Bono on the holy trinity!

Mystic Mondays     July 5th (Tuesday edition)I had an image this morning as I moved into my day. I have been thinking a lot about body these past few weeks especially as I aborted my usual routine of hiking, walking, yoga and cycling in order to serve at the biennial General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church. While I considered it a great privilege to serve as a commissioner to the national meeting my body nearly revolted. With the exception of the 7-block walk between the hotel and the convention center and the distance between the plenary hall and the mess hall I sat and sat and sat some more.Which gets me back to the image that came to me this morning. I had a picture in my mind of a church that was one part worship center, one part education center, and one part YMCA or health club.It’s little wonder that this particular image would show up in my consciousness. I graduated from college with a double major as I couldn’t decide between my two great loves—religion and athletics. By the time I finished my degree I had a major in religion as well as sports and fitness center management. Maybe I am just trying to bring these two worlds together for personal reasons, but honestly, I think there is more to it than that.I was watching a short YouTube program of a conversation https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-l40S5e90KYbetween U2’s Bono and the writer of The Message, Eugene Peterson, as they discussed their equal love for the Psalms. In that conversation Bono spoke of the doctrine of the Trinity as Christianity’s way of honoring mind, body and spirit. I was really struck by the natural comparison of these two ways of capturing the fullness of our experience of Life, especially its more sacred qualities.My experience of keeping the chairs warm at the General Assembly just exaggerated what I already know to be true. The Presbyterian Church excels at honoring the mind, makes a pretty good showing when it comes to honoring the spirit, but fails miserably at honoring the body. It’s as if it doesn’t even enter our conversations. We are good at stepping in when people get sick or are aging or need equal access to our buildings due to disabilities. But the day to day practice of listening to our bodies seems to be largely missing.If it is true that we also know God through the wisdom of our bodies, I do wonder how it is that we missed this aspect of the mind/body/spirit trinity. Colleges deal with the mind, churches deal with the spirit and health clubs deal with the body, is often how it seems in our overly-compartmentalized society.I know that I have written about the body a great deal in recent weeks. I don’t think I am beating a dead horse. What feels more accurate to me is that every week that I write takes me just a little further toward the recognition that if we are looking for God or the Sacred, I wonder if we have missed the thing that is right under our nose— that is our flesh and body. I wonder if this is why, in the East, yoga and tai chi and the martial arts aren’t just considered good forms of exercise; they are physical meditations to gain access to the spiritual world.I remember a vignette that Joseph Campbell shared in the Power of Myth series. He told of a Western man following a Shinto priest around his community. Finally he said, “I have been following you for weeks, but I don’t get your ideology; I don’t get your theology.” The priest paused for a moment and replied, “We don’t have an ideology; we don’t have a theology. We dance.”To my overly-trained Western rationalistic self I shiver at the prospect of no theology. But if the mind/body/spirit balance is a holy trinity in terms of our spiritual lives I have to wonder if the Shinto priest is at least getting the body and spirit parts right.I will always cherish the better than a week that I spent at the General Assembly. It is a privilege that comes once once in a lifetime, if that, for most pastors. But if the Shinto priest had shown up at the meeting I wonder if his first impression might have been, “We dance. They sit. Strange religion these Presbyterians!”Mind, body and spirit. Might Bono be right? Is this the secular version of the Holy Trinity?

I'll Have What He's Having!

"I and the Father are one." (John 10: 30)

Thirty years ago I assumed that those words were solely about Jesus. Today I believe those words are about me (and you and you and you!). Thirty years ago a belief that Jesus and God inhabited the same spiritual body meant that Jesus deserved some form of honor and worship. He was eternal and God-like. I was a mere rotting human. Today I do not believe that. Today I believe that Jesus was just holding a mirror up to the rest of us. If he was both divine and human, so are we.Today is the first posting for a new weekly series I am titling Mystic Mondays. Less than a month ago we concluded a 40-day Lenten pilgrimage and blog conversation on the theme "Between Two Worlds." I am very pleased to remind you again that the pilgrimage did its work (as I have come to expect when one enters an unknown landscape with only an intention).I went into the period of Lent and blogging feeling like I was caught between two worlds, much like I felt as I embarked on my first pilgrimage (www.pedalpilgrim.com/book) in 2011 as I felt the church world dying away along with my livelihood. I briefly broke through that spiritual schizophrenia on my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage, but the realities of life pulled me back into it not too many months after my return.This last Lenten pilgrimage that I took while sitting at a computer desk (rather than a hard leather bicycle seat) again broke through the two world confusion.  I emerged from the other side feeling very much like I am no longer straddling two worlds; rather that I have a particular and specific call to articulate the bridge that I believe spans both sides of the religious/spiritual divide.That bridge is the language of religious mysticism. Those who lean more toward the spiritual side may balk at the reference to religion and those who are holding the pews down may bristle at the language of mysticism. But the truth is that our religious traditions have whole chapters dedicated to the experience of Christian mysticism. And millions of people today are acting like mystics, even if they don't have the benefit of the label or the language.My mysticism came through Jesus. Somewhere along the way I went from feeling like Jesus wanted my worship and obedience to feeling like he was offering me a divine invitation. Do you remember that wonderful scene in the movie When Harry Met Sally? (C'mon, you know which scene I am talking about. You're not going to make me describe it for you, are you? Okay, you win.) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-bsf2x-aeESally (Meg  Ryan)and Harry (Billy Crystal)l are sitting in a delicatessen discussing Harry's casual dismissive approach to women. Harry tells Sally, "It's not like they don't have a good time." "How do you know?" Sally asks. Harry replies, "Believe me, I know." There is an awkward exchange about whether the women he has been with are really having a good time or just faking "it." Harry returns to his meal. Sally starts moaning until she has worked herself up to a full blown screaming good time. The rest of the deli patrons all fall silent with their jaws hanging down below their collars. After the fireworks have all exploded the woman at the next table tells the waiter, "I'll have what she's having."I don't know if Jesus was faking it, but I do know that whatever divine cocktail he was drinking I want the same thing. Whatever it was about how he lived his life that allowed him to confidently say, "I and the Father are one," I want to live that way too. I want to experience the same all-inclusive welcome that he offered equally to both saints and sinners. I want to know what it feels like to be willing to die for love and to place my life in service of a cause and a spirit much larger than myself. I want to taste the Life that Jesus tasted. I want to feel the same divine pleasure Jesus felt.In a word, I am no different than the woman at the deli who exclaimed, "I'll have what's she's having." Whatever Jesus had I want it too. "In fact, God, could you make it a double?"  

