Wanderlust

Generally speaking, I have a good sense of direction. I can hop in the car, drive all over the place and always find both my destination and my way back home. That skill holds true on walks in the woods and even in the foreign cities I’ve visited. I was particularly proud that I could lead my small group (including my mom) from St. Patrick’s Cathedral back to St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin on foot. I suppose this ability comes from being a visual learner, and so the only place my sense of direction is challenged is underground. When I take the metro or subway in any large city, I not only carry a map in my hand, but I also write down my stops, and look at them on the map several times until I get the route fixed in my head. Okay, so I get labeled as a tourist—at least I’m not going to be a lost tourist!

I know there are people who live in large cities who rely on the underground trains to get them safely and quickly from one place to another. If I were to try to navigate without a map or specific directions, it would send me on a journey of frustration. In the 12th Century, the image of the journey became a popular symbol for the spiritual quest. A harkening back to the days of old, fascination with storytelling, and the new science of mapmaking—and geography—inspired seekers to make a connection between the inner journey and the outer journey. What, then, are the maps and markers that I need to make the spiritual journey?

In Celtic spirituality, the practice of peregrinatio is one “discipline” that repeatedly shows up in both the descriptions of the spiritual practice and in the vitae of the saints who were revered in the golden era of that tradition. Peregrinatio, in simple terms, is a wandering. The first example who comes to mind is the Irish St. Brenden who wandered the seas with his monks, and who according to legend, could have sailed as far as North America. In Celtic Christianity: Making Myths and Chasing Dreams, Ian Bradley says, “In Celtic Christianity, too, the theme had been central, notably in the stress on peregrinatio as both an inner and outer experience, a reminder of the need not to become too attached to the things of this world, to travel through it as a pilgrim and stranger and to concentrate on the journey to and beyond death.”

This idea is woven into the psyche of human kind, and in short, is part of the collective unconscious a much discussed term in Jungian psychology. The hero’s journey, songs such as “I am a pilgrim and a stranger,” and poetry such as Homer’s Odyssey or Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” all reflect the idea of journey. It is, in fact, the journey into wholeness.

The journey we take, the pilgrimage, is one we must take on our own. Carl Jung, whose growing popularity as an analyst made him a much sought after guru, stated that he did not want people to “follow” him. In fact, he did not even want people to “follow” the Christ. Instead, he wanted people to seek their true individual selves. Stephen Aizenstat says, “At the bottom, rooted in our soul body is a wisdom figure who knows our sense of destiny and calling. This wisdom figure holds the key to our becoming." What then is your calling, and where are you going on the journey? As this Advent season ends, where will you find the key?
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Photo by Lloyd Spitalnik
http://lloydspitalnikphotos.com/main.php

Sheltering

Music is one spiritual aid that puts me in touch with the numinous almost immediately. Whether it's Ralph Vaughan Williams or Dan Schutte, or a jazz rendition of Gershwin's "Summertime," I find something of God in listening attentively to music. Recently, I ordered a CD from The Cloisters, the resource center for the Northumbria Community (http://www.northumbriacommunity.org/). Every one of the songs is lovely, and I’m very happy to have the music both on my IPod and on a CD that I can play in the car. The songs include liturgical music (a beautiful "Kyrie") as well as some renditions of familiar renewal music. One song, in particular, a very simple chant, speaks to me most profoundly. Here are the words:

O God and Spirit and Jesu, the Three
From the crown of my head
O, Trinity
to the soles of my feet
My offering be
Come I with my name and my witnessing
Come I with my contrite heart confessing
Come I unto thee Ah, Jesu my king
Ah, Jesu, Jesu
Do thou be my sheltering

What strikes me as important in this particular set of lyrics is the plea to Jesus to “be my sheltering.” It’s a lovely thought that brings images of a mother tenderly holding a child in her arms, of a boat safely anchored in harbor while the storm rages, of a friend holding another in her arms as she grieves the loss of her sister, of God gently picking us up and holding our hand as we take another tentative step on our journey.

The idea of sheltering is not just associated with God and Jesus, however. I think sheltering is, in fact, all of those things we do for others, and more. We long for shelter, for safety, for assurance, especially in the face of all that life throws our way: sons who end up in prison, daughters who end up in conflict with superiors, students who are bullied or who spitefully make fun of their peers. Sheltering provides a pair of strong arms, real or metaphorical to keep us safe in unsafe times.

Mary and Joseph are such stellar examples of two people who sheltered not only each other, but also their infant son. Joseph, instead of casting Mary aside for what appeared to be infidelity, listened instead to the angel in a dream. Mary wrapped her son in swaddling clothes and laid him in the only crib she had available. And it is that same Jesus, that very human Jesus, who experienced sheltering from his parents who now shelters us in our greatest moments of need.

Ah, Jesu, Jesu, Do thou be my sheltering.

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Photo Copyright ©2006, Jim Sabatke

http://myolympus.org/document.php?id=5716

Paying Attention to Detail

There is a ripple on the waters—enough to move the water lilies around a bit—as the wind blows. The air is crisp and clean, and the sun is warm when I make a point to be in it. I’ve come with Michael and the dogs to a place I’ve never been before. Oh, yes, I’ve driven by it millions of times since it’s on the way to places I go frequently, but I’ve never even pulled into the gates—never slowed down long enough to give more than a passing glance at Lake Cunningham.

This lake, like all lakes in South Carolina, is man-made, serving as a reservoir for the Greer water system. This park, however, is set aside for recreation, and while I have many, many times, taken off for points west and north on a Saturday, I now realize that I have an intimate setting right here practically in my own back yard. We walked on the dock where fishermen put their boats in, and as I stood there looking at the water, I thought I might actually enjoy getting into a canoe and paddling around on the water—something I never thought I’d give consideration to doing. The trees, still full of their autumn colors, are wild and thick near the water, and more spaced out in the actual park area. The dogs seemed just as excited about discovering a new place as I did. We then walked over to the other side of the park where there is another dock extending far out into the lake. There are benches and a gazebo-style covering, and it is just a peaceful place to sit and gaze on the water, the sky, the shoreline. On the way, we passed picnic tables and a shelter.

