silence, sunlight and settling into god's grace...

For the past 10 days we were settling into the silence and sunshine of the Sonoran desert. Tucson is a place I served for 10 years as pastor and a place saturated in friendships and love. Most of our visit was given over to quiet reflection and walking. We saw a few of our dearest friends - but by no means all - and took in a little jazz, too. We feasted on the best Mexican food in creation and found ourselves nourished by the eclectic visual splendor of the cultural, religious and ethnic diversity of this part of the world. We rested. We prayed. We walked and we talked. It was a perfect winter retreat.

Nothing opens my heart like hiking amidst saguaro cacti and ocotillo in the complete silence of this desert. Tucson may only be 10 miles away, bustling with beauty in its sleepy city splendor, but its presence becomes irrelevant once you enter the serenity of the foothills of the Rincon Mountains. At this time of year the sun is bright and the air is cool. The vegetation is plush in preparation for the scalding summer. And, thanks be to God, the snakes are still sleeping. 

What remains is the near total absence of sound. Such tranquility is almost unheard of in the 24/7 hustle of contemporary culture. In the old days, we would become enveloped in quietude and big sky a few times every week. It was soul food, to be sure, and I miss it. Sometimes, after a deep snow, a walk in the woods evokes a similar stillness - but its not the same. Small wonder that the mothers and fathers of Christian contemplation headed for the desert when the way of Jesus was co-opted by empire in the third century of the common era.

As I spent time in the silence - and the glorious Sonoran sun - my heart kept returning to a few insights from Fr. Henri Nouwen. The first has to do with my small but authentic place in this moment in time. Nouwen, who wrestled with his own calling, slowly came to accept that he was afraid of being real in the world. Real - and vulnerable. Real - and needy. Real - and broken. Real - and loving, wise and precious. Perhaps that is true for many of us - especially those of us who have been wounded - so that we do not fully trust that God loves us into being and that we have a sacred place in creation.

Not being welcome is your greatest fear. It connects with your birth fear, your fear of not being welcome in this life, and your death fear, your fear of not being welcome in the life after this. It is the deep-seated fear that it would have been better if you had not lived. Here you are facing the core of the spiritual battle. Are you going to give in to the forces of darkness that say you are not welcome in this life, or can you trust the voice of the One who came not to condemn you but to set you free from fear? You have to choose life. At every moment you have to decide to trust the voice that says, “I love you. I knit you together in your mother’s womb” (Psalms 139: 13). Everything Jesus is saying to you can be summarized in the words “Know that you are welcome.” Jesus offers you his own most intimate life with the Father. (Nouwen)

Last year, when we went to Tucson for rest and reflection, I had the chance to ponder the significance of my ministry in the desert. I had just retired from our church in New England and was questioning why any of it mattered. Over and again on that trip God brought me into conversations with some of the people who shared the small blessings of that decade with me. I was reminded of how we followed Christ's lead to became a safe and loving place for the GLBTQ community in Tucson. One trans person told me before we departed, "In the queer world many don't get - or honor - trans people. Especially trans people of faith. We're included, but only begrudgingly. But here, in this church, we felt loved: your love, God's love, the community's love. And we came to trust that we belonged." If nothing else happened during that decade, "Dayenu!" That would have been enough. But there was also a vibrant worship ministry of contemplation and the arts. A progressive and strong formation ministry for youth, children and families of all types. And a wildly creative  lay ministry of pastoral care that broke down the walls of traditional clericalism. And the celebration of Eucharist EVERY Sunday.  I left Tucson giving thanks to God.

This year the desert helped quiet me long enough to "hear" God's loving songs concerning our time in New England - and maybe discern some clues about our future, too. It takes me a long, long time to grasp what has been accomplished in the slow work of ministry. I need a ton of solitude to let my inner doubts, fears, shames and ego needs dry-up long enough to affirm the still small voice of grace. The late Eugene Peterson liked to paraphrase Nietzsche by calling this "a long obedience." 