A Lenten Invitation to YOU

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS.  Those of you who have followed my blog for awhile know that this is a theme that has threaded itself through many of my posts. It was actually that lonely, not-quite-sure-where-I- belong feeling that prompted my pilgrimage in 2011 around the Western United States. (BTW, my memoir from that ride,  Alone: A 4,000 Mile Search for Belonging, should finally be published before the end this month. Details coming!)If the first pilgrimage was wrestling with that nagging feeling of being caught between two worlds, my second pilgrimage from Rome to Rumi's Tomb in Turkey felt like I was coming out of the tunnel. By the time I reached Thessaloniki, Greece I felt that I had finally landed in the new emerging world of spiritual experience and expression. I felt free and ready to fly.I remember the blog post when I wrote, "I am not coming back" and quickly assured family and friends that I WAS returning to the United States. What I meant was that I felt that I reached a point where I had shaken off the heaviness and constraints of institutional religion. A new world--large, expansive, and open with new possibilities lay before me. I couldn't imagine ever turning back the clock.But alas, a few months of unemployment, relying on food stamps, digging dirt and making trash runs for my good friend's construction company forced me back into the world of the institutional church. It is work that I am well-suited for. I have two decades of experience. I have walked with churches from the moment of their conception and I have officiated at the final service for a church closure. In between I have taught and preached and baptized, married, and buried church members. But I know that this world is dissolving away like a sand castle on the beach.This blog comes in the form of an invitation.As a pastor I am about ready to walk with my congregation through the traditional period of Lent. But I am desperately needing to find a way to reignite that voice that was so crystal clear as I rode along the Aegean Sea in Greece on my way to Turkey. I vowed during that pilgrimage that I would never let anything come between me and my voice again.I want to invite all of you all to take a Lenten journey with me. Lent is traditionally a period of naked vulnerability and honest reflection. The period of Lent lasts 40 days (mirroring the 40 years of wandering in the wilderness by the escaped Hebrew slaves and Jesus' 40 days of temptation) which includes all the days from Ash Wednesday through Easter, minus the Sundays.I have committed to blogging every one of those days during Lent. This will be my Lenten practice. It is also my way of recovering that voice that I thought would never be squelched again as I rode the final miles into Konya, Turkey last year.But there is another reason. I know that many of you are also feeling caught between two worlds. I hear it from my professional colleagues in ministry and education. People in the church tell me that even though they still love the church they yearn for something that they can't quite see or put their finger on. And hundreds of people I have talked to outside of the church find themselves flirting with a new spiritual world yet grieve over how unformed it is.During this period of Lent I invite you to join with me in this journey. My readers come from those in the church who are flirting with the edges. I have readers who have left the church decades ago but who still appreciate the world that religion speaks to. My readers are really a community of people who represent the place where two overlapping circles meet. I believe that you represent the emerging future of spiritual community, especially in the U.S.I will blog every day (sans Sundays) and ask you to join the conversation. Reply to me. Reply to others' comments. Let's take the journey of Lent together. Let's wander out into the vulnerable desert of Lent and see just where the Sacred face reveals herself. Let's mark ourselves with the ashes of Ash Wednesday and see just what the world looks when we arrive at Easter. Let's create something along the way!And...don't forget to look for my book!

Two Unlikely Lovers

I have discovered two unlikely lovers--agnostic and Christian.Eight years ago Facebook asked me to fill out my profile including age, marital status, political views and religion. Age and marital status were easy. A few key strokes and I was done. Political views took a little more time. I didn't want to just put down a specific party since my politics are much more complicated and nuanced than any one single party can represent. But after some hours of thought I was able to feel good about the phrase "politics of compassion and justice."But then came the religious question. Wow! I was completely stumped. I could quickly write in Christian as if I was checking off a box on the census. But Christian can mean just about anything. If I was going to put Christian I wanted people to know what kind of Christian I was. I didn't want people to assume I was the Jerry Falwell sort of Christian. For a time I pondered liberal progressive Christian but it wasn't satisfying. That sounded more like a political view than the soulful, sensual way I feel about my spiritual identity.I wrestled with this for six full months trying on adjectives, switching words around and pondering the complexity of my faith. Finally one day I came up  with agnostic Christian mystic. It felt right. It identified me as a Christian but put my own particular brand on it. I also liked that it was complicated enough that one couldn't easily go, "Oh, he's that type of Christian" and move on.  It made people think, take a second thought, and look below the surface.I could have never guessed how well this little three word descriptor would serve me. I haven't changed it now for eight years. In fact I feel like I am only beginning to understand the fullness of the words  as I continue to live more deeply into a spiritual life that is marked by the open uncertainty of agnosticism, the radical values of Christianity, and the yearning for the direct experience of God as reflected in religious mysticism.While I never hid my Facebook profile I also didn't advertise it. It wasn't like I wore a button that clearly flashed the words agnostic Christian mystic. Most people knew me as a Presbyterian pastor and that was probably good enough for them and for me. It wasn't until serving a church on the coast in 2013 that my little identifier was noticed when I wrote an honest, but slightly tongue-in-cheek letter to the editor describing my label. You know what four letter word hit the fan! The word agnostic was too big a pill to swallow for many in the church. I nearly lost my job and although I was retained my ministry never really fully recovered with this congregation.But I am convinced more than ever that having a thread of agnosticism has become vitally important to my work as a minister. I am serving another congregation now in Southern Oregon. Of the six congregations I have served in my twenty-five plus years this is the most diverse. There is a fairly strong representation of members who lean awfully close to fundamentalist expressions of faith more typical of Assembly of God, Calvary Chapel, Southern Baptist, etc. There are also a handful of members who lean in the complete opposite direction and would probably fit in a Unitarian Universalist Church.I have discovered that it is the agnostic thread in my spiritual identity that allows me listen for the God presence in each person despite their very broad diversity. I am struck by the irony that the word agnostic throws so many church-going faithful. Yet it is the agnostic, I-don't-know-for-sure, still evolving part of my faith that allows me to meet with each member and discover something new and fresh about their faith and mine. I can hear the deep sincerity in the voice of the person who insists that Jesus is the only way to salvation as I can the sincerity of the person who is just as convinced that Jesus ISN'T the only to salvation.I am convinced that religious leadership in the future will require a healthy dose of agnostic sensibility. Our culture and our congregations are becoming more and more diverse. The old style of a minister who is trained to preach and teach only one very thin and specific expression of faith will not be enough. We will need to become multi-lingual and able to speak the language of Billy Graham revivalists as well as non-theistic Unitarians. Doubt will need to be honored as much a spiritual value as faith.It's a strange paradox. I would never require my parishioners to adopt an agnostic thread if it was not comfortable for them. But as a professional minister, as one who works with a wide diversity of  faithful people, as one who wants to recognize God in each person it is not my certainty about faith that allows me to sit with both fundamentalists and Universalists. It's my uncertainty, my doubt and my openness that keeps me listening, growing, and wanting to share the faith of others.Eight years ago I wrestled hard with a short pithy way to capture my religious identity for Facebook. I first thought I was putting two opposites together--agnostic and Christian. Now I realize that the two are made for each other. They aren't enemies. They are lovers.