I write about our trip to Lake Cunningham simply because I was struck by how often I overlook the treasures that are right under my nose. As I walked down the dock, I asked myself, “How many other things have I overlooked that are in my life on a daily basis?” Why do we allow ourselves to become so de-sensitized to beauty or to its opposite. Why do we prefer to walk in darkness instead of the light?


I think, all too often, we find ourselves looking at the big picture. We bemoan world hunger and poverty, or we say our prayers for those who are affected by the many wars being fought in the world. The big picture is all well and good, but it’s the details that are often so much more important. The same is true of our environment. It’s the one red leaf that I picked up to look at instead of the entire forest. It’s the one lily pad with the yellow bud instead of the entire lake full of water lilies. It’s the one child in my classroom who needed to tell me about his run-in with the law instead of the entire class of twenty-three that I was about to dismiss for the weekend.


My challenge to myself this coming week is to pay attention to the details. I challenge you to do the same. Look at the face of the person who comes to you at your business. Pray specifically for someone who is in need—by name and by intention. And when you walk outside, look at the leaves instead of simply admiring the trees. Pay attention to the wonder that’s around you everyday. Let God’s creation fill you with love and the assurance that we do walk in the Light.

Availability and Vulnerability

I'm exploring what it means to be available and vulnerable these days. That's the dual vow of the Northumbria Community, a Celtic community in England and dispersed throughout the world. Being available is a difficult practice in today's society. It just doesn't seem like there is enough time in our fast-paced schedules to be available—especially if we already are in service vocations like teaching or chaplaincy or even medicine. And what if my availability ends up hurting me? What if I feel crucified by those to whom I make myself available—crucified by their indifference or lack of gratitude that I was there for them?

Ah, but there's the rub! That attitude is a definite indication that my being available really wasn't for the other, but rather for some narcissistic act that I thought perhaps would make me feel good; that would only massage my ego. Jesus gave us the ultimate model of availability when he submitted to death on the cross. I am reminded of that vulnerability when I think of Jesus at his most human moment. In John’s Gospel there is no great outpouring of agony at being abandoned by God as there is in the synoptic Gospels. His death is recorded simply as “When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit” (v. 30). Jesus is available and vulnerable all in the same moment, and he goes to God knowing he has shown us what it means to live as Christ. There really seems to be no need for subsitutionary atonement when one realizes that something very different went on in those days in the First Century in Palestine.

God is infinite in goodness and mercy, and that goodness and mercy is revealed to us in Jesus. John Scotus Eriugena says, “ He who made of God a human being makes gods of men and women. And dwelt among us, that is, he took possession of our nature so that he might make us participators in his own nature.” To me, this means that we simply follow Jesus and become Christ. That’s the same thing as saying we’re Christ-like, and hardly anyone could argue with that being one’s goal as a follower of the Christ!

Another Celtic theologian, Pelagius, in his Letter to Demetrias, says “Do not let your mind be seduced by theological speculation; the human mind can never grasp the supreme glory of God. Simply follow Jesus wherever he leads.”

What this boils down to is that God’s presence is among us in the world. We are all invited to use our spiritual eyes and ears to seek that presence in the sick, the downtrodden, the poor, and those in prison. We are invited to be available and vulnerable, risking our lives like God risked his life in Christ to know the fullness of human life from birth to death. In doing so, God gave us the model to follow, and Jesus is both our path and our destination.

Moving Slowly

Turtles have always fascinated me. When we go to see my mom in the Low Country, there is a certain place near Bamberg where the Edisto backs up into a swamp along the side of the highway. There is always an abundant menagerie of turtles sunning themselves on fallen limbs in this area, and I have to slow down to count them and say hello. Turtles live a long time, so it's very possible I've been greeting the same ones for years now of traveling to and from the black water region of South Carolina to the foothills near the North Carolina border where we now live. Turtles are a great model from the animal world on living the contemplative way—a way which by it's very nature calls us to slow down and take more of our surroundings in.

There are many ways in which we can move slowly. We can choose to be in a contemplative, meditative place in our lives, and metaphorically slow down in our moving in order to pay attention to what is going on around us. We can move slowly from the increasing joint pain that inflicts us as our wisdom hopefully increases. We can also move slowly from fear, inhibitions, indecisiveness, or practicalities. Whatever the reason, the turtle is an apt symbol for slowing down, basking in the sunshine, and sharing life in community.

According to Ted Andrews in Animal Speak the turtle is "associated with longevity. Long life and groundedness within life is part of what is associated with the turtle. It does not move fast. It is as if, on some level, turtle knows it has all the time in the world. Turtle medicine can teach new perceptions about time and our relationship with it."

In a single day last autumn, I saw three different turtles. These sightings were unusual not just for the sheer force of the number three, but also because of the circumstances in which I saw the turtles. I saw the first one crossing Highway 101 near our house. I was amazed as I pulled my car up behind a stopped truck whose driver got out at the same time a driver of another truck coming from the opposite direction stopped and got out (holding up traffic) to rescue the turtle and move her to the side of the road. Later that same day, I was with my husband and we were traveling along Locust Hill Road where I saw another turtle just trotting along the side of the highway, safely off in the grass, but nonetheless very noticeable with her high-held head. Finally, that evening, I had the sad sighting of a dead turtle that was apparently crushed under the wheel of a careless driver, it's shell cracked and splayed open.

These turtles all had a message for me. The first turtle reminded me that sometimes I get myself into tight spots—especially in my hurry to live life to the fullest. At times like that I need to return to myself, to withdraw into my shell so that I can return to a balanced life. Turtles remind us to think circumstances through carefully before acting on them. The second turtle who seemed happy to me reminded me of Mother Earth—and, in fact, in Native American mythology the turtle's shell was used by the gods to form the foundation for the Earth. There is definitely a connection between groundedness (being close to the earth) that is protective, nurturing and sustaining. The final turtle reminded me of sacrifice and missed opportunities. It also reminded me of how we need to take better care of our home, the Earth, and how we should try to be cognizant of all creatures even when we are driving our automobiles. We all share "this island home" for good or ill.

