Time and Timeless

Time and timeless

The metal clock arm swings in its arc, mimicking the movement of sunlight and tide, the wheeling of the great spheres, suns and stars beyond our vision, reminding us. And the family records, the photos, the memories of days gone by, the ever circling years, echo the truth printed right there on the clock's face…tempus fugit. And my own memory adds, from an ancient poet, the words, "The best days are the first to flee." (Optima dies, prima fugit. Virgil.)

The first is true… True as the light which passes through the leaves. True as the arch in the back, the ache in the bones. Time flies. The second is not as true. In one sense our best days flee quickly. But it is also true that we find the best days out ahead of us. Indeed, as one highland preacher observed, we pitch our tents at evening a days journey closer to home. The hills of heaven are bright in that ever-light, eternity is not time wracked, and, friend, because of God's love in Jesus Christ, the best days are out there, ahead.
A Blessed New Year
Willard Spencer

At Christmas

The earth has grown old with its burden of care,
But at Christmas it always is young.
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair,
And its soul full of music bursts forth on the air,
When the song of the angels is sung.

It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming tonight!
On the snowflakes that cover thy sod.
The feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white,
And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delight
That mankind are the children of God.
Philips Brooks

Friends, This is a poem that Bishop Brooks wrote in the late eighteen hundreds. It catches the meaning, and the feeling, of Christmas. We feel young at Christmas. And we rejoice in the fact that we can say and sing again that we are God's children, that we can hear angel song again. What a wondrous time. Merry Christmas to you all.

Light and Warmth from Rose Cottage, near the Lake, on a warm, sunny day,
Willard Spencer

Storms and Life

A Prayer for the Storms of Life
Dear Lord Jesus, None of us would choose a storm. We would choose, rather, a quiet time of peace, surrounded by a peaceful environment, in the midst of people we love. Or we would choose a sunlit day in the hills, the light laughing on little rivers, butterflies circling, and wildflowers bowing in the gentle breeze. Maybe a time of reading in a quiet place or a warm fire and a cup of hot chocolate. We would choose such, Dear Lord Jesus, before we would choose a storm.

There are times, though, when we walk into a storm knowingly, walking with you, sensing your presence near, leading and guarding. And then there are times when we just find ourselves caught by a storm, without any forethought or preparation for a tempest. Those are the ones we dread. We feel the palpable darkness. We cannot see the path to take a step. We look around for you and do not see you. We cry out and are answered by the echoes of our own fears. Those are the storms we dread most of all.

Dear Lord Jesus, show us again the ancient truths, speak again the words of truth -- that you love us with an everlasting love and that you will never let us go. Drive again into the subconscious sources of dread and angst the truth that you will be WITH us until the close of the age. Secure us in that certainty, and give us eyes to see you walking toward us in the storm.

Save your people. Satisfy every pure hunger. Assuage every grief and loss. Dear Lord Jesus, strengthen us for your mission field just outside, and bring us again into the lambent circle of safety that is your grace. We ask in your name, and offer your prayer….Pray the Lord's Prayer.

Light and Warmth,

Willard Spencer

Prayer in a Season of Ads

Prayer for a Culture of New and More

Dear Lord Jesus, We live in a time and place that multiplies needs. We need something new every time we turn around. It seems that we are driven by ever-increasing demands and plagued by ever diminishing pleasures. We need more this and new that. We expand our store of needs until it overflows the "barns" we build. And not everything new is bad, Dear Lord Jesus, it is just "more." Help us in this deluge of novelty not to lose sight of the essential things, the quiddity of truth, the sufficiency of grace, the abundance of mercy and love. Fix in our hearts, Dear Lord Jesus, the image of your sacrifice, your endless care for us. Translate our images of grace into action for you in this time and place, surfeited with novelty and fluff. Let us keep hold of the needful thing and not starve in the midst of plenty, perish on food that does not satisfy.

Find us here in our seeking. Find us poor and lost, blind and lame…and let your light shine in our eyes, in our souls, and bring to us what we really need. Bring hope that does not fade. Bring joy that triumphs over despair. Bring challenge to face real needs in your way. Show us the mission field right outside of our door and send us into it caring for the lost and the lame. Give us voices to speak for you. Give us eyes to see those who need to hear and give us a will, a courage, a readiness to tell the good news of your grace.

