The Beekeeper

I was a beekeeper once. The technical term is apiarist, but we answer to beekeeper as well. I set up my starter hive in the backyard by the creek. It was far enough from the house, but the dog had to learn a few tough lessons. Keep Benadryl on hand.

I landed on Italian honeybees for my first hives. They’re like fuzzy little cows. Very docile and calm. Great producers. A “nuc” colony, I felt, was a good choice to start off. A nucleus colony is four to five frames of brood and bees, plus an actively laying queen. I suggest you buy from a local source. It’s less stressful on the bees with respect to traveling.

Probably the best part about beekeeping was the clothing. You get to dress like a very low-budget astronaut. You always wear the veil. Always. You’re dealing with up to 60,000 of those little girls. You just don’t want to risk it. Gloves and pants that you can tuck in are also essential.

Beekeeping was tough. There’s a lot of hard work before you can see a return that makes it all worth it. And if you’re in the suburbs, there’s only so much expansion you can enjoy before you run into zoning laws and other nonsense.

But all in all, I enjoyed it. Even if it was only in my imagination as I considered it for twenty-four hours. I had a blast conquering my crippling fear of flying insects that sting through the power of fantasy and thought experiment. Nothing’s actually changed, of course. Maybe some day, when I’m old and grey and my nerve endings have numbed, I’ll take it up for real. But for now, I’ll enjoy my honey sans its producers and run like a frightened rabbit if one of them gets too close.

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Happy Monday.

My wife, her sister, her sister’s husband, and I were at Hutchmoot this past weekend. As an Enneagram 4w5 who scores quite high in openness to experiences, it was like crack to me. It’s Rivendell transported to 2019 Nashville. Now, I’ve been through too many last nights of camp to be all that sad to let beautiful things like that go. The transitory nature of it is part of its glory. It’s the contrast that gets me.

Because there’s no buffer day for me, I have no time to process all that we experienced. I can’t take some leisure time fill out a notebook with all my thoughts and feelings and reflections. This is a baby step toward that end, but it’s not nearly enough. I have to go to work today.

Most people who attended Hutchmoot have to go to work today. The hard work of teaching and raising children in the home, keeping house, holding down a cubicle, sitting in class, staring at screens- the contrast is jarring.

Yet, as I was talking with the Lord this morning, he spoke to me out of Psalm 104. I like to think of as Wendell Berry’s psalm. It describes the creation and how creatures live out their ordained roles and functions and are sustained by the God of the wild. And two thirds through the poem, God says, “Man goes out to his work and to his labor until the evening” (Ps.104:23).

Before sin shattered and stained everything, work was God’s idea. And putting in a full day of good work (frustrating and tough and draining though it may be) is actually part of the original tapestry. Whether our day job is creative by nature or whether creativity has to grow slowly through spreadsheets like wildflowers through asphalt, we are a part of God’s spinning watercolor called Earth.

He waters the cedars. He feeds the cattle. He sees to it that we have wine, oil, and bread. He gives the lion cubs a meal in the dead of night. And man goes out to his work and to his labor until the evening. Bless the Lord, O my soul.

Hutchmoot and Monday are equally part of God’s calendar. Both are clothed by the Lord with splendor and majesty, even if one dazzles and the other sort of just sits there. Enjoy your Monday and all the hard work that it brings. Revel in the contrast. Tomorrow, we get another Tuesday.

“A Tree That Looks at God All Day…”

We have a dozen trees on the property.

It makes us sound like farmers or ranchers to say “on the property,” as if we have a back 40 to clear and plow. Our house is cozy and built in 1954. We mostly own grass. But out of that grass, we have twelve beautiful trees.

I forget who said it, but God didn’t merely make “trees.” He made oaks and maples and aspens and hickories. His artwork is utterly specific. I can’t decide if birds got me into trees or if Tolkien did. It was probably a combination of both.

When I worked as a shelver at a library, I snatched a wonderful book out of a pile that was being phased out of circulation. It’s called The Trees of Missouri by Don Kurz with illustrations by Paul Nelson. The state commissioned it in 2003 and I’ve enjoyed it since around 2012. It’s been a helpful friend to me.

On the east (facing the street), we have three silver maples. Silver maples are my absolute favorite trees. The name is delicious, but it’s actually the shape of the leaf that does me in. I haven’t found another tree that can best it. Silver maples are one of the earliest trees in Missouri to flower. They like the edges of streams, like the little creek on our northern property line. Their “whirlybirds” clog up our gutter, but delight my son to no end. I grew up calling them helicopter seeds.

