Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Can You Really Go Home Again?


I have walked down that aisle many times over the course of my life. Most occasions have been rather mundane, more habitual than ritual. However, some of the most important journeys of my life have been taken down that 65-foot long, carpeted aisle. As a child, I would solemnly walk in stride to the organ music – a contemporary of mine either to my right or left. In our hands, a long brass pole with the light of Christ on the end. It is a task to be taken seriously and I wish I could say I always did. Often there would be giggling and laughing. I learned an important lesson in church acoustics walking down that aisle. What I thought were whispers between my fellow acolyte and me were actually public conversations for the entire gathered congregation to overhear.

The first of many significant journeys down that center aisle was in August of 1984. It was the last night of a revival lead by Mercer Shaw. I cannot count the number of times he led these summer revivals in our church. He was the typical summer revival preacher … bad hair … motor home parked in the church parking lot … wife with bigger hair than his … baritone voice. I would like to say the events leading up to my confession of faith were Paul-like – a Damascus Road kind of thing – but that would be a lie. Rather it was more of an “I’ll go if you go” kind of thing between Scot and me when the invitation was extended.

Rather than feeling a nudge from God, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The finger belonged to an 80 plus year old woman. It was bent with age and arthritis - all bone, yet very firm and determined. Ironically, the woman attached to the finger would years later be my neighbor and I would have the opportunity to minister to her surviving sisters.

“Go on,” she said with a smile. “Y’all go on down there.”

And we did just that. Scot, four others, and me walked down that aisle and made our profession of faith. Some six weeks later, I would rise from the baptismal waters and enter fully into a community that had nurtured me until that time and after. It would be years before I truly understood what that walk down the aisle would mean – the consequences of that action. Then again, I wonder some 24 years later, if I still fully understand the ramifications of that day.

The next major walk down that aisle occurred in June of 1994 – my wedding day … well, my FIRST wedding day. Obviously, that journey did not end the way it was envisioned that June afternoon, but it remains to this day a very significant part of who I am – a part of my story and journey of life and faith. I walked down that aisle single and I walked back up a married man. Had I not walked down the aisle that day, my life would be forever different, and I must say, less fulfilled. In spite of this particular trip’s final destination, the journey it started brought me great joy. Had I not taken that journey on that hot summer night some 15 years ago, I would not be the person I am today – I would not be as self-aware – and I most certainly would not have my oldest son.

Just a tad under four years later, I traveled down that aisle one more time – this time, second in a long processional line while a solo trumpet blared the opening verse of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.” After a long and winding road, the calling I had felt some eleven years earlier was being affirmed, as I was ordained into the Christian Ministry. I can remember that day very clearly, as once again, it was the culmination of one journey and the beginning of yet another.

So this past Sunday (the 29th), when I walked down that aisle to once again become a part of that community of faith … having kicked the sand off my shoes down the road, I returned to the place where my journey of faith began. There were many new faces in the crowd that day, but also some very familiar ones; men and women who mentored me, taught me, loved me, and challenged me all along the journey I have traveled.

They say you cannot go home again, and to an extent, I agree. Once you leave a place, especially for an extended period of time, it will change – become transformed – and that is as it should be. However, that grey-carpeted aisle was still there. As were those wooden pews, the high ceiling, and the beautiful stained glass depicting the baptism of Jesus. That aisle has been so significant to my journey it is only appropriate such a depiction look down upon it. And I knew I was home.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Journey Towards Authenticity Continues

For several months, life within the Chandler family has been chaotic and in turmoil. This, I realize, is a part of every family, but to be perfectly honest I think we have had more than our share. Being a clergy couple provides some wonderful opportunities and yet, also great challenges and frustrations. Traditionally, I have been a person who has kept much of his feelings inside which can lead to added frustration, not to mention have emotional, spiritual, and physical consequences.