Fear Can't Win

A little over a year ago I rode into Turkey on my loaded down bicycle on the same day that protests broke out over the country. ISIS had fought its way into the largely Kurdish town of Kobani, Syria and much of Turkey  exploded in anger and frustration over the timid response from the Turkish government. I wasn't sure what I was riding into. I made the decision that I would rely on the reception that I could intuitively feel from the people  of Turkey. Warm greetings would keep me pedaling forward. Cold and wary looks would have me rethinking my route.Not two hours after watching the news of protests, tear gas, stores windows smashed by rocks, and gun-yielding police pushing back mobs I was waved over by a road crew taking a break for lunch. I have posted about this before, but it bears repeating again. Without knowing what I was getting into I had been invited to share part of the Muslim Feast of Sacrifice, Eid al Adha, that commemorates Abraham's faithfulness to Allah (or Yahweh or God for those who need translation).After the initial religious festivities of Eid al Adha the sacrificed goats and lambs are consecrated for three different purposes--one-third goes to immediate family, one-third is given to distant relatives and neighbors, and one-third is reserved for the poor and the stranger. I didn't even know that I was playing a part until later someone told me that the Muslim men were looking for opportunities to share their sacred meal with the poor and stranger. I just happened to ride by at the right moment.We shared what was at times an awkward meal as I was already full from a hotel breakfast and they could not allow for the sacrificial goat to be wasted. Once I finished the meat portion of the meal we all lightened up, took pictures of each other, and watched as one man made a humorous attempt at riding my bike in his work boots, tar covered pants, and with a cigarette hanging from his lip. I parted with the traditional embrace and Turkish double kiss with men I had only known for an hour.I write this as America reacts to the suicide bombings in Paris and the growing number of Syrian refugees fleeing for their lives from their beloved homeland. And I am sad, very sad. I get all the rational, common sense arguments for shutting our borders to Syrian refugees in the hope that it will also close the borders to potential terrorists. But at what cost? We may save a few dozen lives or maybe even a few hundred lives. But will we have lost our soul and our way as Americans?Will the Statue of Liberty need to be dismantled and placed in the Smithsonian as a relic of our past? On the placard it will read, "1886-2015: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free..." Will the Statue of Liberty still stand tall in her harbor while we avert our eyes too ashamed to look directly at her proud face and torch of freedom?One year ago I had every reason to turn back from Turkey. ISIS was looking for Americans to kidnap and hold as ransom to fund their brutal tactics. Protests were breaking out in twenty cities in the country. People had warned me that it was too risky of a time. And I was as vulnerable as could be riding a bicycle in foreign territory with my Swiss Army knife my only weapon. But I decided that fear couldn't win.Were there risks? Yes. But the greatest risk was to wither up in the face of danger and live my life in fear.The greatest risk was to let terror win.We can't let terror win. I don't think this is a battle between terrorists and peace-loving people. This is a battle between liberty, freedom, compassion and fear. One year ago I was the poor and the stranger in a foreign land and a band of Muslim brothers welcomed me and shared a religious feast with me. We have to open our arms to the vulnerable and the stranger. We have to keep our borders open because that is who we are. That is who we always have been. That is what it means to be American.Fear can't win. Fear can't win. Goddamnit, we can't let fear win.

The Great Unfolding

“We get to be in charge of our character and values. God gets to be in charge of the future. Between those two realities is the great unfolding.”That is how I ended my monthly contribution to the church newsletter earlier this month. I wrote the article because I believed that Bethany Presbyterian Church was probably going to be better served by the language of unfolding rather than the more traditional language of strategic planning.In recent years I have adopted the stance of letting life unfold more and more. This has not come naturally to me. Early in my life planning served me well. If I wanted to buy a new bike within a year I just took the cost of the bike, divided it by twelve and saved that amount every month. On my first pilgrimage I had ten weeks to complete 4,000 miles. The calculator told me that I needed to ride 65 miles a day, six days a week in order to accomplish that. Some days were shorter, some longer. But the planning kept me pretty much on schedule.But the problem with planning is that it just can’t take into account every surprising and unexpected circumstance. More than once I have returned to the church office after a short illness complaining, “Sickness. I hadn’t planned that into my calendar!” Sometimes it’s divorce or death, an accident, the emergency needs of a family member, a surprise snowstorm, a traffic jam, or a bout of depression.We very rarely ever plan for such things, which is why I like the language of unfolding. Planning assumes that the world is going to play by the rules that we establish. Unfolding assumes that the world might change, but that our character and values will serve as the guide no matter how many curve balls life throws at us.I really like the line that came to me (if I must say so myself!). I wrote it because I believe that any illusion of a predictable world has just about been completely shattered. Books that promise a 7-step process to this success or that reward haven’t adjusted to our new reality. Planning is a nice idea, but is only as solid as the world it is built on. And these days it feels like the world is built on quicksand rather than Prudential’s Rock of Gibraltar.I feel both relief and a little terror when I say this line. Relief—because the line allows me to let go of any sense that the future is my sole responsibility. And terror—because I realize that the future isn’t my sole responsibility. Letting life unfold is wonderfully freeing and unnervingly frightening. I am relieved that I don't HAVE to be in control and I grieve that I don't GET to be in control.But I have given up on making the future what I would like it to be. Rather I am letting my character lead me. I am letting my values choose the path like water seeking the lowest spot.I like being in this place. I get to be in charge of my character. God gets to be in charge of the future. Between the two is the great, wonderful, unknown and terrifying unfolding. Between the two is a whole hell of a lot of trust!

Living Between Two Worlds

Wow. It's been over three months since my last post. I have to admit that my hands are shaking ever so slightly as I make an attempt to step back into this.I never imagined how complicated and tricky this thing would be--trying to step into a new emerging world. When I  took my first pilgrimage four years ago I did so saying publicly and teasingly, "I feel like I have spiritual schizophrenia." I have spent much of my life professionally serving the Church and its traditional worldview and liturgical rhythm. I am well-suited to the work. Yet, my own spiritual appetites are often more fed while cycling over a mountain, getting lost in a well-crafted movie narrative, and discussing religion, politics and culture over a beer (or two or three) with friends who range from the spiritual but not religious, agnostic, and intellectually curious.One year ago I had built what I thought was a bridge from this traditional religious world to the emerging spiritual world of my friends and contemporaries. I had planned a spiritual pilgrimage that I had called "From Rome to Rumi," mirroring the shift from institutional religion to religious mysticism (as reflected by the Sufi mystic poet Jalaluddin Rumi). I had secured what I thought was a half time pastoral position to return to. After downsizing to RV-sized living I had built the log (shaky and thin though it was) across the stream that I thought would be needed to cross from one world to another.In an unexpected turn of events the position fell through just before I flew to Rome. As it turned out it was both a blessing and a curse. It gave me complete freedom to explore my heart and soul while biking through Italy, Greece and Turkey. I had no timeline that I had to follow. Most of all I was free to think, write and explore without the threat of losing a job back home (that had already happened!).It's strange to look back now at the moment on my pilgrimage when, in complete freedom, I exclaimed, "I have found my voice. I can never go back now. I won't let my need for a livelihood threaten the truth of my own voice." In that post I promised that I would work in a bike shop, drive a truck, or return to hospice work--anything but pastor a church if it meant that my emerging voice would have to go underground again.So how did I find myself back in the old world? Truck driving wasn't the answer. Hospice wasn't interested. And non-profits said I was over-qualified. A few months on food stamps and free health care pushed me back into work that I am good at, work that is desperately needed, and work that puts food on my table, tires on my  bike, gas in my car, and beer in my fridge. For that I am incredibly thankful!For three months I wasn't willing to do anything that would once again put my livelihood at risk. The thought of writing something that would jeopardize a job that took six months to find nearly paralyzed me. I had experienced life at the very edge and I needed a period where things felt more solid and secure.So why do I finally write now? It's time to once again explore these themes of living between two worlds--one that is rapidly dissolving away and one that is just emerging. As difficult as it was to live close to the edge as I tried to cross that bridge into the new world, it is still more hopeful than this world that adopted me nearly five decades ago.I am the right  person for this interim pastor position in Grants Pass, Oregon. And they are the right church for me for this small two year-ish window. Yet, even here we live close to the edge. The church had dropped 40% in Sunday attendance in the two years before I got here. The budget has been cut by more than 10% each of the last two years. I work in a denomination that has fewer full time positions and churches every year. My best work has come in closing one church and taking a 13% cut in another church to help them adopt a more realistic budget. My work is largely about walking with congregations in a time of grief and loss. Unfortunately, one of the best ways to do that is to model the graceful acceptance of loss myself.I write now because the longer I remain paralyzed the closer to the edge I will become again by virtue of a religious world that is like a house built on a cliff that is slowly eroding away. It is still more solid than the food stamp world I fell into this past year. But both worlds are fragile. The church world is fragile like the 85 year old grandfather who fears tripping over the carpet and breaking his hip. The emerging spiritual world is fragile like the one year old first learning to walk and taking lots of bumps and bruises.I  write now because the Grants Pass church knows that that their world is dying. They know that a new world is emerging. They know that at some point they will need to decide whether to enjoy the comforts of the old world for as long as it remains or whether to step into the uncertain, unpredictable new world that is knocking at their doors.I write now because I have to start teasing out that hopeful new world that exists on the other side of that shaky log crossing the rushing stream below. I write now because I think Grants Pass is ready to peek into that new world. At least that is my belief and my hope.My hands are still shaking, but my soul feels calm.

