Sermon: Healing 24x7

The following is an excerpt from a sermon delivered on August 25, 2019. The Gospel reading was Luke 13:10-17.

On a Sabbath Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues, and a woman was there who had been crippled by a spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not straighten up at all. When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.” Then he put his hands on her, and immediately she straightened up and praised God. Indignant because Jesus had healed on the Sabbath, the synagogue leader said to the people, “There are six days for work. So come and be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath.” The Lord answered him, “You hypocrites! Doesn’t each of you on the Sabbath untie your ox or donkey from the stall and lead it out to give it water? Then should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen long years, be set free on the Sabbath day from what bound her?” When he said this, all his opponents were humiliated, but the people were delighted with all the wonderful things he was doing.

What a coincidence for me to come here to talk once again about Luke 13. You see, the last time I was here, I discussed the earlier parts of Luke 13, a passage about repentance. I talked about how repentance is our chance to put down the stones in our life that burden us, so that we can finally pay attention to all the signs guiding us to see and feel and taste and hear the loving, grace-filled God who created us. The passage focused not so much on punishment but instead the chance we have right now, at every moment, to accept the invitation of living in a love offered without condition.

Today, 5 months later, we continue to read the next passage with verses 10-17. We hear about a woman, bent over for a couple decades. It was as if she were possessed by an evil spirit. Jesus sees her at the synagogue and brings her healing. Unfortunately, this was on the Sabbath, and well you’re not supposed to do work on the Sabbath. It seems that what he did could be considered a problem by religious authorities who saw the healing as work.

I’m sure you’ve heard lots of discussions about this and we can see why Jesus feels it inappropriate to classify healing as work. I doubt any of us here would disagree with him. Those who saw him doing this could have kept quiet but instead complained about his actions.

We’ve all been in situations where we or someone we love has been sick or in the hospital. Imagine if we were told that the hospital was closed one day of the week. How outrageous is that? We wouldn’t stand for it. But that’s what the critics are saying. Jesus does not hold back at all. He starts off by calling them “hypocrites”. He’s not shy and his defense of his healing ministry is hearty, heartfelt, and heartwarming. He’s on the side of those of us who suffer and there’s no question of that in this passage.

It’s interesting that this story comes right after the parable about repenting. That’s because they’re related. In that reading, the trees that don’t produce could have been chopped down. In fact, that’s what was assumed. They’re not worthy to take up expensive water resources, take up space in our gardens, to warrant our attention. They’re lives don’t matter so just cut them down. But the gardener suggests that they be given time to change. And not just given time. They’re given time so that they could also receive the encouragement, nourishment, and feeding that they need so that they’ll flourish and grow, to be what they were intended to be. They were given the chance to be changed, to be healed, to grow. I think it’s no coincidence then that we go directly from the passage of the dormant trees to a story of healing.

I’m imagining this woman, bent over, like an old tree, in the synagogue. She was probably like many, just coming to hear Jesus teach. She probably stayed in the back, in the shadows, not wanting to be in the way, not wanting people to notice her physical condition. Now the Gospel indicates that an evil spirit plagued her and that’s what caused her condition. She was bent over. Literally, according to the Greek translation, tied up in knots. So I imagine that she would be trying to hide this. Or that people would be avoiding her. Isn’t that what most people do? Wouldn’t most people shift away a step or two if they noticed someone bent over, maybe talking with themselves, maybe not talking at all?
She stood in that synagogue, coming to learn and to pray most likely. There’s just no indication that she asked to be healed. Why is that?

Perhaps she didn’t know much about Jesus yet. Perhaps she didn’t trust him as a healer. Perhaps she thought herself as someone who didn’t matter, and could merely listen and leave unnoticed. Many people who struggle with illness for many years begin to feel hopeless about their lives and conditions. They wait for their turn to be chopped down. She may have felt it pointless to bring up this condition to Jesus.

And yet Jesus saw her. He knew she was there and he knew she needed him. It doesn’t appear in the Gospel reading that they spoke. She never asked him to heal her. Never. He just went up to her. She maybe didn’t even realize what was happening, since she was bent over. She probably was listening to him as she stared her feet when suddenly she hears him say, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.”

It must have filled her with awe her to hear those words. Do you have something that holds you back? Disables you? Cripples you like an evil spirit? So many of us have felt broken at some point in our lives, perhaps as we sit here. I know I have. Imagine the shock of Jesus coming to you and saying that you will no longer be broken. That we are being set free. That the chains that have bound us for so long are finally coming off.

I’ve had moments in my life that felt like this. And it’s an incredible feeling. To think that you’re destined to live with something that breaks you -- whether it breaks you physically, mentally, or spiritually – to think that you’ll suffer with this forever and then, without asking, Jesus just comes and tells you it’s time to stand up straight. That you’re fine. That he comes to you unbidden to be a salve to your wound.

