Proceed to the Route

As someone who always has his phone on silent, I was startled when I heard it speak to me as I entered the church. I had come to the funeral of a friend’s mom and used GPS to get me there. I forgot to turn it off when I arrived, so as I entered the sanctuary it said, “Proceed to the route.” The connection between the words and the purpose of the space I was entering was so obvious I had to laugh. As one who has always longed for God’s voice, I never imagined it coming in such a way.

The most meaningful way the spiritual journey has been described to me is as a journey. With a beginning and end, with twists and turns and up and downs, thinking of my walk of faith much like a walk up a mountain trail has helped me envision my life-long spiritual trek. As one who has climbed many mountain trails, I know how easy it is to lose one’s way. Sometimes the trail can become obscure or other trails can make the way confusing. No wonder we can so easily lose our way. Hopefully, we will realize our mistake and have the ability and willingness (not the same thing) to return to the proper trail, or as my phone reminded me, we proceed to the route.

I’m embarrassed how often I’ve lost my way. While each wrong turn has been unique, beneath them all is a common cause: self-centeredness. Self-centeredness wears a thousand masks, but its sole purpose is to get us off the spiritual path. Because I’m not very good at this spiritual stuff, I need to read a lot, consult countless “maps,” spend time with other travelers, and reflect each morning on the day’s journey. Still, I lose my way and need to proceed to the route over and over again. It’s never fun to admit you’ve lost your way, and it’s sometimes hard to summon the humility needed to turn around, but returning to the route is part of the spiritual journey, and I’m grateful for the grace that makes it possible.

We all in need to proceed to the route from time to time. Rather than bemoan the reasons why, I give thanks for the invitation to return, even if it comes from my phone.

Real Faith

I was a visitor. I didn’t know what to expect. I was excited to worship in a different church and followed the parishioners into the sanctuary. At the appropriate moment, the minister read the scripture then began his sermon. It was a flowery, theologically-loaded opening which went in one ear and out the other never getting close to my heart. Then he paused, looked up, and admitted his opening was not his at all. “It was artificially made,” he said, “an A.I. introduction.” From there, he proceeded to deliver a refreshingly real and memorable sermon. His point was about the difference between artificial faith and real, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

I was struck by the difference between his opening and the rest of the sermon. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a difference between the manufactured part and the real part. One was grammatically perfect and theologically accurate but sounded like cardboard. The other was less articulate but sounded like bread.

On the way home, I thought about our lives of faith. Like the sermon, some are manufactured, others are real. There are those who seem to have pushed a button and can utter formulaic declarations of faith and are eager to teach you to do the same. Others struggle to put into words what they believe, but when they do, it’s sometimes messy and awkward . . . but at least it’s real. Their armor of faith, to use Paul’s image, is not shiny but dented.

It seems to me, God wants us to mean what we say and say what we mean, as the song goes, even if it’s not perfect. At least it’ll be real, and that’s what God cares about most.

Easter 2024: There's More

Maybe I was dropped on my head as a child, or maybe I stayed on the Tilt-A-whirl too long, but for as long as I can remember I’ve believed there was something more to life than what I could see. Waterfalls and waves whispered the secret, sticks and rocks pointed me beyond. Sunrises and sunrises invited me to imagine what lay beyond the horizon, and each authentic conversation or genuine act of kindness suggested what the church could be.

Sometimes, the mirror I carry grows too big for me to see beyond its frame, the worldly sounds drown out the songs of the birds, but then something happens, someone comes along, and reminds me that beyond it all there’s more.

Of all that’s been said of Easter, all that’s been written or sung, this is the truth that lies beyond it all. Beyond the dramatic events of Holy Week – the triumphant entrance, confrontational teachings, solemn meal, heartbreaking betrayal, let alone the arrest, denials, and death – there lies an empty tomb. The body’s gone, a blood-stained cloth the only reminder of what happened. But it’s in that emptiness that God is most visible, in the silence of that morning that God speaks loudest: “Death’s not the end. There’s more!”

            Thanks be to God.