Slowing Down

I made it through the National Gallery in record time. With the look of a speed walker, I made my way through the impressionists, portraits, religious art, and abstracts in a way that made each piece a blur. My classmates arrived in the lobby an hour later, and I stood there proud that I had won, which is how I felt. But the fact was, I made it through the gallery fast, but I never saw any of the art. I walked by paintings and sculptures, but I never stopped and looked, felt, or experienced one piece.

I’d like to say that experience long ago was unique, but I know better. Everywhere I look I see how I am always racing. Whether through the grocery store, a social gathering, or even church, I seem fixed on making it to the lobby in record time. Just this week I was skiing and found myself racing down slopes rather than taking in the view, the air, and the sound. Yes, I made it to the bottom in record time, but I don’t remember a thing about the run.

Lent is a season when we slow down and try to feel, see, smell, taste, and hear our lives again. For people like me, that’s a big undertaking. I’ve always found it easier to lower my shoulder and put greater effort (and speed) into things, but what Lent asks is that we lift our shoulders, take a deep breath, and look around. In doing so, we will re-discover our place in the world, the people who walk beside us, and the wonder that surrounds us. The world constantly says, “speed up,” but our souls cry out, “slow down”.

This is the season that asks, to which are we listening?

Ash Wednesday

FOR ALL THOSE BEGINNING THEIR LENTEN JOURNEY WITH GREAT HOPES AND EXPECTATIONS.

It was the day before I began seminary. The boxes were emptied, our home set up, and all my shiny books were arranged and ready to be opened. I wanted the day to be a day of inner preparation, so I left our house on a pilgrimage of sorts. I was going to go baptize myself. I had something specific in mind, but the day surprised me. (Yes, I’ve always been a little dramatic)

I left our townhome and headed down the hill toward the Potamic River. I brought nothing with me, not even my headphones. I wanted to be fully present in case God showed up and had something to say.

The walk was not as pristine as I’d hoped. Cars raced and honked as people made their morning commutes.  I walked by homes and a train platform filled with eager passengers. I eventually reached a small patch of woods that led to the river, but I was distracted by all the trash in the trees. On the river’s edge, I saw a partially submerged tire, pizza box, and plastic bottles bobbing up and down in the waves.

“Not exactly the Jordan River,” I said with disappointment, but I reached down into the water anyway and did the best I could with the water I had.

I stood and waited, hoping for something to happen, some sign or message that said I was on the right path, that a new chapter had begun, but there was nothing. I knew better than to expect clouds to part or a voice to say I’m God’s beloved son in whom he was well pleased. I’m not Jesus, after all, but still I hoped for something to encourage me on my way.

I decided to continue my walk, this time across the bridge into DC and up to the National Cathedral. Surely I would find a fitting way to initiate my ministry there, I thought. It was a longer walk than expected and I was winded by the time I reached the top of Mount Saint Alban. The cathedral glistened in the afternoon sun, and I rubbed my hands together as if reaching the place I’d been looking for. Entering with reverence, I took as seat away from the tourists but was distracted by my fatigue. I also knew I had a long walk home and found it hard to think of anything else. Resigned that my day had not been the inspirational one I wanted, I headed home.

I left through a side door and noticed a small chapel off to the right. It was outside the cathedral and had no door. I went over to see it and was surprised by its size. Unlike the cathedral, it was small, with only three small pews and a modest altar. There was a homeless man sleeping in the front pew who did not hear me enter. I shook my head because of another flawed spiritual moment, but then I saw the stone carving above the altar. It showed Jesus holding a lamb. It was a simple carving, but it stirred me deeply. I stood there for a while and let that vision fill my soul. It’s been with me ever since.

The next day I began seminary. Three years later, I graduated. Thirty-six years later, I can still remember that pilgrimage. It was nothing like what I expected, but now I see it was exactly what I needed.

It taught what I needed to know:

·      The magic happens when I stop trying to run the show.

·      Trash-lined roads and a junk-filled rivers can be sacramental.

·      Clouds don’t need to part for God to speak.

·      Sometimes it’s in the small spaces, away from the obvious, that we find what we’ve been looking for.

·      And the good shepherd waits to hold us all, future priest and homeless soul. It makes no difference.

That’s what I needed to learn all those years ago. That’s all I’ve ever needed to know.

Remi

I was in for a surprise.

We arrived for our scheduled horseback ride on the Caribbean beach and while I should have been excited, part of me didn’t want to go. Yes, the views would be memorable, but I was distracted by the “cares of the world,” as the church puts it. We had recently purchased a property that would challenge us financially, the bills from this trip were plentiful and waiting for me at the check-out desk, and, as always, I missed my kids (who I miss even when I’m not traveling). Climbing onto my horse, I realized I was carrying as much of a load as he was. Then it happened. I met Remi.

He was a lanky, black Frenchman, born and raised on a nearby island. Dressed in all black, including his sunhat, his teeth were as white as the breaking waves whenever he smiled, which was pretty much all the time. He spoke throughout the ride, describing his life in abundant detail. “I have the perfect life,” he professed. “I once had a job than made me want to stay in bed. Now I jump out of bed to do what I do. My boss sees me like an airport bottle of water. Very valuable.” My wife and smiled at the imagery. It reminded me of a time when I was a boss and saw people that way.

My load lightened.

He went on to describe his life. “I live right over there,” he said pointing to a valley on the island across the way. “I live with my wife and two sons who we raise right. We can see the ocean and mountains from our home. What more could someone want?” Indeed, I thought. I couldn’t see his house but imagine it was a humble dwelling that was more than a mansion to him.

My load continued to lighten.

Then he described his childhood and the mother he loved. “Every birthday, I buy her a present. I wrap it and give it to her. I look at her and thank her for all the nice things she’s done for me.” The simplicity and the authenticity were priceless. I doubt they had much but were enormously wealthy.

Then he did something that was surprising. He put his head down near his saddle and hoisted his long legs and bare feet into the air. It made him look like the court jester entertaining the king and queen. “You should try it,” he said looking back at me with a grin. I couldn’t have done it, even if I wanted to, which I did.

I follow someone who promised to set the captives free. I felt anything but free as I began the ride, but witnessing this soul that was as free as any I’ve known invited me to lighten my load, to release all the things I was carrying. He was as unburdened as his legs in the Caribbean breeze, as grateful as a child, and as peaceful (and joyful) as a monk.

I wanted to be like Remi.

Climbing off the horse, I couldn’t remember one vista on the ride because all I could see, all I needed to see, was riding right in front of me.