Lessons From the Cicada

The other morning, I was out for my walk when I noticed something strange on my neighbor’s chain-link fence.

I’m used to seeing various vines and flowers growing through the fence, but on this particular morning, there was something new.

Dozens of molting cicadas.

The cicadas have been on the news lately because of a certain brood that is hatching this year.  I’m actually used to cicadas, having lived 25 years in Florida.  The hum of the cicada is Florida’s soundtrack, always playing in the background.

Florida cicadas also seem a lot larger than these in Ohio, but I have never seen so many cicadas appearing all at once, and I was entranced by the molting cicadas perched on the fence.

The newly hatched winged cicada was pale, like a ghost, clutching at its former shell.  The cicada was naked and vulnerable and all I could say as I leaned in closer—not too close—was, “You are beautiful in a very gross way.”

When we talk about ourselves, about the various changes we all undergo in our lives, we frequently use the metamorphosis of the butterfly as a metaphor for transformation.  And it’s a very good metaphor, cute little caterpillar devolving into a little cocooned glop of goo before finally emerging this glorious, winged creation.

I mean, who among us can’t identify with the glop of goo stage.

But the cicada, especially these periodical cicadas, deserve so much respect when it comes to transformation.  Because we only see them as nymphs, emerging from the ground and then molting.  What we don’t see is the 13-17 years they have spent underground in darkness before emerging into the light of day.

You have to respect that level of commitment to change.

Change does not happen overnight.

Sometimes change, transformation, metamorphosis takes decades.

When I take my walks each morning, these last few weeks of spring, I am often left amazed at the beauty of emerging life.

A week and a half ago, I spread grass seed and straw, and the grass is now starting to appear, as fine as baby’s hair, as fragile as a whisper.

On my porch, the house finch has settled down for what I presume is egg-sitting and not just her being lazy.  Although, she worked hard to build that nest and deserves a time to just chill.

Over the course of the spring this year, I have seen flowers bloom and then fade.  Blink and you miss the crocus and will have to wait a whole year to see it again.  The peonies, with blooms so robust, you feel like you can dive into them—the peonies are already wilting.  And the irises grow too heavy in the rain and collapse to the ground.

In Florida, with no seasons but wet and dry, most everything living, lasts forever.

But in more northern states, with seasons, you learn to appreciate the fleeting nature of life.  You never mourn what is lost, because you acknowledge its presence and its beauty at the time, and you know that it will return and, in the meantime, something else fantastic and amazing is just around the corner.

This is how we must embrace all change in our lives.

With confidence and faith that while the old ways fade away, God always replaces things with something new and dare I say even more amazing.  We may not know what is coming.  But with enough faith, we can become what author, Leonard Sweet called, “pneumonauts”—otherwise known as sailors of the Spirit.

In today’s reading from Luke 8:16-25, we really get enough material for three sermons.  In the first part, there’s the whole bit about not hiding a lit lamp under a jar—hint it’s a metaphor.  In the second part, we see Jesus’s mother and brothers looking for Him, and He is somewhat dismissive of them—that would be a whole other sermon and then you have the part I want to focus on which is the account of Jesus sleeping on the boat during a storm while the water is swamping the boat.

The disciples panic, because of course they do.  They call out to Jesus.  Jesus wakes up, rebukes the wind and waves and there is calm.  What I love about this is that the wind and waves are raging in the storm.  They are violent and deadly things, but when Jesus speaks, they listen.  Meanwhile, Jesus asks the disciples where their faith is.  Have they been listening?

This life and all the changes it has brought us and is bringing us and will continue to bring us is best survived by sailing with the Holy Spirit, riding the Holy Winds and knowing—not believing, but knowing—that God has us and the ride is going to be something amazing.

The world’s tiniest boxwood I planted a few weeks ago is still living.

And last week, the grass seed and straw seemed to physically repel the garbage truck as it made its way down the alley.  It didn’t even come close.  We’ll see what happens today, but I do believe that love multiplies—that that straw and seed shows that someone cares about that ground and maybe the garbagemen should too.

I believe that positive changes come when the seeds of love are sown.

Just yesterday, I was grabbing a package off the front porch, when the little girl who knocks always asking for books, started riding a bike past my house, but stopped suddenly when she saw me.  She dropped the bike—which was too big for her, and as I would learn a few minutes later, not hers—but she dropped the bike and said to me, “Oh hi.  I have some books for you at my house.”

“You have some books for me?” I said to her.

She nodded.  “If you want them.”

“Well, bring them over and let’s take a look at them.”

She ran off and returned a couple of minutes later with an armful of books.  She put them down on my bistro table and the first thing I did was ask her which were her favorites.  She pointed out her favorites and I said, “Are you sure you don’t want to hold onto those?”

She thought for a moment and then finally she managed to split the pile into two, books that she would donate to the little free library, which she did that very minute, carefully tucking them inside and the rest of the books that she would take back home.

I cannot stress enough what a beautiful thing it was that she did.

I have always made the books in my library completely free with no expectations.

For her to decide on her own to contribute back to the library—that my friends is the Holy Spirit at work. 

And the Holy Spirit always brings with her new life.

Amen.