Isaiah 43:16-21 link to NRSV text
Psalm 126 link to NRSV text
Luke 20:9-19 link to NRSV text
Wilderness.
It is a somewhat scary word. We think of "the wilderness" as the opposite of the comforts offered by "civilization." For centuries, human beings have lived in dense, concentrated towns or cities not only for convenience, but as a protection against the dangers of uninhibited nature. The wilderness is a place where things are wild and unpredictable, a place where we are not in control. In the wilderness, things are uncertain. We never know what unseen threats may await us, what animal may be lurking around the next tree. It is a place many of us want to avoid, not to seek out.
But during Lent, we are called to go INTO the wilderness. The 40 days of Lent symbolically recall both the 40 years that the Israelites wandered in the wilderness after the exodus from Egypt and the 40 days that Jesus spent in prayer and fasting in the desert before the start of his public ministry. In both of these stories, the wilderness is a place of danger, of fear, of uncertainty -- but also a place of encounter with God.
The idea of "the wilderness" usually conjures up an image of a place void of God's presence, a place where we are distant from God. To be in the wilderness, to be wandering in the desert, is to be lost, to be out of touch with God, to be in a "dry spell" spiritually, if you will. But the scriptures for this morning remind us that God is present, and even active, in the wilderness.
In Isaiah 43, God declares that God is "about to do a new thing" in the wilderness. "Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" (Isaiah 43:18-19). In this passage, God promises to deliver the Israelites from captivity under the Babylonians, just as God delivered them from the Egyptians centuries before. Using imagery that echoes the story of the exodus, already a central sacred story for the Israelites at this point in their history, the writer of Isaiah ties the Israelites' present liberation to the salvation history that traces back to the exodus from Egypt. Just as God delivered the Israelites from the hands of the Egyptians, so will God deliver them from the hands of the Babylonians. Isaiah promises us that God will "make a way in the wilderness;" that is, God will bring deliverance from oppression.
The psalm for today also gives us an image of God active in the wilderness, active in nature. God has "restored the fortunes of Zion," the psalmist writes, restoring the land to the people, bringing forth a harvest from a land formerly barren, and simultaneously turning the Israelite's tears into "songs of joy." The metaphors of sowing and reaping, so prevalent in the biblical texts, show the extent to which God's activity was perceived and felt in the land, in nature, even in the wilderness, in the land that is least life-giving. The psalmist promises us that God will "restore the fortunes of Zion;" that is, God will bring new life after a period of lifeless and despair.
The gospel reading for today also shows God doing a new thing in the land -- this time with regards to the vineyard in the parable. God, represented in the story by the vineyard owner, destroys the corrupt tenants who abuse, reject and kill God's messengers and gives the vineyard to "others," presumably those who will respect those who come on behalf of God. Jesus promises us that God will make "the stone that the builders rejected to be the cornerstone;" that is, God will vindicate those the world has mistreated and deemed worthless.
Whether literally or metaphorically, these readings show us that God is doing a new thing -- IN THE WILDERNESS. God is doing a new thing precisely in those places that seem the most threatening, the most hopeless, the most fearful. God is doing a new thing precisely in those places where we may doubt God is even present.
"Do not remember the former things or consider the things of old," God commands the people in the reading from Isaiah (Isaiah 43:18). Even if the "former things" that have happened to us give us reason to doubt God's goodness or God's love for us, as the Israelites surely must have during the periods of slavery and exile, the scriptures tell us that we have the promise of God's deliverance, that God is active even in those periods of despair, that we can look forward to the new things that God has in store for us in our lives.
"I am about to do a new thing," God says, "now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" (Isaiah 43:19) Just as with the ancient Israelites, God is about to do a new thing in OUR midst, in our community and in our lives! Do we perceive it? If we dwell too much on the past, God tells us, we will miss the new thing that God is doing in the present. Unless we take the time to look for it, we may indeed NOT perceive it. We must go to the wilderness, to take the time to look and listen for that "new thing" that God is doing -- so we can give thanks and rejoice in God's goodness in our lives and in the life of our community.
Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal priest in Georgia and the author of many books, including Leaving Church, writes that "faith in God has both a center and an edge, and that each is necessary for the soul's health." The "center" is the liturgical life of the church within the buildings and hierarchical structures, and the "edge" is that wilderness on the outskirts of the community. The center is where the stories of encounter with God get preserved and passed on to future generations, she writes, but the edge, or the wilderness, is the place where most of those encounters have happened.
The wilderness can be scary, "a place where things are wild and unpredictable, a place where we are not in control" -- but is this not the very definition of what it means to be in God's presence? When we step boldly into the wilderness, we open ourselves to encounter God. When was the last time you went there, literally or metaphorically, willingly or unwillingly, and opened yourself to the voice of God?
Two weeks ago, I went on a mostly silent Lenten retreat through the Resurrection House program. In the weeks before the retreat, my life was incredibly busy and my mind was constantly going a million miles an hour... and I had completely lost touch with God's presence. For a while, I had been feeling like I was wandering in a mental wilderness -- a somewhat scary and uncertain place of not knowing what the future holds for me after this internship, of feeling restless, without a sense of direction.
But during that retreat, during the silent time I spent walking in the wilderness -- well, if you can call the 22 acres of woods on the property of Knowles Mercy Retreat Center "wilderness!" -- I reconnected with God. I was reminded of God's love for me, I saw God's active presence in nature, and one day as I walked, I suddenly received a strong sense of direction and peace -- a sense that "it's time to go home," that the next step of my life will lead me back to that land to which I am deeply connected on a visceral level -- that is, the South. I didn't receive any kind of insights just yet as to what the extended future will hold, but I do believe I received guidance for the next step. This is the "new thing" that God is doing in my life.
I would encourage you all to also spend some time, some REAL time, in the wilderness with God in these last weeks before Easter. Find some patch of nature somewhere where you can walk or sit, empty your mind of distracting thoughts, and listen for what God is trying to communicate to YOU this Lent. What things is God making new in your own life?
May we be always open to the wild and unpredictable ways of our God, may we always be willing to relinquish our control and to listen and wait for the ways in which God is calling to us in the wilderness. Amen.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
"It's Time to Go Home."
It is amazing to me how easy it is to lose sight of God's presence -- or, perhaps I should say, how easy it is to forget to stop and listen for God.
On the wall in my bedroom above my bed is tacked a small blue notecard with a quote scrawled on it that I read in some book somewhere (perhaps it was Madeline L'Engle, but I can't remember) that says, simply, "Listen to the silence. Stay open to the voice of the Spirit."
When I first arrived in Omaha for the Resurrection House internship program back in late August, the first thing they did was take us on a retreat out at a Benedictine retreat center in Schulyer, NE. One of the days on that three-day retreat was a silent day. When I first heard this, it horrified me (how could I possibly be SILENT for an ENTIRE DAY? I, who have a reputation for being able to talk to a brick wall if it would listen?), but by the end of the retreat, I was sold on silence. Being forced into silence, not allowed any of the usual distractions of chatting it up with anyone and everyone, and even forcing myself to silence my INTERNAL chatter, I found a deep sense of communion with God that is often missing from my daily life.
In fact, I was so sold on silence that I even suggested to my roommate, as we formulated our "Rule of Life" for the year that would guide our community living in the Resurrection House program, that we keep one hour of silence in our house every evening after our evening prayers. Soon after returning from the retreat, I posted that blue index card on my wall. "Listen to the silence. Stay open to the voice of the Spirit."
Well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as the saying goes. As the luxury of retreat faded and the daily grind of life began to close in, the silence also faded. My roommate and I did not keep that hour of silence beyond perhaps the first several days of our living together. I intended to keep silence at least on my own in my room, before bed each night, setting up a small altar space in my room where I would sit and meditate, complete with candles. I think I have only lit those candles about four times in the past six months. I have not been particularly good about listening to the silence, nor staying open to the voice of the Spirit.