What a powerful point Luke makes in this passage. Luke – the Physician Evangelist - is saying that healing comes even without asking. All we have to do is show up, be present, and be in relationship with Jesus, to be open to hearing Jesus’s teaching. That healing will pull our eyes from the ground and allow us to look at Jesus straight in the eyes and be grateful. Like the woman in the gospel, we can give thanks to God.

This didn’t satisfy those who monitored the Sabbath rules. They were quite upset by what happened. You could say they were for some time tied up in knots over Jesus and his healing ministry. OK, so technically, the Sabbath rules may have been broken, but they are really our rules. They’re of this world. They weren’t centered around God. The Sabbath after all was given to us so that we can be focused on God. Focus on God in our lives, focus on God’s gifts, and focus on ways we can be thank God for the gifts of life. The Sabbath is all about God.

Rules that would deny healing on the Sabbath deny the reason for the Sabbath. The rules are about us but the Sabbath isn’t about us. If God can come down and heal the sick, let us give thanks. We can’t constrain God. God can heal anytime, any day, 24x7. And if God can take a broken woman, break the ties that bind her, and make her stand up straight at any time, then she and all of us can truly celebrate the Sabbath and praise God, praise God, praise God.

There are a few Scripture passages where Jesus asks “Who do you say that I am?”. There were different hesitant answers, from “dude you’re Elijah” or “Sorta like John the Baptist?” before Simon Peter says that “You are the son of the living God”. These answers are sort of theological, but I think that the woman in Luke 13, like many Jesus touched, would simply say “You are the One who healed me”.

At the end of the day, aren’t we – to some degree -- all bent over? Aren’t we staring at our feet, wondering if our pains and anxieties will ever be eased? Shouldn’t we stretch out and put ourselves in a place where we can listen to the teachings of Christ and find healing in his presence?

We don't have accept brokenness, in ourselves, in our families, in our communities. Not if we can pay attention and listen. And when we see that we’re in the presence of God, we can straight up and notice that there’s much to be grateful for. We can put down all that burden us and celebrate and praise God on any day, every day, 24x7. And like the Good Healer, we can find our neighbors in the back of the room, and bring comfort and healing to those in our midst who hunger for a life made new.

Youtube recording (sorry about the skewed camera angle!)

In the Wounds of Manzanar

I'm feeling something today. I was on a pilgrimage to the Manzanar National Historic Site with folks from church and the diocese to remember all the Japanese American families that were forced to sell their possessions and move into internment camps. Up to 120,000 men, women, and children were imprisoned for up to 4 years for no other reason than they had at least one great great grandparent who was born in Japan.

I walked around feeling such tremendous sadness and outrage. I couldn't imagine what it must have felt like to have dust blowing into the barracks relentlessly. Or having no privacy in the bedrooms or in the bathrooms. These folks weren't soldiers. These folks weren't convicted of any crime. They were just feared not for what they did but for what they looked like.

I kept thinking about what it must have felt like for them all. How do you forgive and reconcile with people who are oppressing you? Where's the grace? Where was God?

So I kept searching. Seeking. I couldn't believe that God could be here.

And then we stumbled upon an artificial pond, made of stones and cement. It had two wings, sort of like angel wings, with a bridge crossing over. On one side was a rudimentary, primitive stone lantern made of rocks from the area. Lovingly, the lantern lined up with the bridge, which lined up with a path that went off towards a mountain. And the lantern was built to look like that mountain.

The soil was hard. Hard as the hearts of the government and soldiers who imprisoned all these innocent people. Flinty as the people who turned their backs to the plight of the "evacuees" who were collected and concentrated in these camps. Dry as the faces that could no longer cry as their families were torn apart.

And in these wounded grounds, the people built gardens, and ponds, and serene spaces filled with sacred quiet. In these painful voids, they found God, unearthed beauty, raised up life-affirming inspiration. And I sensed what it felt like to have the the Holy Spirit comfort and inspire you. And I sensed what it felt like to believe that there was hope.

This wrapped around me as I contemplated the Gospel reading for this Sunday. We read once again the story of Thomas, aka Doubting Thomas, and his transition from doubt to belief.

Now Thomas (also known as Didymus), one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord!” But he said to them, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!” Then Jesus told him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” John 20:24-29

On the long bus ride back, I pondered the scripture from a different perspective. I thought, what if the wound that Thomas explored wasn't just in Christ? What if he was exploring the wounds in himself? In his side, in his hands, in his heart? What if Christ wanted us to touch our own wounds as well as his? That in touching all these wounds, we can believe in God?

And in doing so, in feeling those wounds, in reaching our hands into the places that we protect from painful touch, in caressing these sacred places, we can believe that Christ is present. We can believe in his miracles. We can believe that our inspiration for healing, our Christ, showed us the path into our bodies so that we can find our own healing. Our own miracles. In exploring the wound, we can remember what our bodies are made of, what we are made in the image of, what we need to be made whole.