What's in a Name?

I had a  post all ready to go, but God got in the way.Let me explain. Last week I wrote a post where I acknowledged that despite our culture's distaste for religious proselytizers, I really am one at my core. I am so utterly convinced that there is a Sacred Presence that I can't help but to invite her into my every encounter.I  spoke of this in my post titled, "A Theology of Presence." I wrote that post just a few days after I also wrote my first newsletter article for the church where I now serve as an interim pastor. I had decided that my next post would simply be a copy of that newsletter article (http://bethanypres.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/June-2015-Epistle.pdf) with a simple introduction such as, "A follow up to my Theology of Presence post."Only I encountered a problem. I read through the  post and one line got stuck in my throat. Half way through the post I had written, " I don’t think it is an accident that God has brought us together in this time." I immediately realized that the language that I use to communicate spiritual realities to my congregation is different than the language I use in my blog where my readers include spiritual seekers, humanists, Christians with Celtic influences, atheists, progressive Catholics, and a few dyed in the wool Presbyterians.I realized how important this thing we call language is. What I want to communicate is that I believe there are deeper psychic, spiritual, and even unconscious forces at work in our lives. We don't choose everything we do in life; sometimes life chooses us.In the church we are accustomed to using the language of God in order to communicate that reality. But I realized that, had I relied on that same language by default in my blog post, not only would I have lost a few readers, I also would not have been successful in communicating my basic message.I played the scenario out in my head. Had my original audience been my  Pedal Pilgrim readers I would have said the same thing with words similar to: "I believe that it is no accident that Life (with a big "L") or the Universe has brought us together." Such language might make a few church members roll their eyes and say, "For goodness sakes why can't you just call that God!" But to my broader audience God can get in the way. The language of God can dredge up images of a puppeteer-like figure floating somewhere above the clouds moving people around like pieces on a chess board.I don't believe in that God in the church or in my blog. I believe in a presence that seems to move mysteriously through our lives leading us into ever deeper realities of Love and Awareness. Some may think that I am wishy washy and that I speak out of both sides of my mouth. But it's just not true. My goal is to speak of and embody the Sacred Presence I have felt  in my own life. For one person the language of God is the key to this sharing this; for another the language of God actually gets in the way.I will close by offering a simple blessing:May the Universe enfold you in her arms! (Translation............God bless you all)

A Theology of Presence

I have just decided, in my own way, I am one of those dreaded people who proselytize about their faith.I was interviewing for a position a few weeks ago that would have had me working with about one hundred congregations in an administrative role. Because of the diversity of the congregations the panel wanted to know how I would handle working with congregations that spanned the theological spectrum from liberal and progressive to conservative and traditional. I am sure that my reputation is that I am somewhere between liberal and crazy and they wanted to know if I would be able to work equally well with those whose faith is somewhere to the right of mine.Having worked in a chaplain role in the past I immediately depended on that experience for my answer. I described how good chaplains don't come to a hospital  room armed with their own particular faith perspective, but first listen for the faith, beliefs, and spiritual values of the patient. The goal is not to impose one's faith perspective, but to employ the faith and values of the patient on the way toward healing, comfort, courage, and acceptance.I finished my answer and then quickly contradicted myself by adding, "Of course, I actually do come in with a particular theological agenda. I enter a room with a theology of presence. If God is the one who is present to us in all of our diversity, then I to seek to be present to others no matter their faith perspective or spiritual orientation."As an ordained Presbyterian minister I am a representative of the Reformed Faith, a particular slice of the theological pie that is marked by our own specific beliefs that have been carved out over the last five hundred years. I am trained to come with a picture of Jesus and my Reformed theology tucked under my arm as a pastor.But our culture rebels against this.Given the diversity of our communities we have learned to be careful not to impose our own agenda and beliefs on others--especially in positions or public settings where diversity is the assumption rather than the exception. The PC thing these days is complete tolerance and a position of neutrality when it comes to politics and religion with the public.But I have discovered that rather than backing off my own agenda I have simply allowed my agenda to morph into something new. Rather than assuming a mantle of neutrality I am just as biased as ever. I am a proselytizer for Presence. I walk into a patient's room or a community meeting not with the expectation that I have to delicately dance between competing views, but with an agenda that the Sacred One will be felt and experienced.Really, I am no different from those who make it a point to make sure that Jesus is introduced in every encounter. The only difference is that I believe that I don't have to force Jesus on the unsuspecting; Jesus is already there. The Sacred Presence is already written into the narratives, stories and values of those with whom I meet. All I do is highlight the moment and leave it at that.I am glad that added my little comment at the end of my answer during the interview. I have never been quite comfortable with the PC notions of complete tolerance, neutrality and agenda-less facilitation. I am too tied to my belief in the presence of the Sacred to ever think that I will ever be completely free of a religious agenda. I guess it's time that I admit that I too am a religious proselytizer.So, be warned.  I may not beat people over the head with  Jesus, but I do come armed with a theology of  Presence.

