The night before walking the Wicklow Way with Vox Peregrini, we gathered at the Most Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Bonclody. There we met each other for the first time. There they had their first rehearsal. The first time they had sang together as a group. I have never been privileged to be present at that genesis moment of art. But to my amateur ear, they sounded as if they had been companions for years. No piano. No reading through the music. They just opened their mouths and this most holy sound reverberated through the room and my soul. We had not taken one step and these thirteen people had already implanted their spirits in my heart.
That night I had a very unusual dream. I cannot remember having a dream about flying. I have dreamt of falling, but never flying through the air. Unaided, untethered, self-directed flying. But that night I had a dream I was flying twenty feet above the ground. I was enjoy the freedom of traveling where I wanted and seeing far below in all directions. It was a joyous dream and I felt good when I woke up that the first morning of our walk.
I have walked with groups before. In many ways, this group was no different. The dream did not foretell a problem free pilgrimage, where everything went flyingly well. It did not. One person had to drop out from walking after the first day. They came unprepared and the walk was more difficult than they had expected. Several packs were too heavy and weight was off-loaded into bags that were transferred each morning to the next hostel. Many of the thirteen suffered blisters. An unusual number experienced multiple blisters on both feet. By the third morning I was spending an hour tending to their battered feet. Three had knee problems. One a bad ankle. Fortunately, we had enough braces to go around. I thought I had brought plenty of bandages, but we had to restock three times. I had brought naturopathic remedies along that I distributed freely for sore muscles and aching joints, as well as one sore throat. Cathy also packed essential oils and we used them quite extensively. Including the purification oil every morning on my own hands. While I tended their feet, I prayed for their healing. I also used Charles Williams' ideas on the exchange of love. I counted on the purification oil to keep me from transferring blisters and joint issues to my own body. In retrospect, I think most of their problems were due to poor boots and not enough hill climbing before we started. But, I wasn't surprised. Hill climbing is a difficult task in Ireland. Not to be taken lightly. Experience is most helpful. I wondered along the way if they had read my posts to assist in their preparations. Most admitted they had. Still, it's kind of one of those things you have to see to believe, like the Irish landscape.
In Ireland, seeing can have more to do with the third eye. I think that's where the flying dream came to bear. Vox Peregrini's music and their spirit opened my soul a bit further than even I could imagine. As I pulled back the layers of each of my souls, the sauve of their musical spirits plied the widening of the sacred circle ensouling my nature. I walked. The concentric mandalas of souls breathed out ahead, behind, above, below me. Looking, seeking, searching, discovering. Finding new elements to pour into my alchemical cauldron, that which I pray over to bring forth soul gold. The psychic imagination of a new possibility.
The light faeries appeared. The dragon-raven revealed herself. The Divine opened a new place deep within the regions of my inner world where light had not flickered before. What does it all mean? The answer will take days, months, years to unpack.
What seems most meaningful at this moment in time? My most profound memories? Morgan K's incredible positive attitude when his bag didn't arrive the first night and he had to borrow boots, pants, a shirt, a pack, and a stick from fellow pilgrims. The group, I believe, breathed in his spirit and shone with it the remainder of the trip. In the face of countless opportunities to complain, I never heard one second of grumbling. Morgan H's courage to stop walking after the first day, reminded me that we are all on our own pilgrimage. Pastor Amy's blessing midway through a most difficult day poured sauve on my soul. Jonathan's bass ohm shook my imagination free on Glendalough's mountain side. John whispering to the choir, "Listen to the wind. Match your voice to the rhythm of the trees," opened my ears. Ian's ability to be everywhere to take the best "money-shot" pictures widened my eyes. Samantha's innocent curiosity about faeries and her deep desire to see one, caused me to giggle with glee and I prayed she would see one too. Allie's steady pace, as she quipped, "We're a heard of turtles," made me slow down to her wisdom. Richard's Eagle Scout confidence steadied my own insecurities in map reading. Michael's open heart of spiritual theology buoyed my hope for Christianity's future. Briar's fierce questions reminded me daily the value of the question far outweighs the necessity of any answer. Arlie's servanthood presence kept me focused on the One I follow. Melissa's bold face courage to confront her fears and overcome them filled my eyes with the fresh tears of the Spirit of God when she crossed the finish line - encouraging me to take up yet another pilgrimage, another day, for another fellow pilgrim. And Cathy, you were always present. Both Mary and Martha, words of wisdom and ministry of presence. You have kept me alive for forty-three years and counting. With Vox Peregrini you shared that grace as well. I am thankful for each of these marvelous pilgrims—the communal soul of Vox Peregrini.