One of the outlets I have embraced, especially during these last few months, is writing. I journal, I blog, and I write short bursts of expression on Facebook. I realize this makes some people feel uncomfortable or perhaps even threatened as they are not aware fully the context of those “bursts.” It has also lead to new friendships and deepened relationships – expressions of caring and concern, broadening the circle of love, friendship, and support for Courtney and me in a time of great turmoil and distress. For many, the question might have been at some point, “What in the world is going on?” Some have asked that of us, some have asked others, some have not asked. I can assure you, it is a question I have often asked myself, “What in the WORLD is going on?”

Today, I guess, is as good a day as any to articulate my journey and my story as best I can in hopes of trying to makes some sense of it myself but to also ask for your continued prayers and support for Courtney, the boys, and me as our journey continues in ways never expected.

When I began sabbatical in May of this year, it was for me, a journey and quest for authenticity. As I have shared some in a blog, I had felt over time I had allowed my authentic voice to be silenced. If you know me at all, you know I can be blunt and direct, crude and funny; sometimes – ok, often – dancing, if not stomping, on boundaries society has created. What people do not realize or see, I often think, is the other side of me. For as long as I can remember, I have used humor – sometimes rightly labeled as sarcasm and cynicism and sometimes mistakenly labeled as such – to mask and hide what I think is my true self.

A great deal happened on that sabbatical experience – a large majority of it being extremely positive, yet there were several influences from the “outside” which penetrated that holy experience for me. For anyone who has either served a church in vocational ministry or lay people who have tirelessly given of their time and talents, we have become all to aware of the difference between “Church” as an institution and “Church” as a true community of God’s people trying to live with hope while pursuing justice and peace. It is an all too easy trap to worship the institutional Church while ignoring the Church as community. My sabbatical away from the Institution was most helpful and refreshing. It allowed me to refocus my Spirit on Community – yet I knew, lurking in the shadows, was the Institution.

I literally had not returned from sabbatical 24 hours before the Institution, filled with anxiety and other issues, emerged from the shadows and reared its ugly head. The fact is, the Institution had been popping in and out of my world for the last two months of my sabbatical, but I was able, for the most part, to fight it back. That all changed on, ironically, September 11, 2009.

Imagine, if you will, going to your mailbox at home, or as I did that day, sitting in my office and finding a plain white envelope addressed to you, with no return address. You open the envelope just as you have opened literally thousands of other envelopes before it, and you find within a single white piece of paper and on that paper are the following words:

LEAVE! GO! PLEASE, JUST LEAVE US ALONE. PACK UP YOUR FAMILY, YOUR WIFE, AND YOUR BRATTY KIDS AND LEAVE! WE DO NOT WANT YOU HERE AND WE NEVER HAVE. WHILE YOU ARE LEAVING, TAKE YOUR CO-HORT WITH YOU. THIS IS OUR CHURCH AND NOT YOURS. YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHRISTIAN BUT YOU ARE NOT!!!

IT WILL BE BEST FOR YOU AND YOUR FAMILY IF YOU JUST GO. IT IS NO LONGER SAFE FOR YOU TO BE HERE. IF YOU ALL KEEP SHOWING UP, WHO KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU ALL!!!!

JUST LEAVE! PLEASE? YOU AND THOSE LIKE YOU ARE NOT WANTED HERE BY US OLDER MEMBERS. WE ARE NOT GOING TO CHANGE AND YOU CANNOT MAKE US! PLEASE LEAVE ON YOUR OWN BEFORE SOMEONE MAKES YOU LEAVE.

The letter, of course, is unsigned.

Words cannot truly express the hurt, shock, and anger at receiving such a letter. I will say, however this letter has deeply impacted my life and the life of my family, as well as both the Institutional Church and Communal Church I have tried to faithfully serve for the last six years in Athens.

In the time since this letter was received, I have been unable to bring my oldest son with me into this place as I have feared for physical, emotional, and spiritual safety. He is well aware now of this situation and I know he is deeply troubled by it; expressing this in ways only an 8 year old can – with honesty and sincerity. I have been walking around this place filled with an emptiness that is indescribable and an anger and frustration hard to imagine. I feel as though all aspects of my life – physical, emotional, spiritual; vocational and personal – have been violated.