And in that truth I came to realize that our time in New England may have been at least as vibrant as our time in Tucson. Nearly ten years ago. when the recession rocked our financial equilibrium, we began exploring alternative uses of our real estate: rather than just take up space and drain our resources, we wondered if our property might become assets for compassion, worship, culture and contemplation. Things move slowly in a church's culture, but I give thanks to God that my original suggestion - born of our research in England and Scotland - is bearing fruit in ways that will strengthen the arts as well as the congregation for years to come. For nearly a decade we shaped a cutting edge synthesis of music, art and prayer in worship as well as community building. We forged an alliance with GLBTQ young people, brought to birth the county's first faith-based community organizing coalition for regional justice. And turned upside down our tradition's overly linear intellectual elitism for a spirituality that was heart-centered and contemplative. For five years we also celebrated a small, reflective midday Eucharist on Wednesdays at noon. We laughed and wept together, we prayed and listened carefully as our hearts were opened to the God who "wants to find us as much as we want to find God."

It might sound strange, but God wants to find me as much as, if not more than, I want to find God. Yes, God needs me as much as I need God. God is not the patriarch who stays home, doesn’t move, and expects his children to come to him, apologize for their aberrant behavior, beg for forgiveness, and promise to do better. To the contrary, he leaves the house, ignoring his dignity by running toward them, pays no heed to apologies and promises of change, and brings them to the table richly prepared for them. I am beginning to now see how radically the character of my spiritual journey will change when I no longer think of God as hiding out and making it as difficult as possible for me to find him, but, instead, as the One who is looking for me while I am doing the hiding. (Nouwen)

NOTE: Let me be clear that I know that in every phase of ministry there are gross mistakes, wounds, failures and sins in addition to the blessings. I know that in my 40 odd years of service, I made my share and hurt some of the people I loved, too. What I can see now, however, is that the wounds are always mixed into the blessings. In fact, they can lead us into insight and a degree of humility as well if we're willing to learn the wisdom of our wounds. I am so grateful for the forgiveness I have experienced and shared with my colleagues and friends as we continued to explore our lives of faith together even through the hard time.

And now that my formal ministry in the local church is over, this year's desert sojourn offered us a few clues about what might come next. Clearly I am to spend some time as anam cara - spiritual companion - for a few folks who are eager to go deeper into the ways of silence and prayer. If I have heard anything in the stillness, it is this: we are ALL God's beloved. We may not trust this. Or know how to rest in this truth. We may vacillate a thousand times each day with it, too. But regardless of our abilities, histories or traditions, there is an essential spiritual truth we need to reclaim and honor: we are the Lord's beloved. Nouwen hits it out of the park again when he writes:

Over the years, I have come to realize that the greatest trap in our life is not success, popularity, or power, but self-rejection. Success, popularity, and power can indeed present a great temptation, but their seductive quality often comes from the way they are part of the much larger temptation to self-rejection. When we have come to believe in the voices that call us worthless and unlovable, then success, popularity, and power are easily perceived as attractive solutions. The real trap, however, is self-rejection. . . . As soon as someone accuses me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking, “Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody.” . . . My dark side says, “I am no good. . . . I deserve to be pushed aside, forgotten, rejected, and abandoned.” Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the “Beloved.” Being the Beloved constitutes the core truth of our existence.

For me, after beholding what the Lord has shown me during this year of being still, the path of tenderness is more important than ever. Vanier, Nouwen, Rohr, Bourgault and Keating have a lot to teach me as I live into my three score and seven years in 2019. We will need to close-up this house and find new space as a part of this awareness. We will be asked to trust more boldly and let God's grace quiet our fears. And we will be blessed to find new/old ways of strengthening the love that is closest to our hearts while we have the wherewithal to do so. 

Now it is time for me to go get our precious, neurotic dog, Lucie, and bring her home. There is laundry to do and floors to clean. Later this week I'll have the chance to join my sweet Louie at choir practice (he's singing in NYC even as I write.) So let me share one last quote from Nouwen by way of closure:

"Do not be afraid, have no fear," is the voice we most need to hear. This voice was heard by Zechariah when Gabriel, the angel of the Lord, appeared to him in the temple and told him that his wife, Elizabeth, would bear a son; this voice was heard by Mary when the same angel entered her house in Nazareth and announced that she would conceive, bear a child, and name him Jesus; this voice was also heard by the women who came to the tomb and saw that the stone was rolled away. “Do not be afraid, do not be afraid, do not be afraid.” The voice uttering these words sounds all through history as the voice of God’s messengers, be they angels or saints. It is the voice that announces a whole new way of being, a being in the house of love, the house of the Lord. . . . The house of love is not simply a place in the afterlife, a place in heaven beyond this world. Jesus offers us this house right in the midst of our anxious world.