The Journey

This poem captures how I feel in so many ways.

The Journey

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice,
though the whole house began to tremble
and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
"Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers at the very foundations,
though their melancholy was terrible.
It was already late enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen branches and stones.
But little by little, as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do,
determined to save the only life you could save.
Mary Oliver

We Only Know our Own Story

"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own."

This quote by Aslan in one of the Narnia classics has come to symbolize, for me, how I have begun to look at the world. I have made several life decisions lately that have driven people around me to various states of disapproval. I have recieved loads of advice and my share of scoldings. Yet, in the quiet of my own heart, I know that this is where God is leading me, as we create my life story together.

I have learned to be less concerned with what others think, yes. I have seen how scripture can be used to manipulate others and how doctrinal certainty can blind people to the humanity of the other. And I have learned to look at the lives of others with sympathy, recognizing that only they know their story and it is not my place to criticize it.

I only know my own story. And I am happy with that simple theology.

The Canterbury Trail

I've been asked by several people what is drawing me to Anglicanism. Recently, I picked up a book called Evangelicals on the Canterbury Trail, which largely mirrors my own experience. Robert Webber (author of numerous books on post-modern Christianity) talks about his own pilgrimage from a Baptist to an Anglican. I too was raised in Baptist or non-denominational churches (most of them fundamentalist). I was taught who was in and who was out and all about the rules I had to follow. From there, after I married a Presbyterian, I migrated to Reformed churches, where I found an intellectualism that appealed to me, while still leaving me feeling lost. Recently, I've found myself in the unlikely place of attending an Episcopal church. I was raised to believe that this church was "apostate" and outside the realm of Christian orthodoxy. What I found was quite different than what I ever expected.

I found, first, a place of worship. I've always been drawn to and longed for a sense of the transendent-- the presense that overwhelms me in my private prayers and outdoor ramblings, when I know that God is there. For the first time, I found that within a church building. Here I could worship a Triune God will all my senses-- with candles and incense and icons and prayers and readings. Instead of devoid of Scripture, I heard more of the Bible read in the Episcopal church than I ever had in an evangelical one. Most importantly, I found the sacraments. I had always felt that communion was just an appendage in most churches, and I was always so worried that I might not be worthy that I rarely had time to simply meet Christ. Here, the Eucharist took center stage as the priest intoned; "The body of Christ, the bread of life" and "The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation." I met Jesus at the altar in the bread and the wine.

With this, I found a sacramental view of life. I could pray for the preservation of the environment in church. I was encouraged to see the face of Christ in my fellow human beings. "Worldly" elements of fire, water, palm branches, candles, etc; all pointed to a heavenly reality, sanctifying all of life.

I also found a "safe place," a place of hospitality and welcome. I never felt that I could ask questions in evangelical churches, especially if they questioned favorite doctrines. I reached a point in my life that I could suppress the questions no longer. Interestingly, I expected a formal hierachacal church, and found just the opposite. Yes, the Anglican tradition loves its structure, but there is none of the imposition of ideas and authority that I found in conservative Presbyterianism. It has been a place where I could struggle and still be welcome, doubt and still be embraced. It was also a place where I could celebrate my womanhood and be encouraged to find my full potential in the body of Christ, without rules regarding my gender.

Finally, I found a place both ancient and global. Anglicanism is a tradition that stands squarely in the historical Christian faith. Its history does not begin at the Reformation, rather it is both Catholic and Protestant, embracing the wisdom of the ancient church. It is also a global communion, varying widely in ideology, in race, in place of origin, in doctrine, but united by a common faith in a common Savior.

Productive Silence

I have only a few more days before school is out. While I love my studies, the break will be exceptionally nice. Its been awhile since I've had one. One thing I've learned this quarter, though, is the value of solitude and silence. Even if I only have a few minutes, taking the time to notice my flowers blooming or the hummingbird outside my window and marvel is rest for the soul. Or perhaps a silent prayer or a chapter from a Henri Nouwen book. Or a time of praying through the trinity icon sitting on my desk. Each of these things allows me to feel the presence of God in the midst of a busy day. I think, perhaps, we value accomplishment too much in our culture and only feel productive if we are "doing something." I think these quiet moments are equally valuable.

I think they are just as much preparation for my future as my frantic writing and endless studying. Or the tests and the grad school research and the language study. It gives me the opportunity to listen-- to find God and to find myself.

At this point in my life, I have many decisions to make. I will finish my undergrad studies in a year, during which time I will be pursuing studies in theology and social justice. I need to apply to grad school, where I plan to study theology. And then there is the question of where I will go from there. Full time ministry? Professorship? Sometimes the enormity of my decisions weighs on me. It is now, more than ever, that I feel the need to listen to the silence. In England, I will be taking a retreat to Lindisfarne, the Holy Island in Northern England where St. Aidan established an early Christian monastary. There, I hope to enjoy the solitude of a pilgrimage, seeking God's leading for my life. Perhaps the holy island is a thin place, where heaven meets earth. Or perhaps all places are just that.

Nature Reserves and Sacred Space

Ansel Adams talks about how natural preservation invites a spiritual experience. I was thinking about this as my sisters and I hiked in the Hoh Rain Forest, a national forest, this weekend. There are many good reasons to set up nature reserves and national parks and forests. We often think of it as a way to protect what would otherwise be lost. We live in a fast-paced world, full of traffic, machines, noise, and high rises. Not many of us are in the constant contact with nature as our great-grandparents may have been. Urbanization and industrialization have left their mark, for good or ill. Yet there does seem to be a longing in all of us for contact with the natural world. For a previous generation, their lives were regulated by the seasons, the cycles of sun and moon and harvest. They were intimately aware of the plant and animal life around them, if only to survive. Our society has largely seen natural resources only in terms of how they can be exploited and our individual contact is more minimal.

Perhaps this is the whole point of national parks; the creation not only of a refuge for nature but for ourselves. It seems to be a kind of "sacred space;" a place to leave behind the bustle of everyday life and reconnect with the water, trees, and sky. To find ourselves. Even, to find God.

For myself, no church building rivals the old cedar groves and rushing river banks of the Olympic Peninsula. God as trinity, as creator, sustainer, redeemer, makes himself known in the "book of nature."

Lost Hopes

I have bones, dry and mourned
Strewn across my heart
The shadows of dreams, long dead.

Hope is there
So is childhood
Butchered with impunity.
Friendships, trampled, broken
Hope, shattered, dead...

My blood rushes over bones
Glides over bones
My heart dies choked with bones.

Brokenness and its benefits

My priest gave a beautiful sermon today that really touched me. The lesson was on Psalm 22 and he spoke about how we often feel abandoned by God. The psalm is often on my mind, especially in difficult circumstances. Sometimes God seems very far away and just as often I feel doubt as to his call on my life. The way forward seems murky. However, the sermon pointed out that, like Mother Theresa, many find that it is in this place that God uses them most-- out of our broken lives and questioning hearts God brings us to place to minister to others. Perhaps it is because we feel ourselves on the margins at those times and get a glimpse of human suffering and pain that gives us the ability to relate to others.

It is interesting; the past year has been one of intense doubts and questions and times when I've wondered if God is even there. Yet I have also come to understand human need so much more, learning to see the face of Christ in the poor and lonely. And I am ok with the questions, the doubts. The "dark night of the soul" can be a rich, though painful, place of learning.