Complicating matters a great deal has been the collision of my vocational world and Courtney’s as she has had to deal with some very difficult issues in her ministry position – issues which led to her termination last week. She and I have tried very hard to keep these worlds and struggles separate for the sake of our own sanity and the peacefulness of our home. The collision which took place was due to the actions of another, and then another, and then another, and so on. Oh well … some things are simply out of our control. I will simply say I love Courtney deeply and am proud of her as a person, a spouse, a partner in life and in ministry. She is a woman of incredible gifts and graces, integrity being one of the greatest. When all else is going to hell in a hand basket, Courtney has always acted with compassion, justice, and integrity!

Everyday for the last 15 years, I have awakened with the knowledge that I am the “some minister” of “some congregation.” On November 16th, that will no longer be the case as tonight (November 3), I am resigning my position as the Senior Minister of First Christian Church in Athens. At this time, I do not have another ministry calling so I do this with a great deal of fear, trembling, but also faith and hope. The time has come for me to begin a new journey, personally and vocationally … spiritually.

One of the great lessons I have learned in recent months is regarding where I place my faith and allegiance in regards to the Church. I have for too long, wrongly placed my hope and faith in the Institution of Church rather than within the Community of Church. Do not misunderstand, the Institutional Church has taught me a great deal – it has assisted me in the forming of relationships I would not otherwise have. Yet, is it is the Communal Church God formed that day of Pentecost – it is the Communal Church that cares for and nurtures God’s people. For too long I have been guilty of idolatry and the time for confession, repentance, reconciliation and healing is about to begin. I love the Church, but I love God even more … and so a new journey for me begins.

There is a lot of grief and sadness associated with this transition in my life and within the life of my family … and yes, there has been a great deal of anger. But I have allowed those things to have way too much power over me. No more. Now I shall be the person I know I truly am – to be the person God has created … blunt and direct, crude and funny; dancing, if not stomping on the boundaries society has created … but I hope to see and hope others will see the other parts of me – caring, sensitive, compassionate, justice-seeking, loving, prophetic … a person of deep faith and hope. Indeed, I love the Church, but I love God a whole lot more.

Who knows where this journey will lead? When it first hit me that I would no longer have a pulpit to stand behind on a weekly basis, it scared me. The irony of it all being when I first accepted the call to vocational ministry 22 years ago, I had said I never wanted to pastor a church – I never wanted to preach on a regular basis.

In May, I set out on an intentional journey of trying to reclaim my own voice, a voice of authenticity. I thought it was something I could do in a three month period. While great strides were made in that time, I realize now that journey continues, but down a different path. The world, God’s Community of Creation, is now my Church and my voice will be my pulpit.

I covet prayers and traveling mercies for this journey. For the ways our paths have crossed to this point, I give God thanks. I pray also, our journeys shall continue to cross in hopes of finding our individual voices of authenticity together.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Worshipping on the Island of Misfit Toys



One of my biggest hopes during this time of sabbatical has been to worship with different congregations, with different people, and in different traditions and ways. To this end, I have been successful. Worship for me takes on a variety of forms, not just the customary Sunday morning, 11 am time of sitting in the pew and going through the liturgical rites. Thus far, my journey has taken me several places.

Of course, I began this journey with 19,000 others worshipping at the feet of “The Boss” in Greensboro; I have communed and worshipped in nature while on a solo camping trip; and I had the pleasure to worship one Sunday morning on the golf course of the Athens Country Club. People find the Sacred and Holy in many forms and ways – that sense of Presence, Calm, and Awe. It can be hard to explain, but an experience to be had.