Emerging from the Metaphorical Desert

It's confirmed. I will be employed again full time beginning May 7.Bethany Presbyterian Church in Grants Pass, Oregon has offered me the interim pastor position--an offer I was glad to accept. It represents emerging from a sort of financial and professional desert of recent months. As I have shared in recent posts I found myself on the receiving end of the social safety net. I have relied on the free Oregon Health Plan and on food stamps for a few months. Yesterday I had the pleasure of sharing a bouquet of flowers for my caseworker and watched as she cut up my EBT card with a pair of scissors after I signed the form for voluntary relinquishment.But this desert of sorts went beyond the mere financial. The consistent flow of rejections for professional positions left me wondering if the gifts that I bring to the world were slightly out of sync with the  world's needs. I was beginning to feel like one of those puzzle pieces that look to the eye like they fit, but don't quite easily snap into place. Despite my intention to write weekly posts on my Pedal Pilgrim site, I found myself slogging through psychic mud to find the inspiration to write, wonder, and share.As the news of this position become more real I found myself reflecting back to a past pilgrimage. This period felt very much like the nine day endurance test crossing the Nevada desert by bike in 2011. In actuality, however, this felt harsher. At least in Nevada I knew exactly  how far I had to go to conquer the desert. I knew that as I neared Carson City that the Sierras would signal the end of the desert and the beginning of a new kind of challenge.This time I had no idea where the desert would end.  A couple of times the mirage of an oasis appeared in the  form of a final interview only to have it evaporate away just before reaching its source of refreshment. I wasn't sure if I was preparing for a month long endurance test or a new way of life where I was forced into a certain degree of deprivation. The uncertainty was worse than the actual day to day circumstances.In the midst of it I continued to have ideas for blog topics, but they rushed through my head like a chance celebrity sighting--just long enough to recognize it by name, but not long enough to get to know it and explore its themes.I am more convinced than ever that there is something to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. My editor reminds me that it is hard to be creative when one is consumed with scratching the earth for food and looking for the nearest shelter. Despite my attempts to be disciplined, I often had the time to write, but couldn't find the energy or the muse. It was as if my voice had gone underground. Writing about the discovery of the soul and the way of the pilgrim seemed so irrelevant as I concentrated on sleep, food preparation, working out the physical kinks or labor, and keeping my anxiety in check.The news of full time work, a regular paycheck, and enough income to put my worries to rest has loosened up the creative juices again. I suppose if I was a completely trusting person such temporary challenges wouldn't put such a damper on me. But it is what it is. Somehow, while facing challenges on my pilgrimages, I was able to write my way through them as a reflection of the nature of pilgrimages. I had a message to the world that I wanted to share. What changed is that I began to think that my current challenges were the world's way of saying, "I have a message for you" and I wasn't sure that I liked it.I have at times been grateful for this experience and, at other times, bitter. I felt the same way riding across the Nevada desert in 2011. I remember tasting the dry deprivation and getting lost in the profound emptiness. The truth is I have come to love the desert.

A House of a Different Sort

I've been thinking a lot about houses lately. Of course, this shouldn't be a surprise. I spend four days a week working with a home-building construction company. Every work day I am in and out of homes that even my dreams haven't dreamed of. Some are of a scale that would suit me just right if I had ten kids. All of them utilize high end quality materials and have artistic touches that transform them from mere houses to live in to sacred spaces to enjoy.But I really don't want to talk about those houses. I want to talk about the house that keeps darting across my brain courtesy of a scripture text. The broken phrase that keeps showing up like a flashing neon sign is, "We have a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."In light of my daily exposure to envy-producing luxury homes and the fact that I have not owned a home for the last twelve years, I have been thinking about the house that I actually am building. At one time I felt that a certain lifestyle was due me. I earned myself a master's degree, am part of a professional community, and have worked very hard my whole adult life. Home ownership was part of the reward package for a person like me, I felt. And, I suppose, if owning a home was the most important thing to me I would find my way there one way or another.But I have been thinking a lot about this "house not made with hands that is eternal in the heavens." I am beginning to realize that my decisions of late expose my intention to focus more on building a house of character than a house made of concrete, wood, and marble. I don't mean that my character is in any way superior to others. What I mean is that, although I would love to own a house, my goals are more focused on making sure that I live into my deepest values--that of compassion, integrity and service. I would love to own a house, but not at the cost of my character.There are fleeting moments recently when I ask myself, "How could I have fallen so far?" Yet I know that question exposes a false narrative as if the world owes me something for my commitment to serve. Just a few years ago, out of this same commitment to serve, I found myself appointed by the Portland mayor, city council, and county commissioners to a number positions including the alternate to a county commissioner, should she be unable to finish her term. My commitments have not changed only my external circumstances.Why do I write this? Because my daily work around the home-building business has clarified something for me. While I am still stunned by the sudden financial turn of events in my life (I was also stunned by being appointed an alternate country commissioner), I also am not really surprised. I don't have security because I haven't made security a priority. I don't own a home because I have not made the kinds of decisions and compromises that would have led to owning a home. I continue to seek places to serve and sometimes that means that I find myself in the heart of city planning and sometimes it means I have to scratch and claw my way to the most minimal of livelihoods.I have been thinking a lot lately about this scripture text that speaks of a "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens" especially as I help construct homes for others. I may or may not ever own a house again, but I am having the time of my life constructing a roomy and luxurious home for my soul where compassion, integrity and service each get their own rooms.And did I tell you about the view!

I'll Drink To That!

I am not sure if it took me three weeks to write this post or whether it took me three weeks to finally become honest enough with myself to write again. Maybe it was the little event at Fred Meyer’s a couple of nights ago that finally took me over the top.I had made a purchase of basic staples—mostly vegetables, lunch meat, juice and milk. But, I also bought a 6-pack of beer and two cans of cat food. I was dressed sharply as I had just returned from a preaching gig 135 miles away. The clerk and I enjoyed a light and enjoyable conversation. We talked quickly about our work—his shift and my speaking/preaching.Finally, back on script he said, “That will be $56.13.” I slid my food stamps card through the machine and waited for him to tell me the balance for the uncovered items. “You have a $10.53 balance.” Everything was fine up to that moment, but then he added, “$8.99 for a 6-pack of beer? Isn’t that a lot? It better be worth it.”I answered automatically, “Oh, it is!” before I realized what had hit me. I had just received my first encounter with food stamp shaming. Never, in thirty five years of buying beer or wine had a clerk questioned the price of my purchase. But, after seeing me pay 80% of my bill with food stamps he couldn’t resist finding a way to say, “I can’t believe you are buying pricey beer while using food stamps.”I certainly don’t need to justify myself to him or to you, but something about that experience broke through a long couple of weeks of internal wrestling. My writing had gone underground while I negotiate my way through this unexpected financial desert. Part of that is simply due to the 11-hour days from construction go-fer job 45 miles from my home. But the bigger reason is that a recent series of job rejections shook my confidence and scared my writing voice away. While it was more subconscious than conscious I think I found myself musing, “Who am I to talk about soul matters when I can barely handle survival matters?”Really, I should know better. I am by profession an ordained preacher. I have resorted to the wisdom of the Psalms many times to express the feelings and the desperation of the darker side of life: “How long, O Lord, will you hide your face from me?” “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” “How long must I bear pain in my soul?” And, for God’s sake, I have been a hospice counselor. I know how important it is to honor our own grief and feeling of lostness. But, apparently, I forgot.It’s funny that while I have been on pilgrimage I have given myself permission to share both the highs and the lows of life. I have had no problem describing both the ecstasy of reaching a mountain top as well as those profanity-laced moments when headwinds, logistical problems and cramps have dogged me. But, at least, for a moment (or three long weeks) I fell into the trap that sharing a little struggle was okay for a pilgrimage, but showed weakness or incompetence during normal life (whatever that is).And then I got shamed for buying beer. It was just the gift I needed. It took me over the edge. I found myself driving home and giving the young man an earful as if he was sitting right next to me. “Do you have any idea how hard I am working at this? Is it not good enough that I have given up just about everything that I consider normal and you want to take this too? Am I not entitled to even a small bit of pleasure!”Of course, I was not really mad at him. He was young and could not have known the full story that has found me relying on free health care and food stamps. What he saw as abusing my welfare benefits I saw as finding a small, simple and cheap way to hold onto a vestige of my former identity and lifestyle.But, the surprise shaming was good for me. It forced me to remember that the way the universe is unfolding is not a personal attack on me or a statement about my worth. Ever since my first pilgrimage in 2011 I have been convinced that we who live in this time are caught between two worlds—one that is now dissolving and dying away and another that is being born, but cannot yet support us. It is a vulnerable and awkward place to be.Right now I live someplace between that which is no longer and that which is not yet. I am thankful for to be working at a job that allows me to survive. I am grateful that I live in a society that supports those who find themselves in vulnerable places. And I am thankful for good beer. Always thankful for the beer!

