Psalm 133
A song of ascents. Of David.
1 How good and pleasant it is
when God’s people live together in unity!2 It is like precious oil poured on the head,
running down on the beard,
running down on Aaron’s beard,
down on the collar of his robe.
3 It is as if the dew of Hermon
were falling on Mount Zion.
For there the Lord bestows his blessing,
even life forevermore.
When I was a kid, I thought favorite colors and favorite songs were bullshit. It seemed like people were just deciding that blue or “Thriller” were particularly for them, but I couldn’t see how that was so. They had just decided to glom on to those things and go with it until it had built up some kind of meaning. After a while, I came to see how that could be kind of fun. Sure, everybody loves stories from the English Reformation, but I can still make that my little pet thing.
So one day in seminary when we were sitting in chapel, reciting Psalm 133, I looked over at my good friend’s beard and thought of oil running down it. Is that weird? Doesn’t matter, because it became a thing. I have since been known to randomly text him on a day when 133 comes up in the daily lectionary with no more words than “Beard of Aaron!” But it had been half a decade since we had seen each other in person.
My itinerary took me from West Glacier to Cor D’Alene, Idaho. Cor D’Alene is 20 minutes from Spokane, WA, where the Aaron’s Beard resides. We were able to reconnect, and although it was never really in question, I was gratified that we picked up the threads of a conversation we had been having for years, and we talked about Sun House, which he had also recently picked up. In the course of that conversation, I was able to talk about the situation with my ex-wife without being overwhelmed by the emotions connected to it. That was a first.
I wondered if there was something particular about being in the West that is transformative for me. I’ve felt that before, both on my first trip across the country and in my time in Texas. The beauty of Lake Cor D’Alene is like the beauty of the northwest coast: spruce trees and Doulas Firs lining the steep descents to wind swept waters under an azure sky just a shade paler than the East Coast Cerulean to which I have been accustomed. Would I still be transformed by the west if I lived there, or would it be transformed into the mundane details of my everyday life? It would be nice to be closer to my friend.
In the morning, reprovisioned as I was by the aforementioned grocery store, I made the turn from being Outward Bound to become Homeward Bound. Not directly, however, and not quickly. The day ahead would take me through the southern portions of Montana, crossing the Clark Fork river and glancing down like David James Duncan’s Risa. By Bozeman, Montana was again full of smoke, and I began to form a resentment in expectation of all the vistas in Yellowstone being obstructed in the haze.