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.

The Silence Between the Notes - A Lenten Meditation

Claude Debussy wrote that "music is the silence between the notes".

Sunset silhouette in Altadena

This statement points out that for beauty to be recognized, it needs a certain amount of space, of emptiness, to be complete. The space between the high notes and the low notes, the long and the staccato notes, allows us to hear the breadth of complexity in the music.

The long notes can resonate and reverberate, falling into the hum of the ether around us. The short staccato notes, so piercing and quick, would be a blur if notes melded into each other. Repeated notes would not exist if there was no space in between each note. Without this space, random notes show up and fade away but would likely be more of a texture, a backdrop, an oozing of sound.

A gorgeous impressionist painting can provide smooth colours that ease into other colours, without specificity. Sometimes, like in the photo above, spaces are in the silhouettes, and we only see a shimmer of a sunset with drifting colours in the distance. Other paintings, say by Rothko, have just vague colours. Without detracting from that beauty, it's tough to say what a painting without edges represents or means. It's a representation of emotion in some ways, shifting and drifting.

I sometimes think of heaven as that contourless nirvana where no lines separate one from the other.

And yet we don't live in a world like that. No matter what we try, there will be spaces between the notes and edges to colours. Pointilism in painting (think G Serat) is the use of thousands of tiny dots that from a distance show lovely edgeless fuzziness, but upon closer inspection still shows separate distinct dots. Minimalist music (think P Glass) may repeat and flow, but each note is still separated from the other notes because musicians must breathe and fingers must press, release, or strike an instrument key or string.

Our lives have spaces all around us. We define ourselves from our parents and loved ones by the differences and similarities between us. We are not clones. The space in between brings our separateness alive and makes our lives beautiful.

Likewise, people come into the orchestration of our lives here and there, filling the spaces and gracing us with whatever unique qualities and gifts were given to them.

And, eventually, someone leaves us, leaving only silence and emptiness.

Like some of my friends, I'm grieving over the loss of a dear soul, a loving woman who struck a melodic note in our lives. With her departure, we feel a silence in the music.

And as I'm sure you will understand, though I lament and am yearning for the note to return, I accept and appreciate that our notes, our lives, our loves, our friendships, would not stand out if we didn't have the silence in between. I pray that those who are listening to this silence will appreciate the beauty of both the notes and the rests, the tones and the silences, as we listen and compose the symphony of our lives.

Walking through the Valley of Death - A Lenten Meditation

I felt called to walk, take a detour back from my parents' home near Las Vegas towards my home in Los Angeles county. Instead of the direct route, I drove through and hiked around in Death Valley.

Normally, Death Valley is a vast expanse of desolation. The name is appropriate. The lowest point in the US can be found in Death Valley, in a spot aptly called Badwater. There, the ground is so parched that the runoff water flows in loaded with minerals and evaporates into an expanse of almost pure salt. It looks like snow.  And unlike snow, it doesn't quench or nourish. It might trick you into thinking so, but it does quite the opposite.

The salt poisons and dries you out even further.

We humans have used salts for thousands of years to preserve foods and as part of our burial functions. It flavors our food, but its functional usefulness has mostly been for keeping dead things in a useful state of prolonged death. Yet, it's not about preserving life. Nor is it about expediting death. It's about making the process of death interminably prolonged and unnatural.

I pondered these thoughts during my sojourn because my dear friend Carol was in the Intensive Care Unit here in Los Angeles County. Her health had been deteriorating and many of her functions were grinding to a halt. In fact, while I was away in Vegas, she lost consciousness and had been sleeping for several days.

I normally take this detour once a year because in February, the flowers bloom in the desert. You see, it doesn't rain often in Southern California, much less in the deserts. So when winter rains come, it's an ideal time to head to the drylands and marinate in the glorious flowers that bloom ever so briefly in the wasteland.

For you see, Death Valley isn't actually dead. It's in a state of suspended animation. Like a body preserved in salt, it's in between that place of the living and the dead.

And this year, I was in for a treat. I didn't know it, but I was stepping into what is known as a Superbloom. Even though El Nino hasn't been as powerful in Southern California as expected, there were still greater rains than we've experienced in years. And, the melting snow runoff from the Sierra Nevada mountains help contribute to the meager waters of Death Valley.

So the flowers had not only returned, they were raging. Exploding. Shimmering. Blossoms spanned from the walls of the mountain cliffs to the very edge of the deadly salt basins. Yellow Evening Primrose flowers 1-3 feet in height made it look more like a field in France than a desert mortuary.

And in between the yellow flowers, there were delicate 6 inch tall purple Phacelias flowers. They hid carefully, almost shyly, under the larger, extroverted yellows. And quietly in between the purples, there were white flowers even more bashful than their purple sisters.

Then you kneel on the ground. You sit on the edge of a ravine to soak in nature. You bend over to take a photo. And you realize, there, in plain sight but not visible from normal human eye levels, were lovely delicate purple pink flowers known as purple mat.

The purple mat was everywhere and yet when you weren't looking, you could have passed by not noticing the vibrant life. You could have assumed that life stood still. Even while you're noticing the raging yellow primrose, you don't notice that there's so much more alive, so much more life, than meets the eye.

And, if you're lucky enough, brave enough, patient enough, you can stay into the night. This happened to be a full moon drive to start this trip so I got to see the desert in a peculiar moonlit coloration. If you get out of your car, walk a little, sit a little, you'll hear the sounds of animals scurrying around on the rocks and sand.