When life challenges your being, presses against your soul, beats down your spirit, takes away your breath—remember the Iron Bridge and S-F hill. Remember you made it. All the way to the top. On your own. Such is the power gained by walking your own pilgrimage. But, there is also a great paradox, the pair of opposites found within pilgrimage. As John said that first night, "Just because they show up to the concert, doesn't mean they get to understand everything." Such is the hidden wisdom of pilgrimage.The wisdom is found in the reflection. Without it, you simply walked 100 miles.
I have learned much from you. I pray much more is to come. I am much better for walking by your side. Blessed Be dearest friends. Till we meet again.
Monday, July 06, 2015
Sunday, July 05, 2015
Vox Peregrini Concert Time
Eighteen hours after finishing the Wicklow Way, Vox Peregrini stood in Christ Church Cathedral, which sits in the city center of bustling Dublin. The ensemble was dressed in professional concert attire. Their hair was in its place. Make-up on. Shaven and trimmed beards.
"This is who we are. This is our comfort zone," one pilgrim told me. "Out there on the trail, all we felt was discomfort."
We met nine days ago. Today was the first time I had seen them in anything but hiking gear, ponytails, sans cosmetics. For me, seeing them in performance mode, was the reality of returning to the normal world. A world in which I feel less comfortable with every pilgrimage. The mask of "normality" fills me with dis-ease. The group seems a bit unsettled as they began the performance.
After the concert one pilgrim recommended that for the next Vox Peregrini group it would be best to give them a day of recovery before the first performance. However, as a sort of anthropologist of pilgrimage, I wanted to see them in performance mode as soon as possible after they finished walking. My desire was to see a raw pilgrim try and perform to an audience.
Their self-reflective critique of that first concert was harsh.
"I coudn't hear anyone so I was afraid to sing out for fear of being too loud."
"I felt like I was trying to sing for the audience. It didn't feel right."
"We made some serious mistakes."
They had just finished walking 100 miles a few hours before. Their bodies were aching. Feet still blistered. Knee and ankle braces still worn. The jarring effect of returning to the bustle of life after eight days of almost pure nature filled silence was still rattling their souls. They preformed out of what described as their pre-pilgrimage paradigm. And it "didn't feel right," to them.
Twenty-four hours later, at St. Patrick's Cathedral, just a few blocks down the street, Vox Peregrini stood in place to sing their second concert. Before they could begin, however, their director had to ask a tour guide, and her loud voice, to move her tourists off center stage. I wondered about the irony.
The Vox Peregrini choir seemed be standing closer together than yesterday. John had rearranged who stood where in the now tighter half-circle. As they performed, it was apparent he had also changed the order of the pieces of music.Their voices were much stronger. They appeared less inhibited by the noisy wandering tourists. They swayed, more at ease with themselves and one another. They smiled at one another. They seemed to have found a new voice.
After the concert I asked John to compare the first performance with the second. "Yesterday was like watching TV. Today was like making out with your girlfriend."
A member of Vox Peregrini told me that just before they walked out to sing, John encouraged them to sing for themselves. Sing like you sang on the Way. "Listen to wind," he said, "Sing in rhythm with the trees."
