The Sacrament of Spruce

credit: Mr. Po

My farmmates slaughtered a cow recently. I didn’t want to be there. I liked Spruce, his tawny curls, bawling voice, and thick tongue that wrapped around blades of grass like an arm of an octopus. His death was an event I would happily forgo.

I went to church instead. I love church. I love the singing. I love our pastor Anne’s sermons. I love the prayers. It all draws me to the Real. Technically we’re “low church” Baptists – thus, no robes, no candles and just two sacraments, baptism and communion. In the seven years of the church’s existence we have only performed one baptism; but what we lack in water, we make up in wine (or, in our case, grape juice). Rooted in the image of the table -- where all are welcomed and nourished -- we celebrate God’s tangible demonstration of love every Sunday. I love the remembrance integral to this ceremony. I love the earthiness of the bread which is often homemade and sometimes still warm. I love the way the servers say everyone’s name as he or she receives the elements. “John, this is the body of Christ broken for you...Danielle, the blood of Christ, shed for you.” I like to go first so that I can sit and watch others receive, which is a communion too.

Given that I had chosen sacrament over slaughter I was surprised when my farmmate Karin described Spruce’s slaughter as “sacramental”. The officiating “priest” hardly seemed a candidate for such a label. A chain-smoking man in his early thirties, he consumed three cans of Old Milwaukee beer during the 30 minute early morning procedure. When Karin asked if he would be willing to slaughter their next cow in a couple year’s time, he answered, “If I’m still alive, which I doubt.” 

But there was evidence of sacrament in the channel hand-dug from the slaughter area to the field, which still shone bright with blood when I saw it hours later. And there had certainly been reverence as expressed by Karin and our fellow farmmate Angela’s prayers of thanksgiving for Spruce’s life. True, there was no, “Behold, the cow of God that takes away the sins of the world.” But there was an encounter with the “Real” and in turn, a turning – of hearts toward the Creator in gratitude and humility at the provision of nourishment that only comes through sacrifice.

Circus Day

credit: Salomon888

Juggling is not a prerequisite for a career in conservation, but one particular summer at the A Rocha environmental centre you might have thought it was. Strangely, out of 18 staff and interns, over half of us could juggle. I can’t recall how this fascinating bit of trivia revealed itself (Were we tossing rutabagas when we should have been raking?) but it inspired an end-of-summer Circus Day. Everyone who could juggle brought tennis balls, bean bags and spherical fruit. One guy brought his “diablo sticks” and a clever yo-yo thing that could be launched 30 ft. in the air. Another fellow set up a tension line in the orchard so we could try our legs at walking a tightrope.

During the frivolity I chatted with two guests staying at the centre – a couple who both held PhDs and who were both highly successful in their fields. Watching the skill with which our bunch swirled balls through the air, the husband's eyebrows arched as he commented on how good we were at wasting time – we must be if we could become so accomplished at activities so meaningless.

His comment lodged in the craw of my brain and has needled me over the years. With the wisdom of hindsight here is the reply I would now give. Could it be that being drawn to the work of conservation, which involves the studying, preserving and relishing of the “physical”, we A Rocha-ites are likewise drawn to our own physicality? Juggling, for us, just might be a way of being physically embodied. It takes hand-eye coordination, concentration, measured breathing, peripheral vision and an awareness of space. It requires an attention to the present moment. That’s the philosophical justification; probably we juggle because it's fun.

Yes, the world may be going to hell in a hand basket, but there’s still so much goodness to be enjoyed right now, right in our bodies. So why not juggle? Why not waste a bit of time doing something that won't compute?* Why not spend some time in our bodies, joyful as saints?


*(From Wendell Berry's Poem Manifesto: The Mad Farmer's Liberation Front:  "..everyday do something that won't compute.."