And with that thought, I remembered the pond. That in this wounded place, someone touched the ground and created a place for healing waters to flow. And with the water flowing into the pond, inviting even more life - birds, squirrels, rabbits - to come, rest, and heal.

We don't have to demand to see the wounds. They're all around us. Sometimes the wounds are wildly painful like at Manzanar. Sometimes they are wounds that only we know. May we touch these wounds - invited by Christ to see that they are real, invited to believe in his healing presence - and discover the grace of God in the most unexpected places.

Healing Ashes

For many years, I viewed Lent as that season where I gave up something and eventually got to Easter. It was simplistic and easy enough for the child that I was. When I left the church, I gave up any practice. When I returned, I came back with somewhat the same ideas. It caught me off guard when I realized I was adjusting my notion of Lent and what it meant to me. 

Like the camino, Lent is an opportunity to journey on, to explore and find my way to new life, to reconciliation, to wholeness. It's not enough to give up something in a penitential way, but also to take something on, also in a penitential way. Like much of life, to change and move forward, you sometimes have to let go and sometimes have to take on.

It's remarkable how a simple Lenten practice can become a part of your life. Ten years ago, Stephen and I started a simple Lenten discipline of helping at Union Station Homeless Services and, after Lent ended, we found that the journey was destined to continue. It's something that's ingrained in our lives.

There's also the letting go. I shared a story last night with some folks at our bi-monthly Lay Counseling Ministry meeting. I had some beads around my neck and we were talking about Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday. Perhaps 15 years ago, when I was finding myself changing how I viewed Lent, I was doing a work job back east at a historically Methodist college and needed to find a lunch-hour Ash Wednesday service. I found one at the college chapel. Picture it with me.

You enter into the quiet space. As you enter, you find a large stone gourd, many slips of paper, and pencils. A small sign instructs you what to do. "Write the sins, sorrows, and regrets that you carry with you today and every day on a piece of paper and leave it here in the gourd." So I did. I took a couple pieces of paper and wrote some things down and left it. I then sat and waited for the service to begin. As the service began, the gourd processed in and was set on a stand in front of us all.

It was a traditional Lenten service for the most part. But when we came to the litany, it changed. As we recited the litany of prayers for ourselves and for the world, the celebrant lit a match. And the match went into the gourd. Soon all those sins, sorrows, and regrets were aflame, as we continued with our prayers. After the flames died down, the celebrant began to grind away at the smoldering remains until they were pulverized.

We had our ashes. 

Ashes made of the burnt and ground up memories of our sins. Of our sorrows. Of our regrets. We then all moved forward to the front of the church, bowed our heads down, and the ashes were placed on our heads. The traditional phrase was said: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

That ritual has stuck with me ever since. In it, we are reminded that we are impermanent and will one day return to dust. And strikingly, in a wondrous healing way, our sorrows also were called out as impermanent. Our sins are impermanent. Our regrets are impermanent. All will go away some day.

The remnants of my sins, sorrows, and regrets were placed on my forehead to remind me that they, like me, were not fixed forever. And I found healing in that act. I found forgiveness. Forgiveness by God. Forgiveness for others. Forgiveness for myself.

I think of this ritual whenever I feel the need to fend off the burden of sin, sorrow, and regret. I light a candle and imagine myself burning these thoughts away. And every year, on Ash Wednesday, I let the ashes of those feelings bless me.

May your Ash Wednesday be graced with healing ashes.

Weeping Under the Rug

As always, All Saints Day, All Souls Day, and Dia de Muertos throw me into emotional upheaval. It's a time of reflection, of praying for and with those who came before us, of asking for prayers and blessings from them.

There was a time I didn't cry in public. Or at home. Or even barely in the privacy of my own room. It's that upbringing - societal, family, cultural - that says men aren't supposed to cry for some reason. Or, you're not supposed to cry because you're the oldest child and you're helping take care of your siblings. You're not supposed to cry as a developing teenager because then people might realize that you're gay.

There was a time I would sit in the theatre and if I felt the tears coming, I'd shield my face so that only the movie screen could see the tears welling up in my eyes. Or streaming down my face. There was a time when I'd curse and spit and shout when I got injured in sports because crying over the pain wasn't "manly". There was a time when I feared that crying after a fist fight just because I looked different than the other kids in rural Illinois would just lead to more fights.

Nope. Instead, I bottled it up. "Don't cry!" Sweep. Sweep the tears under the rug. Sweep not weep.

My lower face would be made of steel if my stiff upper lip were any sturdier.

I'd like to say that I'm past all this. I'd like to think I'm enlightened and to say that I don't think this way anymore.

Well it's a work in progress. I still try not to cry at the theatre. Some of that is an issue of politeness. I sob, and I mean SOB, at some scenes of  Les Miserables and other favorites and it can be distracting to the other patrons. Heck, distracting for the actors.

