Psalm 104; Selections from the gospels
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
August 7, 2022
Poetry on the bathroom walls? What kind of place is this? I had just arrived at Ghost Ranch, a retreat center in the high desert of New Mexico. I’d unpacked my bags and made my way down a steep path to the dining hall. Before going through the cafeteria line, I made a quick stop in the restroom. There, on the wall of the bathroom stall was this poem by Mary Oliver, entitled “Prayer.”
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones, just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
The poem caught my attention because, earlier that day, I had seen blue iris. On our way to Ghost Ranch from their home in Albuquerque, my aunt and cousins and I had stopped for lunch at a restaurant that had an entire bed of blue iris in bloom. Aunt Adri and I took a selfie amidst the flowers. It was especially exciting because it was late April, long before we’d see my favorite flower back home.
The poem was a fitting invitation at the beginning of my sabbatical month. It felt as though Mary Oliver was speaking directly to me. Yes, she said, revel in the blue iris and the stunning landscape of the high desert—and also pay attention to the weeds and random piles of stone. They too can lead to wonder and gratitude and silence.
Inspired, I got my food and sat down at the table set aside for the group doing the nature getaway retreat. There, in the center of the table, was a napkin holder. On the side was this quote by Ta-Nehisi Coates:
“I knew, even then, that whenever I nodded along in ignorance, I lost an opportunity, betrayed the wonder in me by privileging the appearance of knowing over the work of finding out.”
Hmmmm… Another invitation at the beginning of my sabbatical, as our group of ten strangers began to introduce ourselves. This quote felt like an invitation to a different kind of wonder, to curiosity, to asking questions and appreciating the gifts these ten people had to offer me.
Over and over again, throughout the week, I encountered these two quotes.
At first glance, they are very different: different genres of writing, authors from different backgrounds and generations who bring very different frames of reference.
Mary Oliver, who died in 2019 at the age of 83, was a white woman from the Silent Generation. Most of her poetry was written as she lived a semi-reclusive life in Provincetown on Cape Cod. With a few notable exceptions, her writing emerges out of solitude—a solitary human being encountering an animal or a plant or the rhythms of the planet, a human being awakened by stillness to awe and connection. While I believe she did not identify with any one religion, her sense of wonder at the natural world resonates with the poetry that began our service this morning: St. Francis of Assisi’s hymn envisioning all creation praising God, the overflowing abundance of Psalm 104.
Ta-Nehisi Coates is an African American man in his 40’s—a Gen X’er. A senior editor with the Atlantic Monthly, Coates is a scholar and writer who challenges us to think deeply about the roots of racism and oppression. His work is based on careful analysis of history and our current societal structures; it is also deeply personal. One of his most powerful books, Between the World and Me, is a letter written to his adolescent son, reflecting on his experience growing up Black in the United States.
It took some digging to find the context of the quote I read on the napkin holder. It comes from another book, We Were Eight Years in Power: An American Tragedy, which includes the story of his own awakening to how embedded racism is in our culture. The quote emerges out of a quite mundane incident: as a young man who had never traveled west of the Mississippi, Coates attended a conference in Denver. There, he and his partner met a couple who were excited to see the Continental Divide. Coates was embarrassed that he didn’t know what they were talking about, so he nodded along instead of asking and learning something new, betraying his own capacity for wonder in order to pretend he knew.
As I read more about him, I discovered how central wonder is to Coates’ life and work. A decade ago, Coates realized he needed to re-ignite his curiosity, so he immersed himself in the study of French. In an interview with John Donvon of Talk of the Nation shortly thereafter, he reflected on the power of confusion. When you are learning a new language, you spend a lot of time feeling confused. That, he suggested, can be a good thing, for when your old categories of thinking don’t work, you open yourself to learning, to asking questions, to receiving help—and all those things can lead to wonder.
Donvon asked him about the relationship between confusion and wonder. His response sticks with me: “I’m not sure wonder and confusion are two different things. You know what it is? I think wonder is the acceptance of confusion and the enjoyment of it.”
The enjoyment of confusion? In this rapidly changing world, where there are so many things and people and processes that confuse us, what does it mean to enjoy our confusion? When we are confused about how to lead a healthy life amidst a pandemic that is becoming endemic, might confusion open us to wonder? When we are perplexed by someone we love who spouts opinions we find abhorrent, what does it mean to embrace our confusion as a gift, as an opportunity to ask questions and learn? When the pain and problems of our world overwhelm us with their urgency, how can we slow down enough to allow our confusion to lead us toward deeper creativity? I don’t know the answers to these questions; even asking them confuses me. Maybe that’s a good thing.
While Mary Oliver’s poetry points me to the psalms, Coates’ words prompt me to take a fresh look at the questions Jesus asks. Some of his questions are rhetorical—introduction to a teaching. It’s easy to hear some of them as an expression of his frustration with people who don’t get it. What changes if we assume, instead, that curiosity is behind his questions? “Who touched me?” “Do you want to be made well?” “Why are you afraid?” “Who do you say that I am?” Jesus asks questions that invite us to be curious about our own lives and each other—and ultimately to open to wonder.
Wow! Two very different people, writing in different genres with different ways of engaging with the world. Each writes about the power of wonder to transform our lives and our world. Their wisdom intersects in such a rich way.
Both writers invite us to awaken to wonder where we might least expect it. I’m sure Mary Oliver would love my selfie with Aunt Adri in the patch of blue iris at the Abiquiu Inn. And she might then ask me to take another selfie—by the weeds in a vacant lot or beside a seemingly random pile of stones. Let the blue iris be practice, I imagine her saying—practice paying attention, so you awaken to wonder amidst weeds and rocks.
Ta-Nehisi Coates invites us to open to wonder in the metaphorical places of weed and rock in our lives—in the midst of that deeply uncomfortable human experience of confusion. He challenges us to reframe our confusion—not as a problem but as a gift, not as something to be eliminated but as something to be savored. Yes, I’m sure Coates would celebrate those glorious ah-hah moments of insight and understanding; he also asks us if we can appreciate the gift of wonder in our times of dissonance and confusion.
For both Oliver and Coates, wonder is the doorway into something even more powerful. In her poem, Mary Oliver traces a movement—from wonder to thanks to silence, space in which another voice may speak. Implicit in Coates’ words is a movement from confusion to wonder to curiosity to asking questions—creating a different kind of space in which another voice may speak.
I don’t know whether either of them would name that voice as sacred. I would. The voice Oliver hears in the silence is what I would call the voice of God. Most of the time, it’s not a voice that tells us what to do or answers our questions; more likely, it is voice that assures we are beloved, connected, gifted, needed. Coates calls us to ask questions that enable us to hear the voice of God through another person’s story. Perhaps we hear God’s voice through the recognition of our shared humanity, previously hidden beneath our differing perspectives. Maybe we hear God’s voice in the discovery of truths that are beyond our own experience.
How do these two brilliant writers speak to you? Perhaps you hear Mary Oliver calling you to pay attention to the weeds and rocks, to pause and say thank you, to allow your words of gratitude to fade into holy silence. Perhaps you hear Ta-Nehisi Coates urging you to reframe your confusion as a gift, to ask questions, to trust that the people you encounter have holy wisdom that can enrich your life. However these words speak to you today, I invite you to take them with you this week, to pin them up on your bathroom wall or tape them to your napkin holder, a reminder to allow your life to be transformed by wonder.
Blue iris are lovely, among my favorite. And it doesn’t have to be the blue iris. It could be weeds or rocks. It could be confusion. Whatever it is, pay attention. Give thanks. Ask questions. Wonder. Listen for the voice of God. Amen.