow could feel it’s falling.  It was a delightfully odd sensation, to feel so far away.  The tickle of it all made him smile. 

Then, a sudden chill made him open his eyes again.  “And this?” he thought to himself.  Looking up to the sky now, he saw the clouds moving.  He closed his eyes again and felt himself rushing along the contours of the frozen planes.  He was the wind now, and he felt free.  He hugged himself in an excited chill. 

“HA!” he guffawed, immediately lifting his stick hand to his mouth in surprise at the loud noise he had just made.  He just felt a sudden jolt of energy that made him laugh, but where did it come from?  Closing his eyes again, he was catching on to how to perceive the things beyond his spot in the forest.  Smiling with his eyes closed, the snowman tried to pin point what it was he had felt, when suddenly it came to him…a snowball fight! A team of children in their school yard just started hurling snowballs at each other, and this delighted snowman felt each giggle and each puff of snow.  It was a rush, and it made him chuckle and sway his shoulders. 

The little boy could not believe his eyes, and as he grew increasingly amazed (and cold), he decided he needed to get out of there.  He jumped up from his spot and ran into the forest.  Dodging branches, and leaping over snowdrifts, he thought to him self, “I just saw a snowman move, laugh and dance!” Running farther and farther, and growing more and more tired, the little boys cheeks were turning red.  Just then, the Cardinal flew in front of him and landed on a branch just above his head, up the path a little.  The boy stopped in his tracks and looked at the bird with a blank stare. 

“What’d that bird say to the snowman?” he thought to himself. 

After a full minute of just staring at the bird in wonder, the boy caught his breath and regained a little courage.  He stepped up to the bird and offered it his finger to perch on.  He didn’t know, really, what to expect, but he figured he would at least try to see what the bird had to say.  He had, after all, just seen a snowman dance. 

The bird stepped on to the boy’s finger after cocking his head to the side again, and measuring up the boy just as she did to the snowman.  Pulling the bird closer to him on his hand, the boy smiled at the bird.  Then, he whispered, “Birdie, what did you say to that snowman in the woods? I’d really like to know.”

The bird just sat there with her feathers puffed out a bit, as birds tend to do in the cold.  The boy offered her part of his scarf, when she hopped off his hand and onto his shoulder.  The boy froze and gave her his full attention.

Then, the Cardinal whispered to him, “You are not merely a man of snow.  You are a man of Winter.”

Then as if punctuating her remark, she hopped once and flew away. 

§

Unbeknownst to the snowmen in the woods, they are not made of snow.  That is what they think they are a made of, of course, and as a result, that is exactly how most of them live.  But, in reality, they are not men of snow.  They are men of Winter, made up of every facet of Winter’s majestic and blustery persona.  Thanks to a little bird in the woods, at least one Man of Winter has gotten wind of the true nature of his being, and now he rides the snowflakes in the wind.

In my two mile trek from the train station to the office today, I sang as I walked.  Usually I sing rather subdued, under my breath, so as not to bother any one, but today I sang loudly.  I found myself hushing a bit as I neared other people, until I thought to myself “Why?!”  It may look a bit strange, I admit, but the sight of someone singing to themselves almost always yields a smile, and moreover…I felt like singing loudly.

So I did. 

This small wave of determination brought to mind a memory that I hadn’t thought about for years.  It was similar to the above story, only instead of a city backdrop during the day, I was on the beach in Namibia and it was night.  My friends and I had gone to the beach with our guitars to sing loudly.  Taking advantage of the Ocean’s white noise, the open air granted us both shelter from the noise from which we came, and accompaniment to the noise we were about to create.  We were also far enough away from town, so as not to bother anyone.  Smiling at each other, satisfied with the perfect niche we had found, we pointed our faces to the sea and sang loudly.

Our jubilation lasted for roughly an hour or three, increasing in intensity as our guards gave way to rising confidence and the urge to sing, until we were suddenly interrupted.  Approaching us in the dark was a timid and beautiful young couple, smiling as they greeted us.  The woman held on shyly, with excited eyes, to her husband, while he shared with us that they had been listening to our music from further down the beach. 