I recognize that I'm a feeler. I've known this for a long time. I was a Psychobiology major while an undergraduate at USC. My research was in Alzheimer's Disease. Every other day when I was a senior;, I'd head over to the Health Science Campus and do cognitive tests with subjects (actually people, but dehumanized when we call them subjects) who participated in a study. In time, I grew weary of this work. Not because it was challenging driving through downtown Los Angeles to do the study, but because of the wonderful people I met. People who were like me, my parents, my grandparents. People who were possibly suffering from the onset of Alzheimer's Disease.

Every time I got home, I'd feel the emotions of the day unfold in me. I had to cork it up all day and it would spill out in the privacy of my apartment. At first, I didn't understand what was happening but one person made it obvious.

She was a world-traveling journalist with a Ph.D. and a spouse who was a professor. She was dressed in the sort of smart suit that my mother favored. This seemingly "normal" woman sat in front of me and, before we began our cognitive test, shared a pleasant conversation. But as I started the test, she became increasingly anxious, because she started to struggle with the test. And, finally, when she could not repeat three single-digit numbers in a row (much less a 7 digit phone number), she cracked. She broke down and wept. And sobbed.

This woman, who was in her early 50s and would be younger than I am today, knew what this was suggesting and she was fearful, she was grieving, she was furious. And she was rational. She was human.

Meanwhile, I was dying inside. I get tearful every single time I think of this story, as I am as I write this down. I could feel her sense of mortality and feel the range of emotions she shared with me so intimately. And despite the cold, antiseptic, clinical office with chilly fluorescent lights, I felt fearful with her. I grieved with her. I was furious with her.

Meanwhile, I was scared inside. I ran to the physician in charge for assistance, as I didn't know how to handle the situation. We weren't trained to deal with this response. I didn't have any other subjects as it turned out after her, so I had to sit around those cold rooms, confused and burdened by my emotions. She got some counseling. Unfortunately, I did not.

I didn't even realize I needed counseling. I thought, stiffen up. Don't be upset. Stop crying.

Well, I did need counseling. Today, I think many who work with patients and their families should be first in line for workplace counseling. But I didn't think this way back then.

In the next couple of years, I found myself placing impediments to going to medical school. I subconsciously had decided I couldn't do this for the rest of my life, but my conscious brain didn't know this. If I had counseling, if I let myself cry, perhaps I would have been a physician today. Who knows? I just know that I felt a lot better when I could avoid painful moments.

In regards to medical school, I asked to be deferred eventually. And further on, I chose not to go. I instead decided to continue working in technology. It paid the bills. It was logical and didn't require you to face difficult life moments. Tech pointed 180 degrees away from a workplace filled with emotions.

There was no weeping. I didn't need to sweep the weep under the rug.

But life doesn't stop. The AIDS crisis started knocking off people I knew. Friends. You could not escape it in Los Angeles. And people get older and eventually die. Family members struggled with cancer, struggled with death. So though work offered some protection, I still had to cry. I still had to face the reality of being a human being.

I had this in the back of my head when, about 15 years ago, I was in a ministry leadership class at All Saints Pasadena. One night, Rev. Richardson led a discussion about pastoral care. With my fears and lifetime of avoidance, I raised my hand with a simple question.

"What if you suck at pastoral care?"

He looked at me kindly, almost bemused, asking why I thought this. I looked around me and felt comfortable sharing my answer. "I cry. I cry easily. I cry visibly. And I cry a lot." He caught me off-guard with his answer. He basically said that many people don't have that sort of empathy. And he thought that I might actually be really good at pastoral care because of these feelings, not despite of them.

After Christmas last year, Rev. Zelda Kennedy died, less than six months after she retired from All Saints Pasadena. When her medical diagnosis was shared via email back in July 2017, I was walking in another country with my husband. I glanced at the email and I crumbled onto the cold, wet pavement. It was around 10pm at night and I sobbed. I was furious at God. And I needed Stephen to help me keep it together to get back to the hotel.

Through the years, Zelda saw my emotional side and felt that they belonged in pastoral care. I argued with her. I argued with our Rector Ed Bacon when he asked me to serve as a vestry liaison to pastoral care. But Zelda insisted. She persisted. She later told me that I needed to realize that this is where I belonged. She was a force moved by the Holy Spirit, and I wasn't going to be able to say no.

This weekend, holy and passionate, stirred up these memories, as they do every year. I no longer fear the emotions that awakened. Those emotions are real. They flow from within, flow through, flow out of me. And they're a gift. A blessing. And there's no way I can hide them.

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead, they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven."

Matthew 5:14-16... Before the sermon on the mount (which we read about this weekend)...

The flames of our lamps are fed with oil made of tears. May we remember to let the flames glow bright so that our eyes can be opened, so that we can see the love that surrounds us all. May we weep on the rug, not under it, so that others can place a shawl of comfort and healing when we need it most. May God fill our eyes with tears so as to make our ears stronger, so that we can hear the cries, the laughter, the anxieties, the love of all yearning to share their lives with us.