Thoughts on Autumn (for Karen)

The day has turned off cool this morning. The clouds are pervasive and the wind blows through the shrubs and pushes the patio umbrella around. Still, I decide to sit outside to say Celtic morning prayer. A simple chant spontaneously rises up from my heart and passes whisper-like over my lips: "Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy." Actually, this day is not unlike that day four years ago when I visited Lindisfarne with the cloud cover and chilling wind off the North Sea and drizzly rain falling off and on. My lasting memory is riding away on the bus and looking back at the pilgrim pathway already covered with the creeping high tide.


Inside, Michael prepares breakfast. He has become quiet efficient at frying sausage, scrambling eggs, and timing his toast so that it's ready when everything else is prepared. This morning, I throw him a curve and ask him to include me in his preparations; I usually have oatmeal or yogurt, but today I want some "Southern" sustenance in the form of grits and sausage and eggs. It's almost like I feel the cold, lean days of winter coming, and I'm taking advantage of what's available now.

There's a hint of color in the maple trees, and the mums—golden, purple, and bronze—are in bloom. Our new garden spot is lovely, and St. Francis has taken up residence there. The birds constantly drain the feeders in the yard. They, too, are beginning to hunker down for what may be a long winter here in the foothills.

The day mimics my inner world. It is autumn. I am in an autumn state of mind. I long for time to just be—to be available to God and available to those who need me. For now, my students continue to need me, and I am grateful for my teaching position. One day, I will grow too weary of teenage angst and simply want to be at home where I can write, read, and perhaps paint a little. I realize that teaching is God's holy call on my life, but one day, I know that will be laid aside even for the God who called me to it. For now the journey is calling me to move more and more into my contemplative nature, closed in by sky and mountains, and comforted by all that is in Creation. God is mine, and I am God's own.

DAY IN AUTUMN

By Rainer Maria Rilke 1875–1926
Translated By Mary Kinzie

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.
As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.

Source: Poetry (April 2008).

Reconciliation

Today, Michael and I rode up the watershed road to Saluda, North Carolina, had lunch at the Wildflour Bakery, and browsed a little in the quaint shops there. I bought a teapot to add to my collection. It’s a Celtic teapot because it has a cloverleaf design on it—at least I’d like to think of it that way. I now have a teapot from Oxford, one from Highlands, NC, and one from Tennessee. There are others in my collection given to me by various loved ones, and I cherish the memories they evoke.


Teapots are one of those items that are both functional and beautiful. It’s not a far stretch, I think, to compare them to our sacred liturgy. Okay, I can hear some of you thinking, “Huh?” Well, our liturgy is functional in that it connects us to the Holy, and it’s beautiful in that the words and the actions re-enact the divine life. Yesterday, I attended Liturgy to see two dear friends ordained as deacons in the Episcopal Church. I certainly felt connected to the Divine as I watched the beautiful Eucharistic liturgy unfold.

But what about the other sacraments that we hold in our tradition? Can we classify them as both functional and beautiful? Certainly, we can do that with Baptism, Confirmation, and even the Anointing of the Sick. And yet…

I know of very few Catholics and Anglicans—even devout ones—who take the practice of Sacramental Reconciliation seriously. Confessing one’s sins to another Christian, especially one’s own priest, is something that seems just too gut-wrenching. We’d rather pay a therapist trained to help us with life’s difficulties than accept the free grace of God from a brother or sister in community. I have to ask myself why that is so—especially when the end result can be a feeling of lightness and joy.

I think the answer lies in the controlling and manipulative way the confession is written and in the way it has been traditionally used by the hierarchy in the Catholic tradition to control the laity. Even in the Book of Common Prayer, while the liturgy talks about God’s mercy and the confessor asks for the prayers of the penitent, the words fairly well slam the penitent with all sorts of indictments including equating him/her with the Prodigal son. While I know I am subject to darkness and evil, I find it very difficult to identify with the Prodigal Son. This approach may seem logical, but it is not the most loving approach to restoring inner harmony disturbed by wrongdoing. A more loving approach may be to remind the penitent—the one making the confession—that he or she is filled with God’s light, the light given at Creation. Perhaps something as simple as adding the phrase “have mercy on us and forgive us; free our light from the darkness that we may walk in your ways…” would bring the sacrament closer to our hearts and practice.

If we look seriously to the Celtic tradition of spirituality, it is not long before we discover the practice of the anamcara. Although the Celtic Church devised its own form of sacramental confession, it was more of a private exchange between penitent and confessor, and often the confessor was a spiritual friend. Confession wasn’t something that happened once before death or even something a person dutifully attended to once a year. And it certainly wasn’t done in a Reconciliation service. Confessing one’s sins was a normal practice. In fact, all of life was considered sacramental, and life was interwoven with practicalities and mystery.

If sacramental confession is ever to become a normal part of Christian practice again, it has to be seen as the teapot. It has to be beautiful and functional. There’s a vast difference between perfunctory and functional. When confession is seen as a way to access the inner grace, to own that the light is there deep in our hearts waiting to be lived into, instead of a way to get rid of inner darkness, then it will serve a beautiful purpose. Then we will acknowledge a just and good God who wants us to know the Holy as the Holy knows us. We will learn to listen with the heart and in so doing, we will live sacramentally. My prayer for all of us—my readers and myself—is that God will allow us to listen carefully in order to gain wisdom and live fully.

The Cracked Jar

Then the woman left her water-jar and went back to the city. (John 4:28)


Thanks to feminist criticism, many more positive ideas have been espoused about the Samaritan woman than negative ones in recent years. For example, she is the first person to whom Jesus openly declares that he is Messiah (the anointed one). She, in turn, becomes a witness to his messianic mission saying to the people in the town, "Come and see...".