The elderly silver maple with the ivy shawl is named Gwendolyn. The little one next to her is Jack. And the large fella caddycorner to the silver lady is Sylvester.

And then we have three sugar maples in a line along the south of the house. They are unnamed and untapped. Literally, I have yet to tap them for maple syrup. I bought a syrup kit a few years back, but I’ve yet to be of the right mind when the temperature is just right. It needs to be cool enough in the winter, but above freezing so that the sap will flow well. One of these days…

And then we have the sycamores. There’s a supporting character in the back yard outside of the fence, but he’s mostly just there to drop branches right where I need to mow. Treebeard, however, is the massive sycamore in our backyard. He dominates the landscape. When we bought the house in 2015, I dutifully measured his trunk to determine his age. While I can’t recall the exact number, I know it was only a few years old when our town was founded. By that reckoning, he’s easily over 160 years old.

It startles me, having something so massive and ancient living behind us while we sleep. It’s probably 110-120 feet tall, dwarfing our little cottage. Come winter, the goldfinches will feast on the seeds that Treebeard offers. The Osage Native Americans used sycamore inner-bark to make tea for flu season. As innocent as that makes our Ent sound, I’m still uncomfortably in awe of that enormous organism. I don’t want to even think about how far his fingers extend beneath the gopher-pocked earth.

Huddling awkwardly in the sycamore’s shadow is an eastern red cedar. She’s balding a bit on one side, but the fruit is lovely. Cedar waxwings love them, but I’ve yet to have them visit. Red cedars from the forests in Virginia and Tennessee used to provide us with the nation’s pencils before the incense cedar became the more popular choice. If Treebeard is old, Juniper (that’s her unoriginal name) might be downright antediluvian. Well, not quite. But some eastern red cedars down in the Ozarks have been aged at over 1,000 years. I hope Juniper keeps the faith.

And then there’s Dr. Seuss. He’s our other evergreen. I’m not entirely sure what he is. Possibly a cypress. His top is slumped sideways like a dog that just heard a strange noise. I respect his privacy so I’ll most likely leave him unidentified. He guards the corner of our yard, keeping watch on the two streets that entrap us.

Three silver maples. Three sugar maples. A mysterious conifer. Two sycamores. An eastern red cedar. There’s also a lackluster silver maple up by the south curb. But we don’t talk about him.

Rounding out the dozen is our Rose of Sharon. She’s currently in bloom and it’s incredible. My mom was the first to identify her. I didn’t even know she was there until our first summer here. Hibiscus syriacus is, as her given name suggests, not a Missouri native. Possibly Syrian (more likely Chinese or Indian), she made her debut on American shores around 1600. They don’t often fight the local vegetation except in Castlewood State Park. Don Kurz actually makes a note that it aggressively spread out into that St. Louis park and made it a stronghold for Sharon. That’s her name, by the way. Again, we save our creativity for other things. She holds sway with her purple buds by our overgrown garden.

Sharon.

“Only God can make a tree.”

This World is Not (Yet) My Home

I enjoyed the movie, O Brother Where Art Thou, when it came first came out nineteen years ago. I still like it a lot. I’m halfway through the Iliad with the Odyssey next on my list as far as classics go. It was a beautiful blend of old South Americana and mythology. Not to mention, the music was excellent. Alison Krauss is the heartbeat of American music.

But as I’ve read the Bible and read the fathers and Reformed theology, some of the lyrical themes of that wonderful movie’s soundtrack no longer sit right in my craw, beautiful as they are. “I’ll Fly Away.” “The Angel Band.” “I Am Weary (Let Me Rest).” So much of that beautiful soundtrack is dotted with old poems about “going home” and finding final and eternal rest in a heavenly home. That’s appropriate for the movie because it’s loosely based on the Odyssey, a story about a man trying to get back home.

And yet, if we can’t feel at home in this world anymore because we’re just passing through, what good is this world? What real need do we have to care for it if God is going to burn it up (as a certain type of theology promises). I once heard a popular preacher (speaking about global warming), “If you think it’s hot now, wait until Jesus gets a hold of it!” There are few more wicked sentiments I can think of for a man of the cloth to proclaim from a pulpit. It implies that the Creator is somehow chomping at the bit, eager to obliterate everything good that he made that was stained by sin.