The Camino of Gratitude

The Facebook group I started before I began my third journey along the Camino - The Camino of Healing - has wandered along with me on my pilgrimages, my explorations of the soul, and my life. It always invites prayer requests and offers encouragement to those who take pilgrimages, and celebrates as they find their way home.

And sometimes the journey goes deep into the soul. Healing of the spirit to find peace and reconciliation can't be done by merely scratching the surfaces of our flesh and feelings. Healing things that cause deep pain requires deep attention. Deep care. Deep love.

And one of the things I keep returning to when I am in pain - in search of deep healing, in transition, in the middle of nowhere - is that there's more to healing than merely slapping on a bandage.

I described in my previous blog post (Last Day of School, First Day of Summer) my recent experiences with the transition and the pain I've carried as I tried to work past the troubles - to walk around, over, under, and through my problems. And unsurprisingly my prayers and griefs were often powerfully focused on all manners of pain and grief. Some of my friends, sensitive to all that caresses our souls, felt a pain in me that seemed to go beyond the deaths of beloved friends. They felt a grief that was profoundly personal.

And they were right.

My blog posts revealed grief. My prayers voiced the grief. My heart wept the grief.

And Thursday, as one phase of my life came to an end and another began, I could not even nail down exactly WHAT my feelings were. A friend texted how I felt. How? HOW? I couldn't put it into a word. Sad? Happy? Relieved? Joyful? I didn't know how to respond. So I said:

Not exactly thoughtful, I know. But I was sort of numb and emojis are an easy way to express thoughts without thinking about the nuance.

I went to bed Thursday night overwhelmed by the reaction by so many family and friends to my posting. The reactions were so loving. So supportive. So connected to me.

And when I awoke on Friday morning, to face the new day and a new phase of my life, to start a new journey, I said my morning prayers. I prayed for those who I knew wanted the prayers and for those who had died. And I then moved into personal prayers.

And when I was done, I realized something. My personal prayers had a different tone. They weren't filled with grief and tears. My prayers were all basically prayers with a common theme.

Gratitude.

I was feeling grateful. Grateful that even though things don't follow our plans, our lives are still full of astonishing love and grace. Grateful that though death comes to us, we still lead lives however long or brief that bring joy, love, and interconnectedness. Grateful that I was remembering this.

When we look at these feelings of gratitude, we find that it materializes when we become aware of our relationship with someone or something. We recognize the intrinsic value of the person or place or situation. And we sense the truth of the interconnectedness between ourselves and that which makes us grateful.

It's not merely the satisfaction of buying a new gadget or trinket. Or enjoying a good dinner. Or winning a game.

Gratitude is a shimmering feeling, a warmth that fills our being, and gives us a sensation of life.

Blood coursing through our body is sent forth from the heart and then returns to the heart. Gratitude coursing through our body also is sent forth from the heart and returns to the heart.

When we feel this close to someone or something or some situation, the relationships become neon bright with love, empathy, and compassion. We unite ourselves to the other. We forget our differences. We become infused with the Holy Spirit and our hearts resonate harmonically, on different notes but somehow in beautiful unity.

That gratitude is powerful. That gratitude heals.

Last month, I listened as Diana Butler Bass, author of Grateful, spoke about gratitude... that our brains can't live in fear and gratitude at the same time. Somehow, after the finality of Thursday's events, I crossed a border from a desolate land of fear into a serene realm of gratitude.

And when we are festooned with the healing power of gratitude, we can grow from any darkness. A scab on our wounds might itch, yet we can leave it alone, we can still appreciate that is doing us good. that the healing will come from that discomfort. We can watch the tissues of a scar mend, unite, become whole once again.

With gratitude, it is possible for us to see that the sanctity of our lives can never bleed and is never at risk because of mere flesh wounds. Because we are still bound by grace to each other and our Creator. And we can rise to the new morning to live out the healing love that courses through our lives. May we all walk our Camino of Healing, a Camino of Gratitude.

Different, Yet the Same

Now that I'm in Sarria, I've spent a day dining and traveling to our Camino starting point with the All Saints Pasadena Transformational Journeys group. It's my first time leading a pilgrimage group rather than walking the Camino independently. I've had an inkling that it would feel different than my other Caminos and it's true, it does. 

To a point.

I'm preoccupied with the itineraries and luggage needs of others. I'm making sure their concerns are allayed and that we minimize situations where a member of the flock wanders away. And instead of my own personal prayer sessions, I'm inviting us all into my ritual of morning and afternoon prayer, going from an informal conversation with God to one based on the Morning Office of the Book of Common Prayer.

We didn't start those prayers Thursday or Friday. I figured we would do so on days we walked, the other days focused on jet lag, eating, and worldly needs. Three of us had dinner in Madrid Thursday night and our first group meal was here in Sarria for lunch. We attended the evening mass and blessing at Santa Mariña, the large church at the top of the stairs in Sarria, and then proceeded to beer, wine, tortillas (egg omelet), and cheese for a light dinner.