I try to imagine what life must have been like for her up to that momentous conversation with Jesus. Obviously, she was a bright woman, especially considering the times in which she lived. Thinking theologically was not difficult for her, and she was not above challenging Jesus and the Jewish attitude about the place of worship in the life of devout people. Yet, she was confined in her role, and castigated by those she lived around because she did not fit the model of a "good" woman. When she met Jesus, the jar of her soul cracked open; it could no longer contain her journey.*

In listening to Jesus, the Samaritan woman found something that stretched her to the very core of her being. She was moved to spread the news and share her discoveries with her community. She was broken open, and made ready to move beyond walking the expected path to walking a more arduous and perhaps more inward and more contemplative way.

Her life was turned around by an encounter at a well; at the well, her jar cracked open for it could no longer contain who she was. Her jar couldn't carry the rules and regulations of her society—the rules of proper behavior of a good Jewish woman. She was set free to become Christ just as the man who spoke to her at the well was Christ.

This weekend, I gave a retreat at The Snails Pace entitled Dreams: A Way to Listen to God based partly on the book of the same title by Morton Kelsey. God is as close to us as the dreams we dream each night. The women who attended the retreat openly shared their dreams, and we worked on understanding their meaning. For some of these women, the container of their God concept cracked open, and they were invited to leave that container at the Snail as they moved on to a deeper understanding of who God is in their lives.

I, too, had a dream that confirmed my new passion and focus in life. My dream focused on my past purpose of supporting and holding many people at events. In the past, I have enjoyed being helpful and providing opportunities for people to explore new spiritual experiences. At the same time, I disliked always having to be strong for other people; my persona, my mask, wore thin, and I now yearn to have the support of others in my journey in a way that is spontaneous and free and part of the community. I disliked being stuck in one place in my life and in my ministry, and I feared that I would fall apart from always being the supportive one. What I have desired, and what I am now actively seeking is to be left alone with some space around me to do some inner healing work and to begin to practice the next phase of my life.

I do know something of what that phase includes. It is obvious to me that I love working with small groups as a retreat leader and teacher. I enjoy the intimate circle of like-minded friends who want to explore their spirituality and relationship with the Holy One. I want to make opportunities for that to happen on a regular basis. I'd like to think the process of stability is occurring at the core of my being. Someday I'll be ready to pick up another jar to carry, but for now, I know the work I have to do.

May your journey contain pots that crack open and be left behind on the trail.
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*From a conversation with Jerry Wright

Jesus and the Fig Trees

This morning, I discovered another fig on my fig tree in the back garden. What a cause for celebration, because I think my husband and I would have fought over who got to eat the one fig that we found last week! We have nurtured that fig tree for three years now, and finally, finally, there are at least two figs on it. What seemed to work was Black Cow fertilizer and lots of water—or maybe it was just the “mystical” three years as seen in Luke’s Gospel. There are around thirty references to the fig tree in the Bible and even more references to “a vine” which, I suppose, are more likely grapes. Whether we talking about figs or grapes, I think Jesus was probably teaching us about productivity or the lack of productivity in the life of his followers and of his people, Israel.

None of the stories tells about productivity better than Luke 13: 6-9:

6 Then he told this parable: ‘A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. 7So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” 8He replied, “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig round it and put manure on it. 9If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.” ’

I find this passage striking because of my own experience with the fig trees in my garden, and with my experience with life’s projects and goals. So often, we become frustrated when a project or goal we have set about achieving doesn’t come to fruition. We think we’re on the right track, and we keep looking for the fruit to appear on the branch or vine, but to no avail.

What is it then in our human nature that suddenly makes us want to cast a project into the fire? Is it fickleness, lack of commitment, lack of patience, or is it intuitive insight?

I actually have no answer to the preceding question. I think that perhaps because we’re human—just as Jesus was when he cursed another fig tree—that it might be any combination of these reasons. There was actually a second fig tree in our yard. It withered and died this year, and there is nothing remaining of it. It got the same care as the one that survives, but obviously, that wasn’t enough. Given the soil with which we are dealing, and the time and energy we have for gardening, what makes it and doesn’t make it seems to be pretty much of a crap shoot.

The inner life does not have to be such a game of chance. There are other stories in the Gospels about soil and pruning. I believe Creation is a gift that teaches us in many ways the need to nurture growth, celebrate the fruitful moments, and to move on from those moments where there are more thorns than blooms. It is in the full-flowering of love and persistence—of fertilizing and watering, and sometimes returning to the desert—that we get the results we seek.

The photo of the fig leaves is from Matson_Photograph_Collection,_ca_1925-1946

Of Mothers and Daughters

In healthy families there is usually a very strong bond between mother and daughter. I know when my daughter is sad or stressed just like my own mother can pick up on my emotions long before anyone else can. In the same way, I know when something really special has happened that she can’t wait to share with me. Mothers and daughters have a connection that is uniquely visceral and invisible at the same time, and oftentimes neither of them can imagine life without the other. I am grateful that I have a daughter with whom I enjoy spending time and with whom I enjoy doing things that only women really get into.


Like shopping.* Yesterday, we got up and went to the spa for a haircut and manicure/pedicures. Claire got about seven inches cut from her long tresses, and the resulting hair-do is fabulous on her. Something she said struck me as important: “I wanted to do something for me.” How often do we fear being selfish, trying to please others important to us or who we perceive as important? Sometimes a haircut is just a haircut; other times it’s something that makes a statement and gives us a new sense of who we are and what we want in our day-to-day lives.

After the beauty treatments, we had a healthy lunch of salads at Fatz Café, and while we were there, we did my grocery shopping at Bilo. That, too, is something mothers and daughters can really enjoy doing together. It’s a bonding experience. I love to show her my savvy in shopping for bargains, and we share ideas for cooking and what works in a household where everyone is busy during the day. I’m impressed with all she’s learned about being a homemaker.

After lunch, we headed to the shopping center. I had a $50 gift card that was burning a hole in my wallet. We shopped the Labor Day sales, and actually came away with some really good bargains. She got three new tops and a jacket while I purchased new tops and one new pair of pants. All in all we spent the equivalent of $300.00. With the coupons and gift card, however, we came away spending less than half that amount. I’d say we did all right.