They hide during the painfully hot days and come out in the evening. Even in the winter, when it's necessary for the reptiles to come out and absorb some of the sun's warmth, they do most of their foraging or hunting at night.

Life rages on in the desert.

I visited Carol the day after my hikes and chatted with her husband. They're such a loving couple. Though she was still not conscious, I prayed with them, shared some healing waters I brought back from Lourdes, France, and shared in their pain. I missed my good friend Michael, Carol's cousin, as I left just before he got there.

And on Friday, during some meetings, I wept, when I heard that Carol's condition was taking a turn for the worst.

And yesterday, the family took her off life support.

And today, she moved on.

Carol always tells me that she loves watching my travel on Facebook. She and Jeff get to live out exciting trips vicariously whenever their families and friends post photos and thoughts online. She seems particularly excited during dinners together to discuss the trips as well.

I have no doubt that when I walked through Death Valley, I was walking among the flowers with Carol. That I was gazing in awe at the same moon. That we prayed for the same love eternal.

I have no doubt that Carol's organ donations will bring life anew to others in ways we can only imagine. Her eyes evidently will be a gift to someone shortly. Her sight, her vision, her way of seeing life in the stony rock wall.

I have no doubt that I was gazing at life made new in Death Valley. That life is there even when it looks like the land is barren. Here you stand in the middle of a salty wasteland as far as you can see, and yet on the edge of that wasteland, life encroaches, approaches, ventures to its very edge.

It's the tears falling from skies and from our hearts that waters the gritty sand, bringing those long forgotten seeds just enough love and attention to bring a torrent of life's energy anew.

And after the blooms fade, after the glories fall petal by petal back down to the earth, new seeds are strewn into the wind. We can't see them, but they're spreading, waiting for another opportunity to spring alive once again.

The salt may keep life in a state of prolonged preservation, in a condition of suspended animation. It's not death. It's not life.

But life ever beautiful, ever delicate, ever bold, ever precious, can lie beside the salty ground waiting to return.

Thank you for walking with me on every one of my journeys, Carol and for
calling me to see the lovely reminder to be loving, hopeful, and alive.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Free of Stones - A Lenten Meditation

The stone I brought with me on the Camino de Santiago during my first pilgrimage in 2014.

The Cruz de Ferro stands as one of the most meaningful sites for me on the Camino de Santiago, along the Camino Frances route. It's about 150 miles from Santiago de Compostela, just after the mountain top town of Foncebadon.  In some ways, it may be the most Lenten pilgrim stop along the Camino Frances (French Route).

Perigrinos (pilgrims) typically carry a stone or pebble from home on their journey. Upon arriving at the Cruz de Ferro (Iron Cross), they see a mound of pebbles, rocks, photos, letters, and seemingly random items with a large thin monument topped by a cross.

The mound is made of all the pebbles and items left behind by the thousands of travelers from all over the world through the ages. You can climb onto the mound and many travelers find the sight an important milestone indicating that they are within days of the Compostela de Santiago.

The stones represent something quite powerful. Prior to a pilgrimage trip, peregrino travelers are instructed to reduce, Reduce, REDUCE the weight of their pack to make this arduous, long journey more tolerable. And yet, they carry with them a rock along most of the route. Why on earth would you carry unneeded weight on such a journey?

To me and to the pilgrim, the stone represents all the physical, mental, and even spiritual that weighs you down in life. And whether you realize it, acknowledge it, or deny it, that stone follows you on your journey. It follows you every day of your life. It's in your bags, in your head, in your heart.

Try as you might do otherwise, you go through life with unnecessary baggage. Emotional or spiritual, granite or mental, that baggage will slow you down. They might be your vices. They might be your habits. They could be your imagined self or your Facebook persona. They could even be the ones you love. All things of this earth can act like stones, at least some times.

It's humbling to know of the stones in your life; it's bewildering and frustrating to not know the stones in your life. Lent is an opportunity for us to unearth the stones in our life, to find them in the dust, and to leave them at the cross. It's in God's unimaginable love for us that we can discover that we don't need to carry the stones. We are meant to leave them behind.

The Roman Catholic Franciscan friar, Father Richard Rohr, describes this process as letting go.

“All great spirituality teaches about letting go of what you don’t need and who you are not. Then, when you can get little enough and naked enough and poor enough, you’ll find that the little place where you really are is ironically more than enough and is all that you need. At that place, you will have nothing to prove to anybody and nothing to protect.
That place is called freedom. It’s the freedom of the children of God. Such people can connect with everybody. They don’t feel the need to eliminate anybody . . .”
― Richard Rohr, Healing Our Violence through the Journey of Centering Prayer

When I saw the cross and laid down my stone, I cried. No. No, I sobbed. Sobbed because after enduring a couple falls on my first pilgrimage, I knew that I was carrying a stone that I did not need. I laid that stone at the foot of the cross, knowing that I could and would still stumble, but that the process of letting go, the search for freedom shown in resurrection, the journey towards God would be easier by laying it down.

Like the thousands of pilgrims who walked before me, I asked our Lord to carry my burdens for me.

May your Lenten prayers free you to walk with a lighter load.





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Upside Down and Inside Out

A new video from OK GO just got released and it's racing through social media like a viral monster. The effects are gorgeous as the quartet performs, seemingly in one take, the video in weightlessness. No wires. Just a plane with zero gravity.

I watched it a couple of times marveling at the special effects and the joyful playfulness of it all. But I paused it the third time when I started to really pay attention to the lyrics. (The bold lettering is by me).

