Fall Greening

It is October, which means that those of us who have lived in the Willamette Valley for a while can finally stop checking the air quality app every morning (and start checking the rain forecast instead). I don't know about you, but September brings memories of the Labor Day fires that roared down the Santiam Canyon and along Bear Creek in the Rogue Valley. So many beloved places changed, in a mere matter of hours.

If you have driven Highway 22 up the canyon since then, you know what the fire left behind. I was delighted to see so much green as Peggy and I came over the mountains last Monday: a creek bottom, a shaded slope, a stand of trees the flames somehow skipped over. As we learned last year, ecologists have a name for those places. They call them refugia. They are the places where life holds on through the fire, and when the burn has passed, they are where the seeds, the birds, and the small creatures come from that bring the forest back.

I have been thinking about refugia again lately, because I have been thinking about you. I know how tired many of us are. We are tired from paying attention to neighbors taken from their jobs and families by immigration agents. Tired of neighbors sleeping in doorways because there is nowhere else for them to go. We are tired of watching the programs that held people up being cut away one by one. We are tired of a political climate that seems to reward cruelty.

We are tired from showing up again and again, and tired from wondering whether any of it makes a difference. I don't believe that weariness means your faith has failed you (or your body, either). I believe it means you have refused to look away, which is exactly what the Jesus Way asks of us.

The prophet Isaiah knew something about this. In one of the hardest passages in the book, he is told that the land will be emptied and burned, and burned again. Then, at the very end, comes one strange word of hope about an oak tree that has been cut down: "The holy seed is its stump" (Isaiah 6:13). Long before anyone used the word refugia, Isaiah understood that God has a long habit of working through what survives.

Last year, the theme for our Central Pacific Conference Annual Gathering was Refugia Rising. At this year's gathering in Boise, our delegation was asked to share the story of our Justice & Resilience Collaborative (JRC) as one example of what refugia might look like in the life of a congregation.

Dana McBrien, Peggy Farr, Diane Corner and I stood up to share something of our vision. I talked about our building being a refugium for justice organizations and groups offering healing and hope to our community in Salem. But I also shared how the JRC is a refugium for us as well. It is a way that we can be sheltered and gain strength and then rise with new green for the generations to come.

Yes, the metaphor has its limits. A creek bottom does not choose to survive the fire, and we have had to choose this Resurrection work over and over, despite our exhaustion. But the opportunity to reflect reminded me that we never set out to be an example for anyone. We are building the JRC to answer a need, a call. Being an example happened later, the way green spreads outward from the small places that survived.

It is not lost on me that our Resurrection choice means more weight on tired shoulders. But maybe your weariness might mean something other than what you fear it means. Maybe we are tired because we are holding something that other congregations need, something this city, this state needs. Maybe we are holding the light for others even as we do this work for ourselves. And remember, refugia only survive because something shelters them. For us, that shelter is first our God, and then each other. It is the prayer for a friend, the meal when someone is in need, the ride to an appointment, and the phone call when someone notices you weren't there last Sunday.

And this, Beloveds, is who we are. We have long described ourselves as a diverse community of believers, skeptics, heretics, and seekers. We are Open and Affirming with no exceptions, and a Just Peace congregation that believes peacemaking is work and not a mood. We are a creation justice community because we accept that stewardship of the land is our responsibility. And, we rest in the truth that nobody has to arrive with it all figured out to belong.

So I wonder who in your life is carrying this same weight right now. I wonder who you know who gave up on church because the church they knew chose certainty, or cruelty, or silence. I wonder how many people in Salem are longing for a green place in the burn of their lives and simply don't know we are here. And I wonder what might grow if each of us opened the door for just one of them.

So, here is my invitation. Think of one person, and invite them to come with you once, to worship, to coffee hour, to book group or a gathering of the Collaborative. Offer them a ride, save them a seat, and sit with them. You don't have to explain progressive theology or what Open and Affirming means. Just say, "Come with me." We will take it from there.

I, for one, believe that God is not finished with this valley or with us. The forest along the Santiam is coming back, slowly, from the refugia that held. I believe the same Spirit that greens a burned canyon is at work in this old church on Marion Street, and in every tired soul who keeps showing up.

May we be a refugium for one another, and for whoever walks through our doors. May the holy seed in us take root again.

See you Sunday and bring a friend!

Pastor Robin