Of course, I have spent the Sunday morning hour in more traditional worship settings as well. I have sat in a cathedral church listening to the sounds of pipe organ and strings as a soprano voice filled the stained glass sanctuary to its heights. I have sat in the air conditioning of a camp dining hall turned sanctuary as children presided at the Lord’s Table, extending God’s invitation to a great Love Feast consisting of Rice Krispee treats and apple juice in sign language. I have worshipped with my wife and children present – once as my wife preached a beautiful sermon. Today however was something different altogether; today I worshipped on “the Island of Misfit Toys” … and it was GOOD …

You remember the old “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” show from 1964, don’t you? There is not a single American child (other than perhaps an Amish child) born in the last 45 years who has not seen this classic. It is to the Island of Misfit Toys Rudolph and his traveling companion Hermey (the dentist wannabe) find themselves on Christmas Eve. The island is filled with toys no children want, so they are forever banished (or so we think … don’t want to give away too much, less there be some Amish kids reading this) to the dreadful island.


This morning I dropped the wife and kids off at her church and traveled up the road about 10 minutes to the Virginia Highland area of Atlanta to visit a congregation I have been wanting to check out for almost a year - a United Church of Christ/Baptist Alliance congregation. They are small – progressive in theology – open and affirming – and currently being served by an openly gay interim pastor.

Virginia Highland is a very happening place at 9:30 on a Sunday morning, but not in the “getting ready to head to church” kind of way; more like the “bagel, coffee, and New York Times reading” kind of busy.

I entered the gorgeous worship space and was immediately welcomed by the Spirit within. I was an hour and a half early for worship, so I was afforded the pleasure of sitting in silence within a true sanctuary until greeted by the organist and choir director. As more and more people entered, the more welcomed I was made to feel. I was a stranger – someone just off the street – and I was made to feel at home. “How did you hear about us?” was the most often asked question. I explained my connection to the DOC church, my sabbatical period and my desire to worship in different places and ways. How marvelous it was.

Worship began at 11 am sharp. The service was highly liturgical in nature – “just pretend you are Episcopalian for an hour” was the advice the Associate Minister offered when she greeted me. I was one of about 55 people present, including the 3 children I saw – and if I had to guess (without trying to stereotype) I would say 65% of those present were gay.

There were 2 elderly women in the pews in front of me. I am guessing they have been a part of this congregation is its past incarnation, whatever that might have been, and have chosen to remain a part of the church, regardless of its vision and purpose. To my right sat a young woman in her early twenties. If I had to guess, she too was a first time visitor. She looked shy and uncertain, but did choose to engage herself in the liturgy. I did notice she was quick to leave following the service.

Worship was an interesting mix – reflective of the diversity of those gathered and our various places along our faith journey. In the mix of the high church liturgy and the real wine used for communion was the piano prelude calling us to worship – an homage to the late Michael Jackson. Some would find that out or place or irreverent in a place of worship, but somehow it fit beautifully, tastefully, and faithfully.

Here is the thing: on more than one occasion, the minister referenced the diverse church traditions represented by those attending worship this morning. He himself acknowledged growing up as a fundamentalist Christian. This, from what I understand, is not uncommon in congregations in which a larger percentage of its worshipping members are gay, lesbian, or trans-gendered. Children of God, created in God’s own image and likeness, in some cases choose and in other cases are forced to leave the faith tradition of their upbringing because of sexual orientation. Fear, judgment, ridicule, violence, hatred, rejection … in the name of God, ironically, leads to banishment to the Island of Misfit Toys.

A dear friend and muse of mine has been writing a good bit on the topic of “Sanctuary” as it relates to where her own faith journey currently finds itself. For her, and in the traditional sense, a sanctuary is called to be a place not only of worship but also of safety. I would argue (and in fact, have) that in order to be the former, it must FIRST be the latter.

As I experience worship in its entirety this morning, I found myself filled with mixed emotions. I was angry. I was angry for the NEED for a church like the one in Virginia Highland to exist. No person, regardless of color, age, height, weight, disability, or sexual orientation, should ever be made to feel they are not welcomed in a church simply because of who they have been created to be by a loving and merciful creator. In some ways, this church exists today because of the hatred, intolerance, and ignorance of others who dare claim the name of Christ as their Lord and Savior. That pisses me off.