Be help to the helpless, Dear Lord Jesus. Be hope to those who have almost given up. Be our light in every darkness, and stir within us the fire of faith. Re-kindle the flames first found in solemn vows taken before your altar. To you be praise and glory always. We praise you this day with words you gave us….. Pray the Lord's Prayer.

Light and Warmth,
Willard Spencer

"At the back of the wall of the world stands God with His arms outstretched, and every man driven there is driven into the arms of God. The Cross of Jesus is the supreme evidence of the love of God."

Oswald Chambers

Friends, Ever been up against a wall? Better question would be, "When was the last time?". Life is a joy and a continual song, but there are times when life pushes us to a solid boundary. There, we can find prayer and peace, hope and new beginnings await us -- because of the Love of God revealed in Christ Jesus. So we avoid the walls, but we know where to look when we find ourselves up against one. Many good days.

Light and Warmth from Rose Cottage, near the Lake, on a chilly day,

Bill and Cheryl

Life and the Old Grandfather Clock

The Clock Hand and the Best Days

The metal clock arm swings in its arc, mimicking the movement of sunlight and tide, the wheeling of the great spheres, suns and stars beyond our vision, reminding us. And the yearly records, the memories of days gone by, the ever circling years, echo the truth printed right there on the clock's face . . . tempus fugit. And my own memory adds, from an ancient poet, the words, "the best days are the first to flee." (Optima dies, prima fugit. -- Virgil in the Georgics.)

There is truth . . . True as the light which passes through the leaves. True as the arch in the back, the ache in the bones. Time flies. The other is not as true. Indeed, we pitch our tents each evening a days journey closer to home. The hills of heaven are bright in that ever light, and eternity is not time wracked, and, friend, because of God's love in Jesus the best days are out there, ahead.
Willard Spencer

Winter Thoughts

Winter thoughts

The hills are somber in gray. Sparse morning light collects in drops on the windows. No "bright shoots of morningtime," no radiance breaking over the hills. They are silent and wrapped in waiting. A little wind comes along and cat paws across the puddles. No songs are sung.

The shank of winter is an old gray dog gnawing on a bone.

"Be with us, Blessed One, in all our mornings. When the world is gloomy, start your hearth fire in the places of heart and mind's discontent. Stir the ashes of cold faith. Strike the stone, spark leaping, laughing into spirit flame, and we'll offer our little lights on Your altar, Holy One. No shadow hides Your sun."

Quick Quips:

Say to yourself: "I am either up or getting up."

Say to yourself: "Don't let the turkeys get you down."

Say to yourself: "Tie a knot and hang on."

Remember, the tide ebbs, and then it returns.

The morning sun fills every gloomy corner. All the shadows flee from God's light.

Karl Barth said that it is not allowed not to hope.

Willard Spencer

The River and Life

A River and Life (The Current River)

In other days, in other writings, I have explored the river as a metaphor for life. I have reflected that there are 'slow holes,' where the river spreads out, slows down. In these a boater can relax a bit and look at the banks, take in the view of trees and hills, look deeply into the water. Also, there are sudden turns in the river -- turns that can take you into a riffle -- a shallow, fast moving, rock filled section of water, usually with a drop in 'grade.' Occasionally you find yourself in a 'shute' -- a long stretch of narrow, fast water. If you hit a log in a 'shute' you are in trouble. And there is always something new and unexpected coming toward you just around the next bend of the stream. Ultimately, all water flows to the sea. There is a goal, a destination, a final meeting of waters, where the boater arrives at last. These images are still lodged in my brain, though it has been many years since I took a canoe down a crystal clear river, like the Jack's Fork or the Huzzah. In the last few weeks my reflective thoughts have returned time and time again to the fact of the inexorability of the flow. The river flows on, over rocks and hidden logs, through fallen trees. It cuts new banks and washes away old sand bars. There is no holding back the force of the horizontal heaviness that rushes over all obstacles, down the long tilt of the land to the sea. A dam can stay it for a moment, catch the glorified gushing for an instant; but the water flows over the impediment and continues its way along its chosen path. It is unimpedible, irrevocable, and cannot be called back. So life is, friends. We can but ride the wave, share the moments, and give aid to other travelers on the journey, and mark the days till the final merging of all waters, life returning to the Life. May the days be blessed along the way.

Willard Spencer

Fall, the Ridgeline, and Permanent Things

The ridge line stays the same. I've been there a number of times now. Stood in about the same place. Looked steadily at that place where hill meets the sky. It makes a very thin line, traced between earth and air, a flowing line which never moves, the ridge line.