The past several weeks have been particularly bad. With more than the usual amount of activities peppering my calendar, I had driven myself into an active frenzy, running around non-stop with no time to simply sit and be. And not only was my calendar full, but so was my mind -- full of questions and concerns about the uncertainties lying ahead in my future. As the end of this internship program approaches in late May, I began to fret and worry over what my next step should be.
Should I stay in Omaha? There are some amazing things going on here in interfaith work, with the Tri-Faith Initiative that the Episcopal Church has entered into with the Reform Jewish congregation here in town and a Muslim organization, the goal being to build a "tri-faith campus" in West Omaha with a church, a mosque and a synagogue. I am on one of the committees for this initiative and am excited about working with this unprecedented interfaith venture. Could this be perhaps where I am called to be?
Or should I go back to Boston? I visited there in early February and found that I felt that I was home, in a very deep sense. Staying in my old apartment, it felt so comfortable and comforting to be back in such familiar surroundings. And returning to St. James, my church in Cambridge, was like a rejuvenation for my soul, realizing all the more how much I miss that community and how much it means to me after having been away from it for six months. Would it be crazy to move someplace simply for a church? But where else will I ever be able to find a community like St. James?
Or should I go back to the South somewhere? I keep saying that eventually I want to go back to the South, but I wasn't even quite sure what my relationship with the South is anymore. At times when I go home I feel somewhat out of place -- everyone's accents seem a WHOLE lot thicker than I remember them, and I am constantly afraid of rejection and judgment from the dominant Evangelical culture, perhaps due to some baggage I still carry around from my late high school and early college years.
And what about this ordination thing? I am still in discernment about what exactly my call is, and if it is to ordained ministry or not, but if it is, where should I go through that process? Here in Nebraska, where I have a great connection with the diocese here? Back in Boston, where I have an established parish that could sponsor me for ordination? I have no connections with the Episcopal Church in the South, since I didn't attend an Episcopal Church until I moved to Boston, so if I went back there, I'd have to start all over again in terms of building relationships with a parish and a diocese for a few years before I could even START the formal discernment process. And are there any dioceses in the South that would welcome a progressive woman candidate for the priesthood who is an adamant supporter of gay rights and gay ordination? I keep hearing horror stories about how the Diocese of South Carolina is one of the dioceses threatening to split from the Episcopal Church... do I really want to get into that mess?
All these questions and thoughts were pounding in my mind as I left last Monday for the Resurrection House spring/Lenten retreat. This retreat was to be nearly entirely silent, at the nearby Knowles Mercy Spirituality Center. I was nearly desperate for silence at this point, to get away and to return to a focus on God. I wanted to use this time to try to discern where God is calling me for the next step of my life, to try to listen to the silence and be open to the voice of the Spirit. My mind was exhausted from over-analyzing my situation, which I had been doing in my own mind and with Father Bob and other friends for the past several months... but I had never really taken any serious time to stop and listen, to be still, to pray. I was crying out for direction, but not taking the time to stop and listen for it. I hoped I'd be able to do that at Knowles Mercy.
First item on the agenda for the retreat was a meeting with one of the Catholic nuns who runs the retreat center, for a spiritual direction session. Immediately it was clear that Sister Jean was a pro at this spiritual direction thing, having been at it for over 20 years - we had a 45 minute session scheduled, but she had me out of there in 30 minutes! And that's really saying something, given how much I can ramble on and on and on if given the license to do so! She was able to ask me pointed questions that got right to the heart of the matter.
On the wall in my bedroom above my bed is tacked a small blue notecard with a quote scrawled on it that I read in some book somewhere (perhaps it was Madeline L'Engle, but I can't remember) that says, simply, "Listen to the silence. Stay open to the voice of the Spirit."
When I first arrived in Omaha for the Resurrection House internship program back in late August, the first thing they did was take us on a retreat out at a Benedictine retreat center in Schulyer, NE. One of the days on that three-day retreat was a silent day. When I first heard this, it horrified me (how could I possibly be SILENT for an ENTIRE DAY? I, who have a reputation for being able to talk to a brick wall if it would listen?), but by the end of the retreat, I was sold on silence. Being forced into silence, not allowed any of the usual distractions of chatting it up with anyone and everyone, and even forcing myself to silence my INTERNAL chatter, I found a deep sense of communion with God that is often missing from my daily life.
