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.
Everything I need...
An excerpt from Dying to Live: A Preacher's Pilgrimage to Return to His Soul's Home due to be published this spring.Day 11 53 miles Boise to Ten Mile Creek Campground
Would this be the night when I would just have to find a flat spot off in the trees hidden from curious drivers on the road? To my surprise I happened upon a campsite at Ten Mile Campground (exactly ten miles from Idaho City). Only one other family was camped in the area and I found a campsite situated next to the creek and hidden from the other campers. It was as luxurious as the home I had left in Boise, but more wild.I unpacked my bike, set up my tent and prepared my sleeping quarters for the night. With an eye for order I began to set the picnic table as if it was my little home. I pulled out my stove, cooking utensils, and the night’s meal and set up a makeshift kitchen. At the other end of the table I opened up my laptop and placed my tiny notebook within hand’s reach as I prepared to write a blog post about the day. I wouldn’t have internet access, but I could at least use the juice in my computer to write that night and then send the post at the first opportunity the next day.Next came bodily hygiene. I can certainly ride from one day to the next without a shower, but after a day of sweating, heat, and blowing my nose farmer’s style (you know, shut one nostril with a finger and then blow leaving a trail of snot on the road, my sleeves and shorts), a shower is almost essential day to day. I had the perfect place. I walked over to the stream and put my feet in to feel how cold it was. Yes, it was confirmed. This was cold snow melt coming off the peaks over 6,000 feet above me. I stripped down completely, got out a wash cloth and bar of soap, and sat on a rock just a few feet into the stream. There I deliciously enjoyed the fresh, frigid water as I doused myself with as much of it as my nerves could handle.
Afterwards, I felt clean again. But, more than that, I felt alive. Really alive. More alive than I had felt in a long time. I had towering pine trees reaching up to the sky above me allowing intermittent ribbons of light to filter down. It reminded me of the same effect that one gets with stained glass windows in a glorious cathedral. I had my own makeshift home with a creek that served as a bath, a picnic table that was both kitchen and home office, and a tent to retreat to as darkness fell. At home I had a car, a fifth floor, two-bedroom apartment overlooking the city of Portland, a job where I was paid a decent salary, and a reputation as a particularly determined community leader. Yet, here I was in this simple campsite and I felt that I had everything that I needed. Like the morning at the memorial I felt like I was in sacred space, a sanctuary made of trees, water, and the light of dusk.
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.
The soul can be dangerous!
The soul can be a dangerous thing!One of my favorite movies (I seem to pull it out every couple of years) is The Shawshank Redemption, starring Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman as two prisoners serving life terms at the Shawshank prison. One particular scene mirrors the beauty and danger of following the yearnings of the soul. Robbins’ character, Andy Dufresne, finds himself in a room where he has control of what goes over the loudspeakers to the whole prison yard. His soul recognizes the opportunity. He locks the guard in the bathroom, turns on the record player, flips the switches for the loudspeakers and sits back as the soprano duet from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro blankets the prison yard with rich operatic voices. Red, Morgan Freeman’s character, reflects on the experience:
I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free.” (watch the scene at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=718RlaIYBlo)
I may be crazy, but I have made a life of attempting to follow the bread crumbs of that “ache of the heart” to which Red refers. In a prison, the system tries to kill that human ache because it becomes a threat. Prisoners who can’t seem to quell the ache for beauty, for warmth, and for the loving touch start to become dangerous. They ask for too much, expect too much and even take risks to satisfy the yearnings of that soulful ache. They refuse to be anything less than human and treated humanely.We shouldn’t assume that just because we don’t live behind a barbed wire fence that we don’t live in our own constructed prisons. How often do we refuse to let our soul take flight because it might appear irresponsible? How many times have we medicated ourselves with food, drink, drugs and overwork in order to quiet that ache that we feel inside? How often have we dismissed our own truth because it would stick out like a rainbow in a black and white photo?Satisfying the yearnings of the soul is what makes us uniquely human. But, be careful! The soul does not recognize the rules of this world. As Jesus said, “My kingdom is not of this world.” Birds don’t like to be caged. And Andy was not meant for prison.
Remember what Marianne Williamson said in A Return to Love: “It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.”Shine your light. Let your wings expand. Allow your life to become as big as your soul. But, don’t be naïve. The world is more used to numbing than living...and as long as that is true, the soul can be a dangerous thing.
The Consistency of Soul
I can remember almost word for word the one comment by a member of the church committee that endorsed me for entrance into the ordination path thirty years ago. I had just described my faith journey to the committee: growing up in the Presbyterian church, a year off after high school working in a factory, a short six-month venture into college, three years of bicycle racing, marriage and then, finally, a college degree.Mr. Sparks (not his real name) said, “Brian, we are glad to endorse you as you have proven to be a very capable student, but you are going to have to learn to choose a path and stick to it.”
