The weather service issued the first frost warning of the season on Saturday night, and the air was crisp and clear on Sunday morning. The leaves have been turning color and it was clear that autumn had arrived. Kim, Fiona, her visiting friend, and I headed over to church. Like many New England Churches, it has a white exterior, and worn wooden pews with lots of available seats. It was the nineteenth Sunday of Pentecost.

It is times like these that my thoughts go back to the idea of the remnant, those who have remained faithful in difficult times and who survive catastrophe. I often think of the remnant when I visit a small struggling church, with the aging church ladies doing what they’ve always done, providing comfort to those in distress.

I don’t want to get into a debate about whether or not our nation is a ‘Christian Nation’. Growing up in New England, I am well aware of my ancestry, people who fled Europe to be able to practice their versions of Christianity the way they best see fit. Yet I also recognize the strong thread of universalism that runs through the history of New England.

Whether or not your understanding of ‘something greater’ entails ideas about the God of Abraham, as described in the Torah, the Talmud, or the words of Jesus Christ, Mohammed, or Joseph Smith, or your ideas of something greater comes from eastern traditions, or even agnostic or atheist thinking, I still view the roots of our country as being focused on something greater, especially something greater than the love of money, something greater that is rooted in morality, justice and compassion.

Yet our country has a tendency to forget its roots. Too many leaders sacrifice a love of their neighbors for a love of money. At times, we return to our ideals with ‘Great Awakenings’, returning to the underlying moral beliefs, not about who can marry whom, but about how we should care for one another.

All of these thoughts ran through my mind as I occupied my space in a pew in a small New England church. Perhaps, the occupy movement is part of a call to return to the underlying morality, a compassion for our neighbors, that I believe our country was built on.

I recently saw a sign talking about Jesus and the 99%. Yes, Jesus said it is harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Yet he doesn’t say it is impossible. No, I believe that Jesus is interested in the 100%. It is interesting to note passage in Matthew about the eye of the needle comes immediately after a young man decides not to follow Jesus because Jesus said,

"If you wish to be complete, go and sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me."

In that story, the young man went away sad because he had great wealth.

After Church, Mairead and one of her friends came to visit, and I took them, together with Fiona and her friend out to Jones Farm to pick pumpkins for Halloween. Again, I’m not particularly interested in exploring the relationship between Samhain and All Saint’s Day as they influenced Halloween. Instead, my thoughts go to the first frost and the end of the harvest, and to remembering those who have died.

The warm afternoon sun beat down on the green and brown fields dotted with orange, as we rode on a hayride and selected pumpkins to carve. There were small kids dressed up as unicorns and crabs and all was festive. On the one hand, it was a long way from Church or from people occupying Wall Street, but on the other hand, it was very closely related. It was a celebration of the earth’s bounty, a celebration of something grown close to home, and not produced and widely distributed by some multinational corporation. It was a chance to gather with neighbors and enjoy more than just the love of money.

With our pumpkins selected, we headed over to the local cider mill. I’ve been stopping by every couple of weeks to pick up a few more gallons of cider to brew. This week’s batch was made from Empire, Jonagold, and a few Courtlands thrown in. It harkened back to a simpler day when farmers brewed their own hard cider and didn’t rely on beverages shipped half way around the world by some large multinational corporation.

Back at home, we carved pumpkins and rested. I didn’t go Occupy Wall Street, New Haven, or Hartford. Instead, I bore witness with the remnant towards to underlying morality, the love of neighbor, and the simple joys that can go with it. I helped Occupy the New England that I grew up in and love.