In fact, I was so sold on silence that I even suggested to my roommate, as we formulated our "Rule of Life" for the year that would guide our community living in the Resurrection House program, that we keep one hour of silence in our house every evening after our evening prayers. Soon after returning from the retreat, I posted that blue index card on my wall. "Listen to the silence. Stay open to the voice of the Spirit."
Well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as the saying goes. As the luxury of retreat faded and the daily grind of life began to close in, the silence also faded. My roommate and I did not keep that hour of silence beyond perhaps the first several days of our living together. I intended to keep silence at least on my own in my room, before bed each night, setting up a small altar space in my room where I would sit and meditate, complete with candles. I think I have only lit those candles about four times in the past six months. I have not been particularly good about listening to the silence, nor staying open to the voice of the Spirit.
The past several weeks have been particularly bad. With more than the usual amount of activities peppering my calendar, I had driven myself into an active frenzy, running around non-stop with no time to simply sit and be. And not only was my calendar full, but so was my mind -- full of questions and concerns about the uncertainties lying ahead in my future. As the end of this internship program approaches in late May, I began to fret and worry over what my next step should be.
Should I stay in Omaha? There are some amazing things going on here in interfaith work, with the Tri-Faith Initiative that the Episcopal Church has entered into with the Reform Jewish congregation here in town and a Muslim organization, the goal being to build a "tri-faith campus" in West Omaha with a church, a mosque and a synagogue. I am on one of the committees for this initiative and am excited about working with this unprecedented interfaith venture. Could this be perhaps where I am called to be?
Or should I go back to Boston? I visited there in early February and found that I felt that I was home, in a very deep sense. Staying in my old apartment, it felt so comfortable and comforting to be back in such familiar surroundings. And returning to St. James, my church in Cambridge, was like a rejuvenation for my soul, realizing all the more how much I miss that community and how much it means to me after having been away from it for six months. Would it be crazy to move someplace simply for a church? But where else will I ever be able to find a community like St. James?
Or should I go back to the South somewhere? I keep saying that eventually I want to go back to the South, but I wasn't even quite sure what my relationship with the South is anymore. At times when I go home I feel somewhat out of place -- everyone's accents seem a WHOLE lot thicker than I remember them, and I am constantly afraid of rejection and judgment from the dominant Evangelical culture, perhaps due to some baggage I still carry around from my late high school and early college years.
And what about this ordination thing? I am still in discernment about what exactly my call is, and if it is to ordained ministry or not, but if it is, where should I go through that process? Here in Nebraska, where I have a great connection with the diocese here? Back in Boston, where I have an established parish that could sponsor me for ordination? I have no connections with the Episcopal Church in the South, since I didn't attend an Episcopal Church until I moved to Boston, so if I went back there, I'd have to start all over again in terms of building relationships with a parish and a diocese for a few years before I could even START the formal discernment process. And are there any dioceses in the South that would welcome a progressive woman candidate for the priesthood who is an adamant supporter of gay rights and gay ordination? I keep hearing horror stories about how the Diocese of South Carolina is one of the dioceses threatening to split from the Episcopal Church... do I really want to get into that mess?
All these questions and thoughts were pounding in my mind as I left last Monday for the Resurrection House spring/Lenten retreat. This retreat was to be nearly entirely silent, at the nearby Knowles Mercy Spirituality Center. I was nearly desperate for silence at this point, to get away and to return to a focus on God. I wanted to use this time to try to discern where God is calling me for the next step of my life, to try to listen to the silence and be open to the voice of the Spirit. My mind was exhausted from over-analyzing my situation, which I had been doing in my own mind and with Father Bob and other friends for the past several months... but I had never really taken any serious time to stop and listen, to be still, to pray. I was crying out for direction, but not taking the time to stop and listen for it. I hoped I'd be able to do that at Knowles Mercy.