The differences:

• checking us as a group into an hostal (inn) and paying for it

Uhhh, in truth that's it.

The similarities:

• great laughs while simultaneously eating and sharing personal stories of our lives, loves, and Journey

• chatting with random pilgrims 

• wandering and seeking of beauty and the new

• discovering that Spanish mass is the same yet different

• sensing rain and cold and yet valuing the present company and relationships

• laughing at our encounters with languages

• pointing out landmarks and buildings to each other

• walking separately and yet together

I'm excited about what will happen in the next few hours as we breakfast, do morning prayers, and commence our walk. I can't make someone's Camino the spiritual journey of their lifetime. That's up to them and the Holy Spirit. But I can be there to assist.

Somehow that's the most similar to my most recent Camino, the one focused on healing. Recognition that I can help and guide in the spiritual journey, but cannot control it. Being both helper and helped. Finding in our humanness, the divine. And trusting that the Holy Spirit will provide, guide, and feed each of us.

I'm feeling really blessed right now because of this opportunity, yes, but mostly that others are there to help me and praying for me.

For Thursday started with a predawn visit to Urgencias. I had a jaw pain that turned out to be a cheek abscess likely brought on by an accidental bite. And it got infected and made it painful to talk and eat. Yet everyone here and at home via Facebook has poured out prayers for me.

That's a continuation of my Camino of healing. That's Love embodied in the family and friends in our lives, in the strangers who help us at the hospital and  train stations.

I close this blog post with a photo from my hotel room in Madrid. Four skyscrapers that are instantly recognizable as financial centers in Madrid outside my window. And just below are the tents of the homeless. And I think to myself, what journey are they on and how do our journeys interact? What have we done to accidentally guide them there and what can we do to lead them to a better place? Is there Hope in their lives? I know there's Hope all around us. I'm just asked to help remind others when fear and new situations frighten. To be there for others as they are for me. To love and be loved.

The Wholeness Camino

On Sunday, Rev. Ed Bacon at All Saints Pasadena gave his valedictory Easter sermon, as he prepares next month to retire from our church and move closer to his family in the South. Before getting into the meat of his moving words, we already were prepared to deal with emotions of his impending departure.

Helping each other walk up the Camino towards O'Cebreiro Spain (September 2014)

And yet even with that preparation, he still rocked me. During that sermon, he brought up something that he's mentioned before: the word "healing" and "whole" come from the same root word in English. He gave examples of how one cannot move towards healing and new life, without moving towards wholeness. And one cannot move towards wholeness without healing.

I've been pondering why I was moved and it occurred to me that as my Camino pilgrimage approaches, I've been inadequate in describing the healing component of this walk. I've called it "My Healing Pilgrimage". I describe how during my first Camino de Santiago walk, I was in a deeply self-reflective, discerning mood. I just turned 50, just married, just committed to staying in bunk beds night after night for the first time in decades. And I was wondering my place in the world and what the Holy Spirit was guiding me to do.

So in describing this Healing pilgrimage, I talk about all the people I met who somehow felt the need - somewhere in their lives - for healing. So I wanted this walk to be about them instead of me. I came up with the idea of starting in Lourdes, France (adding an extra 100 miles or so) so that I could bring holy healing waters from the River Pau with me. I wanted to share the waters that Saint Bernadette drank, the waters that have been repeatedly described as miraculous and healing. I would bring and share the waters with those who believed, wanted healing, and welcomed the water.

And that's where I've realized I've been remiss.

I can't heal without working towards healing myself.

I can't help people find wholeness without seeking wholeness as well.

It's not that I did not feel this way. It's a matter of emphasis. It's a matter of intentionality. I just don't mention it enough.

I'm intending to land in Paris on May 13 and head immediately to Chartres. On Fridays, the labyrinth is available for us to walk. There isn't a better metaphor for a pilgrimage, to me, than the labyrinth and starting my journey on that cathedral floor will immediately frame my mind.

On Saturday May 14, I will spend the day in Giverny, where Monet lived and painted his countless waterlilies. Monet is renowned for his use of light to portray nature in all her glory. I will take the train to the nearest town and walk over an hour each way to his home. The house is now a museum but visitors can walk parts of the garden around the pond.

Why Giverny? Many people like me find calm and the healing love of God when looking at art. His waterlilies and gardens have for decades stilled my busy mind. Visiting Chartres and Giverny will, I hope, reset my pace and heart and soul for this pilgrimage.

On Sunday, I will visit the American Cathedral in Paris, the seat of the European diocese of the Episcopal Church. I'll wrap up the day at the Cathedral de Notre Dame. In between, I hope to visit the Père Lachaise cemetery and the Catacombs of Paris. Strange itinerary? Perhaps. What I hope to do is first of all start of my pilgrimage with traditional church services. I include the cemetery and catacombs in between these two liturgical services in order to remind myself of life's one certainty. Death of these mortal bodies is inevitable. Any amount of pilgrimage and healing is meant for the living. We are mandated by Christ to love each other while we still have each other. Death will inevitably bring our earthly journeys to a close so it's imperative that we, while remembering this, make every moment worthy of cherishing.

