Report from Day Five

I’ve spent much of my sabbatical so far in my study, which is very much a work in progress. The timing of our renovation, which seemed so wrong, I think has turned out to be so right. What was disassembled is becoming reassembled, and to believe that this could happen without disorder was a delusion.

I had a complete meltdown one night when it became evident that the delay in construction on the new kitchen – which has resulted in chaos in the whole house – was going to eat into my sabbatical. I was resentful that this very special time was going to turn into a time of work. That I’d be forced to stay home to meet the sub-floorers (who have not shown up, by the way) rather than roam free with my creative self. And that preparing meals, which is one thing I truly enjoy, would be a chore rather than a delight. Well, it is a chore when all you have is a laundry room sink, a microwave, and a grill. But it is also an invitation to a different sort of creativity.

So, once I realized that I was the only one who could make my sabbatical crummy by bringing resentment into it, I got over it and decided to go with the flow. Meaning, as long as we are renovating the kitchen, let’s do my study as well. The painters came and made the walls a ceiling the palest butter yellow, and the carpet people came and put down sea grass that smelled at first like a summer barn. All this was preceded by movers (the same ones who moved us out of the kitchen) carrying about twenty boxes of books down the crooked staircase. I’d already been carrying grocery sacks of books down to the cove in our bedroom for months.

The study was now empty until my new desk arrived. The desk  is white and fits into the corner under the window, where I see the tip of one oak tree and blue, blue sky. Now my work began, but it has been creative work. I’m not taking time to count the books. But the box on the breakfast room table that is filling with more give-away books is #12 that will not return to my bookcases.

I’ve learned something about myself in this, as I’m not letting one thing back in my study that I don’t want to be here. Not one thing that doesn’t feed me in one way or another. I’ve given a new seminarian all my hard-core theology books. Not that I didn’t like them. I took every theology course offered when I was in seminary and relished the brain-knotting process of attempting to articulate what is ultimately ineffable. But as I packed them up I realized that after all these years of ministry I am accepting authority for what I say about God.  I no longer need to look it up in books. I haven’t opened those books in years, so let someone else enjoy them.

Here is what I kept. These are the books I lovingly placed in organized shelves mostly in alphabetical order by author. 

Beginning at my right hand and going clockwise around the room. In a scarred brown wood bookcase that is dear to my heart because one day in the 1950’s it arrived containing the Encyclopedia Britannica. On top of it, between two foo-dog bookends Clay gave me, are books I want to read during this sabbatical.  

Below that are my Bibles, Bible dictionary, hymnal, prayer books, and on the lower shelf all the issues of Image, the journal of theology and the arts. Above the title on the cover are the words Art+Faith+Mystery.  That pretty much articulates what I cherish and what fills my shelves.

In the next bookcase are all my commentaries, neatly arranged by collection. Below them you’ll find the Jungian books, devotionals, and a series of books in which literary writers deal with scripture. I really like those books.

Next bookcase: top shelf is Jesus, second shelf New Testament, third, Old Testament, bottom is pastoral care and congregational development. More of those books are at the church. When I looked at the wall of books in my office there I despaired of ever being able to retire because there will be no place to bring them home. Not that I’m thinking of retiring.

I kept two shelves worth of theology, stuff I will dive back into because I love it or, as in the case of Tillich’s three-volume systematic theology, because I read every single page several times over to attempt understanding and it is a badge of honor. Below theology are spiritual autobiographies.

Then a top shelf of a few favorite authors: John Claypool, Paula D’Arcy, Richard Rohr, Henri Nouwen, Alan Jones, Thomas Keating. And below that a shelf with books about science and religion and about world religions. Then begin the books of poetry and short stories, collections of literature and writing about faith and literature. It says something that there are four full shelves of these books. Downstairs is where most of my ‘reading’ books are, a library full and three floor-to-ceiling shelves in the bedroom. Then books on prayer and resource books for Advent and Lent. Next is the uppity women’s shelf – mediaeval mystics and their offspring. I like to think I belong on that shelf.

In the diagonal corner the entire shelf is taken up by books on preaching. Sermons and how to and why to and why not. 

And then to the immediate left of my desk there are three long shelves of books on spirituality. That’s it. More spirituality than anything else.

The process of cleaning and culling and arranging has given me a clear picture of what I cherish in this tiny little world that serves as the womb of my ministry in so many ways. The process of disassembling it and carefully reassembling it has offered me a liminal entry into my sabbatical. Where it was previously chaos and an ugly shade of aqua with nasty carpet, it is now a haven of peace with a sense of openness and invitation for time of meditation, reading, and writing.

And while we’re talking about creativity, what would you do if all you had was a laundry room sink, a microwave and a grill? Well, you’d have a dinner party, wouldn’t you? That’s what we did on Monday. We could have four guests because we have six chairs. The floor is covered with brown paper, but the table was set with yellow flowers in a blue and white pitcher, and we had a delicious meal with treasured friends. The dining room is a storage unit. The living room furniture is all pushed close in, but we could chat there and laugh at our surroundings. Arthur’s toys take up a lot of it, too.

But in the middle of the chaos we created our little Sabbath, and it was lovely. Dinner was good and the wine was good, but it was all about the people taking time to cherish each other and give thanks for all we do have, which is a great deal. We were all nourished and well blessed.