“Oops!,” I thought to myself, “I guess we didn’t move far enough down the beach…” but he quickly negated my worry.  “It was beautiful,” he said, with that simple directness that is so delightfully Namibian.  He went on to explain that they had just gotten married, and that they would love for us to play a song for them.  After a few glances of disbelief, honor, and excitement, my friends and I happily conceded.

As I started strumming, I remember watching their faces.  I expected them to sit, or get comfortable, or –I don’t know- but I remember being struck by how they just stood their holding each other, standing tall and smiling so brightly.  They were poised as if they were about to receive some sort of honor, which, in turn, made me feel honored.  I was no longer timid about singing too loudly, so with pleasure, I sang with all my might.  They were so very grateful.

And, so was I. 

That whole story came back to me this morning, Finding-Nemo-Style, as I passed by the landscapers, singing contently to myself.  Recalling that story warmed my heart and it unfurled a wonderful lesson within me, which I now share with you:

Never keep from singing;

You never know what celebration might be awaiting your voice.

If I only saw RRX lamps through the windows of the train, and never from the street or sidewalk nearby,I would think the lights are always blinking, and the gates are always down.

I wouldn’t know any better because that’s all that I would see…

§

Picture a plane… where is it?

Picture a water fountain (the kind you drink from)… is it on?

Picture a fire place… is there fire in it?

How interesting it is that we name and identify these things for what they do, even though the vast majority of their existence is spent not doing it.  The water fountain’s water is rarely flowing, and yet a “fountain” it remains.  In the case of these objects, their function is their identity, now matter how infrequently they are caught in the act of performing them.  They are identified by what they do, and as a result, the inanimacy of the rest of their existence is inconsequential.

Now, I ask you, Picture yourself.

Where are you?

What are you doing?

What are you saying?

What expression is on your face?

What, if anything, is in your hand?

What is on your mind?

Do you have an accurate perspective of who you are, or are you just looking through windows on a train?

Is it possible that there is more to you than your perspective allows you to see?

More to your identity…more to your name?

How might God see you, how does God name you?

What are you doing?  And…is that who you are?

Who are you?

Who are you?

A while back, I stumbled upon a pretty turbulent conversation regarding people’s opinions on the building of the Islamic Cultural Center in New York City.  There was dispute over whether or not it was appropriate to have it constructed near Ground Zero, and if not, how far was far enough.  I found it interesting and sad how clearly this conversation portrayed the schism between Islam and Christianity, and how so much of it is based on fear and ignorance.  It is important to note that I do not make that remark with any bit of judgment, but rather I say it transparently.   For, I think ignorance is a plague that we all bring to the table of this discussion.   As I struggled to form my input into this conversation, a story came to heart, and that is what I share with you here.  This story is my stance.

There is a family of four

There is a family of four. A single Mother, and three boys. The boys had the same upbringing, and got along rather well. But, as they grew up, they started to part their ways, and become their own men. They made friends, and even set roots in different areas. As they became more set in their ways, two of the brothers in particular, the 2 youngest, started to grow apart. Their opinions became more distinct, and they started to disagree more and more. Mother watched as they spoke less and less with each other. She would talk on the phone with them, and listen to each one complain about the other.  She would notice how they started to brood over their differences; assuming and exaggerating their way into what eventually became hatred.

It all escalated, until one day the second oldest brother went and visited his youngest brother where he lived.  He walked right into his kitchen where he was cooking, and punched the youngest brother right in the face, and continued to strike him until he fell to the ground, bleeding.  He left him there, and walked away.

Though the black eye and the bruises healed, the wounds opened a schism between the two brothers.

Mother couldn’t stand it any more, and when she got wind of this fight, she decided to intervene. She planned a meal…a family meal. This promised to be an issue with the brothers, because they hadn’t all been together in over three years, let alone shared a meal together.

Worse yet, she asked the youngest brother to host the meal. She said she’d help cook, but she asked if it could be held in his home, in his kitchen.

Enraged, the youngest blew up at Mother, asking if she even cared, or was aware of the absurdity of such a request.