And then...

I head to Lourdes. I head to Lourdes not to just grab a bottle of waters from the stream.

I spend a couple of nights in Lourdes so that I start my pilgrimage with deep, personal healing. The journey must begin in community with others in need of healing, knowing that we are all there with the same aspirations and dreams and love and hope. Whether it's during the evening vigils, the morning vigils, or traditional services, I will be bathing in the waters of life that heal. And I will immerse myself literally in the waters that heal, in the formal baptistry area and in the stream.

The road to a healing camino can't be done any other way. I can share healing love and living water only as I am taking in that healing love and living water. It's in those relationships, with each other and with God, that find wholeness. It's in those relationships that we can bring wholeness. And, in the humility of seeking healing, we may be able to share healing with others.

So I apologize if I wasn't clear before. This healing pilgrimage is for me as well as for those I love and meet. This pilgrimage is for us.

May your camino and my camino intertwine on the road to wholeness and healing.

We will return to dust... Meanwhile

Placing the ashes on the foreheads of friends in the congregation had me thinking about our mutual journey.

On Ash Wednesday, we tear the veil that keeps us sane. We acknowledge that we all must die eventually and return to the dust, the stardust, the heavens of which we are made. Will this grand unmasking leave us in an existential void?

Or, can we use this great reminder for something else? Can we, must we take this humbling reality and use it as a salve to heal those around us, as they journey through life? Our voyage will one day land on inevitable shores, but it's in caring for those who walk with us and after us, like those who walked before us, that we pry open the heart to share the grace that is there for us to accept.

The life we must one day surrender is not a life without ramification. We are in a symbiotic relationship with every creature on this earth. We are in a symbiotic relationship with the earth itself. A life without that interdependency is a life not lived.

And, like all relationships where one feeds the other and vice versa, the removal of one of those lives not only does great harm but can endanger or imperil the other. We mutually rely on each other. It's in our successful, healthy living that we can flourish. Together.

So yes, we will return to dust... And yet, meanwhile....

The Christ we follow asks us to be in relationship with each other, in families and in communities. When it was time for him to die, he instructed John to take care of Mary. That's our charge as well. We're to take care of each other as though we are taking care of the mother of Christ, for Christ.

And throughout the Gospels, almost every parable and story talks about His care for the needy and the sick. That's not a coincidence. There would be no miracles if Christ left the sick to fend for themselves. Miracles arise out of caring for the life of the other.

So yes, we face a mortality on Ash Wednesday that weighs on us heavily throughout Lent. We see and acknowledge that our loved ones as well as we ourselves will no longer be able to share an intimate laugh or tear some day. But we must be the healing love that binds our past joys and pains to our future joys and pains. With a little care and perhaps some stitches, the wound of death can still connect the living, breathing tissues left behind.

May we all on this day of dust also remember to be the grace and healing for the our families, for the human family, for the earth.

http://letallwhoarethirstycome.com/2016/02/we-will-return-to-dust-meanwhile.html

Blessings over Fear

A visit to Lourdes - Sep 2015

I took my parents on a trip to Spain (and France, Portugal, and Andorra) last month. It's the third time I've taken them to Europe. Each time has been one where I gave a gift out of love and gratitude. They paid for my study abroad back when I was an undergraduate. We didn't have much and certainly this just added to their debts at the time.

My time at Oxford was transformative. It was as though my eyes were opened to beauty and possibilities I hadn't expected. True the food was terrible beyond the pale. I exaggerate not. I didn't know vegetables could be boiled so thoroughly that they could look whiter than beyond pale. But the museums, art, people, and opportunity to experience a different culture affected me deeply and I cherish what I learned and continue to learn on every trip I take to this day.

So I thank them with these trips. This one was their first trip to Spain, a particularly meaningful one because our ancestors came to the Philippines from Spain.

I blog this because as with any time you put parents and with their post-adolescent children together, you have an opportunity for conflict. Much as I try to be a caring child, it's human nature to have disagreements with someone who raised you with firm advice. Much as I cherished the time and valued the blessings and opportunity to spend three weeks with my parents, there were moments when I felt as though I were 14 years old again. I'm sure I was a pill then and I definitely could be tough to swallow when I'm petulant or angry now.

The feelings are worsened when mortality is brought into the mix. None of us live forever. Much as I want my parents to be around, I know at some point I must say goodbye to them. Or, far worse, they have to say goodbye to me. Statistically and from family health history, there's much to make me feel that I need to gird myself for the inevitable. Hence, the trip was a great way to learn more about ourselves and to share in our time.