I don’t remember feeling defensive or ashamed by his comment. If anything I probably walked away chuckling to myself, “He just doesn’t get me.” But, I hardly gave it another thought. I felt good about the choices I had made and the path I had taken to get there. I didn’t feel as if I was wandering all over the map as he had hinted.It’s only in hindsight that I now have the benefit of seeing and naming a consistency that my church friend couldn’t see. If he could have organized it for me I think he would have ended with the same result, but in a different order. His plan for me might have gone: high school diploma, racing bicycles, college education, marriage and then, seminary (or possibly seminary then wedded bliss).What I know now is that early on I had learned to trust the subtle urgings of my soul. I, of course, did not have the language for it over three decades ago. But, it was clear that when a more conventional path did not ring true for me, I chose what felt right for me despite the warnings and protestations of people around me. As I look back over my life I can see a thread of consistency that ties it all together.
I want to make a point of this because it often feels like there are unspoken rules about what it is we should be yearning for; what constitutes success; and the order in which things are supposed to be done. If we were all made the same way, had the same constitution, and arrived at the threshold of adulthood like a perfectly cut out Oreo cookie, then these rules would make sense. But, there are lots of kinds and sizes of cookies in the world and some of them are even half-baked!It took me eleven years to complete bachelor and master’s degrees, reach the National Championships in cycling, marry, and have two children. That’s fairly typical. What wasn’t typical was the order in which I did it. And what I know about the order had to do with following a voice deep within me—what I am calling the soul.Every step of the way I had to make decisions about what would make me feel the most alive, what would satisfy the deepest parts of my Self, and what would provide the most healing for the wounds that I had been carrying.I raced bicycles because I entered adulthood just as a tank-load of repressed anger surfaced for me. Racing was a socially-approved method for releasing my anger! I married young because I wanted the kind of intimate relationships that I had yearned for as a child, but didn’t get. And I have embarked on pilgrimages just as I was feeling that the conventions of life were burying my soul.I suppose I could have gone to college and addressed my anger in counseling. I could have worked through my childhood issues on the therapist’s couch (believe me, I have done that too!). I could have saved a lot of money and bypassed on the pilgrimages in favor of reading self-help books.
But, there is a basic underlying problem with this. It treats the yearnings of our souls as problems to be fixed. It establishes convention as normal and healthy and everything outside of that as abnormal and dysfunctional. It treats each one of us as paint-by-the-numbers personalities rather than abstract, complicated, beautiful characters of art.I believe that the Soul has its own internal consistency. Even the Soul has a path to follow. We just need to learn to listen to Her subtle clues.
God of the Sparrow
I would imagine sometime in the next four months I will be out in the community sharing my Rome to Rumi experience. It’s hard to tell for sure what form that will take—probably a Power Point slide show, maybe a multimedia presentation, likely a few talks and some Q and A. It’s even harder to guess what lessons might emerge from the sharing of my pilgrimage. I can tell you, however, that one message is starting to surface clearly already.I think the best door to enter this will be to introduce you to the lyrics of a hymn that is included in our Presbyterian hymnals. It was written by Javoslav J. Vajda in 1983 (very modern by church standards!) and is titled, “God of the Sparrow”. The first verse reads:
God of the sparrowGod of the whaleGod of the swirling starsHow does the creature say AweHow does the creature say Praise
Depending on how you read these words, you might hear a pre-packaged answer coming, such as “The creature says awe and praise by singing hymns and attending a right-thinking church near his home.” But, it is also possible that the song is meant to leave us hanging at the conclusion of each verse. Each verse ends with a similar question, “How does the creature cry Woe, How does the creature cry Save; How does the creature say Grace, How does the creature say Thanks.” It is possible that the song is not about leading us down a narrow path to the nearest God-approved sanctuary, but may be actually dropping us into the deep, swirling pool of mystery. Had Vajda put the question first and the description of God second then it may have been a closed riddle. But, he ends with the question. Interesting.I write this because my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage taught me something. Being that I was on the bicycle I had the opportunity to wheel my way up to Catholic masses in progress, cycle along the Tyrrhenian Sea abutting the western coastline of Italy, and share meals and tea with Turks where our only communication was kindergarten-level charades. What became obvious to me was that, as I opened myself to the presence of the Sacred, I experienced those spiritual feelings of awe and praise in numerous and unpredictable places.
Worshiping in Saint Padre Pio’s sanctuary in San Giovanni Rotondo pitched my mind and heart to a place of reverence. That same feeling of reverence washed through me as I encountered the first meters of the climb up Mt. Olympus in Greece. I was overcome by a powerful spirit that hit me like a gust of wind as I entered the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli in Rome. Strangely enough the gratitude that I felt after sharing a spontaneous meal with a road crew in Turkey left me feeling like I had shared communion in a sacred space, no less sacred than Rome’s glorious churches.I have heard that some people (mostly dedicated to the Church) don’t understand my flirtations with Rumi and my obvious infatuation with the spirit behind some of the Greek gods. As an ordained Presbyterian minister, there may be some unspoken rule: like I am supposed to be defending the God of John Calvin and promoting our “decently and in order” Presbyterian way of encountering God.