If you are lucky enough to have a daughter with whom you have bonded, you know the kind of love I’m talking about here. If your relationship is one that needs working on, then I hope you will take the time to try to make it a better situation for the both of you. God’s love is reflected in the love we share with each other. God’s love is like a mother’s love for her daughter, and our love for God is no less than that of a child who sees past our human imperfections to the wisdom and grace that are part of that Divine mystery of who we are as mothers and friends. May you feel richly blessed by those who call you mother, daughter, father, or son.

*Apologies to those English majors who can’t let a sentence fragment slide in now and again. It just seemed appropriate to this piece.

The Soil of the Soul

What an amazingly beautiful Sabbath today is! I've been outside since early morning, first just to sit on the patio to simply be. The breeze was cooling, the sun not yet warm, and the sky an incredible clear blue. After finishing a second cup of coffee, I decided to do a little straightening up to make my patio into the outside living area it is supposed to be. The construction is now finished, the  new roof is on, and so items can be placed as I want them.

The madevilla is very showy in its spacious green pots at each corner of the patio. And the color of the blossoms accentuates so well the new red door going into the house. I spent some time reading about it on the Clemson Extension website only to find out it needs a lot of care in transitional times, and I will have to bring it inside in the colder months along with the philodendron and the palm plant on the front porch. I think my daughter may be right when she says that her dad and I live in a jungle. I do love having green and flowery plants around me.

In my new garden out back, I have planted a lot of purple items. First, there's an azalea, but I actually don't know what color those blossoms will be. Then, there are the irises that I transplanted. I know they are purple, but they haven't bloomed in a few years because they weren't getting enough sunlight. They won't have that excuse now! Then, there's the butterfly bush that I placed in the center of the bed. It's definitely purple and is already attracting butterflies. Today, I put another little shrub out there that I had in a pot. It was root bound, and I thought it might like to try life in a garden instead. The trees got a new dose of mulch and everything is getting water as I write this entry.

The garden of our souls needs just as much love and care as the gardens in our back yard. I have a vision for my garden, and I'm slowly but surely achieving that vision. Our souls need a vision as well. They need pruning, weeding, watering, and good fertilizer. They are the delight of God with whom we share the light of Creation and the light of life. To me, the key ingredient of a healthy soul is expressed in the tension between Sabbath and community. We need time to be alone with God, and we need a community of believers who can support us with prayer and fellowship.

On September 24, Michael and I are going to try an experiment. We're going to begin a house church. We don't really have much of a clue about how to do this, but we've invited our friends to join us, and we'll see where it goes. We know we want to follow a Celtic spirituality format, to include silence and study, and we want people to be able to worship God in a safe, non-institutional setting. I'm looking forward to the experience. If you have an interest in joining us, please feel free to contact me about particulars.

For now, I continue to weed and water, prune and enjoy the bounty of God's love. May you, too, have that abundance of love from the Creator God who sustains us from within and without.

What Happened to the Bull?

Just what kind of God do you believe in?

I'm afraid for most people, God has become an amalgamation of an angry Zeus hurling lightening bolts, an IRS agent knocking at the door, and an abusive parent. On the way to meet a friend for dinner tonight, I saw a sign that read, "God WILL settle all accounts." Such an attitude toward God makes me sad and just a little queasy.

The God who comforts me and gives me inner strength to meet each new day is not a God to fear. There is no doubt that evil is part of our universe. We confront evil, both personal and cosmological all the time, but it is not our natural state. I do not believe that a God who loves me as part of Creation requires sacrifice to make me acceptable. Although animal sacrifice has shown up in almost all cultures and religions, we do not know that such a practice was any more than a way to make people feel better about their choice to do wrong—which ironically comes from humankind’s own freedom to choose. In fact, I would like to suggest that repentance is the most important prerequisite of any ritual whether it is sacrificial in nature or not. Hosea 14:3 reads, "Take with you words, and turn to the Lord. Say to Him, forgive all iniquity and receive us graciously, so we will offer the words of our lips instead of calves."

In the Psalms, God asks, “Do I require the blood of bulls and of goats?” The answer is a rather definite NO! Rather, God says through the Psalmist, “Sacrifice thank offerings to God, fulfill your vows to the Most High, and call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you will honor me." (Psalm 50:14-15).

Celtic spirituality celebrates the goodness of Creation. Humans are part of that Creation, and God is very pleased with that Creation. God does not need to settle accounts, nor does God need to judge our every motive and behavior because ‘sin, death, and unhappiness are not from God’. (1) We are created free.

John Scottus Eriugena’s seminal work was Periphyseon. In it he states, “God is the beginning, middle, and end of the created universe. God is that from which all things originate, that in which all things participate, and that to which all things eventually return. (Periphyseon III.621a-622a). Thus, Eriugena rejects any divine predestination to evil by an appeal to God's unity, transcendence and goodness. (2)

Eriugena’s mysticism “allows God to be truly God, utterly free of all limiting human notions of space-time, distinct entities, finite relationships and other constraints which have more to do with ignorant human conceptions than the actual Divine nature.” (3)

Human nature, however, wants to believe we are bad. I for one, want more of the God of Monty Python who unequivocally states, “Stop that groveling!” And remember that God really did say, “It’s good!”

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1http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/scottus-eriugena/

2-3 http://www.enlightened-spirituality.org/John_Scottus_Eriugena.html

The Light of Christ is in the World

This time last week, I was experiencing Sabbath with a group of pilgrims on retreat at Roads End Retreat Center near Fleetwood, NC. We gathered there on Friday afternoon to learn more about Celtic spirituality. On Sunday morning, we found ourselves in the Chapel of the Ark for morning prayer and meditation, experiencing worship together, and beginning the day with time to enjoy God’s presence in our midst.


Celtic spirituality has a number of characteristics commonly identified with it. These include, but are not limited to a love of nature and a recognition of the untamed and wild places that are a part of God's gift to us, or a connection between the natural and supernatural. In fact, the belief in thin places or boundaries between sacred and secular is a Celtic idea. There is a distinction between thin places and holy sites because in most religious traditions the site is holy because something happened there—i.e. a prophet ascended to heaven, or a miracle happened at that site, or someone was martyred there. With Celtic spirituality, the place is thin because something is happening right now—God is present in a very powerful and visceral way when we find ourselves in a thin place.

