Traveling Companions and Powerful Water

My car was very crowded when I departed for the Monastery on Monday morning.  Not only did I have a small suitcase and a cooler filled with food for my two day sojourn, but I had also managed to pack at least half a dozen unresolved issues, a handful of serious worries, and a baker's dozen of seemingly important but actually irrelevant problems - all stuffed into the back seat, and clamoring for attention.  David Crosby and Graham Nash squeezed into the front seat and kept me company until Cambridge.  Once the snow flurries started, they got out and JT road with me through the flurries until I stopped just outside of Riggins for some huckleberries.  He liked the look of the pie, and stayed on in Riggins, leaving space for Stephen Iverson to keep me company the rest of the way.  We stopped at the Skookumchuck lay by and had some lunch, and the view so impressed the unresolved issues, serious worries and irrelevant problems that they got out to take a boat trip on the Salmon.  Stephen and I waved goodbye and headed over White Bird Pass towards Cottonwood.

There is a place between Grangeville and Cottonwood where the Monastery Chapel towers come into view - each trip I find myself looking for them before I even realize what I am looking for.  And then I see them, and take the deepest of breaths.  I'm almost home.

I am often asked why I drive 4 1/2 hours to have time on retreat.  After all, I can pray to God anywhere (true).  And I can keep silent anywhere and listen for our still speaking God (also true).  And I can have time for reading and contemplation anywhere (also very true).  All God's creation is sacred space, so the square miles around the monastery aren't any more sacred than, say, Eagle Island State Park, or my own backyard.  So why make the drive?

I park my car and come into the Spirit Center, see my room assignment, and take my things down to my room.  Then I pull the rocking chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, pull the blinds up and out of the way, and sit down and gaze out on the Monastery property, the Camas Prairie, and the Bitterroot Mountains.  As I sit and gaze, I notice that slowly, over time, I completely slow down until I am moving at the speed of the Universe, and my heart starts to beat in sync with a heartbeat so much greater than my own.  Then I am home.

This morning each scripture passage read during Morning Prayer came directly from the heart of God to me - it could not have been more of a gift if the passages had been wrapped in pretty foils and topped with bows - they took my breath away.  My time with my Spiritual Director was life-giving.  Meaningful books are being read.  But mostly I sit and gaze out the window, and allow God to restore and strengthen my soul in ways words cannot describe - while the lone icicle melts from the railing of the foot bridge, and the morning star gets enveloped by light at sunrise, and the snow begins to melt into the parched prairie landscape, giving the earth a big long drink.  I gaze, commune, and experience a refreshment similar to the parched ground.

And I give thanks for the opportunity to be loved unconditionally and accepted and cherished for who I am - and relish the moments to gaze into God's loving eyes, present to me through the love of the community, and in the mother-of-pearl/peach/steel blue colors of the sunrise.

This is why I go on retreat - I go to experience God's love and refreshment, and to deepen my experience with God.  Upon return to Boise, I can share that love with others.  The saying seems trite but is so true - you can't give what you ain't got.

When I drive back tomorrow morning I will not stop at the Skookumchuck lay by to pick up my original passengers.  They can find their own way back to Boise.  God always keeps my company on the drive back - and God is a fascinating traveling companion.

Drinking deeply,
Kim

by candlelight...

It is a profoundly simple ritual:  Once a year (around All Saints or All Souls Day) we bring the purpose-made tray out of the basement and place it on the communion table in the sanctuary, fill the tray with sand, set out about 500 small white candles in baskets, and begin worship.  After I talk with the children about "lifetimes" (death), the congregation is invited to come forward and light candles for loved ones who have died (and companion animals, and dreams - because they can die, too).  In an instant this diverse congregation (diverse in age, gender identity, political views, theology, sexual orientation, and a zillion other identifiers) all stand on common ground:

We are people who love, risk, experience loss, and heal through love.  Seeing others suffer as they touch that place of pain and loss causes compassion to arise within us.  Compassion brings down walls, and helps us to heal (individually and as a group).

I began this ritual sixteen years ago as I way to teach a deeply troubled church that what they share is greater than what divides them.  It took some time (and a few additional rituals), but they gained a deep appreciation of this truth - and gave up war.  There is such healing power in shared rituals...

...create sacred space, enter it together, be vulnerable and open, and watch Spirit work.  I am awed each and every time it happens.

Last week I completely completed year one of my DASD/DMin.  All my paperwork is in (the Presbys have a gift for creating paperwork - positively amazing), and the books for year 2 are looking at me  (some excellent and very challenging topics, to be sure - I'll try to remember to put the reading list in the blog). People have been asking me what I will be writing about in my big project at the end of my DMin.  The answer has been surprisingly quick in coming.  In 2013 I will celebrate 30 years in ministry (20 of them in ordained ministry), and almost all of them working with highly conflicted churches.  Both my physical and spiritual heart have suggested that, perhaps, my days riding in that particular rodeo are over.  As a way of drawing that phase of my ministry to a close, I want to further research and describe what I've learned about liturgy and healing - about the amazing ways congregations can heal and grow when they enter that sacred space together, risk being vulnerable and open, and allow Spirit to work.

Many a wounded congregations found the way to healing and wholeness by candlelight...

Resting in the Mystery,
Kim