But, this pilgrimage taught me something. It’s not really about which God we pray to. It’s not about which religious tradition is the most authentic and most right. It’s not about who becomes the object of our awe, our praise and our gratitude. What this pilgrimage taught me is that we humans have a need to have our hearts pitched to a place of awe (in a sanctuary or next to the ocean). We all are healthier, happier and more fully human when we open ourselves to the experience of wonder, praise and gratitude (whether praying with the faithful or laughing with the alien stranger). Our souls crave and lust after the divine Presence (whether standing at the threshold of a church or being lost in the rolling, golden hills of Turkey).This pilgrimage was wonderful because, in the end, it wasn’t really about leaving Rome and arriving at Rumi’s Tomb, as if I was a teenager leaving the fold of family in order to wear the cloak of a new identity. No, it was about opening myself up to the wonderful and awe-some presence of God wherever I might meet her on the road of life—for she was there in certain corners of St. Peter’s Basilica holding the shards of history in her paintings; she showed up as I painfully powered my way up switchbacks to the lovely Greek village of Ambelakia where the sunset and I bowed to each other in a mutual blessing; she was there as I prayed in the Blue Mosque among a handful of faithful Muslims; and she was there as I enjoyed a perfect Greek salad while watching hunters return from a successful and bloody wild boar hunt.
The last verse of the hymn reads:
God of the agesGod near at handGod of the loving heartHow do your children say JoyHow do your children say Home
If my pilgrimage taught me anything it is this: live into the question and then trust, that like a rose in bloom, the Sacred Presence will unfold before your very eyes.Enjoy the journey…
A Step Beyond Spirituality
I had a friend share the observation the other day that my first pilgrimage in 2011 spoke a great deal about spirituality, whereas my recent Rome to Rumi pilgrimage focused more on the soul. I hadn’t thought about precisely in those terms, but realized that she was right. I had experienced a shift in the years between my 4,000 mile Western U.S. pilgrimage and the shorter pilgrimage through Italy, Greece and Turkey of this past fall.
I thought about that a little. What had happened? I am deeply engrossed in the rewrite and editing of my book Dying to Live that shares the journey of that first pilgrimage. I reflect in the beginning of the book on the fact that I chose a profession (or did the profession choose me?) that is having to rethink itself. In the Northwest, a growing segment of the population thinks of themselves as being “spiritual but not religious”. In fact, even if you ask many church-goers you will hear them identity more in spiritual terms than in religious terms.My ten-week pilgrimage in 2011 was partly about coming to terms with what it meant to be a religious leader in a time when religious devotion was giving way to spiritual exploration. A lot of that pilgrimage focused on what I was hearing about the dissolving away of our present religious forms. I didn’t have a clear picture of what was emerging, but it was obvious that it had something to do with spirituality even if the term didn’t have any one clear definition.
I left on September 3 this year for Italy for the beginning of my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage. Strangely enough, this pilgrimage mirrored in some ways the 2011 pilgrimage. I chose the Rome to Rumi theme and route to once again wrestle with, reflect upon and write about this movement away from institutional forms of religion in favor of more direct experience of the Sacred, as seen in the Sufi mysticism of Mevlana Rumi. Once again I was flirting with the issue of religion and spirituality.But, my friend was right. My language had changed. I had gone from numerous references to the growing interest in spirituality in 2011 to an exploration of the soul in 2014. I haven’t completely put my finger on what the transition was, but I think I am close.I think the two pilgrimages represent my own evolution in this tremendous transition that many of us, if not all of us, are experiencing. There is an unmistakable transformation taking place where the seams of our religious institutions are splitting in favor of something that is loosely defined as spirituality. I see it. Others see it. We all feel it. And I am experiencing it both as a person dedicated to my own spiritual journey and as a person ordained to professional ministry.
But, spirituality is a general catch-all term for just about anything that has to do with the sacred world, but doesn’t look too much like religion. My exploration of Sufi mysticism and the Soul is where my spirituality begins to take form. One might say that spirituality is to the Soul as music is to rock and roll. Spirituality and music are general categories. The Soul and rock and roll are the specific ways we live out and celebrate those areas of our lives.I had gone from exploring the shift from religion to spirituality in my last pilgrimage to exploring the shift from religion to one particular form of spirituality in my second pilgrimage. The last pilgrimage was more about what we were moving away from. This pilgrimage was more about what we, and me in particular, are moving toward. That it, mystical forms of religion.Still, this pilgrimage had a surprise for me. I thought I was going to Konya, Turkey (site of Rumi’s Tomb) to highlight the language of mysticism and the soul for my readers and followers. In the end, however, the pilgrimage became about the yearnings and the disappointments of my own soul. I had flown over to Europe under the mistaken assumption that I could use this pilgrimage to invite others to take a journey that I thought I had already completed psychologically and spiritually years before. As it turned out I may have had the language, but I had not yet completed the work.My work in the end was finally to commit to something that I had been talking about for years. I had been dating my soul on and off for quite some time. This pilgrimage was about finally standing at the altar and saying, “I do.”