At the same time, I was moved to great joy BECAUSE this congregation exists. Please do not misunderstand – this little church is not “a gay church” nor do I think they desire that as their identity. Rather, they are a Church – a part of Christ’s body – whose make up includes gays and lesbians. How wonderful it is this small church in Virginia Highland DOES exist to give witness to a loving and caring God and to offer a true sanctuary not just for those present today, but for all who have felt rejected and cast aside by church or who want to live a life as modeled by Jesus himself

I am filled with great joy to know places like this exist and with the guidance of the Spirit, this Church will continue to grow in wisdom and in faithfulness. Indeed, I worshipped today on the Island of Misfit Toys … and it was GOOD! So good, I hope to return (just like Rudolph and Hermey did in the 2001 sequel).

I wonder about the young lady sitting in the pew to my right. She seemed so timid. I wonder if she had been abused at some time by the church. She sat there like a pet who had been beaten and was just waiting for the next swat of the newspaper. I wonder if she sat in that pew, based on her previous experience, waiting for the other shoe to drop – expecting the next word to be spoken to be one of hurt rather than one of comfort and affirmation.

As I turned the corner to walk back to my car, she was ahead of me by about 30 yards on the sidewalk. I saw her turn out of site, not sure if she lived in the neighborhood of if she was going back to her car. I hope she found sanctuary this morning. I hope she enjoyed sitting among a group of misfits, including myself.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Clarity



“Making room for less …”

That phrase has stayed with me now for the last two and a half weeks. Making room for less.

I write this sitting by a lake in one of our state parks. Temperatures have been much cooler these last few days compared to the other days of May. I have a tent pitched and water is coming to a boil on my camp stove. I am alone. But then again, I am not alone at all. When we live in community, as people of faith often do, we are never alone.

At home, my wife and youngest son prepare themselves to turn in for the evening. My oldest is with his mother, getting ready for bed before his last day of second grade.

The congregation I currently serve is now seated around a table for a called board meeting. Their task, as I understand it, is to be creative as they discern and plan their future in the midst of economic crisis and chronic anxiety.

Tonight, MY congregation includes crickets chirping, a very friendly squirrel, a thirsty deer, and birds playing on a sand bar a lob wedge’s distance away. There are also gnats swarming around me … every congregation has gnats.

The sun is beginning to set.

The church choir tonight is Jimmy Buffett on my I-Pod (ironically, “My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don’t Love Jesus” just started. No lie. You cannot make stuff like that up.).

It has been windy today, but now there is just a breeze. The Holy Spirit likes to worship outside, too.

A couple of Sundays ago, I sat with a different congregation. The music was to die for. A thin young man wearing a turquoise shirt and khakis with a beautiful voice sang a capella. His voice filled the church and my soul. God bless the men, women, and children with that gift; I certainly covet it.

The sermon that day was “based” in John’s Gospel; Jesus’ words of being the Vine. Vines. Branches. Fruit. Pruning. I heave heard these words and preached them more than I sometimes care to. I soon became disinterested in the sermon. It seemed to be ill-prepared and rambling. In my head, I began to write my own sermon - I guess from that standpoint the sermon was “successful.” Here it is, nine days later, and I still reflect upon it.

Each biblical text, I believe, has within it at least one“image.” Some are obvious, others are more embedded, if you will. My mind began to wander to the image of “pruning.”

On my most cynical day, this should not be to surprising. William Sloane Coffin once stated that in order to protect the sheep, you have to get rid of a few wolves. That is pruning. This, however, is not the type of pruning I was considering … THIS time .

I was thinking more of the temporal pruning my life – and I am sure, most lives – find themselves in need. A pruning of things that in the Grand Scheme … that in a healthy and fruitful life – that within the Kingdom of God – do not mean a damn thing. My wife calls it “clutter.”

I have a lot of clutter in my life and most of it is clutter you cannot see. It is the clutter that fills my mind and often troubles my spirit. It is the clutter that causes me to grind my teeth and clench my jaw. It is the clutter that causes me to snap. It is the clutter that causes me to question. It is the clutter that brings me to the woods. THIS clutter needs to be pruned. It needs to be cut away and burned in the unquenchable fire. This MUST happen in order for new fruit to spring forth and flourish.