But I said that's how feelings are made worse. I for one may intellectually accept what will some day come, but emotionally it's not easy. And whenever I saw evidence that my parents were slowing down, or not are more forgetful than in the past, or are ignoring dietary proscriptions by their physicians, I experience the role reversal that often accompanies caring for aging parents. I heard myself scolding for bad eating and getting frustrated by forgetfulness. I've learned to accept the physical slowing down, but then get overly cautious when we aren't slowing down enough.

My mom is the most formidable woman I know. Whenever we moved, she started with entry level jobs yet always rose to be a leader. She finally retired as the Executive Director of the non-education parts of Stanford and Cal State LA. Dad started his professional career as an attorney and became a banker. Even after he retired, and returned to work as a part time teller to keep stave off boredom, he sometimes sold more new accounts than full time staff, winning trips for his successes. And yet he's still strong in his 80s, wanting to carry luggage when I could be doing so for him. Both of them worked all their lives, 2-3 jobs each, just to get us our education here in the USA.

So it bothers me to watch them slow down from the peaks of their careers. And I didn't understand why I was frustrated and angry during the first week of the trip. It took that week to realize that I was getting angry because I was masking my real feelings.

I was frightened.

Fearful of the signs of aging they were showing.

Afraid of someday saying goodbye to them.

And like most men, I resist fear and transform it into other emotions. The fear became anger and frustration.

Once I realized what I was doing, it became easier to accept my feelings. I was, after all, on this trip to enjoy my time with them and share with them the land of our ancestors. What I feared can not be avoided. So stories were told, memories shared, and we were able to experience a trip with the power of healing and transformation that we all wanted to have.

I watched Mom and Dad at Lourdes. They watched others in wheelchairs, on crutches, in arms of others as they processed into several masses for blessings. They did not want to be among those who seemed more needy, as if their needs were any less than the next person. But I understood. They've always deferred to those more needy and this was no different.

I waded into the stream of Lourdes and let my fears flow out of me into the waters. Some view blessing as the transmittal of a prayer or God's grace to someone. But on that day, on this trip, I realized that to be filled with grace and love, I needed to make room in my soul for that love.

The fear had to be released.

An opening needed to be created.

My mind and heart had to wade into the thin space.

And in the darkened void I created but feared, from that willful purgation into the stream at Lourdes, I made room for grace. I stepped out of myself and found fresh air. And with my parents on this trip, I felt the blessing come into me.

Walking for me, Walking for others

You may have heard that I walked the Camino de Santiago in 2014. If you read my blog series on that pilgrimage, you're well aware of what went through my head and heart. If not here are the two main links:
   Before the Camino
   During and after the Camino

It amazes me how much the Camino changed my perceptions. Perhaps that's not correct. I think inside I knew what should and could arise from this pilgrimage. No, what's amazing is that in spite of all that I knew and perceived, my focus was all around one being.

Me.

My journey in faith.

My spiritual direction.

My own Camino.

And what I discovered, especially as I re-read my blog postings, was that what was changing was not necessarily my perceptions, but my focus. By focusing so much on me, I so lost sight of many of the things that truly make for a grace-filled world. The low point and high point of the refocusing pivoted on one night, as I describe in the blog entry Preconceived Notions and Judgement . As I mentioned there, I was up half the night, shocked that my self-focused walk almost blocked the Holy Spirit from working both within me and within others. On my camino, I was twisting in my path.

So the lessons revolved around the focus, not on what I knew. I know that religion is about our inter-connectedness, our relationships, other love with others on this earth. My spiritual focus was on me, which obscured the eternal truths. So, this next walk will not focus on me. It will be on

Us.

Our journeys in faith.

Our spiritual directions.

Our own caminos.

Now, with All Saints Pasadena friends Matthew Rhodes and Michelle Johnston, I'm planning on returning to the Camino in 2016 May-June. And many, many more are coming, though they will start at different places. Matthew and MJ will start at Saint Jean Pied-de-Port on the French border, the typical starting spot for the 500 mile journey. Stephen will likely start in Astorga. Others in Burgos, where I started my journey in 2014. And I'll continue to Finisterre, on foot this time.

This time, in 2016, I won't be starting in Spain. I'll be starting in Lourdes, France.

The Virgin Mary made over a dozen appearances to the village starting in 1858. The Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes is a place of mass pilgrimage. The spring water from the grotto is believed by some to possess healing properties. This pilgrimage site of healing receives millions of visitors every year.

I will begin my pilgrimage on the Camino here. I will seek healing in communion with others. Then, with oils and waters from this site, I will begin my Camino walk towards Saint Jean Pied-de-Port and onwards to Santiago de Compostella. Most importantly, I will share the water and oil with those who wish to share in a healing moment.

So it won't be about me this time. It will be about sitting with others and praying together for healing and love. I'll be praying with and for everyone I meet. I hope I stay in the moment and present with all I encounter. And, with a grace-filled heart, my focus won't need adjusting this time.