Upside down and inside out
and you can feel it.
Upside down and inside out
and you can feel it, feel it.
Don't know where your eyes are
but they're not doin' what you said.
Don't know where your mind is baby
but you're better off without it.

Inside down and upside out
and you can feel it.
Don't stop.
Can't stop.
It's like an airplane goin' down.
I wish I had said the things you thought that I had said.
Gravity's just a habit that you're really sure you can't break.

So when you met the new you,
Were you scared?
Were you cold?
Were you kind?
Yeah when you met the new you,
did someone die inside?

Don't stop.
Can't stop.
It's like a freight train.
Don't stop.
Can't stop.
It's like an airplane goin' down.
Don't know where your eyes are
but they're not doin' what you said.
Don't know where your mind is baby
but you're better off without it.

Looks like it's time to decide.
Are you here?
Are you now?
Is this it?
All of those selves that you tried;
wasn't one of 'em good enough?

'cause you're upside down and inside out
and you can feel it.
Inside down and upside out
and you can feel it, feel it.

Don't stop.
Can't stop.
It's like a freight train.
Don't stop.
Can't stop
until you feel it goin' down.
I wish I had said the things you thought that I had said.
Gravity's just a habit that you're really sure you can't break.

Upside down and inside out
And you can feel it
Don't stop
Can't stop
Until you feel it goin' down
Upside down and inside out
And you can feel it
Don't stop
Can't stop
Until you feel it goin' down

I don't usually pause for pop music any more. Showtunes, yes, quite extensively so. But pop music hasn't touched me in years. Perhaps because we're just starting Lent, I'm sensitized. Rev. Susan Russell at All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena described during her Ash Wednesday homily that we must not give up epiphanies for Lent. 

Do not give up epiphanies for Lent!
Do not become so inwardly focused that we forget to notice – to give thanks for – to respond to – those encounters we can and will have with the holy in the next 40 days. Do not become so focused on our own “journey with Jesus” that we forget that as long as there are still strangers at the gate, walking humbly with our God is not enough. Not even close to enough.

You can read the full text at ASCIdea,org . I needed to hear that sermon yesterday. So much of Lent is self-focused. When I started serving (taking on) during Lent rather than just giving up, I found myself discovering, "epiphing", so much more that just through introspection. And I needed the reminder because discernment has turned me to reflect on myself far more than normal.

Back to this song. After the awe of the visuals abated, and I listened to the words, I was struck at how important it was to be open to insights and epiphanies. This came at a wonderful time, at the start of Lent, during my discernment process. And I saw it because someone important to me for my discernment shared it online.

With Lent and with discernment, we are in a state of discovery and heightened awareness. Sometimes that process can shock or disturb. Sometimes you feel joy, and other times you need to dive ever deeper into assessing your motives and perceptions. Take the lyrics in this verse:

So when you met the new you,
Were you scared?
Were you cold?
Were you kind?
Yeah when you met the new you,
did someone die inside?

Have I met the new me? YES. This blog wouldn't exist if I didn't feel for the past several years that there's an authentic me yearning to be known, trying to be outward and overt. I pushed it away for years, especially the younger me during the times I was handling issues of sexual orientation. I pushed it away because I felt as though I was meeting a new me.

Was I scared? Yes.

Was I cold? Yes.

Was I kind? Increasingly to others, and yet not to myself.

And, when I met the new me, I was watching someone die inside.

All this is heightened during the contemplative Lenten season.  I see the world in need and I see myself more awake, more humble, more present. I'm no longer speeding through on the freeway of life, but pausing to take a picture and to ponder. But when this persisted outside of Lent, I was facing a changing understanding of me.

I don't think I'm different. I just think I'm recognizing what I'm really all about. Perhaps others have known this. I imagine that this might be why people have tolerated me even when I'm not the kindest, nicest person on the outside. Everyone has a bad day. I feel like I had a bad couple of decades. Lenten reflection and discernment draws me to better see my authentic self. 

It's not technically a new me. 

It's a revealed me.

Looks like it's time to decide.Are you here?Are you now?Is this it?All of those selves that you tried;wasn't one of 'em good enough?

And then this verse drives it home. Like the masks I referred to Ash Wednesday morning ("The Masks Come Off", they come off and we see our mortality, our humanity, our real selves.

WIth Lent or discernment, it's time to explore, but at some point it's time to decide. What do you to do with what you're discovering? Do you move towards a living out what you're discovering?

Do you go and help those who are sick, homeless, in pain?

Do you go and bring justice to those who have been put down?

Do you bring the message of Christ's healing love to those who have long grown cynical and alone.

Or... Do you sit and fall back into your dream state?

I don't intend to fall back asleep. I pray that those walking on a Lenten journey with me or who accompany me on my discernment will help me stay the course. But it's not easy.

Gravity's just a habit that you're really sure you can't break.

Let's look for ways that we together can soar through the heavens, lovingly, playfully, tossing water balloons and breaking pinatas in the sky, and see that our past selves have held us down unnecessarily.

Gravity's just a habit. We can serve others and have fun looking beyond it. Let's go out together this Lent and break our habit.





http://letallwhoarethirstycome.com/2016/02/upside-down-and-inside-out.html

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

The Masks Come Off - An Ash Wednesday Reflection

Lent came early this year. The festivities from Christmas ended abruptly at Candelmas, February 2, and just one week later, we wrap up with Mardi Gras.