It is about as unchanging as things get down here. Change the light on the hill top to shadow. Change the shimmering heat to winter chill. It still marks the same unaltered boundary between two elements.

The foliage changes. The hickories are yellow. The undergrowth is a dark red. The sycamore leaves take on a brownish hue along their edges, and around holes in the leaves. The oak, of course, is still green. The oak is tough and unyielding, but the line of the ridge changes not, regardless of leaf or branch.

In a world of tumultuous change, where you never step twice in the same river (Heraclitus), it is a comfort to actually see something relatively permanent. The ridge line, now gold and amethyst with sunset light, reminds us that there are permanent things. Beyond the ridge lines of this world is a realm of truth and glory which we only experience in anticipation down here, and that by Gods grace alone.

"We incline our hearts to Thee, Immortal, Invisible, Almighty God, and we remember your unchanging love and mercy. Bless us with your everlastingness in these transitory hours. All praise and glory be unto Thee. Amen."

Willard Spencer

The Leaping Grandpa

How I Acquired A New Name

This is the story of an adventure that occurred many years ago. It was after a move to a new house. One of the prizes of the move was to be a bit closer to children and grandchildren. So, I was able to pick up the thread of adventure begun some time before with my oldest grandson. Josh is an adventurer. The new house provided new opportunities.

We were poking around in the boxes in the basement. (We were still in the boxes in the basement stage!) We found a fishing rod and fishing net. We found an old bass caught some years before and mounted on an oak board. (That was to be the source of other adventures later.) But just now Josh looked at the net and decided to catch me in it. That was the beginning.

Soon we were in full scale chase in and around and through the boxes. At one point I was running at full "grandpa" speed and came face to face with a box blocking my path. Without a thought I simply jumped over the cardboard box, and continued running, until I heard the words unforgettable. Josh stopped at the box, looked at me and said, "Wow! You're a leaping grandpa!" And there it was, for all time, named beyond my years, beyond the days, for ever and always in the eyes of a (then) five year old and his loving grandfather, fixed in time is the moment of the name. I shall always remember. (Sometimes, I confess, I feel a bit more like a "creeping" grandpa; but not that day.) It was a day of joy and memories.

Willard Spencer

Autumn Leaves and a renewed heart

You cannot fully catch such a thing. Cameras catch the leaf color and the line of the hills. Memory holds the feeling of the wind and the sound of leaves falling. But the beauty that strikes to the heart can hardly be captured.

Out there, beyond the mist on the edge of the world, beyond sun shining on golden leaf, is something more than an Ozark hillside aflame with color. There is a lost memory fighting for recovery, calling out in quaking leaf and dancing light. How we need to recall what that beauty means.

"Thank You, Blessed God, for Your created beauty, for falling leaves, and gaps in the hills. Bring us, by Your Grace, to that special memory, to the saving knowledge of redemption in Christ, world maker, rescuer. Reawaken the beauty within us, the beauty of a new heart.

Willard Spencer

The above photo was taken in western North Carolina

Rain, thunder and Lightning.

The lightning is brighter and the thunder louder in the hills. I discovered this when I was a boy. I watched the steady black lines of rain move across Shepard Mountain (correct spelling, a family name), saw the trees across the valley bending wildly, even before I heard the wind. Then the storm would break with full fury on the hill at Epworth. Thunder would roll through the valleys and hollows like a gigantic fast freight traveling at unknown speeds, shaking the switching signals, the towers, the houses near the tracks and even the mighty oaks stirred from their deep sleep when the storm diesel, like death's chariot, roared by. Rain? Yes, pouring rain, quickly caught by dry creeks and tumbled over stone and stump, cradled in a narrow earth bed, channeled, hissing and howling down the ridge, swelling the little creeks...Hurricane Creek and Turkey Creek...till they spilled over banks and washed away the old campfires left by yesterdays hikers. (Storms...still leave me breathless, excited.)

Then the next morning we would sing: "I saw God wash the world last night with his sweet showers from on high, and then when morning came, I saw him hang it out to dry." And earth did seem fresher, the air clearer, and the morning sunlight danced upon the riffles in the streams. Life and death had clashed with a grave ferocity, and life had prevailed.

I guess, even all these years later, I still believe that. Life prevails! The hill storms now echo in memory, but they tell of other storms through which we must travel. So on with the journey, friends, singing, "I saw God wash the world last night..."

