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
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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

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