Sunset, Mardi Gras, 2016 while walking in Altadena

And now, a few hours after the feasting, the meat, the pancakes, the beads, the booze, the masks, the merriment all are put away. We wrap it up and we look squarely at the 40 day season of penitence called Lent. 

And the masks come off.

Because all that play and fun and food are temporary pleasures. We roam this earth and enjoy these delights, but in the end we all return to the earth. Like Adam. Like every person since, including Jesus. Pauper and prince must one day lie forever more. Like the moon that waxes into fullness, we all eventually must yield and wane.

But like the moon, we don't disappear. We may not be visible, but our presence is felt. Our gravity remains. We can still block out the light of the sun. All without being seen.

Like every year, some of my friends say goodbye to loved ones, friends, parents, and it's never easy. We don't want to let go and we hope that they stay with us forever. But it's impossible to do this. We're of the earth and we must return. It rips me apart saying goodbye or watching others do so. But it's our fate as human beings

As you enter this Lenten season, let me help you take off your mask, as I take off mine. The word "sincere" comes from the Greek and means "without mask". Let's take off these masks and look at each other in true sincerity.

Let's appreciate and love our respective humanity, both of each other and all our brothers and sisters who roam this mysterious world. Let the Spirit that animates us shine forth in our eyes, like the stars that shine around an unseen moon, moving us and guiding us towards that precious dance we know as life.

http://letallwhoarethirstycome.com/2016/02/the-masks-come-off-ash-wednesday.html

Don't Speak

There's a wonderful line in the movie and Broadway play "Bullets over Broadway". Whenever the young writer, played by John Cusack, tries to express his infatuation with the veteran movie actress (Diane Wiest), she pushes her hand into his face, smushing his eyeglasses, and blocks him mouth. She says this while melodramatically saying "Don't speak. Don't speak! Don't speak."

You may notice that there are times when I don't post things to my blog. It's not that I have little to say. I think most people are shocked whenever I express such a thought. No, I'm simply in a mode of listening rather than speaking, of tuning in rather than merely hearing.

Listening isn't the same thing as hearing after all. You have the sense of hearing at all times, even in your sleep. You may not be responding on a conscious level, but the ear drums are responding and the brain is detecting auditory signals. But you're not listening by default.

To listen is to take in the sounds and to incorporate them into your active mind. You may be processing, remembering, reacting, or all three. When I listen, I'm surprised at times with what I have been hearing, with what I was not processing just moments ago, not remembering, not reacting.

And life sometimes moves us in a direction where we're so knocked around that we don't have the mental legroom to go the extra mile and actually listen to what our ears are telling us. We're busy planning, judging, and explaining.

So sometimes, when I feel as though I've reached a point of saturation, I realize that I might not actually be listening.

And listening isn't just with our ears. Have you ever clanged a gong, a glass, a bell and listened to the resonating sound? Have you done so while holding that object? You may notice that the object continues to vibrate, well past the moment that you stopped hearing the sound.

Our bodies feel things, hear things, grasp things without our ears. All our senses contribute to our ability to take in the external world. Our cerebral mind may be too busy to cope with all that input, so it filters out things that it deems extraneous. Feedback that might be redundant. Sounds that might be irrelevant. Sights that might be unremarkable.

So with our entire physical being, we go through life not "listening to what we hear". Or, perhaps it's not "noticing what we our senses have found".

And in those times I feel overwhelmed, I pause and breathe. I walk. I dispel the words coming out of my mouth that block me from listening to the rhythms of life, from seeing the child of God before me, from feeling the heartbeat of the Holy Spirit.

And I kick myself off my comfortable place, sit perched and alert, watch, listen, feel.

And I don't speak.



http://letallwhoarethirstycome.com/2016/01/dont-speak.html

Advent Meditation - Reading the Leaves

I've always walked and hiked a lot, especially in the past few years. I've realized that I notice more in the world and have more opportunities to reflect on things going on in my life when I go outside, putting one foot in front of the other.

The other day, during this cool December month, I was walking just after sunrise, noting the whiff of firewood from the night before, and found myself gazing at a large maple tree down the street from my home. I know this tree well, as it stands in front of a small house and is naturally decked out at this time of year with exhilarating autumn colors. I stared at the shimmering golden maple leaves, and the unraked layers scattered around the base. As I got closer, feet crunching on fallen foliage, I was struck by an odd vision. Two or three leaves were spinning wildly as they clung to the branches. They were twirling in the wind, trembling, vibrating on the bare twigs.

What made me take notice of these particular leaves was the obvious contrast to the other thousands of others on that tree. The other golden forms were perfectly stationary, as though in a painting. Motionless. Oblivious to those two or three quaking ones just a few feet away. I thought, "Oh, I actually might be able catch these spinning leaves just as they fall away to the ground - a perfect autumn moment on my walk." So I stepped towards the tree and gazed at the shivering ones hoping to catch them in the act of falling. I came to a stop on the lawn below the leaves. I watched and waited to see a spectacle that admittedly is repeated millions of times a day this time of year, but would be seen only by me, at this moment, at this place.

But it didn't happen, at least not in the way that I expected. As it turns out, as I was staring at the twirlers, I saw out of the corner of my eye an unexpected movement. I turned my head, and one of those motionless leaves broke off and started to drift downwards, wafting this way and that, before gently landing on the damp ground below. It was one of the stronger leaves that fell. I looked up, and the spinning leaves still quivered manically in the wind. I looked up and the stationary ones still remained motionless.