Willard Spencer

Prayer for Those Hurt on the Running Stream of Life

Dear Lord Jesus, the momentum of the day pulls us toward the distant shore. The earth tilts and the sun slips south, shortening the day, multiplying the night, and we flow down the swift river, through the riffles, past the sunken logs, gaining speed as we catch the full current of time. The days draw us onward, Dear Lord Jesus. We scan ahead, looking for river marks, pointers you have left us, little signposts of creation, icons of redemption. We cannot see beyond the bend. The river swings away, out of our earthly vision, but we know that you are there. You are the end. You are the goal. This entire journey through the days and years, this journey is toward you, to you, home.

We thank you for this immense journey. We thank you for your Spirit guide. We thank you for the companions of the long journey, and we thank you that you refresh us on the way.

Dear Lord, Jesus, we pray for those injured along the running stream of life, crushed on rocks or sunken logs, caught in the intruding debris of chaotic adversaries. Lift them with your caring strength, and heal them, and set them again on the river, or, if the hurt is beyond what breath can bear, beyond the beating of the heart, then swiftly take them home, Dear Lord Jesus. We commend them you your love and care.

And keep us in your sights, Dear Lord Jesus, as we negotiate the next turn in the river. Watch over us. Sustain us, and let us always remember your unfailing love, your unfading hope, and that when we finish the journey we will be home.

Hear us, Dear Lord Jesus. Hear our heart words to you, and hear the sacred words we now pray together….Pray the Lord's Prayer.

from Prayers by Willard Spencer

The picture above is of the middle fork of the Black River at Johnson Shut-ins State Park, Missouri. Photo by W. Spencer

Christians and agnostics

Many agnostics think of religion as a flight from reality. They say "primitive" man was afraid of the elements and invented gods to protect him. All religion, they think, does this. I used to give that kind of thinking a little tip of the intellectual hat. Now I don't.

Religion is not a flight from fear into protection. Religion takes you closer to God. As you get closer you find love and a cross. The beating heart of the universe is love, but love was subjected to death. The cross tells all; it tells of sacrificial love.

In an interview, Annie Dillard, author of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, said "agnostics often think that people run to God because they are afraid of dying. On the contrary, the biblical religion is not a safe think . . . they weren't using religion as an escape hatch. Faith forces you to a constant awareness of final things. Agnostics don't remember all the time that they are going to die. But Christians do remember".

It is the agnostic who flees to safety. They try to fence themselves off from God, love, the cross, and thus hold death at a distance. They attempt to stay safe in their manageable world. In Pilgrim Annie says, "The terms are clear; if you want to live you have to die". (Pilgrim, p. 80)

So don't let the old agnostic defense put you on yours. Be true to your faith. It is reality, not a flight.

Willard Spencer

We Live in Little Worlds

He was just a working man. He spoke to me in broken English. (Much better than my broken French.) We talked about the weather. We laughed about some politics. I complimented him on his beautiful country and fluid language. Whether he was really being friendly to me or was just playing "help the tourist," I'll never know. But I will long remember his answer to my question, "Do you know where Missouri is?"

He said, "Isn't that south of Pittsburgh?" I quickly changed the conversation when I realized that he had no idea where Missouri was. We were worlds apart.

I've gone back to that in thought a number of times. Here was a human being with home, family, work, and a network of kinfolks and culture, who never knew of all of us who were living, working, playing in Missouri.

We live in such little worlds . . . insulated from peoples of different languages and values. There are myriad separate little universes and we fit neatly into one or another of them. I know... How could it be otherwise? But it clearly indicates the urgency of remembering that we are co-creations of the Living God. And all those in "other" worlds, from my acquaintance in Quebec to the stranger in the car next to mine, are people for whom Christ died. Doesn't that help break down the walls a bit?

Willard Spencer

Seized by Silence

Seized by the Silence

I rushed out of the door, down the steps, and was hurrying to the car when I was stopped in my tracks. Something was different. Something had changed, and that change reached out and caught me...held me motionless until I saw what it was.

It was the silence that held me fast...a stillness like I had felt in the wilderness, stillness of ancient stone and star, oak and moss. There was a chill in the air. A cold sun was setting. The trees were still, as if held beyond movement.

