[The presentations here referred to were given in 2007, during the 150th anniversary of the Christian Reformed Church. That makes this little meditation 16 years old and me 59, a long, long time ago. It seems I was already feeling my age. . .]
Yesterday, I was delivered of
(something about it feels almost passive) a speech I've now given three
weekends in a row--twice here in Iowa, and once in Michigan. That essay--part
research paper, part ethnographic study, part devotional--took great chunks out
of two years of my life. For a long time, I watched tea leaves, listened to
national news, read op-eds, and studied the sociology of religion, in order to
accomplish a task I was, well, assigned: to create a crystal ball to determine,
as well as you can, whether or not the denomination to which I belong, the
Christian Reformed Church, has another 50 years.
The answer to that question? I don't know.
But the essay that came out of all that study and time--originally just about
60 pages long--and the presentation--which included videos from visits with
people from a variety of churches--is now history. There will be one more
publication thereof, but otherwise all of that work will now exist only in the
back forty of a single microchip buried somewhere in my computer. Really, a
chapter of my life is over.
I don't know that I'd call it a chapter, really, but it was a goodly chunk of
time. The project was a challenge, an exercise that was good for me. And I
enjoyed it. I enjoyed presenting it. I enjoyed people's steady, open eyes,
yesterday, as they listened. I believe it went over well.
For the last couple weeks, our old barn has been a kind of canvas for the
incredible work of more than a few noiseless, patient spiders. Were I an
expert, a real-live arachnologist, I'd know why now, this time of year, a
certain species of spider chooses to festoon the corners of our barn with their
webs. I don't. All I know is, those spiders suddenly create elaborate webs
right about now.
One day last week, a spectacularly-designed monster web was simply gone, blown
away, I think, by winds that rush around the prairie just about daily in
September. It had been an incredible piece of work; but when I went out there
to get my bicycle, it was gone. Felt sorry for the ugly little fella who'd
spent himself beautifully, who did all that work.
That night, when I got back home after teaching, it was there again,
miraculously. He'd built it again in an afternoon, spun it out of his silky
entrails and was crouched there in the middle, legs drawn up in a fetal
position, as if he were just plain pooped. Really, of course, he was waiting
for some woebegone bug. A web, no matter how beautiful, is a little more than a
highly elaborate murder plot. Poor guy's got to eat.
It was gone. Several hours later, it was back. He'd spun that masterpiece out
of nothing in no time flat.
Yesterday, the wind. Yesterday, once again his workmanship was gone. Maybe this
time get smart and seek out some less public triangle.
It's humbling to have to admit it, but I probably feel sorry for him because I
feel sorry for myself--so much work so quickly gone.
But making webs what he does--or she; and I imagine in that little spider mind
of his, he's not subject to the vagaries of hubris. He's not thinking that
something important he did--or she--is now gone. He's not thinking a life's
work has to be eternal.
He's just weaving what he weaves, doing what he's does. Making breathtaking
webs is what sets his mind to. Somewhere, right now, he's is probably plotting
another piece of silky architecture, an elaborate trap for just another supper.
His persistence is as remarkable as his accomplishments, and its own kind of
meditation.
___________________
By the by, should you be at all interested in the essay/speech referred to in this solemn essay, you can find it here. Beware! It's a long, long read, and, 16 years later, it's dated.
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