So I got to see a leaf fall. What I saw was what I wanted to see, what I waited to see, but it wasn't how I expected to see it. 

And as I took a couple of steps back towards the street, one last shape caught my attention. I saw pigtails and two large blue eyes. It was as though a young child - straight out of central casting to play the role of Cindy Lou Who, the tiniest tot on the Grinch Who Stole Christmas - was gazing out the front window of the modest home. Her head was propped on her hands, her elbows planted on a sofa, her big round eyes staring at the tree. It seems she hadn't noticed me.

I'm not certain what she was looking at, what she was waiting for. Did she want to see the leaves fall as well? Was she wondering where her Mom and Dad had gone to at this hour? Perhaps she was wondering what was for breakfast. But she was waiting and watching up towards the tree. But as I started my departure, she moved her head suddenly, surprised to see someone else there with her. Of course, I was concerned that I had startled her. But she just tilted her head slightly and smiled. She smiled broadly, with innocence and gentleness.

Advent is a season where we often run around madly, racing from one store to the next store, or from one e-store to the next e-store, staring at our phones as we wait in line. We do it because we want to make Christmas special for the ones we love, those who are planted in our lives. We do extra shopping, decorating, cooking on top of our normal chores, with work and family commitments. We spin around the city and it's a wonder we just don't collapse. That we don't fall to the damp ground below. Yet we somehow hang on. And our joys almost always come from unexpected ways. 

We're asked to spend Advent waiting for the baby Jesus. We're asked to be alert, to be watchful, with childlike innocence and wonder. It can often be challenging, if we let our attention drift in the wind to this mall and that concert, to this show and that party.  

May Advent keep us all awake at the sunrise, alert, in a state of wonder, head in our hands, staring out the window for something that perhaps only we can see, perhaps something we all can share. And may it surprise us with meaning far greater than we ever expected.

Do you see what I see?

After the rains above Los Angeles, Feb 2014

From a place of beauty
where the bouncing wind thumps
against a wood frame window

Watching shape shifting clouds
wander confused and dazed
between the mountains and city below

Listening to parrots chatter
catching coyotes scampering
smiling at that cat rolling in the grass

I sit restlessly
frustrated
not in a state of peace.

Unease competes with my senses
like an itch on my back
distracting me from appreciation

Because in places far away and maybe even nearby
the same glorious sights, sounds, and smells
thud hollow on the heart.

For if I were a refugee, a hungry child, or a widow
would I see, hear, and feel
the same things as the privileged

this man who sits in his warm home he calls his own
staring out the window
seeing the beauty because of good fortune?

Footsteps of the Flies

Some times of our lives or of the year, we seemingly seem to be bumped by death from the left and by the dying from the right. We hear our mortality creeping up behind us, and we see tears and pain in front of us.

It's easy to let loose, go full on emo and drown ourselves in the sorrows of nihilism and fate. We drift alone on an island, fearful of what life has in store for us next.

Last Friday I saw the staged version of Lord of the Flies for the first time. My niece performed in an all-girl production, where they changed the characters from Ralph, Simon, Jack, and Piggy to Rachel, Simone, Jackie, and Piggy. It added a new dimension to see young girls in a classic modern story.

The broad themes stayed the same: the natural tendency for order and rules vs the natural tendency for tribalism and war, the Christ-like lover of peace being misunderstood by all, the innate criminality in some, the futility of intellectual blindness. But the use of girls ensured that these themes were understood to be truly across the human race, and not just among men. The cast was not allowed to lean on a simplistic boys-will-be-boys crutch. And the emotions felt ever more raw.

I bring it up because this show preceded a weekend that also included a memorial for a family member who passed on. That loss of innocence described in the book often times accompanies the departure of a friend or relative. It's part of our nature to question life and our natural place in it.

Lord of the Flies as a title arises literally from Beelzebub, or Baal-ze-bub. That deity is now viewed as a demon or devil. It's as though the devil arises when we're adrift on an island alone. The book implies that the devil is in us, and we hear the footsteps of the devil when left to our own devices.

But we aren't alone on an island. We have each other and most importantly, we have those who brought us here. Unlike the story, we weren't left here by accident. Our ancestors and friends paved a way for us in ways small and large.

Which brings me to this All Saints and All Souls day prayer that I've been saying for the past few years. It's obviously a slight reworking of Hebrews 12 and the prayer attributed to Saint Francis. But it merges them into a journey of hope.

We aren't adrift on an island, cast away to fend for ourselves. We have footprints in the sand that we can follow. And we can lay a path for those who come after us. So yes, like the beast in Lord of the Flies lurking in the shadows of our darkest night, we may find ourselves crawling in fear. At first. For now.

And then we can awake to a dawn, strengthened by the sunlight, supported by those clouds of relationships new and old, walking on the paths that were paved to bring us to this place of beauty. We may not be on this earth for very long, but we are not alone. That sound we hear is not the Lord of the Flies buzzing out of death. It's the prayer of hope that willed us into being. We exist because the love of others brought us here and we too can bring life to those who follow.

Be Not Afraid

Playful in the crypts below Lima, Peru's cathedral. January, 2012.

There's nothing to fear but fear itself.

Don't be a scaredy-cat.

Over and over throughout the Bible, we're told to fear not.  (Except when God's pissed off. Then yeah, be fearful.)

All this courage and fearlessness is thrust upon us. We're supposed to have a strong spine, a stiff upper lip.