It happened in my front yard...a moment, a message...I cannot say for sure. But for a few seconds I felt as if time had ceased and I stood at a still point -- watching, listening. Then a car passed. Voices broke the silence. A breeze stirred, and I was left with a puzzle. Was it an imaginative moment? An epiphenomena?...Something bubbling up out of collective experience? Or, perhaps a message, a reminder of how things are in God's stillness, deeper than fear, rooted in life itself. I knew it was time to pray.

Willard Spencer

Siezed by Silence

Seized by the Silence

I rushed out of the door, down the steps, and was hurrying to the car when I was stopped in my tracks. Something was different. Something had changed, and that change reached out and caught me...held me motionless until I saw what it was.

It was the silence that held me fast...a stillness like I had felt in the wilderness, stillness of ancient stone and star, oak and moss. There was a chill in the air. A cold sun was setting. The trees were still, as if held beyond movement.

It happened in my front yard...a moment, a message...I cannot say for sure. But for a few seconds I felt as if time had ceased and I stood at a still point -- watching, listening. Then a car passed. Voices broke the silence. A breeze stirred, and I was left with a puzzle. Was it an imaginative moment? An epiphenomena?...Something bubbling up out of collective experience? Or, perhaps a message, a reminder of how things are in God's stillness, deeper than fear, rooted in life itself. I knew it was time to pray.

Willard Spencer

The Frost and Life

Does the frost have a life of its own? Of course it has. A few years ago we lived in a house on a hill. On wood-fire mornings in October we would look out to see if the frost had arrived. First we would see it along the banks of the creek at the base of the hill. Then, day by day, the frost would edge up the hill until it peered in our window panes and crackled on the cold stone of the rock garden.

Frost has a beauty all its own. Have you seen the sparkle of street lights reflected on the gem stones of frost? Have you not traced (with your vision) the moonlit patterns of crystal on your window pane? Hunter's moon is frost's light.

The frost comes asking questions. What about the year? Has the passing brought you closer to the frost's creator? What about the winter? Are you prepared for the slackened light? The frozen breath? Have you a supply of wood? A hearth
fire? A haven beyond soul chill?

The frost has a life of its own and brings, in its own time, beauty to behold and questions we should answer.

Willard Spencer

A Blue Stone, Pressure, and Creation

It was just a piece of rock. Long lost to human sight, it slept the timeless sleep in a passageway beneath the building. How long had it been there? Where did it come from? Who had seen it before?

A deep cobalt blue, whirls of white, a few spots of ordinary stone. . . what a lovely reminder of primal creation. Fired in ancient depths, polished by movement and heat, some unknown upheaval brought it to our surface. And there it is, on my desk, a lovely stone.

"We remember Your might, Blessed God and Your plan for the whole creation. . .that it might be redeemed. May the pressures and upheavals in our lives, along with the spiritual fires, leave us more lovely, polished, redeemed."

Willard Spencer

A Hymn of the Spirit

1. Leaping spirit dance at sunrise,

Fiery wind at your command

Trees are bending, heaven sending

Tongues of Light across the Land.

Holy Spirit, come among us,

Save us, seal us, spirit hand.

Trees are bending, heaven sending

Tongues of light across the land.

2. Loving spirit come at noonday,

Our deep fears and griefs to soothe.

Feel the weight of daily burdens,

And our heaviness remove.

Holy Spirit, come among us,

Save us, seal us, spirit true.

Feel the weight of daily burdens

And our heaviness remove.

3. Laughing spirit come at evening,

Bringing blessings from above.

Fill our cups, till running over

Glory in your Holy love.

Holy Spirit, come among us,

Save us, seal us, spirit dove.

Fill our cups, till running over

Glory in your Holy love.

4. Living spirit come and turn us

From deep shadows, deathbound ways.

Leaping, loving, laughing, living,

Fill our spirit all our days.

Holy Spirit, come among us,

Save us, seal us, spirit blaze.

Leaping, loving, laughing, living,

Fill our spirit all our days.