First item on the agenda for the retreat was a meeting with one of the Catholic nuns who runs the retreat center, for a spiritual direction session. Immediately it was clear that Sister Jean was a pro at this spiritual direction thing, having been at it for over 20 years - we had a 45 minute session scheduled, but she had me out of there in 30 minutes! And that's really saying something, given how much I can ramble on and on and on if given the license to do so! She was able to ask me pointed questions that got right to the heart of the matter.
She immediately noticed how "in my head" I was with all these questions and encouraged me to get "in my heart" about it. She cautioned me against expecting to get any clear-cut answers as to where exactly I should be going next year, instead encouraging me to just remember that God loves me and to spend the next few days "falling in love again with this God of ours."
She encouraged me to try a method of journaling in which I would imagine a sort of "conversation with God," writing down things I wanted to say to God and then imagining what God's response to me would be. This was somewhat of a breakthrough for me, because recently I had been struggling with my age-old demons of low self-confidence and self-esteem, and as she told me to imagine what kinds of things God would say to me, I realized that the negative self-critical inner voice that haunts me is NOT the voice of God, that God would never say the kinds of things to me that I say to myself.
I left there feeling like I had had something of a spiritual revelation, and it was as simple as this: God loves me!!!! My self-critical inner voice, which Anne Lamott, one of my favorite writers, calls "Bad Mind," is not the voice of God!!!! This sounds rather basic and simple, but in that moment I understood it with a clarity that was startling.
I had been reading online about low self-confidence and whatnot, and all these articles were saying things like, "every time you find yourself thinking negative thoughts, correct yourself with positive affirmations or focus on the good things you've done." Somehow this seemed very hollow advice to me. How the heck can I make myself think positively about myself when the very problem is that I think negatively about myself?! But when I thought of it as thinking about what GOD would say to me, it was entirely different. Of COURSE God wouldn't say things things to me; God would say how much she loves me and cares for me and accepts me for who I am. This felt like a huge breakthrough for me in beginning to think more healthily about myself and reminding myself of God's care for me.
As I came to realize all these things, I was yet again amazed at how easy it is to forget to listen for God, even to forget that God loves us -- and how this is just as true for people working daily in the church as it is for people in corporate America. Let no one think that clergy or those training to be clergy are in any way more spiritually advanced or superior to everyone else -- they are just as in danger of losing the message as anyone. And while I don't necessarily believe in Satan or a devil, I think the ease with which we lose sight of God and God's presence are indicators of the world's fallen nature. It does not come naturally to us, at least not to many of us, to abide in that place where we constantly remember God's presence, and sometimes even those tools which are meant to bring us into closer communion with God -- liturgy, prayer, and so forth -- can actually become distractions from the real Presence out there and accessible to all of us.
For the first full day of the retreat, I merely basked in the wonder of these revelations. I read over and over again Psalm 27, which sort of came to me (I think it had been in the lectionary readings sometime recently in the days leading up to the retreat) and grabbed my attention. I meditated on its celebratory message of God's support and protection of us -- "The LORD is my light and my salvation," it begins, "whom shall I fear?" (Psalm 27:1)
I left there feeling like I had had something of a spiritual revelation, and it was as simple as this: God loves me!!!! My self-critical inner voice, which Anne Lamott, one of my favorite writers, calls "Bad Mind," is not the voice of God!!!! This sounds rather basic and simple, but in that moment I understood it with a clarity that was startling.
I had been reading online about low self-confidence and whatnot, and all these articles were saying things like, "every time you find yourself thinking negative thoughts, correct yourself with positive affirmations or focus on the good things you've done." Somehow this seemed very hollow advice to me. How the heck can I make myself think positively about myself when the very problem is that I think negatively about myself?! But when I thought of it as thinking about what GOD would say to me, it was entirely different. Of COURSE God wouldn't say things things to me; God would say how much she loves me and cares for me and accepts me for who I am. This felt like a huge breakthrough for me in beginning to think more healthily about myself and reminding myself of God's care for me.