Unexpected Gifts

I wrote on October 1 from the ancient Greek city of Thessaloniki, “My friends, I am not coming back.” That statement was prompted as I strolled through the Archeological Museum of Thessaloniki. I had the sudden realization that the spiritual values of ancient Hellenistic culture mirrored mine.I have lived with this uncomfortable split between body and spirit that our Protestant religiosity seems to promote (even if unconsciously). In Thessaloniki I read about and marveled at the sculptures and descriptions that embodied this value where body and spirit are married in the pursuit of “beauty and virtue (kalos kagothos).”I knew that day that with the blessing of ancient gods, I would never be able to return to a religiosity that ignored the wisdom of the body. I continued to cycle through the eastern half of Greece and into the heart of Turkey where the implications of my personal revelation played themselves out. By the time I arrived in Konya,Turkey three weeks later I had not only found my voice, but I also knew that there was no compromise in me. I would display my most authentic self like a logo on a t-shirt. I would refuse to go anywhere where my new suit wouldn’t be welcome.I knew this was risky business like crossing a narrow and fragile bridge. Rather than manipulate and twist my life into a form that would fit what the world wanted, I decided that I would let the world come to me. I would act less like chameleon and more like a tree grounded in my own identity and place.It has been a nervous time this crossing the identity bridge, but unexpected gifts are beginning to show up. You may be as relieved as I am that I am now working.  A good friend received my blog and my posts about having gratitude for the experience of deprivation and it coincided with his need for a go-fer for his home construction business. I am helping him as he looks for someone more permanent and he is helping me as I negotiate this time of transition. I spent my first week in a meditation of sanding.More importantly, I rewrote my PIF (church resume and narratives) to reflect my emerging spiritual identity. I described my recent pilgrimage of “going from the head of the institutional church to the heart of mysticism” and how my essential calling is to help communities understand and negotiate this same shift. Quite honestly, I expected almost complete silence from the denomination. I have been wonderfully surprised by the nearly three dozen churches from across the country who have expressed at least some initial interest.I think I write this for myself as much as for you. At times, as my savings ran out, I found myself in a food stamps’ office, and I began calling trucking firms for jobs, I questioned my decisions (not for very long, mind you). But, I have continued to rely on the gifts of the pilgrimage. I am clearer about who I am and what I bring to the world than I have been at any other time in my life.The good news is that the world is also saying, “We need you just as you are—a slightly crazy, mystical-leaning, passionate-preaching, pedaling pilgrim.”

Where Does God Fit...

“Where does God fit into all of this?”That was one of the questions I was asked Sunday night as we settled back into our seats after eating some mouth-watering, sticky, rich homemade Greek baklava. I was asked to share with a group of fifty church people my experiences of my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage that I completed this last fall. The questions really helped me dig into what the experience meant for me and what it might mean for others. But, this one question made me chuckle to myself.“Where does God fit into all of this,” was the question. I chuckled because I realized that nowhere in the presentation (as far as I could remember) did I ever mention God. I really appreciated the question actually; I knew that God was written all over the presentation and that every slide was infused with some palpable aspect of God. But, the questioner had a right to know how God fit into a presentation that featured the Vatican of Rome, dozens of Catholic and Greek Orthodox churches, Muslim mosques, and pictures of nuns, yet didn’t mention the glorified Divine One even once.I loved my own answer. I immediately said that God is not something I went looking for; God is the assumption that I started with. The question for me is not where did God show up in this half-crazy pilgrimage, but in what ways was the Sacred present in each and every encounter. This is the language of the mystics.I went on to explain how my work in hospice a decade before had changed me. Hospice work taught me that both life and death have a sacred quality to them.  God is able to work with our losses as much as with our successes. Grief provides as wide of a window for the Spirit to show up as do the fulfillment of long sought after dreams. God does not distinguish between good experiences and bad experiences.I had been living out of my shifting theological beliefs for years. But, it wasn’t until the questioner asked me point blank, “Where does God fit into all of this,” that it became clear: God is the assumption. God is the starting place. Of course, I might use different language—such as the Sacred, the Divine One, Presence, the Soul , Compassion, etc.—but I no longer question whether the unfolding of our lives is sacred or not. I simply start with the assumption that “all of life is sacred”. Sometimes that sacred quality is revealed in the actual moment. Sometimes it only reveals itself months and years down the road.“Where does God fit into all of this,” was the question. I realized that the question exposed a simmering and unarticulated assumption. God is. God simply is. All else is just an expression of that Presence that pulses through each and every second of life. The questioner might have heard me talking about a bike ride, but I am quite convinced that I was really talking about God, but was using the ancient language of the mystics.

Troubles? What troubles? (Pt. 2)

I had a friend approach me a few days ago (actually one of many) who expressed concern for my present circumstances. Actually what she said is, “I am worried about you.” I assured her that I really was doing okay despite the unemployment and some temporary reliance on the social safety net. I appreciated that she later came up and said, “I believe that YOU are doing fine. I think what I am expressing is how anxious I would be in your situation.”I don’t want to give the impression that this isn’t hard. Because, quite honestly, it is. I discovered that I actually qualified for food stamps six months earlier, but I waited until it was clear that I really had no other options short of racking up uncontrollable Visa debt. The caseworker commented on my shaking hands as I met with her. It was hard to admit that I—a person with a master’s degree and a gut full of ambition—would need to hold his hand out.Last week I wrote that I do feel lucky to be in this spot. I said that I felt uniquely fortunate that I have been given an opportunity to look at life through so many different lenses. This is the part that I am trying to convey. I almost can’t believe my own words, yet I know that they are authentic and true. I am supposed to be ashamed of this position or, at least, troubled. But, I am just not.In eastern India, my understanding is that followers of Siddhartha practice the life of begging for a time as part of their spiritual enlightenment. In the Christian tradition, Lent was sometimes an occasion for religious devotees to fast and to rely only on water and the occasional juice. The lesson is that the experience of deprivation is as good for the soul as the possession of wealth and bounty.Of course, I am not as disciplined as those who would actually choose this level of deprivation. I had to be tossed into it after doing my best to avoid it. Yet, I have lived enough life now to know that this time, whether it is a matter of a few weeks, a handful of months, or—I pray to God not—a few years, will go in my bag of life experiences and serve to deepen my life and my compassion for others down the road. At least that's been true so far--every experience of loss has, in later life, become a gift. Why would this time be any different?This is the part for which I feel genuinely grateful and tells me that the language of the mystics really is starting to settle into my soul. I am not looking for the good life. I want to experience life in all its beauty, rawness, pain, and ecstasy. I am actually starting to feel like an experience junkie. I really want it all like a glutton who doesn’t know when to say no. I want to be there as a child takes her first breath and as a great grandparent takes his last breath. If I could, I would taste homelessness and winning the lottery.It's not that I particularly enjoy my present status. I don’t wake up in the morning and say, “Gee whiz, today I get to experience the underside of life! Aren’t I lucky?” Yet, yet, yet...I can’t help but to look up to the heavens proclaiming with a slightly quivering jaw, “Thank you, thank you for this.”Why do I share this with you? Partly because I care for my friends and readers and don't want you worrying needlessly. But, also because eighteen months ago I put all of this in motion when I donated 90% of my possessions to the St. Vincent's Thrift Store. I answered a call that came from deep inside to follow an ache within my soul. With that decision came a commitment to share with you this unfolding, unpredictable and uncertain journey.Four months ago I was praying in the Blue Mosque with Muslim families. Today I am learning to let go of my pride and accept help from your taxes. A few weeks I enjoyed the newspaper article describing a speaking engagement in the community. And then immediately came home to another job rejection. It is what it is.And all of it feels like a gift from God, an invitation to experience life as it is, an opportunity to honor the journey of the Soul.I continue to remain grateful...