Willard Spencer

Tune: Vesper Hymn

Baby Addison

Baby Addison is our newest grandbaby. She definitely is in the top ten most beautiful babies in the world. She is a joy to behold. When we called the other day her big brother, Jack, answered the phone and gave us another joy -- that of direct contact with our youngest grandchildren. It was a day filled with joy. Addy's picture is attached. Many blessings on your journey to forever.
Willard Spencer

The Last Soda Jerk

I remember his face -- full of the chiseling lines of the shaping years (Tolkien), he presided with great authority over a little soda fountain on the south side of Kansas City, Missouri. It was way south -- 69th or 75th street, the years blur the location. But he was the last person I ever saw who could 'jerk' a soda. We would go to the little drugstore from time to time just for his creations. He has been gone many years now, and isn't it strange that someone four decades later still remembers. I've had some good ice cream sodas in the years since. And there is no frozen custard even close to Ted Drewe's in the southwest part of St. Louis, Missouri; but I am remembering the last soda jerk. He would put in some syrup. Then he would add a little ice cream, stirring the cream into the syrup to chill it. Then the foaming of the soda water and more syrup and ice cream. Last of all he would add the 'fizz' to create the high fluff top that were the 'mark' of all good sodas. I can still see, still taste it -- not quite the food of the gods, but in that direction. I have often wondered how much longer after our years in graduate school the old drug store lasted. Probably a few, even after the last soda jerk fizzed his last fountain creation. The big outfits took over and edged out the little guys -- an old story in our culture of constant consumption. Then, as if to try to reprise the true soda days, some venturesome young entrepreneur tried to re-create the old fountain culture, new shiny stools, slick plastic booths -- but they never caught the art, the reality of that bygone day. It exists only in memory now. All the old ones are gone. But once in a while I close my eyes and remember when Cokes were 5 Cents and you could buy a Grapette for a nickel, when burgers were a 20 cents, and when you could see a real soda jerk work for just a quarter
Willard Spencer

A Hymn of Praise

1

Praise God for home. Praise God for love.

Those cheerful blessings from above.

Praise God for sun. Praise God for rain.

For tempered joy that outlives pain.

2

Praise God for seasons and for years.

For certainty beneath our fears.

Praise God for weeks. Praise God for days.

In every moment offer praise.

3

Praise God for hope that does not fade.

False goals which arid pride has made,

Can drain the soul, leave hearts afraid.

Seek living water, lasting shade.

4

Praise God for silence in this hour,

When people cry for wealth and power.

Your righteous rule will never cease.

O fill our lives with heaven's peace.

5

Praise God for life. Praise God for breath.

And when our lips are sealed in death,

We'll join our voice with heaven's throng,

In higher praise, a greater song.

6

Praise God Creator, God the Son,

And Holy Spirit, three in one.

To you our mind and strength we bring.

To God Most High, our praises sing.

Willard Spencer

Back in Time in a Creek

Stepping Back in Time by Wading in a Creek

Down through the waters, swift rushing, rock washing the bearers of oldest memory . . . I reached for the bottom with my feet, found my balance on the rocks and waded back into the elder days. How many flowing eons have run over those creek stones? On what strata of time do they reside? Was there any answering of creature to creature? Just the shuffling of molecules and the ancient memory of great catastrophe that separated stream from bank and light from darkness, sea from shore and stone from star?

Remnants of ancient creatures scurried under rocks, turning tiny pincers to the intruding giant stirring up forgotten moss and silt.

Tread lightly in little rivers. Revere the long stream of life flowing from the breaker of darkness. Reverence the source, the Ancient of Days, who shows us time flogged impatients His glistening glory. Catch quickly the light dancing on waters near and distant. Light. Quickly, dear ones.

Willard Spencer

(The picture above is of a lovely little creek near Rolla, Missouri. I conducted baptisms near this spot in the early 80s.)

Thoughts on a Spider Web

A Silvery Slice of Space -- in a spider's web

Stretched clear across the front yard...long strands of silver converging to a center, and there he sat. It's a marvel to me how spiders can construct such intricate designs across such great distances. The web, sparkling with morning dew, reached from the eaves to the tree by the street...a whole plane of space sliced vertically by shimmering silver, and reaching from here to there.

Such marvels cannot find beginning in chaos. All the tales of cosmic chemical pots somehow bubbling up the order and design of the universe seem somewhat laughable in front of a spider's web. Such order befits a mind. Rational design is the tell-tale rift of deities role. It looks like God work.

God also bridged the distance between heaven and earth, vertically slicing history in one central plane, in one moment, silvery in moon and starlight shimmering, in stable new-born, Christ the God breathed.

"Thank You, Blessed God, thank You".

