The farmer, author and poet Wendell Berry passed away this past week at the age of 92. Mr. Berry was an intriguing man. He was a prolific author, having written a number of both fiction and nonfiction books along with over 25 books of poetry. He lived on a farm in Kentucky, and his work often explored the benefits of a simple, land-centered life, which is how he lived most of the time, balancing his farming life with his teaching life at the University of Kentucky. He was an advocate for small farmers and the environment and spoke out against agribusiness and the economy that supported it. In 2011, President Barack Obama presented him with a National Humanities Medal.
I became acquainted with Wendell Berry through his poetry. For years he wrote a series of Sabbath poems that grew out of his practice of walking and paying attention to the natural world. We are going to be reading one of his poems this coming Sunday in worship, The Peace of Wild Things. When I first began attending Circle of Trust groups twenty years ago, one of my favorite poems was The Wild Geese. It includes the closing lines "And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye clear. What we need is here." (Full poem is below.)
What we need is here. It is so true and yet so easily forgotten in our consumer culture. But it is how Wendell Berry lived his life. One of the things I find most amazing is that he wrote most of his books in a cabin in Kentucky, by hand and candlelight when light was needed. His wife typed his finished manuscripts on a standard typewriter. He refused to have a computer and did not own a television set. He could have lived anywhere, but in 1964 he and his wife bought a 125-acre farm and started raising sheep, corn and grain crops. The farm he bought was next to his childhood home, which is where he and his wife lived.
Mr. Berry said that returning to the land was a way to ensure he was bound to the truth: "It made a permanent connection between me and my native place," he said. "The landscape was there to check me if I was wrong. I could never go away and make up stuff at cocktail parties about the backwoods of Kentucky. I worked with people here in all walks of life and learned from them. It's been a very rich experience."
What we need is here. We know this. We know that we are fortunate in having safe homes, plenty of food for our tables, solid friendships and strong faiths. I am grateful for the abundance in my life, and other times I struggle to really trust that what I need is here. I confess that before starting this sabbatical fill-in position, I went a little crazy buying books. Now, I have plenty of books. I have a library cart filled with Bibles and commentaries and books from my seminary days. I have poetry books and inspirational essay books. Still, I felt I "needed" more: another few commentaries, some books on spirituality and nature, some books on the dangers of Christian Nationalism, some books on possible Bible studies, some books on staying hopeful in challenging times… some more books. And yes, I did use some of them, and yes, most of them are sitting on the shelf, unopened or merely glanced at.
What we need is here. Wendell Berry is not really talking about material things; he is talking about our emotional needs and our connections with one another. Still, the focus on acquiring more can take our attention away from paying attention to those more important connections in our lives. There is that Shaker song, 'Tis a Gift to Be Simple; its opening line is: "Tis a gift to be simple, tis a gift to be free." The more we have, the more energy we expend taking care of it. This means that sometimes we miss the beauty and connections that surround us.
The good news is that we can always stop, pause and notice. We can laugh at ourselves and forgive ourselves for sometimes going a little overboard (speaking for myself here). Yes, there is more and more darkness in our world. And at the same time, what we need is here. Let's remember that.
In gratitude for our shared ministry.
The Wild Geese
by Wendell Berry
Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer’s end. In time’s maze
over fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed’s marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.