Troubles? What troubles?

“I am sorry to hear about your troubles.”That was the sincere response of a recruiter from a trucking school as I explained my situation and my reason for exploring long haul trucking. I appreciated the kind response even as I caught myself almost wanting to correct her. I had explained my situation of needing to look for work after an unexpected turn of events that had me flying off to Europe just days after a job fell through. But, I realized that the recruiter’s sympathetic response said more about her than me. I never said in our conversation that I was having troubles. I simply explained my situation. Assuming that I was having troubles was her judgment, not mine.It was a mistake not worth correcting and would have made me sound like a pompous ass. I did realize, however, that it revealed something about me. I realized that I am not placing a value judgment on my present circumstances. Yes, I have virtually no income. Yes, I have found myself receiving the same welfare (health care and food stamps) of those who are sometimes vilified in our community. And yes, I have days when my emotions can get pretty swirly as the signs of my being needed by the world are few and far between.But, no, I am not having troubles. Saying I was having troubles would indicate that I held some expectation about how life should be. It would indicate that I had some image in my mind of what a “trouble-free” life might look like. It would reveal some assumption that I deserved one life over another or that one kind of life had more value than another.Ever since I decided to honor the stirrings of my soul and to live in the world as honestly and authentically as I can, I have been observing my own unfolding life as if I was watching a movie. “What would happen if I simply let the world know who I was and trusted the world to tell me where I belong,” seems to be the premise of this movie.Maybe I’ll end up driving truck or selling a couple of books or riding my bike across America with a Muslim imam promoting tolerance and understanding. Maybe my unapologetic determination to understand the soul will attract a congregation with an unusually high tolerance for risk and uncertainty. Maybe I’ll stay on food stamps forever (hard to imagine, but maybe!)I feel like I am supposed to be troubled by my present circumstances, as my friendly truck school recruiter commiserated. But, I am just not. I am more intrigued and curious than anything else. I feel like I am getting a front row seat to a drama that is part comedy, part tragedy—just like life. How did I ever get so lucky? Why, of all people, have I been invited to a life where I get to experience so much from so many angles?I have lived comfortably and now I live in poverty. I have experienced love and I have had my heart torn apart. I have cycled across deserts, over mountains, and right into the heart of Muslim Turkey. I have eaten lobster and now I survive on cereal, soup, and peanut butter. I have had it easy and I have had to struggle. This is my life. This is the gift that I have received.But, troubles? No. I am not troubled. I am as grateful for what I don’t have as I am for what I do have.

A Preoccupation with Self

Howard Thurman, an inspirational African-American author, philosopher, theologian, educator, and civil rights leader once said,

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

That quotes mirrors a subtle and profound shift that has been marking my life in recent years. It is still hard to explain exactly what is happening. I have chosen in this forum to say that it has to do with listening to the voice of the soul. Funny thing about it, however—I haven’t really changed many of my commitments. I still find myself drawn to compassionately listening to someone as they wrestle with some nagging question or hurt. I still find myself standing on the doorstep of human need ready to lend a helping hand or receive a gift of grace.What has changed is where the initiative comes from. I no longer do it because I feel obligated to be my brother’s (sic) keeper. I no longer do it because my faith compels me to “treat my neighbor as myself.” I do it because somewhere deep inside it makes me feel alive and human and full of spirit and soul and goodness. My motives are really selfish, in a sense. I do it because it makes me feel good. I do it because I love how big my heart feels when connecting with another human being, easing the pain that life sometimes inflicts, sharing in life’s joys and sorrows.I remember thinking a few years ago that I could be totally satisfied with a life of writing, playing my guitar, visiting family and friends, and volunteering wherever my heart led me. I also remember thinking, “That sounds pretty selfish. Don’t I have a deeper obligation to my community and my society?” Another funny thing, however—I have been moving closer and closer to that reality as each year passes.Work for work’s sake holds little interest for me. I want to work, but only enough to pay for those things that really feed my soul. I want to work, but only in arenas where I feel like my heart is allowed to expand rather than needing to hide.Some days my choices make me very nervous. Shouldn’t I be asking what the world needs and then finding a way to meet those needs in a way that provides a livelihood? Isn’t that how the world works? Shouldn’t I be asking, “In what ways can I shape and twist and contort my personality to make me more palatable to a salary-paying employer?”But, I am coming to appreciate and even believe that Howard Thurman is right. We don’t need more people who understand what the world needs and then goes to work to meet those needs (noble though it may be). The world needs people who are alive. The world needs people who are passionate about life. The world needs more roses, sunsets and magnolia trees—beauty for beauty’s sake.Even as I write this I cringe just a slight bit as it seems to smack up against a navel-gazing selfish preoccupation. But, I have discovered that this yearning to please the deepest Brian also puts me in touch with the deepest part of the world. I wonder if I am not just flirting with myself, but with the Self, that soulful psychic thread that ties all of us together as one.Of course, only a person with an ego as big as mine would make such a claim.