Willard Spencer

Seasons of our lives -- Signs of Change

A touch of red told the tale. All else was green...trees, grass, underbrush. But the little vine, creeping up the trunk of the old oak, had a definite hue. It was red. So, just another plant on another tree in the woods? Just another message, a footnote of the Holy, a clue, a sign. There are beginnings and there are endings. How do we know that we are on the edge of that terror, that tumult, called change? We often miss it. Did you see the grass turn green in the spring? Probably, like me, you looked out the windows one day and said, "Look, the grass is green." We often miss the change, the season, the need. So, is that important? How does that effect the price of hamburger? Hardly at all, perhaps. But sometimes others depend upon our seeing, sensing. Seasons in our lives are marked with subtle changes...a little red in the middle of the green. Can we be aware of them? Can we sense the season in the lives of those around us? Sometimes that is all we can or need to do. At other times we may be able to offer words of recognition and support, and hope that others will do the same.

Willard Spencer

Learn the Code

Little Black Marks and Messages.

We make little black marks on white paper. Early in our lives we are taught that the little black marks are letters, that they form words and sentences and paragraphs. Slowly and carefully..."See Spot, Jane? See Spot run?"...from the little marks meaning emerges. It's quite remarkable really. And the marks are powerful. They can stir great feeling. "Good-bye!" "Safe!" "Welcome!" And they give messages for good or ill.

But you must know that the marks have meaning for you. I read somewhere that if a person did not know about letters, and if someone showed that person a poem they would probably think that a poem is a lot of little marks on a page. They would be partly right of course, but they would miss the meaning, the joy.

God leaves messages for you and me...in the sunrise, in a flower, in a friends smile, in a Living Word. Don't miss it, friend. The Word is there for you to see. It brings meaning and joy. It's for you. Come to church. Read the Word. Learn the code.

Willard Spencer

Seized by Silence

I rushed out of the door, down the steps, and was hurrying to the car when I was stopped in my tracks. Something was different. Something had changed, and that change reached out and caught me...held me motionless until I saw what it was.

It was the silence that held me fast...a stillness like I had felt in the wilderness, stillness of ancient stone and star, oak and moss. There was a chill in the air. A cold sun was setting. The trees were still, as if held beyond movement.

It happened in my front yard...a moment, a message...I cannot say for sure. But for a few seconds I felt as if time had ceased and I stood at a still point -- watching, listening. Then a car passed. Voices broke the silence. A breeze stirred, and I was left with a puzzle. Was it an imaginative moment? An epiphenomena?...Something bubbling up out of collective experience? Or, perhaps a message, a reminder of how things are in God's stillness, deeper than fear, rooted in life itself. I knew it was time to pray.

Willard Spencer

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The Old Swimming Hole and Faith

Faith and the Old Swimming Hole

It held me up again. It always does. You just have to lift up and let go, and you find yourself borne up with little effort. It always feels great when the hazy fields shimmer with mid-summer heat, to swim in the cool water of the old swimmin' hole. But swimming is not only refreshing, it is an act of faith. It still amazes me to float and glide above the deep.

Can you imagine what it would be like if you had never seen anyone swim and someone tried to tell you about it? On the water? Impossible! Wood floats. Iron and people don't. First you'd have to learn to trust your teacher, then to try the water. You'd have to have a lot of faith before you took your feet off the bottom and trusted yourself to the water. What a joy that first swim would be.

I guess you know that religion is like that too. You find it's claims hard to believe. Impossible! Yet if you can trust The Teacher, try the water, and take your feet off the bottom you will find it holding you up. Faith is like that. When you are knee-deep in life, when the pressure shimmers like haze on the field, or when nothing is moving in your life and you find it torpid and still, take to the water, trusting the Lord, and you will find refreshment you had not imagined. O yes, and it will hold you up. It always will.

Willard Spencer

The Wounds of Light

The Wounds of Light

The shadow has power to cause a brave heart to cringe and waver. Darkness wields a terrible weapon! Jagged and poisoned, it leaves wounds which heal only with the strongest remedy. Yet there are wounds of wonder. Awe and joy can inflict a pain as tangible and often weightier than the devices of the dark lord.

One character in Tolkien's novel puts forth these words: "Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would not have come (on the Quest) had I known the danger of light and joy." (Lord of the Rings, vol. 1, p. 490) This character, whose name was Gimli, had come to know goodness and purity in the life of a great person. To part from this revelation was painful. To take to the road again was as a cruel wound.

Light and joy can wound - but only if we seek to hold on to the shadow. Then healing love becomes judgment and pain. Such a wound should lead us to its own cure. Would you be healed? Seek then the light which cures the shadow. As a highland preacher once noted, "One shadow never yet banished another, for this is the business of sunshine."
Willard Spencer