The most important concept for me that I tried to help us all explore in this retreat is the difference between the Celtic belief in human goodness and the Augustinian belief in human depravity. Too often in our Western religious tradition, we have been taught that sin is at least as strong as God’s grace—that light must come into our being to drive out the darkness. Quite the opposite is true in the Celtic mindset. We are, in fact, filled with light that must be “liberated from the heart of creation and from the essence of who we are” (Newell, 12). This idea is fundamentally opposed to the one that says we are infected with original sin and that God had to come into the world to take away that sin so that we could receive the light of life. Yes, sin is real, but it is not our created state. “Rather the light is held in terrible bondage within us, waiting to be set free” (Newell, 12).

This idea originated with John Scottus Eriugena whose theology explored the idea of liberating the light from within. God is present within each of us, and that is where the focus on redemption takes a lovely turn. It’s not some outside force coming into us to make us righteous, but rather, a connection to what already lies within. The light of Creation, the light of life, and the light of Christ are all one and the same. Our very selves are thin places where God’s work is accomplished.

The question then arises as to why we want to believe that we are inherently bad. The answer harkens back to that idea of original sin postulated by Augustine of Hippo and others who were in the hierarchy of the Church of Rome. This idea says we are all born sinful and are in need of redemption. Because of this belief, the people who “won” the day at the Council of Nicaea and the church soon became inured of crusade and conquest.

When we change our attitude about our stance in God’s eyes, we come to realize that God said something very important in Genesis 1. And God said, “It’s good!” How can we be good at the same time we are impossibly flawed by sin? The light of creation is the light that is within us and as Newell says, it needs to be liberated so that we are walking in the fullness of our potential.

How does one do this? It is in the incarnation of Christ that we find the answer. Celtic spirituality is orthodox, especially when it comes to the Trinity. Christ is a part of the Trinity from the beginning, and it’s that Christ that we should pay attention to. I’ve heard more than one person quip that Christ was not Jesus’ last name. Christ is what we are to become. It’s our potential. It’s what Jesus of Nazareth did, and it’s in his life that we have our model for how to become Christ.

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John Philip Newell, The Story of Creation: An Introduction to Celtic Spirituality

Just Who Are YOU?

Regular readers of my blog will quickly discern that I am on a John Philip Newell kick these days. I just bought four new books by this inspirational teacher on Celtic spirituality, and I am deeply immersed in attempting to understand his work and how it relates to other writers and theologians who have preserved this remarkable Christian tradition for us. One thread that has recently caught my attention is woven into the writing of Pelagius, the first great Celtic theologian—and a man condemned as heretic by the Roman church of the time. That thread is the idea of all of creation being a theophony or a manifestation of God. Celtic spirituality believed that creation came forth creatio ex Deo, and as such is a showing forth of the goodness of God. In fact, some Celtic theologians go so far as to believe it is possible to live a perfectly good and sinless life. Because we are part of the divine word, we have encoded in our spiritual DNA, if you will, a blueprint for holiness and righteousness that excludes the necessity of human depravity and original sin.

This past week, my husband and I celebrated twenty-eight years of marriage by driving to one of our favorite spots, checking into a local B & B, and spending most of the time outside. We’ve chosen to give up tent camping, but we still enjoy being in places that bear the imprint of wilderness on them. Pisgah Forest is a personal haven and holds wonderful childhood memories for me. Michael and I have often taken a Saturday and driven up Wagon Gap Road to Mount Pisgah, and we especially love the part of the drive from Brevard to the Blue Ridge Parkway. We’ve had the opportunity after many trips to discover some hidden spots including “our” own swimming hole, a favorite place to picnic, and several trails that lead to outstanding views both of the mountains and of the flora and fauna that inhabit these mountains. During this past trip, we drove into Pisgah Forest to eat sandwiches at a roadside table in the early evening. The stream was gurgling, and birds were calling to each other in preparation to end the day. I could not help but be struck by the smoky shafts of sunlight piercing the heavy forest canopy—heaven no longer separated from earth. That image has stuck in my memory as a visceral reminder that God is everywhere—inside, outside, and alongside me. In fact I, too, am a theophony because I am created in the spirit and image of God who said, “Let us create humankind in our image, according to our likeness” (Genesis 1:26).

The trip to celebrate our married life reinforced for me the sense of closeness and immanence between the natural and supernatural. God is present in the forests and gardens that we preserve and create. I am present to God in those places as well because I am created and re-created in such a setting. Celtic practitioners speak of thin places, and I do believe such places exist especially when one is out-of-doors in the beauty that was not unlike the first home of our first parents.

Being aware of God’s presence in nature and each other helps us to reach a place of healing and deep peace. May you experience that deep peace as you continue your journey to awareness of who you are in the God of All.

Glendalough in Wind and Rain

I'm in the throes of preparing to lead a retreat on Celtic spirituality, and my mind has drifted to my two visits to one of the key sites of Celtic monasticism. That site, Glendalough, is the village built by St. Kevin in the 6th century. In 2007, my husband and I visited Glendalough on a day trip by train from Dublin. As with any Irish day, the weather was very unpredictable, and while the sun was shining at Connolly Station in Dublin, it was certainly not shining in the Wicklow Mountains. We were semi-prepared for rain—at least we had wind breakers and hats—but there were occasional downpours and we were walking the two mile trail from the lough (pronounced 'lock'—Celtic for lake) down to the monastic village. There was a sense of wildness in that walk. Lashed by the driven rain, I had a difficult time keeping up a good pace, and there was a growing sense of self-pity because I was quickly becoming weary of what appeared to be more of a physical challenge than the perfect holiday.