And I’ve heard it geared towards teenagers as well. Take this world and give me Jesus. I’m not home yet. This is not where I belong. There could more harmful things to listen to on the radio. But this is just a more modern repacking of “I’ll fly away” and “this world is not my home.”

This is how Greek philosophy got its fingers around the gospel’s throat and never really let go. On the one hand, the Epicureans (“eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die”) saw our bodies as cruise ships to be enjoyed until they shipwreck on the shallow reefs of indulgence. But on the other hand, the one that grabbed onto Christianity, the body was a prison from which the soul needed to escape. That’s what the disciples of Plato believed. Don’t indulge the body. Indulge the mind. Ignore the body. It’s evil and untrustworthy and too much like the animals. What matters is reason (the Logos). Feed the mind with knowledge. If you gain enough knowledge, you feed the soul and the soul is what matters.

Plato said that all the physical things you see are like shadows on a cave wall. There’s a fire behind you, but you can’t see the fire because you’re chained up in the cave and you can only see the shadows on the wall that the fire is casting. According to Plato, all physical reality is made up of shadows. They aren’t important. What really matters is the thing that is casting the shadow- the hidden thing, the thing that you can’t see. That’s what matters. In the words of Master Yoda, “Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter.”

A good Platonist, Yoda was.

Plato believed that the young should be taught to welcome death, neither to regret nor lament it. Does that sound familiar? I’ve heard and seen too much nonsense about Christian funerals as a flavor of celebration. Grieving with hope gets replaced with the celebration of liberation. Plato believed that death is good, something to be greeted like an old friend. Why? He believed that because he believed death is the moment when the immortal soul is set free from the prison of the physical body.

Plato viewed death as a jailbreak for the soul. Biblical Christianity views death as the last enemy to be destroyed. What happens after death? Well, Plato said that judgment is based upon deeds. The wicked go to hell. But the righteous souls fly away to join the stars. Does that sound familiar? Socrates famously said upon his deathbed that the real “me” was not the corpse he would leave behind, but that which is inside the body before death. He said a human is a “little soul carrying around a corpse.”

Platonists believed that the virtuous joined the stars at death. They became stars. The immortal souls are implanted into human bodies (male, the superior, and female, the inferior) and the main task of the soul is to master the desires and emotions of the body: pleasure, pain, fear, rage, etc. Those who do that well enough go and join the stars.

Some prison breaks involve more pandamonium than others.

And so, if you believe the body is a prison and death is the jailbreak, why would you believe in a reality in which you are reunited with your prison? No prisoner wants to go back to the jail he just escaped. That’s why Plato is not very helpful in understanding the incarnation or the resurrection. Plato would certainly not have wanted to live out eternity in a physical world.

The Stoics, for instance, believed that at the end of the present age, everything would be dissolved by fire, and the whole order of the universe would end. Does that sound familiar? The Greeks didn’t want to live in a physical world. They wanted the physical world to burn so that they could have spiritual bliss.

Looking for truth in Alderaan places.

Epicureans said that death is the end of everything. Yolo. Carpe diem.

Platonists said that death is the beginning of everything. Don’t fear the jailbreak. Be ready to fly away.

If the world is Epicurean, the Church has become Platonic. In the first case, the resurrection is disbelieved as ridiculous. In the second, it is reduced as a irrelevant, a secondary curiosity that simply make our faith distinct. And on both views, this world is not seen as a home. It’s seen as a buffet to be used or an enclosure to be destroyed.

And yet, I understand the impulse to those songs. I understand the homesickness. But that other world for which we are made is a world that will one day come to this world so that “heaven and earth be one.” This world is not yet my home. But it will be. That’s my hope.

A Meditation on Cosmic Alchemy

Have you ever heard of the Maillard reaction?

It’s named after the man helplessly attached to this mustache, Louis Camille Maillard. Both he and the mustache were French.

I never cooked that much before I was married. My wife is an excellent cook and, after a few years of looking over her shoulder in awe, I began to do the occasional odd dish. And some of those occasional dishes were very odd, indeed. But cooking fascinates me in that it seems to be one of humanity’s earliest exercises in chemistry.

When you grill a steak or put some bread in the toaster, do you know that beautiful golden browning that appears on the outside? That’s called the Maillard reaction.

It’s a chemical reaction. The protein and sugars in your flank steak react with the heat to create a plethora of beautiful and delicious compounds. You can even see the Maillard reaction when your marshmallow turns all brown and crusty over the bonfire.