When the clutter is gone, newness has the potential to come in and take its place. Without clutter, there is the possibility for clarity.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Silence

The trip to Greensboro is now behind me and of course, Bruce did not disappoint. Like the Atlanta show, he played for three hours and while the set-list was about 60% the same, the other 40% really blew the doors off the Greensboro Coliseum. This is not to say it was better than the Atlanta show; it was just different – very much geared to the Greensboro audience.

Walking back to the car, I was asked how this show compared to Atlanta and my responses were more technical in nature – because, after all, I am such an expert on these technical matters. The Coliseum in Greensboro seemed much smaller than Philips Arena. I do not know this for sure, but I would guess it is about 80 percent the size of Philips, but most importantly, with a much lower ceiling. My opinion is the sound techs had everything checked for a larger place, which caused the sound to be distorted at different points in the show. Also, this show featured Max Weinberg’s son on the drums for about half the show. The younger Weinberg is a great drummer, but lacks the finesse of his father and he often threw the band off tempo, including Bruce. Still it was an awesome show and I have no regrets about making the trip.

Believe it or not, all of this plays into a topic often on my mind, silence, and my journey to regain the authentic voice …

The drive to NC was filled with noise. Driving up I-85, speakers and I-pod were blaring with Dropkick Murphys and Springsteen – both in an effort to stay awake and get primed and pumped for the evening’s activities. In my car I have the I-pod, regular radio, satellite radio, and of course my Blackjack (the poor man’s Blackberry). I have more in my car to keep me occupied than many people have in their homes. I know, it’s pretty damn sad, but (not as a defense) it is a sign of the times. We find things to fill our ears and heads until the next thing comes along. We have lost patience with silence - which is also a damn shame as I think silence is truly a spiritual discipline – and a lost one at that.

Those who know me and who experience worship with me know I love to interject periods of intentional silence into the service. This is unnerving to a lot of people because silence can be awkward. Did someone forget their cue? Am I supposed to be DOING something? This is boring just sitting here. We have become so conditioned to SOMETHING in the background AND foreground. Our lives demand a soundtrack, and not just one of music.

So I tried something radical on the way home; I drove the 316 miles from Greensboro to my house in silence. No NPR. No I-pod. No Sirius. I found the addition of silence to be freeing; liberating me of so much of the clutter which had built up over time. At this point, I must make two confessions: the first is that I DID on occasion check the score of the Hawks game on my phone … but give me some credit, I am sure the game also could have been found on Sirius, but by that time, I was committed to the silence thing. The other confession is that the silence was not, at first, intentional.

As I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, my ears were still ringing from the night before. I was also trying to decide the soundtrack for the drive home. I postponed my decision since I did not want distractions trying to find my way back to the interstate (how easy it is to get lost in music and forget your surroundings – both a blessing and curse). It was probably 30 minutes later before I realized there was no music coming from the speakers of my car. I figured I had experienced enough sound and noise in the last 12 hours (hell, in the last 14 years) and so at that moment, I made the conscious decision to see how far the silence could take me.

It is an amazing thing to drive for 5 hours in complete silence. The only noise was the air and wind made by my car, the occasional sound of a blinker, the sporadic drops of rain hitting the windshield and the sound of my engine. I was both conscious and amazed by how much more one pays attention to their surroundings when in silence. I paid closer attention to the scenery. I noticed more the road signs. I saw the people driving around me. I found myself asking aloud, “Does my car ALWAYS make this noise, and if so, should I be worried it does?” At these moments paranoia began to creep into my silent journey, but all it all it was an amazing trip home - the only drawback being the lack of Starbucks along I-85 between Greensboro and home. (Important driving safety tip: it is not a good idea to give up both noise AND caffeine when driving more than 4 hours on the interstate.)

316 miles. 5 hours. Complete and total silence. It was amazing and a great way to being my journey. Originally, my trip to Greensboro was just an excuse to see another Springsteen show and to meet up with old friends, but it turned out to be something even more. Springsteen’s music has provided much of the soundtrack to my life since I bought Born in the U.S.A. in 1984. From that moment, I was hooked.

