Dear Friends in Christ,

The other night I was outside watching the stars.

One of the things I like to do, late at night when the world seems still, is sit and gaze at the stars. I don’t expect them to move much. I watch them because they are ancient lights glowing far beyond a new world.

As I watched, though, I suddenly realized that the brightest was moving. And the second brightest, too. Then I saw another coursing along.

Suddenly, I knew these were planes. What had seemed so fixed in the sky, these stars above, were not nearly so fixed as I imagined. Modernity had stolen the stillness.

My mind began to race. What if what we imagine is fixed is actually racing? What if the points that mark the heavens were not points at all but something more peripatetic? Something rootless? Something eager?

Then I watched closer. I looked at the fixed objects around me. The top of a mountain. The peak of the house. I looked to these fixed things and realized that the stars weren’t moving at all.

The clouds were moving.

Something closer to earth was on the move. Those winds which were threatening Los Angeles and San Diego and so many other named places were moving the clouds here, across a nameless night.

As the clouds moved, it seemed that the stars were, too. My mind immediately sought some explanation as to why the immovable had gone on a midnight journey.

But I realized that it was not the stars on pilgrimage. It was the earth itself, adjusting to the day, blown by the winds which now seemed to course across the sky.

It seemed like a distant observation.

Clouds far above were the weathervane of something far beyond my control so I got to watch and see where the wind was blowing.

Then something annoying happened.

We have a huge mesquite tree in our yard. Without fail, it heralds the changes of the season by throwing bits of chaff around.

As the winds gathered, I felt small bits of its leaves land in my hair. Then on my chest. Then on my arms. Then in my face. Then in my mouth. That was quite enough, thank you!

I couldn’t ignore the fact that this mess was coming down. Following the example of Jesus and the fig tree, I cursed the mesquite tree.

In reply, it dumped more evidence of the wind.

Rude.

I watched as the little leaves began to pile up in the pool. I realized that when the winds passed the pool was going to be filled with these tiny leaves. The filter would be clogged. I’d spend countless hours cleaning up.

More than that, the carefully manicured patio would be a mess. Cushions were thrown around. Some lights I put out so neatly were blown across the yard. An umbrella was pulled out of its stand.

I ran around trying to fix each thing but the damage was done before I could control it.

Then I looked back up and the stars were still there. What I’d thought were these fast-moving lights were still shining. Still.

And there was the brightest.

It’s probably the one where the wisest of us were looking while the rest of us tried to control what the wind was doing in our carefully tended yards.

The wind is blowing still.

Here’s the thing. All around the Church, the winds are blowing. Churches are closing and there’s a mess being made. People who just glanced up think that fixed and eternal truths are being blown off course.

There’s a mess we will need to clean up after.

We’ve watched like distant observers as the tree of Christendom seems to slowly topple. But I think we’re seeing the winds blow its leaves all around.

What seems like chaos is a natural process as what’s dead is shed so new life can grow.

It doesn’t make it any less of a mess. But it does remind us that the deeply rooted will stand.

I had to clean up all around that mesquite tree.

I first knocked the leaves out of my hair. I brushed off what I could of the swift-blown dead leaves.

Then I picked up the cushions. I put the umbrella back in place. Some things weren’t going to come back. Some of the lights were broken. Some of the decor was blown far away beyond my sight and beyond my ability to recover.

But I looked up and saw the fixed stars. What I’d imagined was so swiftly moving was still there.

There was the brightest light still pointing the way. So I focused on that and prepared to pick up after the still small voice calmed the wind.

Yours in Christ,

—Fr Robert