As I came to realize all these things, I was yet again amazed at how easy it is to forget to listen for God, even to forget that God loves us -- and how this is just as true for people working daily in the church as it is for people in corporate America. Let no one think that clergy or those training to be clergy are in any way more spiritually advanced or superior to everyone else -- they are just as in danger of losing the message as anyone. And while I don't necessarily believe in Satan or a devil, I think the ease with which we lose sight of God and God's presence are indicators of the world's fallen nature. It does not come naturally to us, at least not to many of us, to abide in that place where we constantly remember God's presence, and sometimes even those tools which are meant to bring us into closer communion with God -- liturgy, prayer, and so forth -- can actually become distractions from the real Presence out there and accessible to all of us.
For the first full day of the retreat, I merely basked in the wonder of these revelations. I read over and over again Psalm 27, which sort of came to me (I think it had been in the lectionary readings sometime recently in the days leading up to the retreat) and grabbed my attention. I meditated on its celebratory message of God's support and protection of us -- "The LORD is my light and my salvation," it begins, "whom shall I fear?" (Psalm 27:1)
I began to rest more confidently in God's control of my life, to actually FEEL in my bones that God would provide for the next step of my journey, instead of just saying those words, knowing them intellectually but not really trusting in that promise. "Wait for the LORD," the psalm closes, "Be strong, and let your heart take courage, and wait for the LORD." (Psalm 27:14) I realized that God was abundantly present with me here and now, in Nebraksa, and that whatever my next step was, whether it be staying here or moving on, God would continue to be present with me.
I put aside my analytical mind, I left the questions about the future on the shelf, and I simply soaked up the divine Presence in the landscape around me, as I wandered through the woods and by the lake of the outdoor grounds of the retreat center.
The next morning, after Morning Prayer and breakfast, I headed outdoors to walk through the woods again, simply to be with God in nature and to be open to God's presence, just to listen to what the Spirit was saying -- about anything that happened to come up. I wasn't focusing on any specific questions, I was just open -- more open than I had been in a long time -- to whatever might come to me.
I wandered down through the woods, watching rabbits jump out of the way and seeing deer gallop off in the distance through the still-bare trees, breathing the clear air and basking in the warmth of the sun and the breeze through my hair and on my face. And as I rounded a corner and came upon the banks of the Platte River, suddenly an overwhelming sense of clarity came upon me. A voice inside my head said, loud and clearly, "Yep. It's time to go home." And by "home," I knew that meant the South.
I can't even quite describe what this feeling was like, but it was a moment of clarity in direction such as I had not experienced in quite a while. It wasn't even a feeling of desire, as in "I WANT to go home" -- in fact, in terms of my feelings, the week prior to the retreat I had been deeply missing Boston and really WANTING to go back to the Northeast. But suddenly I just knew that it was TIME. Entirely apart from my wants, feelings or desires, it was time. It was like when I was a little kid playing at a friend's house and my mother walked in and said, simply, "It's time to go home." There was no question about whether I wanted to or not, or whether I thought it would be best to stay at my friend's house or go home, or if perhaps I should stay at my friend's house for just one more hour, it was simply time to go home. Period.
As I stood on the banks of the Platte and looked out over the somewhat marshy river, I was reminded of the marshlands of the coasts of South Carolina, and of all the aspects of the land, the physical location, that are home to me in the deepest sense. And as I thought about going back there, back to that familiar landscape, I felt a deep sense of peace, a sense of coming home, a sense of putting an end to my restless journeying. I felt exhausted, like I had been chasing after something, restlessly looking for something, and suddenly I realized that I knew exactly where it was -- it was home, in the South. I felt a bit like St. Augustine when he writes of God, "Our souls are restless until they find their rest in You" -- only in regard to a place rather than in regards to God, necessarily. I have been saying for years that eventually I want move back to the South, but always holding it at arm's length, always feeling like I wasn't ready to go back, or that I wanted to experience other things and places first, but suddenly I realized it was time. I was ready.