This past June, I returned to Glendalough with my mother in tow. This time, I was most certainly on a 'tour,' and while I enjoyed the historical features pointed out by our guide, I missed the wildness that I had experienced the first time I visited. Glendalough somehow seemed almost tame under the experienced hand of the guide who took us through the various buildings explaining their functions while commenting on the life of the Celts who dwelled there. I tried to imagine the people milling about, much like we tourists were milling about, on their way to the market, or to choir offices, or out to the fields to plow, but this Glendalough did not give the same sense of mystery by showing forth the power of the elements that I experienced in Glendalough when I was soaked to the skin with rain.

I think it's that wildness that called up the Celtic spirit in me on the first trip. At first, I thought the trip had been a wash—literally—that we hadn't seen the real Glendalough, but when I returned the second time, I realized that we had, indeed, experienced Glendalough as a holy Celtic site, a place of elemental force and a stage for the power of the natural world.

John Philip Newell gives credence to the wildness of creation by connecting it to our inner stirrings. In The Book of Creation, he says, "A roaring fire under open sky with the wind catching its flames high into the air makes a profound impression on us, and can release a sense of identification with the elements" (21). He goes on to connect those inner stirrings with "desires, emotions and creative urges [that] surge up from our depths like whirlwinds" (21).

This unsettled feeling gives birth to creativity, just as the driven rain gives birth to roiling streams and lush green spaces. Newell also states that "The Celtic tradition deeply affirms the unbounded side of life" (22). As holy people, we have to let go of the fear of the wild places—the unchartered seas—and be willing to sail even beyond the end of the known world. It's in these wild, untamed places that God's gracious spirit blesses us with creative insight and power to heal ourselves and others.

When I think about the possibility of a third trip to Glendalough, I know that I will want it to be the wild and tempestuous experience it was the first time I journeyed there, and that I will be cognizant of the power of storm, rain, and wind as a metaphor for the mystery of God that lies at the root of all that is holy, creative and positive in this life.

For the Well-being of the World

John Philip Newell has a new book out called Praying with the Earth: a Prayerbook for Peace. The book is a book of liturgical prayers, and as such, is meant to be prayed instead of simply read. We'll use this book on August 5-7, 2011 when we gather for a Celtic Retreat at Roads End Retreat Center near Boone, N.C. I invite you to join us if you feel led to celebrate Celtic spirituality, to learn more about it, or simply to enjoy the out-of-doors that prompted so much of the Celtic way of being.

On a recent trip to Ireland, I noticed more than anything how moved I was by the landscape. Ireland is known for its lushness and green, yet there seem to be few forested areas. Instead, the Island is a mystical collection of fertile grasslands punctuated by lakes, seashore, streams, rivers--and sheep. To travel around the countryside means to meander the inlets of the sea that hugs the land. It means to wander through villages, to confront mountains and valleys, and to pass through rain, fog, and a few bright days as well. All the while, my eyes could not get enough of the natural beauty that has been preserved in a land that has been inhabited since long before the Anglo-Saxons invaded Britain.

The landscape holds sacred secrets not unlike our own inner depths. I believe we have an inner landscape that is punctuated by the promptings of our wiser selves, that speaks to us in our dreams and in the very essence of our breathing. When we grasp the concept of our Christ self or true consciousness, we become like the landscape that is full of greenspace, flowering plants, and water that in due season becomes fully evolved. It is also incumbent on us to protect that deeper space that exists below the "public" eye, to keep it safe and private from the collective until it's the right time to use our potential--our creative energy.

The Celtic people were in tune with nature and with human nature. May God help us to be so like-minded.

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If you would like more information on our Celtic Retreat at Roads End, please visit http://anamcarasmantle.org/celticretreat.html. Also, John Philip Newell will be in North Carolina at Lutheridge in Hendersonville, N.C. in December 2011. For more information, visit http://www.awakeningsoulpresents.org/.

My Garden

This is the season of fledglings. There are no less than eight birds’ nests around our home, and I have delighted in watching (from a distance) the little birds craning their necks upward, mouths wide open as they wait for mama bird to return with some tasty ground up worm or bug.


When we first moved here, our gardens didn’t exist. The houses in the subdivision were built on land that was once an orchard, but in the haste to create homes during the bubble, the land was denuded and what topsoil there was washed away. We have more than once complained of having to toil as Adam and Eve must have had to toil once they were cast from their paradise, but we have managed to create a bit of spacious beauty on our almost acre of land. Even though I always thought of myself as having a green thumb, I realized rather quickly that when it came to creating a garden I was certainly a neophyte, not unlike my little bird friends living in the trees that my husband and I planted six years ago. Of course, we’ve endured at least three summers of severe drought, and the red, rocky clay makes it all the more difficult for anything to thrive. I don’t think I’m likely to give up, however.

I’ve tended plants, pruned shrubs, pulled weeds, and watched my prized irises burst forth in color each spring. Last fall, I tried my hand at a rose bush. I’ve succeeded somewhat in producing blooms in the spring and fall, but the summer heat distracts it from much growth. There’s always something to do in the garden. As the birds in the nests build their strength and will soon take flight, I am going to begin to lay a path in the back garden. I’ve put down straw to mark my way, and I’m going to connect the bed with the fig tree to the new flower bed that was the vegetable garden last year. I want an English garden look, and the soil we have there must be good since we had a bounty of green beans, squash, and tomatoes this time last year. Being away for two European trips caused me to not be able to do much with that plot already this year. I’m hoping sunflowers will grow there; maybe I'll begin with zinnias and lavender. I think we’ll have to put in some azaleas up near the fig tree and perhaps some Adirondack chairs. Yes, I like that idea. Oh, and don’t forget the bird feeders. I want to encourage the chicks to hang around once they are on their own.

Whatever activity we find ourselves engaged in, we must recognize that there is always that neophyte stage when we don’t feel like we know much of anything. It’s then that we rely on others, our own insight, and the graciousness of the Universe to guide and direct our journey. In the words of poet, Mary Oliver,

“And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?

And have you changed your life?”

May we tread lightly, learn wisely, and give generously as we explore the world outside.

