Finding The Sacred Journey

There are times when life is amplified in such a way you can’t help but hear it. There are times when even the blind see what’s going on. Such moments are gifts beyond measure and invite us all into the sacredness that surrounds us, if only we have ears to hear and eyes to see.

I am traveling abroad with a group of golfers, one of whom is an old student of mine. Since our days in school, much has happened in his life and mine. We came to the trip with scars and bruises which were both unique and alike. Like me, he carried the weight of regret that was, at times, paralyzing. Last night, our group had no plans, so he and I snuck away to attend a local twelve-step meeting. Wandering the twisty streets of the English town, we shared about our lives – not as teacher and student, but as fellow sojourners. We found the meeting and took our places in a pew where we heard words that were both familiar and new. Never could I have imagined God using my struggles and recovery in this life-giving way. Never did this student envision becoming a teacher.

Sitting here in a coffee shop the morning after, I marvel at what occurred last night. It was nothing we did, so much as what was done in, through, and around us. Yes, we made the effort to find a meeting, but what happened because of that effort had nothing to do with us. In an unforgettable way, I saw the miracle of “God doing for us what we could not do for ourselves,” as the Big Book says, or, to paraphrase Ephesians, I saw God working within us to accomplish abundantly far more than we could ask or imagine.

It seems the life of faith is about doing the next right thing and then letting God do the rest. It’s about showing up and then getting out of the way. In sharp contrast to a world that says it’s all about us and what we make happen, I think life is more about surrendering control and letting God do what God does best - redeems the world one life at a time.

When that happens, as it did last night, life becomes a sacred journey beyond our comprehension.

Pentecost

Even for non-Christians, or people who are skittish about “overly religious” blog posts, the story of Pentecost has much to say to all of us who seek to live spiritual lives. I’ve always loved the story of what is considered the “birthday of the church,” not because I fully understand it but am enamored by its spiritual beckoning.

The followers of Jesus were together in a room, fearful of the state and worried about what might happen to them because of their faith.

Can you imagine having a faith that stood apart from the state, a faith that was costly?

In the solitude of their common faith, a mighty wind blew in and around them filling them with a spirit that comforted and emboldened them. The only way they could describe that mighty wind was as a “holy spirit.” It was like God had come and swirled around them.

Can you imagine God’s spirit coming and swirling around you today? In what way would that be comforting? In what way would you feel emboldened? How might it frighten or unsettle you?

We are told that there was also a fire that descended and that people spoke in ways they never had before. Those who looked on thought that these followers were drunk, which was all the more bewildering because it was 9 in the morning!

When was the last time you felt something within you rise up and you spoke in a way that made others tilt their heads, roll their eyes, or wonder if you were drunk (or crazy)?

Fear not. You are in good company, though I fear few of us have let ourselves have such an experience.

I grew up in a timid, polite church, one that took pride in everything being “decent and in order.” It was a church filled with people who looked like me and lived lives much like mine. Ours was a faith designed to comfort but not embolden. Ours was designed to inspire, but not too much. Ours was not a faith that encouraged anything too out of hand or controversial. An unspoken rule was to support the state, the status quo, because we were all people of privilege. Even from the pulpit, we were taught a diluted gospel so no one would be offended, even if it ignored what Jesus explicitly said. “Give me that old time religion,” the older members would sing even if it meant ignoring those who were less fortunate or lived lives that were not like June and Ward Cleaver.

The thing about wind and flames is they’re unpredictable, just like God. They’ll disrupt our lives if we let them. They’ll make us look and feel things that aren’t easy or comfortable. They’ll call into question ways of thinking, ways of speaking, and ways of voting that stand in direct contrast to the gospel. They’ll make people look askance and wonder if we’re drunk.

No wonder we avoid such things at all costs. We close the windows from the wind and extinguish every flame. We want a safe and comfortable church, or maybe no church at all. We want a gospel that affirms our way of life even if it comes at the expense of others.

No wonder the pews are increasingly empty, and the buildings are crumbling. Somehow, we need to feel the mighty wind again and dance with the flames . . . even if they make us feel uncomfortable and cause others to think we’re drunk. It wouldn’t be the first time!

 

Saints

Across from where I’m sitting, in a café in St. Andrew’s, Scotland, is an old Gothic church. Above the pedestrians on the corner of the church is an architectural feature that is hardly, if ever, noticed. It’s a shelf or pedestal adorned with a canopy above. A beautiful piece of stonework, it looks glaringly empty.

Long ago, when the church moved away from the Catholic church (during what was called the Protestant reformation) the people did away with anything that spoke of its Catholic roots, including destroying all the statues of saints. Whether it was Peter or Paul, Mary or Catherine, or Andrew himself, the saints were taken down from their place of prominence leaving only a shell of a reminder. Like the reformation itself, space was created but things were lost.

Staring across the street at the historical whisper, I wonder what saint once stood looking over the people passing by? In its emptiness, I felt invited to think who I might put on that shelf. The saints of my life are not famous like those from church history. They may have been saints only to me, people with less regal names who led ordinary lives, but they pointed me to the faith I now profess and, in their way, look down on me still as I pass through this brief moment in time.

There was Robert Carson, “Carse,” an old man who invited me to join him in pew 25 at the modest Episcopal church in my college town after my father died.

There was Fred, towering over me in his robes and purple shirt, who made the biblical story come alive by connecting it with ordinary life.

And then there was a woman named Ada, who tickled my arm when I was sad or afraid and assured me everything would be alright while also reminding me I had something to offer this world.

My list is much longer, but it’s my list. The question being asked across the street is who’s on your list? Who would you place on that shelf?

I don’t know how all this spiritual stuff works, how we remain connected to those who now dwell upon another shore, but just saying their names makes them live again. I can see their faces, hear their voices, and feel their touch, if only in my heart. Such reflections make my soul swell, and I have to believe that mentioning their names somehow echoes across time’s sea and causes their souls to swell, too.