And yet. in many ways, it's a tough sell for me. We do have fears. Some carry angst over monsters, others clowns and dolls, some over violence in our streets, and still others criminals. Apparently, many fear even people of a different ethnicity or culture, walking on the other side of the street. That's fear. That's real.

And even the Biblical exhortation to be not afraid can be rough. Don't be afraid? It's not easy when you watch the news. And even if you're faithful, don't be fearful ... unless God's mad? It's like a menacing parent who says they love you but won't hesitate to whip you silly if you don't fall in line. That fear is intrinsically mixed in with love, and frankly it's hard to find that sort of relationship anywhere close to being unconditional love. You see that more in horror movies involving kidnappers. A simple understanding of Biblical courage might be unpersuasive.

Besides, humans as a rule don't like to be genuinely afraid, so we don't need to be reminded to be courageous. Instead, avoid fear, transform fear, deflect fear. We act out in anger and aggression in order to avoid situations and feelings of fear. True fear debilitates and we, in our fight or flight reactions, show that we will do whatever it takes to reduce these terrible feelings. And when we can't evade the horrors of life, anxiety and/or depression settles in to offset the enormous negative energy. Counterproductive as it might seem, but negative emotions are sometimes the only way to counteract other negative emotions.

And then there's Halloween.

It's a holiday that, when I was a kid, was surrounded by mirth and mild fear. Increasingly, it became one of terror, where haunted houses migrated from the corny to bloodbaths. This holiday is now worth 8-10 billion dollars each year in the USA. Thanksgiving is worth less than 3 billion, not including travel. The numbers alone might cause the blood to drain from your face.

By definition, the word Halloween comes from the phrase All Hallow's Eve (All Holy's Eve). All Saints Day is November 1 and All Souls Day (for those who haven't quite made it to sainthood) follows on November 2. The night before, or Eve of, All Saints Day, like the Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve, is a time to begin celebrations. The concept of Halloween shifted from focus on Saints and Souls in all their holiness to the dead. More than that, it's moved to the terrifying.

Why do we do this? What is the joy in creating fear in others? The mild stimulation certainly can raise adrenaline. There's also the merriment associated with giving someone a playful fright, a "boo!" moment. Some enjoy gory movies and entertainment, and Halloween provides a date as a focal point for such diversions. Looking around me, I think we can agree that this is the most common situation.

In contrast, we have some who feel that all this is utterly satanic in every respect. They assert that any enjoyment of the dead, the monsters, the blood, and the costumes celebrate a pagan and demonic heritage. I'm not in agreement with these folks, as the history I've described clearly has ties to the remembrance of the saints and the dead.

I think that Halloween has become our subconscious effort to make light of death, to create opportunities for cathartic release, for us to admit our fears and release the rage that would otherwise become manifest if left unchecked.

We aren't calling up demons from other worlds. We're dispatching demons inside ourselves.

My Halloween costumes, when I dress up, have been one of three types: the victim, the maniacal, and the fictional or historical human character. The one exception to these tendencies is that I once dressed as the Grim Reaper. It might be boring, but I prefer to get a laugh or a wry smile out of my costume rather than a frightful chill.

Do I miss out on the catharsis? I'm not sure. I enjoy the efforts of others to induce the fear, but I don't feel the need to immerse in it. It's almost as though there's too much in the real world to create real fear. What subconscious-clearing monster must I confront that can top the horrors of today's news headlines?

Others though enjoy the fright. And I give them latitude in that delight. If that fright lessens the existential or all-to-present dread that permeates our every day life, then I'm in favor of it.

Biblical exhortations to be not afraid aren't meant to eliminate simplistic, superficial fears after all. I think they are intended to root out our real fears and our faith-killing monsters. The opposite of faith isn't doubt. Doubt is often a key indicator of an underlying and powerful faith.

No, the opposite of faith is fear. Real fear. Because when we are afraid, we cannot love. And when we cannot love, we cannot follow the one and only commandment given to us by Christ: to love one another.

So let's give ourselves a fun "boo!", a playful surprise, a well meaning monster. Or, if you're like me, dress up like Harry Potter, or a judge, or road kill. Let's be joyful, knowing that our reverence for the dead might be helped when we acknowledge, admit, and embrace that death and the unknown are indeed frightening.

And let's hold hands as we ask for love, blessings, and candy. We won't be afraid, if we walk hand in hand, knowing that we have each other's love for all eternity.

Good Grief

We're surrounded by death. It's on the news every few minutes. It's so widespread and pervasive that we've even become desensitized to it. Look at the gun deaths out there on our streets every single day. We watch and we slowly turn the tv stations to sports, Netflix, or cooking shows. We pull up Facebook, register our sadness online, and scroll on.

The pain and suffering of those immersed in death feels unbearable and seems impossible to contain. So we let it slip by. Forget Andy Warhol's prediction that we'll each have our 15 minutes of fame. I think today we spend 15 minutes in grief before it's time to turn our attention to the next obsession, our celebrity-of-the-hour of our psychological Id.

We genuflect towards the plight of others and we move on. Is that resilience? Are we strong against what blights our souls? When we turn away from our emotional distress towards something more "productive"?

Or is that denial? Where we turn our backs on the fearful and look instead to alternative realities? When we fill our minds and lips with anything and everything but that which causes us such heartache?