It was fascinating, because suddenly I also knew that if I was to pursue ordination, it would be in the South. I had previously not really been considering this as an option, mostly because I had no connections with the Episcopal Church in the South, thinking it would make more practical sense to go through the process here or in Massachusetts, where I have networks and connections. But something always felt uneasy about that to me, and as I thought of going through the process in the South, it just felt right. The discernment process for ordination is a considerable commitment -- the process takes many years. I felt uneasy about making that kind of a commitment to either Nebraska or Massachusetts, but I knew in that instant that I would have no problem making that kind of commitment to any place in the South (and not necessarily just South Carolina, but anywhere in the region), and I would be ready to root myself in a community right away and begin this process, if ordination is indeed what I am called to.
The next day, as I sat with Mother Judi during a one-on-one session with her and talked to her about my thoughts and my future, she shrugged off the questions of location and instead asked me, "What do you think Tracy will be doing in five years?" I told her I wasn't sure, but that I didn't see myself back in any kind of office job, that I really enjoyed working in the church and that whatever I was doing, I would want it to be intensely involved with being there for people in their lives. I spoke of the power in the very human connections that can be made with one another at the moments in our lives where we are the happiest and also the most vulnerable, and my desire to be in those moments. Mother Judi just looked at me. "You realize that what you're describing is a priest, don't you?" she asked, with her quiet chuckle and knowing smile. "I mean, you ARE aware of this fact, right?"
I laughed, somewhat flattered and somewhat scared, and sort of shrugged, saying, "Well, I don't know about that...!!" And made some comment about having thought that I was led more toward the diaconate (becoming a deacon) rather than a priest.
"I don't hear the deacon thing," she said. "Maybe it's in there, but I'm not hearing that from you. But I am hearing the priest thing."
On some level, I felt she was right. But it's still not entirely clear to me... just earlier this year I was all but sure that the diaconate was my calling. But various comments from several other people and sources over the past several months have made me stop and think about reconsidering the priesthood. Mother Judi recommended that I go out and walk the labyrinth at the retreat center with the intention of focusing only on the very next step, of not looking ahead to see where the path was leading me, but just to follow along with only focusing on one step at a time, trying to be present in the moment.
After we finished talking, I went out and did just that, and as I walked, suddenly the words of Thomas Merton came to me, the very same words that were printed on a bulletin insert at the graduation worship service at Furman University four years ago and which made me break down into tears the moment I read them on that day I graduated from college.
"My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does indeed please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right path although I may know nothing about it."
This prayer is just as poignant for me today as it was on the day of my graduation from college. And even though I think I may have discerned the next step, even while I may think I have received direction, guidance, that the road is leading me to the South, in all honesty, "I cannot know for certain where it will end." All I can do is put one foot in front of the other and trust. Trust that God is leading me, God is with me, and God will guide me, even those days when I am completely unaware of God's presence.
Thanks be to God!
The next morning, after Morning Prayer and breakfast, I headed outdoors to walk through the woods again, simply to be with God in nature and to be open to God's presence, just to listen to what the Spirit was saying -- about anything that happened to come up. I wasn't focusing on any specific questions, I was just open -- more open than I had been in a long time -- to whatever might come to me.
I wandered down through the woods, watching rabbits jump out of the way and seeing deer gallop off in the distance through the still-bare trees, breathing the clear air and basking in the warmth of the sun and the breeze through my hair and on my face. And as I rounded a corner and came upon the banks of the Platte River, suddenly an overwhelming sense of clarity came upon me. A voice inside my head said, loud and clearly, "Yep. It's time to go home." And by "home," I knew that meant the South.
I can't even quite describe what this feeling was like, but it was a moment of clarity in direction such as I had not experienced in quite a while. It wasn't even a feeling of desire, as in "I WANT to go home" -- in fact, in terms of my feelings, the week prior to the retreat I had been deeply missing Boston and really WANTING to go back to the Northeast. But suddenly I just knew that it was TIME. Entirely apart from my wants, feelings or desires, it was time. It was like when I was a little kid playing at a friend's house and my mother walked in and said, simply, "It's time to go home." There was no question about whether I wanted to or not, or whether I thought it would be best to stay at my friend's house or go home, or if perhaps I should stay at my friend's house for just one more hour, it was simply time to go home. Period.