I checked out Greetings from Asbury Park and Darkness on the Edge of Town from the library where I worked before buying them.. I remember purchasing a copy of Born to Run in the bargain bin of a Kroger in Charleston, SC when on vacation when I was 14. I thought The River was the greatest thing I ever heard, wearing out 2 copies of the 2-tape set. Nebraska still haunts and inspires. Over the years, I have found his music and lyrics empowering, soothing, comforting, and energizing. I have now seen him live 8 times and each concert is for me an act of worship – a truly spiritual experience – and no two are ever the same. He is a master storyteller and as I have matured, I have come to realize this as my number one connection to his art.

This trip proved to be a fitting beginning to my Sabbath - my search to regain the authentic voice within me. Bruce provided both the noise and the inspiration for the silence. These five hours were great preparation for the DAYS of worship and silence awaiting me within the context of monastic life down the road.

Our world is filled with so much noise demanding our attention it becomes imperative for us to seek out the silence. We must make room for the silence within our spiritual journeys in order for the clutter to be removed. It is then and only then, we become aware of the path we are traveling as well as the scenery along the path itself. In the silence sometimes, there is only the sound of the wind – a sure and certain sign of a Holy and sacred presence. This I think, is the first step in living more simply – living with authenticity.

Sometimes we must add more so we might make room for less.

Friday, May 1, 2009

The Journey ...



So now, the journey really begins …

It has been a long time since I have posted to this blog. There was the first obligatory post and then a sermon, followed by dormancy. I write every week out of necessity. Well, that is not really true; I write every week out of a calling. It is a calling about which I still feel passion, however, it is a calling which has burned me out. I have found it difficult to find time for personal reflective writing or journaling, it is called.

When I began this blog, I was feeling as though the voice within me had been lost. That voice is personal and hopefully, authentic. Somehow, along my journey authenticity had been lost, and at times, taken away from me. I wonder, did someone take it from me or did I allow it to be taken? Perhaps, the answer lies not in the “either/or” but somewhere in between. I have always been covetous of those who observe the spiritual discipline of journaling and in the coming months, I plan to use this location as one place of spiritual practice.

Today is May 1, 2009; the beginning of a 3 month sabbatical from my vocational ministry. It is not, however a sabbatical from the spiritual life. In fact, these 90 days will be an attempt to reconnect spiritually; an attempt to rediscover my own voice – a journey of rediscovering personal authenticity.

The journey began with a trip to the optometrist office. This was not a planned stop along the way. It seems when you inadvertently attempt to insert a torn contact lens into your eye, you run the risk of scratching your cornea. Who knew? Along the way however, my journey will take me to places like the Greensboro Coliseum, a monastery in Conyers, a camp in Gordon, an island called Andros, and a hotel in Indianapolis. I imagine there will be a golf course or two thrown in for good measure – after all – God loves golf. The journey will take me many other places, I am certain, yet I have not idea when the journey will conclude or if it will. I remain open however, to wherever it might lead.

My traveling partners will of course include my wife and children; but will also include a host of other characters and participants – a colorful cast to include the names Springsteen, Craddock, Campbell (Will and not so much Alexander or Thomas), Lamott, Nouwen, Norris and Willimon. These are familiar friends along my travels to this point but who deserve an encore appearance. Brooks and Roney will pop in for the ride from time to time and I look forward to the collaborative efforts with these two. Also joining me will be Rumi, Bondi, Merton, Bonhoeffer, Armstrong, Silverstein, and Palmer. (see picture of my travelling partners scattered about our living room floor).I look forward to discovering their insights fresh and anew.

I have chosen to begin my journey with the master of the travel narrative – Mark Twain and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I think I read this for the first time when I was in fourth grade. Great example of story-telling, it is (Yoda voice)– from both the oral and written perspective!

That, by the way, is the whole purpose of voice finding and authenticity – discovering how to tell and share your own story!

So, let the journey begin! I covet your prayers, traveling mercies, and even participation.