Novodevichy Cemetery & Convent
Moscow, Russia, June 2012

Last year, we lost Stephen's gregarious brother Tim. He left us in a way that created enormous emotional upheaval. I last saw him 9 days before our wedding. He passed away one week exactly before we walked down the aisle at All Saints Pasadena. Our celebration, something we dreamed about because we never thought it could be possible, was forever tainted by the painful departure of someone we expected to be there in the pews with us. We wore buttons with his face to remember him, so he's in all our wedding photos, but it wasn't the same as having him laugh with us, sing with us, sigh with us.

The morning after the wedding, hours after our celebration ended, we collected the reception flower arrangements and brought them to Tim's memorial.




Life is like that. Grief works on us at times we can't control. Death has no on-off switch.

Then last week, we lost Stephen's Uncle Dave. His passing was quick, and his pain didn't get drawn out over months. But it also means that the opportunities to say goodbye weren't there either. Sure, we had a hilarious time filled with family, stories, and games while camping at Yosemite a couple months ago in August. So we at least saw him a few times since the wedding. But many of the family didn't get a chance to say a proper goodbye. The grief sits heavily when you can't find closure.

Grief sometimes smacks you like a sucker punch to the gut when you're looking the other way. You don't expect exactly when it hits, you're not sure how it will feel, you often are bewildered at the pain. It's not fun. I've never enjoyed it and don't enjoy watching others as they cope with it.

But I stand there with them, together, holding hands, holding heads, holding hearts, so that we can cope without feeling alone. No, I don't enjoy it when others grieve, but grieve they must.

I wish them a good grief.

Not a good grief like Charlie Brown often lamented. Not an exhortation of frustration of something that passes quickly. But a heartfelt, purging, cathartic grief that has no time limit and has no agenda. With a pain that brings us intimately in touch with the billions of people who came before us and will come after us.

For it's in feeling that pain that we reconnect with our humanity, the same humanity that we so fleetingly ignore or pass by because we have no time. Love and loss are time-churning, time-consuming, clock burners. There's no rush and yet the intensity sometimes makes us want to push ahead faster. We want to fall in love faster. We want to cope with loss faster.

And like love, loss cannot be rushed. Our souls are pruned, our hearts bandaged, our psyches mended. The vacuum created by the change may be enormous and may be miniscule, but that gap exists nonetheless.

How quickly we lament that gap. We cut back our rose bushes and see the barren twigs, urging new buds to appear. But life doesn't work that quickly. God not through with us in the timeframe we want. And we can't ignore forever the need to prune back that which is no longer alive in the garden of our lives.

I sometimes wish that my garden were nothing but succulents. They're hardy. They don't need pruning. They just grow. But it's a false expectation. Even cactus plants need pruning.... eventually. It just takes a lot longer to get there. No, the only thing that doesn't have a rejuvenating process are inanimate objects. Stones. Bricks. Pebbles.

They don't die back.

There's no pain of loss that accompanies life.

And there's no chance for life made new.

Amidst the pain of losing someone swirls the often unstated fear, the dread of facing our mortality. As we watch others move away from us to worlds we do not grasp or understand, we can't help but wonder at our own departure. Will we suffer? Will we have a chance to say goodbye?

Let me share with you some words from Mark Nepo. These are words that he writes out of his terror from his life threatening health conditions. But it strikes me as similar in feelings to how many cope with grief.

During this time, I was unable to find my bearings, had no sense of center, and was unsure about everything. But in the center of my terror, there was a small voice stirring, emanating, and building from under all my trouble. It didn't speak in words, and I was unaccustomed to listing for it or to it. I know now it came from the core of all life and all time and began to assert itself through the bottom of my personality, the way sunlight passes through a crack in a barn. This was my first feeling of the touchstone of grace that would grow and lessen my terror over time.

Mark Nepo, Inside the Miracle

Grief may not be what we seek but we still need it to get past loss. I don't wish you to cry over death very often in your life, but when you do find yourself in a time of grief, I pray that you let the process work in you. Let the pruning be a productive one, creating space in your heart, so that life and be fruitful once more, basking in the sunlight that you've allowed into your core.

May your pain be a good grief.

Beatitudes 2.0

Photo by Christina Honchell

Lutheran Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber came to visit All Saints Pasadena once again, this time with her new book "Accidental Saints". I was working the photo booth but got especially excited when I was asked to lead the final hymn Amazing Grace, after her presentation finished.

It was the culmination of an hour of talks, filled with prayers and stories that touched all of us in the church. Theologically, there wasn't anything that differed markedly from what we at All Saints Pasadena usually hear from our pulpit. What felt different was her delivery.

She's direct and to the point. She doesn't shirk from swearing. Nadia sticks to being her authentic self. She did confide that she's had discussions in the past with her bishop about her communication style, but by being true to herself, she shows herself to be more honest and believable in her relationship with God.

That's not to say that those who don't swear have an untrue relationship. She just won't change herself superficially just to be polite.