Rewriting My Life

When studying at The Bread Loaf School of English (Middlebury College) at its New Mexico campus in 2003, I took a course called Rewriting a Life. Tilly Warnock, a genius of a writing teacher, created the course which has become a "must take" among Bread Loaf students who consider themselves serious writers. That particular summer, Tilly focused on the writings of Tim O'Brien, but we also read Leslie Marmon Silko and Reynolds Price. I wrote more that summer than ever before about myself, my understanding of my journey, and the world as I saw it.

More importantly, I have adopted that title to describe places on my journey as I continue to explore this life that has been given me. I'm in one of those places of rewriting right now.

I consider myself a "serious" Christian, but one who for many years has also been a serious churchwoman. By serious, I mean disciplined—disciplined by prayer, sacred reading, study, and service. That serious Christianity, thankfully, for a time dovetailed into my serious church membership as well. Or at least I thought it did.

For over six years, my main work in the local church involved designing and offering spirituality programs, and I thought my "mission" was to call people to their inner selves, their roots, their connectors to God for sustenance and nourishment before going out to minister to others. Much like the yin-yang, I wanted to provide the dark, feminine prayer and contemplation for people who would merge into the white light of masculine service and ministry to others.

For a while, the ministry worked.

But ministry is a far more comprehensive activity than what the institution normally conceives. Now that I have stepped back from running the Center for Spiritual Development, I have a sense of freedom that I have not had since more and more control from others was placed on the programs. I have discovered that participation in ministry is to participate in what God is doing and desires done, and the institution, the Church, as it now stands cannot conceive such a relationship between what Jesus named as Kingdom and what we have tended to identify as “the church.” In the Sunday liturgy, that which most church-goers tend to identify as Christianity, we might keep that dangerous and creative memory alive, here and there, now and then, but hardly ever consistently. And once one enters the domain of institutions, that creative and fragile vision of the Kingdom is at risk of being co-opted, coerced, and commercialized.

As I rewrite my life once again, I find I am no longer bound to the institution, and instead, I see before me an amazing opportunity to explore the Kingdom. I think this means a number of changes for me—by no longer being tied to the trivialities of the institution, I rely rather on Jesus as the model for becoming Christ-like and free. If there is nothing else to see in the life of Jesus, it is the freedom he modeled, and that concept is one that very few of his followers have ever gotten right.

It seems to me that my new mantra will be, “Love God and do what pleases you” (St. Augustine). In ancient times, the prophet Micah said it this way,

“He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
and what does the LORD require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?
Micah 6:8

The rewriting process is sweet, indeed.

My Holy Week Experience

"Once more the wind of embarkment blew across my mind. How long would it continue to do so? God grant until my death! What joy to cast off from dry land and depart! To snip the string which ties us to certitude and depart! To look behind us and see the men and mountains we love receding into the distance!"

Nikos Katzanzakis Report to Greco

Here it is now, the mid-point of Easter Week, and I am remembering so very fondly my Holy Week experience. I was blessed to be in Italy for the first part of the week: Rome and The Vatican City, Assisi on Palm Sunday where we went to Mass at St. Clare's, visited her shrine in the crypt, and received olive branches to take home with us as tokens of our devotion. Assisi was among the favorite stops for the young adults I took on tour with me. We arrived in Florence for the next few days, then traveled on to Venice where we were surrounded by a party atmosphere that took me right back to Mardi Gras. Finally, we wended our way toward Milan stopping in Verona to visit the "famed" balcony of Juliet Capulet, the market in the town square and Dante's statue.


Dante Alighieri, famed poet of The Divine Comedy, was an exile in Italy. His wanderings were not for the sake of pleasure or sightseeing or even to visit new and interesting places. He was forced to leave his beloved city of Florence to preserve his life. How unlike Katzanzakis this great poet was! Katzanzakis had the freedom of "exile" while Dante was constricted by a life of wandering. Since these two writers rank in the top five of my favorites, I find the contrast between their circumstances very intriguing.


In June, once again I will embark for Europe. This time I will travel to Ireland, the land of at least some of my ancestors. I will be taking my mother, who has never gone abroad, with me. Together we will explore the sights, smells, sounds, and textures of a country that is filled with legends and the people of the Fay. I long to "snip the string which ties us to certitude and depart!"


What would all of life be like if we were able to "snip the string of certitude"? If we didn't insist on having our future planned and laid out neatly in days and months and years? If we could let the calendars, Blackberries, and datebooks we carry simply disappear from our lives? I often feel that in our journeys, we are more in exile than in adventure. We have an innate drive to plan our lives, to schedule our own days and months, and in the process to schedule others so they fit into our lives. Simply "being," observing, wandering, and even resting have become obsolete—or when they do come our way, it is because we've made time in our schedule for them. Such a life seems unworthy of creatures who were made in the image of the Holy.


May God grant us a deeper sense of the freedom to embark, to cast off, and to leave the need for certitude (and control) to someone greater and more capable than our own frail selves.

The Birth of Anam Cara's Mantle

I've always heard that a closed door leads to new opportunities. There is a wistfulness about such a statement, evoking a "what if" or "what now" mood. This past week, at my initiative, the Saint James Center for Spiritual Development Board of Directors advised me to end that ministry in its present form. It became clear to me from the level of participation in the programs we offered recently that the Center needed to lay fallow for the present moment... to follow the ancient Israeli practice of the seven year Sabbath. The Center came into being in 2004, so it is appropriate to think of the Sabbath coming now. We will officially end our programs when we return from the trip to Ireland on June 16, 2011.

But what of new opportunities? Knowing it is best not to run from one frenzied set of activities to another, I am also aware that I want to keep my practice of being an anam cara, a spiritual friend, open to those who choose to join me on the journey to be Christ in this world. To that end, I have posted a webpage specifically for the work that most attracts me: being a teacher and soul friend. This work includes leading retreats and quiet days, and I am willing to talk with you if you find my work interesting. 

I do sense a peeling away of layers. Like Longfellow's Arab, I am folding my tent and quietly slipping away. Let there be more of you God and less of me as I continue the journey with you. Help me to accept with grace the changes that come as part of life and to turn and turn again to your face.