How could he even be in the same room with the brother that knocked him down so cold heartedly, let alone invite him into his home…this home that he violated, coming in unwelcome, and striking him down?!

Mother spoke, “I have listened to the three of you speak. I’ve heard what you say about one another, and I’ve heard what you say to your friends. Over these years, your have let your differences dig a void between you, and your arrogance has filled it with waters impassible.

Stop.

Stop hating. In your pursuit to be right, or distinct, you have ignored your upbringing; you have forgotten how I raised you. You words and actions have stopped being in defense of your beliefs a long time ago, and that should be overwhelmingly obvious to you because you know and I know that I did not raise you to fight.

So, if this is to stop, if there is to be healing, and if this family is to move on, then there is no better place to do so than in this kitchen where you were struck down. Even your family room won’t do, nor your front yard… It is to take place right here, where your blood stained the linoleum. That is the only way.”

There is a prairie by my home in Illinois, and recently it’s been under construction.  Its rivers were too straight.

Centuries ago, before this land was a preserve, it was farmland for those who originally settled here.  Irrigation was needed for their crops so they dug, channeled, and rerouted the land’s natural waterways into straight canal-like lines.  That way, the water ran the course they determined.  It remained that way for hundreds of years, time enough for the  trees and other plants to grow along the banks they created.  The prairie adapted.

One year ago, ground was broken to bend and twist these rivers and streams back into their natural serpentine state.  It was called the Meandering Project, and it was implemented because rivers aren’t meant to be straight.

Straight rivers run.  They gain momentum, and course through their unobstructed beds, eroding their way through a narrow strip of watered land.  The rest of the prairie, untouched by its lazy efficiency, remains dry.

A meandering river, however, bends and tangents it’s way through the earth.  In seeming chaos, it darts its way from plant to plant, tree to tree, ensuring that nothing misses out on its sustenance before moving on.  Meandering rivers are more generous, if you will, because they touch more.  They flow as nature intended.

This is not too dissimilar from the layout of our veins and arteries.  To the smallest extremity and the most vital organs, oxygen and life are pumped to every millimeter of our bodies through the bends, twists and branches of our circulatory system.  Fortunately for us, our bodies share the same logic as the rivers of the Earth.

When it comes to less tangible matters of life and sustenance, however, we are less apt to embrace the need for meandering.  In our constant pursuit of reason, explanation, and logic to our liking, we continue to straighten the paths of spirit and soul that nature would otherwise leave winding.  We simplify the naturally complex, and seek to explain the unexplainable.  In doing so, we deprive our inner-reaches of life.  Moreover, we have grown so adept at this intellectual dredging, and we’ve been doing it for so long, that new growth has taken root along the banks of our own reason.  Our minds have adapted, and in turn, much of our perception of the world has gone dry.

We are in need of a Meandering Project.  And, much like for the prairie, this will be quite the undertaking.  Though, instead of a bulldozer, and in place of steam shovels, this task will require discipline and humility; an overall disposition toward that which we cannot control.

Allow yourself to draw nutrients and life from the realms of life that lie outside the paths you’ve declared logical, acceptable, or straight.

Imagine.  Imagine what a feeling it would be for joy to course through your veins like blood, or for the spirit to run through your body with the chaotic efficiency of nature’s rivers.

To live as such is not only as nature intended, but it is also exhilarating and life giving.

Never do a culture the injustice of allowing her suffering to be her only voice.

Me mustn’t treat hardship as a culture in and of itself; it is no more one’s culture than hunger is one’s identity. Culture is vibrant and multifaceted:  music and dance, food and fabric, tradition and color.  Only when these elements are allowed to speak for a culture are the people therein rightfully represented.

A culture’s strongest voice is her ambiance, and only from steeped deep within her may a spokesperson arise.

Sitting atop the prairie hill, I see the effects of the wind on the grass.  Running and rushing, bowing down and rising up, the land pulses with the energy of the atmosphere.  Every gust, and even every calm, throw the grass and branches into a waving unison, rippling out and in from the mini epicenters the wind creates.   It is a beautiful sight to see.

