Writings from Image and Word Class

This fall, seminary students in Group II explored a way of looking at nature that prepares one for writing sermons.  They looked at the ground, a plant and a candle.  First, we observed what one can perceive with the senses, then the verbs,(the activities), then the being-ness of the object, what it might say if it could talk.  Finally, in all these approaches, some gentle hints of the moral nature of the creator come to the fore, for the creator lives in the creations.

The Ground Speaks 

I am the ground. My face is covered with oceans and plains, mountains and valleys. Rivers carve into my surface. Forests and cities stretch their roots into me. I give space to all of them, support all of them, sustain all of them.

I allow the plants to grow in me and nourish them. And I receive their leaves, fruits, and branches as they wither and fall on me. I give dwelling to insects and worms. And I become their grave as they perish. I let animals run on my surface. And I cover their decaying flesh as they die. 

I let human beings dig into me and find my hidden treasures. I allow them to drill tunnels into me and build dwellings of concrete under my surface. I also observe them as they hide in these dwellings of concrete when their bombs burst on my surface.

I see all that happens on me and in me. I allow it and I do not judge. I will be there for you when you need me. I will take care of all that you leave me. At least, I will try.

Daniil Kalinov

Reveries of a Miniature Bamboo Houseplant 

My life began in a hot house -- a small cutting from a parent plant placed in a glass of water. I perceive my parent plant extended back centuries, millenia -- generations upon generations of bamboo existence. As a cutting in a glass of water, rooty protrusions pushed forth, reaching down, drinking the water in to nourish my being. Shoots of leaf also sprouted at varying places along my stalk, reaching up and out, unfurling, turning towards the light of the sun. Eventually, when the time was just right, my people keepers placed me gently into a bed of black, coarse gravel. What a difference! My roots now had objects to move through and cling to. Over time the roots formed an intricate network--filigree-like--of many, many tiny shoots moving in an extensive and thorough pattern of deeply clinging veins. It was luxurious to feel that in the bed of tiny rocks I could be firmly rooted. One day I was carried out of the hot house and across an outdoor space. I felt for the first time the wide world and my stalk and leaves stretched up and out to greet it. But then I was taken inside the house where I remained by a window where adequate sun shone through. Water was replenished regularly. And so I grew. Shoots extended out, thin leaves, uncurling grew, haphazardly, plentifully. With frequency people stop and consider my beingness, heads tilted, wondering, occasionally touching my leaves, gently. It has been a good, an easy life, thanks to the kindness and attentive care of my people keepers, and thanks to the nourishing elements of sun, water and soil provided by the great Creator.

Shannon Young

A Year in the Life of a Tree

The first warm rays of the sun are slowly thawing the ground. In my roots I can feel the urgency in my blood, the sap wants to rise again after a long rest in the cold of winter. I wake up from my sleep, and with my blood going up through my trunk, life is returning. After a few days and weeks new buds have sprung from the tips of my outermost twigs. Slowly at first, they swell and enlarge until the new beginnings of a leaf or flower emerges. Now the days are longer and the warmth of the sun quickens the water in the ground. Eagerly I drink the abundant water, my roots growing quickly as I absorb it. I am bursting with growth and life, the delicate leaves becoming denser and white blossoms changes into hard, green fruit. Summer has arrived, and now I hold a dense canopy of leaves. As I capture the intense sunlight I make food, so that I can start to turn the small hard fruit into juicy ripe apples. Inside these apples I bear the secret for new trees. Small brown seeds are wating patiently for the right time to unite with the ground. It is not so hot anymore, and I can feel strong winds shaking my trunk and branches. I let go of my fruit first and a few weeks later also I also let go of my glowing leaves. The fallen fruit and leaves hug the bottom of my trunk. No longer lively and green, the leaves crunch and rustly under the feet of children. The decaying and rotting apples on the ground reveal the secret of new life. The small brown seeds are taken up by the earth and the dead leaves provide a rich and fertile blanket. Knowing that my secret is safe with the ground and the new buds are already waiting within the tips of my branches, I can slow down. Enough food is stored in my roots. Bare and naked I stand while the winter storms snap some of my branches. But soon the first warm rays of the sun reach the ground and slowly everything begins to wake up again.

Silke Chatfield

 To a Candle

jkjTo a candle:I see you standing upright.  You slowly consume your body of wax and your spine of string by burning.  You show the flowers the table, yourself in a gentle light.  You heat up the air in a column above you.  I can only feel, not see that hot air.  Your father, the sun, shows the world, shows more than you show.  When he sinks below the horizon, then your light’s deeds will appear more strongly.  You will remind us of him while he is away on a journey.  For your wax came from the bellies of bees, suffused with summer sunshine.  Your wick came from cotton fields, coaxed up by his rays.  The person who dipped the candle served the sun’s mission by lighting the world with you, his creation.  

I see you standing upright.  You slowly consume your body of wax and your spine of string by burning.  You show the flowers the table, yourself in a gentle light.  You heat up the air in a column above you.  I can only feel, not see that hot air.  Your father, the sun, shows the world, shows more than you show.  When he sinks below the horizon, then your light’s deeds will appear more strongly.  You will remind us of him while he is away on a journey.  For your wax came from the bellies of bees, suffused with summer sunshine.  Your wick came from cotton fields, coaxed up by his rays.  The person who dipped the candle served the sun’s mission by lighting the world with you, his creation.  

Claire Jerram