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.