Sitting in the back of an auditorium full of hundreds of people worshiping, I see a familiar sight.
I see the effects of the Wind on the people.

Not just in the swaying and bowing, for Music played her role too, but rather in the epicenters, I see  something that intrigues me.  Webs form.  Hands first, then arms link.  Shoulder to shoulder, I notice people beginning to huddle in little circles, in little clusters rippling out, defying the stadium seating and other existing structures that would otherwise separate.  Like grass in a gale, arms lift and rise, and people are brought in.  The room was alive with the energy of the atmosphere.
And I felt the wind on my face.

On the train, peering through the window, I see a forest thick and green.  Suddenly the train is blue and yellow, and valleys and waterfalls break the tree line before me.  I am in Peru, and the Jungle is stunning.  Yet, flashes of suburbia intermittently interfere with my memory’s vision.  Houses, large and similarly colored, cast their reflection onto my window from the other side of the train.  My window simultaneously serves as both screen and looking glass as I see jungle, houses, jungle, houses, jungle, houses, broken by the spaces between the windows and my memories.  I am in Peru, next stop Naperville.

Religion is no more responsible for my relationship with God than my kitchen table is responsible for my having a good meal.

The table brings the nutrients to my level, making it more accessible, both for me and for those with whom I might dine, but the food’s nutritional value is not contingent upon neither the perfection nor the flaws of my table.

If you enjoy a good meal, but are frustrated with the current wobbliness of your Table, might I suggest you take a step back and think about both your hunger and the food before you.

Tables can be frustrating yes, especially when we are particularly hungry, but if you are thinking of leaving the Table, please consider the food.  Consider the Chef.  Why starve because of an imperfect Table?  Neither the food nor the Chef are to blame, for we are the ones who have made our Tables, and we are the ones who make them wobble.

So, please, forgive the unstable tables, and move on.  It is time to eat.

In the end, it is always the food that brings us together.

Comfort deprives us of the adversity that forms us as a human being.

Gathering water from the same source, hunting and preparing food, depending upon the same sources of energy and life; these common needs create community.  In order to carry out these basic tasks it requires sometimes a monumental communal effort.  Sometimes doing a load of laundry down by the river involves up to 12 mothers coming together and chatting up a storm as they scrub away.  What we label from afar as “developing,” “third world,” or “poor,” is really a beautiful and harsh reality that necessitates communal living and breeds hospitality and collaboration.  It is a way of life that is more challenging and less comfortable, yes, but the inevitability of it brings together the people therein.

Yet, from the context of privilege,  it is difficult to grasp this element of the impoverished reality.   The white picket fence blocks the view to our neighbor’s yard.

In no other context are we so detached from the tasks of basic survival that would otherwise bring us together in a healthy mutual dependency.

Think of a well.  All of the people in the village come to it to draw water from it; they are brought together by their common need and the singular source of its satiation.  This changes, however, in a context in which you can afford to have water at the turn of a nozzle.  When you are well-off, the well is off.  You no longer draw sustenance from the same source as the rest of the community, and so are removed, in a very significant way, from the life of the village.

However, Community is possible with faucets.  I repeat, community is possible with faucets.  For, though our faucets and taps would convince us otherwise, we are in fact surrounded by wells, and we are filled with thirsts.

Public transportation, an awning during a sudden down poor, elevators, places of Worship, pauses in a conversation, moments of silence; these moments whisper shouts to our inner beings and swell with possibility.  That is why they are frequently so uncomfortable, because they threaten our independence in a way that is unnervingly vulnerable.  We feel the potential for connection, but our accustomedness to independence has left us feeling unprepared.  So, what do we do?  We look to the elevator doors in silence, pull out our cell phones when no one is calling, and clear our throats in discomfort because we know not what else to do.

pause

Our proximity to one another is not an inconvenience to be avoided, it is a resource to be embraced.

Please, embrace the few wells that remain.  Allow yourself to be brought to your neighbor, and celebrate the moments that make it possible.  It is difficult, to be sure, but at least you don’t have to carry your water back home to make it happen.

Enjoy the moments that unite us.  They are few and far between only as much as you let them be, and God is evident in them all.

See you at the well.