And yes, when you add heat, pathogens and parasites are burned alive and purges from your plate. The act of cooking breaks down complex molecules into simpler compounds that are easier to digest. But that’s the utility of it.

The beauty of the Maillard reaction is the color. Amino acids and sugars hugging it out under the stress of high temperatures. Yes, it’s chemistry, but I like to think of it as a kind of alchemy.

How does she achieve the Maillard reaction? Magic.

Pink to brown. White to gold. Brown to near black. Chemistry is a deep magic baked into the cosmos before we discovered it. Taste, sight, safety- these are all enriched and elevated when carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, and hydrogen can no longer stand the heat. A simple act of energy transfer coaxes a little bit of cosmic alchemy into our daily lives.

Hallelujah for the Maillard reaction. And happy Labor Day to those who will see it today.

Beautiful Stories to Tell in the Dark

So, this one time, C.S. Lewis stayed at a haunted house.

But that’s not the part he chooses to emphasize. I would love to read a short mystery novel about Lewis at this haunted inn on a windswept hill in Ireland. But it doesn’t exist yet.

Anyway, the spooks and ghouls didn’t have nearly the effect on the locals as “the good people.” In addition to being allegedly haunted, this building was said to have faeries. And that was why the townsfolk steered clear of it. Now, having said that, I know that someone just rolled their eyes and maybe even just clicked away to a Neil DeGrasse Tyson video to remind themselves that we’ve conquered all mysteries.

But Jack had a medieval mind. Don’t forget, his day job was to teach medieval and Renaissance literature. And he took seriously what they took seriously. But to overcome the modern stereotype of Tinkerbell, he preferred to call them the Longaevi (“the long lived”). And in The Discarded Image, he takes great pleasure in subdividing them into different types with references from Milton and Spenser as his footnotes.

But my point is not to argue whether or not C.S. Lewis believed that faeries were real. His mind was thoroughly pre-modern and so was his imagination. And when he sought to explain the Longaevi (nymphs, fauns, satyrs, dryads, etc.), he sensed the tension they introduce in the medieval system. You had the seven heavens and the earth and the fullness thereof. But then we see this third category that defies tidy organization.

“They are marginal, fugitive creatures. They are perhaps the only creatures to whom the Model does not assign, as it were, official status. Herein lies their imaginative value. They soften the classic severity of the huge design. They intrude a welcome hint of wildness and uncertainty into a universe that is in danger of being a little too self-explanatory, too luminous” (Discarded Image, p.122).

A welcome hint of wildness and uncertainty. The philosopher Charles Taylor gets credit for introducing the term “disenchantment” to describe the secularization of the West. Jamie Smith, in his very helpful guide to reading Taylor’s The Secular Age, explains that the location of meaning has been moved from the world to the mind. Things aren’t soaked through with significance. Our minds, and their ability to perceive meaning internally, are drenched with importance.

The cosmos becomes the universe. Creation becomes nature. The curse of the lightbulb means that all the shadows and uncertainties have been banished from the haunted house. Things are, in Lewis’ words, “a little too self-explanatory, too luminous.” Charles Taylor calls it “the rage of order.” And faeries, sea monsters, ghosts, and goblins are that splinter of wildness wedged in the gears of a well-oiled and easily observed machine.

That’s my point in bringing all of this up. A hint of wildness and uncertainty can be a corrective to the secular mindset, the one that sees the world for what it appears to be. There’s that great scene in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader in which the children and Caspian are talking with a fallen star named Ramandu and the ever practical Eustace doesn’t quite have a category for what he’s seeing (despite meeting one already). He tried to correct the retired star on his own existence.

“‘In our world,’ said Eustace. ‘A star is a huge ball of flaming gas.’ ‘Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of.’”

I remember reading that as a kid and shivering with delight. A welcome hint of wildness. Do you see? That’s why I like watching scary movies. That’s why I enjoy fantasy novels and science fiction. That’s why I’ll binge certain shows that offer up an intrusion of uncertainty into a world with too many lightbulbs and not enough shadowy corners.

We can’t put everything under the microscope, least of all God Almighty. The medievals understood that at first blush. Jack did as well. So, yes, maybe those stars really are what science tells us they are. That’s fine. But I’m holding out hope that I’ll meet Rigel enjoying his retirement on the new earth someday.

Wouldn’t that be wild?