As I stood on the banks of the Platte and looked out over the somewhat marshy river, I was reminded of the marshlands of the coasts of South Carolina, and of all the aspects of the land, the physical location, that are home to me in the deepest sense. And as I thought about going back there, back to that familiar landscape, I felt a deep sense of peace, a sense of coming home, a sense of putting an end to my restless journeying. I felt exhausted, like I had been chasing after something, restlessly looking for something, and suddenly I realized that I knew exactly where it was -- it was home, in the South. I felt a bit like St. Augustine when he writes of God, "Our souls are restless until they find their rest in You" -- only in regard to a place rather than in regards to God, necessarily. I have been saying for years that eventually I want move back to the South, but always holding it at arm's length, always feeling like I wasn't ready to go back, or that I wanted to experience other things and places first, but suddenly I realized it was time. I was ready.
It was fascinating, because suddenly I also knew that if I was to pursue ordination, it would be in the South. I had previously not really been considering this as an option, mostly because I had no connections with the Episcopal Church in the South, thinking it would make more practical sense to go through the process here or in Massachusetts, where I have networks and connections. But something always felt uneasy about that to me, and as I thought of going through the process in the South, it just felt right. The discernment process for ordination is a considerable commitment -- the process takes many years. I felt uneasy about making that kind of a commitment to either Nebraska or Massachusetts, but I knew in that instant that I would have no problem making that kind of commitment to any place in the South (and not necessarily just South Carolina, but anywhere in the region), and I would be ready to root myself in a community right away and begin this process, if ordination is indeed what I am called to.
The next day, as I sat with Mother Judi during a one-on-one session with her and talked to her about my thoughts and my future, she shrugged off the questions of location and instead asked me, "What do you think Tracy will be doing in five years?" I told her I wasn't sure, but that I didn't see myself back in any kind of office job, that I really enjoyed working in the church and that whatever I was doing, I would want it to be intensely involved with being there for people in their lives. I spoke of the power in the very human connections that can be made with one another at the moments in our lives where we are the happiest and also the most vulnerable, and my desire to be in those moments. Mother Judi just looked at me. "You realize that what you're describing is a priest, don't you?" she asked, with her quiet chuckle and knowing smile. "I mean, you ARE aware of this fact, right?"
I laughed, somewhat flattered and somewhat scared, and sort of shrugged, saying, "Well, I don't know about that...!!" And made some comment about having thought that I was led more toward the diaconate (becoming a deacon) rather than a priest.
"I don't hear the deacon thing," she said. "Maybe it's in there, but I'm not hearing that from you. But I am hearing the priest thing."
On some level, I felt she was right. But it's still not entirely clear to me... just earlier this year I was all but sure that the diaconate was my calling. But various comments from several other people and sources over the past several months have made me stop and think about reconsidering the priesthood. Mother Judi recommended that I go out and walk the labyrinth at the retreat center with the intention of focusing only on the very next step, of not looking ahead to see where the path was leading me, but just to follow along with only focusing on one step at a time, trying to be present in the moment.
After we finished talking, I went out and did just that, and as I walked, suddenly the words of Thomas Merton came to me, the very same words that were printed on a bulletin insert at the graduation worship service at Furman University four years ago and which made me break down into tears the moment I read them on that day I graduated from college.
"My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does indeed please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right path although I may know nothing about it."
This prayer is just as poignant for me today as it was on the day of my graduation from college. And even though I think I may have discerned the next step, even while I may think I have received direction, guidance, that the road is leading me to the South, in all honesty, "I cannot know for certain where it will end." All I can do is put one foot in front of the other and trust. Trust that God is leading me, God is with me, and God will guide me, even those days when I am completely unaware of God's presence.
Thanks be to God!
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