This is the Islam I know

Three months ago I was riding my bicycle fifty kilometers inside of Muslim Turkey when a construction crew waved me over to share a meal with them. It was a wonderful, awkward and, at times, humorous time of shared communion. Only one man had a handful of English words to his vocabulary and I had no Turkish words to rely on. Our communication came almost completely in the form of hand motions and subtle messages with our eyes.It was only later that I discovered what I had been invited into. The Feast of Sacrifice (Eid ul Adha) had just concluded the day before and Muslims were still carrying out the ritual forms of their religious observance. During the feast a lamb or a goat is slaughtered. Strict observance requires that no meat goes to waste and that it is shared with others: one-third is eaten by the family; one-third is shared with friends; one-third is given to the stranger or the poor.Turkish citizens told me later that I had been invited to share in this meal as part of their religious practice. I was the poor stranger living out of four bags on my bike who rode into their lives just as they were contemplating how to share their feast. It was, at times, an awkward meal as I didn’t want meat in my stomach while riding and they were kindly adamant that to leave an unfinished meal as their guest would have violated the unspoken contract that I had signed by accepting their offer to share a meal. As I prepared to leave the one man who had made the initial invitation embraced me with both arms, planting two warm Turkish kisses on me, one for each cheek. The other men smiled and quietly cheered.It is only now that I am realizing how important and remarkable our shared meal was. With the terrible disturbing events in Paris this week, I am aware that the spirit of fear, mistrust, and anger is in the air. The Muslim population is 1.6 billion and represents about 23% of the world’s people. Yet, radical Islamic fundamentalists dominate the media and the stories about Islam. I think most of us work hard not to paint the totality of Islam with the same brush stroke that we do the terrorist organizations of ISIS and al-Queda. But, without actual evidence it is natural for people to wonder just a bit.Before I left on my pilgrimage I was warned by a handful of Turkish citizens and American acquaintances not to take the risk of cycling through Turkey just as things were heating up. ISIS was looking for opportunities to kidnap western hostages (primarily Americans and Brits) to fund their jihadist activities. I decided that I would not cancel my trip, but that I would rely on my experiences and reception from people on the ground. I didn’t want the media-induced fear to determine my decision; I wanted to make my decision based on my actual experience of the people.I can’t speak for all of Turkey. I can’t speak for all of Islam. I am not an expert on terrorism. But, I can tell you what I experienced. From the day I entered Turkey I was invited to drink tea with Turkish citizens—some practicing Muslims, some more secularized. I was invited by a farmer to sit on a log while he split a watermelon in half, gave me a knife, and instructed me to eat as much of it as I wanted. I shared in the feast of a sacrificed goat for the Feast of Eid ul Adha, a major Muslim holy day. And, I was embraced and kissed by a Muslim brother as a blessing for my journey.This is the Islam that I experienced. These were the Muslims with whom I shared my days. I know that ISIS also lays claim to the name of Islam and pledges allegiance to Allah. But, I don’t recognize their god. And I don’t think my new friends do either.

A starry-eyed, Starbucks Moment

In the movie A River Runs Through It Norman McClean writes about his Presbyterian preaching father, “I never knew whether he believed God was a mathematician but he certainly believed God could count and that only by picking up God's rhythms were we able to regain power and beauty. Unlike many Presbyterians, he often used the word ‘beautiful.’”It’s New Year’s Eve and I am sitting in a comfortable chair in Starbucks while I wait for a prescription to be filled for a cold that has turned into bronchitis. I am sipping on my usual “Venti chai tea latte, no water, 180 degree” treat. I am not sure what has happened, but a brief five-minute window of beauty has opened up before me. Every where my eyes land I see a visions of beauty playing out:

• The man in a corner reading a book with a soft smile on his face getting pleasure from the words on the page;
• Just outside the window to his left, the vested parking lot attendant is expertly guiding a train of forty carts back into the Fred Meyer store in an act not unlike making a U-turn with a semi-truck;
• A woman walks in to the coffee shop with wide, large brown, penetrating eyes that reveals just a hint of mystery and intrigue behind them. I want to know more.
• Three young men strut by stiff and erect—like roosters—carrying the anger of past abuses and hurts; They belong as much as any.
• A father and son—connected by love and separated by a generation—pass by the young men, the father trying to engage in conversation; the son toying with his smartphone. So lovely, so typical;
• An old man, burdened by years of weight gain, labors toward his car using the grocery cart to keep him stable and upright.
• A middle-aged couple, well-established, stroll up hand in hand as if they were teenage lovers on first date.
• Finally, the shaggy man walks into Starbucks, finds a seat close to me, flashes a warm, welcoming smile, lets out of sigh of relief, as if he has been waiting for this moment all day, winks, and then asks me with his toothless grin, “How are you, man?” I melt. Was I not supposed to be his host, rather than the other way around?

In a magical five-minute window, the day turns to dusk, the blue sky turns to rusty orange, and the year that is past gives way to something new and unknown.In this sacred window I witness the playing out of our lives, the unfolding dramas. I am invited into a magical rhythm, a heavenly play. On this stage I see in the eyes of the actors and in their distinct gaits, the gifts that we have received and the burdens that we have carried. There is no hierarchy of values, no good and bad. It all (and we all) belong to this divine scene. It is bathed in beauty.The mystic poet and Sufi Muslim wrote eight centuries ago, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”For five minutes in Starbucks on the last day of 2014, I sat in that field. And then with the ring of the phone, (a friendly prescription reminder), it evaporated like a rainbow. Was I dreaming? Or did I finally wake up--just for a moment!Happy New Year, my friends!

A Sacred Reminder

I was sitting in a presbytery meeting a month ago—one of those meetings that ranges from heated and passionate debate at one moment to dreaded, deadly boring reports at other moments. In the midst of it we paused for a short bit of worship. In the midst of the liturgy we found ourselves repeating the familiar leader/people response:

L: Bless the Lord, O my soul;P: And all that is within me, bless God’s holy name.

 As I repeated those words I felt my soul enjoying this brief moment of reminding me what was essentially sacred. It surprised me. As one who resonates with many of my contemporaries who have abandoned the Church, I often shy away from liturgies that sound overly religious in tone. I often write my own liturgical responses when leading worship to make them feel fresh and new.But, I appreciated this moment. I have repeated those words probably hundreds of times since my introduction to the Presbyterian Church as a seven year old (nearly 50 years ago. Geez!). Rather than being bored with yet another rote religious recitation, I actually found comfort in the words—more so than I had in the recent past.I wonder if my heart was more prepared for this moment because of my experiences in Muslim Turkey. Still resounding someplace deep in my heart and soul is the sound of the five times a day calls to prayer that ring out all over Turkey from the loudspeakers of the minarets. It is so pervasive that from the moment I entered Turkey (actually, even a day or two beforehand) to the day my plane took off three weeks later from Istanbul, my day was marked by the rhythm of these calls to prayer.It didn’t matter where I was. In the cities, sometimes three and four calls were competing with each other as each mosque broadcast their prayers within seconds of each other. In the countryside when I was cycling between villages, the calls floated out over the softly rolling terrain and I was personally invited to prayer several kilometers away from the calling mosque. I still can feel the sacredness of those moments riding through golden hills while the prayers caressed me like a gentle breeze.During the first few days I was overwhelmed by their presence. My only introduction to them had been seeing newscasts, usually related to violence and war, with the calls to prayer ringing in the background. It was unnerving while I slowly separated my Western perceptions from the actual reality on the ground.By the third week I had come to appreciate and look forward to the calls to prayer. They provided a rhythm to the day. More than that, they served as reminders that my deepest identity was rooted in Allah (or God or the Sacred Presence). In America we are reminded at least five times a day (more like 500 times!) that we are essentially consumers—TV ads, billboards, signs, etc. constantly blaring, “You are a consumer! You are a consumer! Buy! Buy! Buy!” I appreciated the physical and auditory reminders that at my core I belonged to God and that the advertisement from the minarets exclaimed, “You are a child of God. Love! Serve! Live!”I am back on American soil now. I can tell you this. I will never become a Muslim. I will never become a Turkish citizen. But, I miss the calls to prayer. I miss the daily reminders that my deepest identity is rooted in God or the source of the soul. I miss standing with strangers at a crosswalk where we all are bound together by the same call and voice in the air. I miss that waking sacred moment when both the sun peeks above the horizon and the imam sings his first note like a bird welcoming the day. I miss the sacred rhythm of Turkish life.“Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me; bless God’s holy name.” I am not sure what that means. But, I do like how it feels. Amen.