One of the most moving moments was when Nadia shared her modern Beatitudes. I include them here for you.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the agnostics. Blessed are they who doubt. Those who aren’t sure, who can still be surprised. Blessed are they who are spiritually impoverished and therefore not so certain about everything that they no longer take in new information. Blessed are those who have nothing to offer. Blessed are they for whom nothing seems to be working. Blessed are the pre-schoolers who cut in line at communion. Blessed are the poor in spirit. You are of heaven and Jesus blesses you. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.Blessed are they for whom death is not an abstraction. Blessed are they who have buried their loved ones, for whom tears are as real as an ocean. Blessed are they who have loved enough to know what loss feels like. Blessed are the mothers of the miscarried. Blessed are they who don’t have the luxury of taking things for granted any more. Blessed are they who can’t fall apart because they have to keep it together for everyone else. Blessed are the motherless, the alone, the ones from whom so much has been taken. Blessed are those who “still aren’t over it yet.” Blessed are they who laughed again when for so long they thought they never would. Blessed are those who mourn. You are of heaven and Jesus blesses you. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who no one else notices. The kids who sit alone at middle-school lunch tables. The laundry guys at the hospital. The sex-workers and the night shift street sweepers. Blessed are the losers and the babies and the parts of ourselves that are so small. The parts of ourselves that don’t want to make eye contact with a world that only loves the winners. Blessed are the forgotten. Blessed are the closeted. Blessed are the unemployed, the unimpressive, the underrepresented. Blessed are the teens who have to figure out ways to hide the new cuts on their arms. Blessed are the meek. You are of heaven and Jesus blesses you. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the wrongly accused, the ones who never catch a break, the ones for whom life is hard – for they are those with whom Jesus chose to surround himself. Blessed are those without documentation. Blessed are the ones without lobbyists. Blessed are foster kids and trophy kids and special ed kids and every other kid who just wants to feel safe and loved and never does. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Blessed are they who know there has to be more than this. Because they are right. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Blessed are those who make terrible business decisions for the sake of people. Blessed are the burnt-out social workers and the over worked teachers and the pro-bono case takers. Blessed are the kids who step between the bullies and the weak. Blessed are they who delete hateful, homophobic comments off their friend’s Facebook page. Blessed are the ones who have received such real grace that they are no longer in the position of ever deciding who the “deserving poor” are. Blessed is everyone who has ever forgiven me when I didn’t deserve it. Blessed are the merciful for they totally get it.

As you can see she took the original and expanded them with examples that may resonate more effectively to the modern ear, especially here in the USA. The original Beatitudes are from the Sermon on the Mount and are in Matthew 5:3-11.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,     for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn,     for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek,     for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,     for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful,     for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart,     for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers,     for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,     for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.

I can't stop thinking about this updated list. It's similar but it focuses on things that are more tangible, more direct. They arise from stories in the pews and in the streets. She didn't change the blessings. She painted real faces, faces awash in tears, of those who the blessings are poured upon.

So since her talk, I've been thinking about my own examples of the Beatitudes. Her examples are from her ministry. We all have different ministries and my will seem different from hers. After much reflection, I find the my list to be already formed in my head but, until now, not written down.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,     the spiritual but not religious     the seekers of their authentic selves     the suffering who begin to doubt because the pain never seems to end     the sick who fear their own bodies     the stranger in our midst who needs a smile, a hug, a friend     the child afraid to venture outside lest the bullying return     the scared who fear coming home lest they return to a place of anger and judgment for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn,     the spouse who lost the person they've loved deeper than we can understand     the lovers who no longer find the trust and joy in each other's arms and say goodbye     the child who doesn't understand why her parent won't be coming home anymore     the friends who viewed a couple as one, as was meant to be, but now just find hollow eyes     the family shocked at the loss of someone taken too soon by gun violence     the relatives whose loss is viewed by others as collateral damage     the breaking hearts who did not even have a chance to say goodbye     the silent who must watch dementia steal someone's memories away leaving just a body for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek,     the teenager who stays in the closet, fearing that the name of their love will be discovered     the pained who turn to the bottle or to pills to give them strength and energy     the thinker and artist that lacks the opportunity to share     the pastors who heal others but wonder who will tend to them     the friend who realizes that somehow their bodies and souls don't fit a M/F binary     the nurse who washes our sores         the friend that listens to hear us, watches to see us, and grabs our hands to hold us for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,     the foreigner who is told to leave and go to a place of fear and hunger     the friends who cannot walk down the street in a hoodie or even complain about injustice     the mother who just wants to get affordable medical care to plan a family     the inmate facing the final judgment of Man and not our Creator     the families torn apart because of arbitrary rules regarding homeland     the kneeling who face violence because of their love for God, YHWH, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, ...     the proud who won't let others impose their bigotries on them for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful,     the heros who take care of us behind our backs     the friends that know all will benefit from roads, sanitation, health, protection, education     the families who reach out and adopt and care for all children, not just those that look like them     the older sibling, real or implied, who has our backs     the comadre and compadre who listen to our problems without judging us     the teacher who gives of their own time to care for that special child     the mother and father, sister and brother, who just want you to be happy for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart,     the custodians at the church, homeless shelter, and hospital     the teachers who want the most for your child     the person at the grocery line who lets you cut in front of them     the staff at the store and restaurant that share the bathroom even if you didn't or can't buy anything     the ranger who tends to our land so that future generations can marvel at Creation     the homeowner who sees you lost, gives you water, and guides you home     the friend who gives you a ride, cares for a prisoner, plants flowers on a trail for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers,     the police and judiciary that understand that true safety starts in trust     the people who unite us as a human family, rather than divide us like spoils of war     the artists, writers, and musicians who inspire us to love and compassion     the fire crew that calms the fearful neighborhood     the military who put their lives on the line for our protection and not for their glory     the unknown missionary who lies in a shallow grave for the civil rights of brothers and sisters     the good Samaritan whose name we never knew, or whose face we've already forgotten for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,     the ones who care for the Children of God          ignoring false idols          ignoring their own egos          ignoring the sense of their own righteousness for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

May you find examples of the beatitudes in your own life and live out the meaning of God's blessings. I invite you to share them with me, for in sharing your views of blessing, you bless me with your insight and love.