Vox Peregrini completed the Wicklow Way. Up some extremely difficult hills. Down into some steep valleys. They walked through the deep dark forest. They trekked across the bald White Hill. They sang in the forest. They sang for themselves. They sang for Frank from Germany on the side of a hill. They sang for Mark and Roz from Australia high in the Wicklow forest. At St. Patrick's Cathedral they sang in tune with the natural world. I wept.
I can't say how the pilgrimage has affected the members of Vox Peregrini. They haven't had time to process. I have asked them to share some reflections with me during the next few days, weeks, and months. How, if at all, has the pilgrimage changed their solo and ensemble perspective of performance as well their creative craft of music? There will be much to learn from them. As for me, I too am processing. I will write one more blog for Vox. One more reflection. One more in the line of a life time of memories and reflections they have sang into my soul.
"This is who we are. This is our comfort zone," one pilgrim told me. "Out there on the trail, all we felt was discomfort."
We met nine days ago. Today was the first time I had seen them in anything but hiking gear, ponytails, sans cosmetics. For me, seeing them in performance mode, was the reality of returning to the normal world. A world in which I feel less comfortable with every pilgrimage. The mask of "normality" fills me with dis-ease. The group seems a bit unsettled as they began the performance.
After the concert one pilgrim recommended that for the next Vox Peregrini group it would be best to give them a day of recovery before the first performance. However, as a sort of anthropologist of pilgrimage, I wanted to see them in performance mode as soon as possible after they finished walking. My desire was to see a raw pilgrim try and perform to an audience.
Their self-reflective critique of that first concert was harsh.
"I coudn't hear anyone so I was afraid to sing out for fear of being too loud."
"I felt like I was trying to sing for the audience. It didn't feel right."
"We made some serious mistakes."
They had just finished walking 100 miles a few hours before. Their bodies were aching. Feet still blistered. Knee and ankle braces still worn. The jarring effect of returning to the bustle of life after eight days of almost pure nature filled silence was still rattling their souls. They preformed out of what described as their pre-pilgrimage paradigm. And it "didn't feel right," to them.
Twenty-four hours later, at St. Patrick's Cathedral, just a few blocks down the street, Vox Peregrini stood in place to sing their second concert. Before they could begin, however, their director had to ask a tour guide, and her loud voice, to move her tourists off center stage. I wondered about the irony.
The Vox Peregrini choir seemed be standing closer together than yesterday. John had rearranged who stood where in the now tighter half-circle. As they performed, it was apparent he had also changed the order of the pieces of music.Their voices were much stronger. They appeared less inhibited by the noisy wandering tourists. They swayed, more at ease with themselves and one another. They smiled at one another. They seemed to have found a new voice.
After the concert I asked John to compare the first performance with the second. "Yesterday was like watching TV. Today was like making out with your girlfriend."
A member of Vox Peregrini told me that just before they walked out to sing, John encouraged them to sing for themselves. Sing like you sang on the Way. "Listen to wind," he said, "Sing in rhythm with the trees."
Vox Peregrini completed the Wicklow Way. Up some extremely difficult hills. Down into some steep valleys. They walked through the deep dark forest. They trekked across the bald White Hill. They sang in the forest. They sang for themselves. They sang for Frank from Germany on the side of a hill. They sang for Mark and Roz from Australia high in the Wicklow forest. At St. Patrick's Cathedral they sang in tune with the natural world. I wept.
I can't say how the pilgrimage has affected the members of Vox Peregrini. They haven't had time to process. I have asked them to share some reflections with me during the next few days, weeks, and months. How, if at all, has the pilgrimage changed their solo and ensemble perspective of performance as well their creative craft of music? There will be much to learn from them. As for me, I too am processing. I will write one more blog for Vox. One more reflection. One more in the line of a life time of memories and reflections they have sang into my soul.
Saturday, July 04, 2015
Vox Peregrini The Final Walk into Dublin
The first day of every pilgrimage is filled with adrenaline. Hikers often start off with a pace they cannot sustain. The final day is similiar. To finish is to accomplish. So we imagine the end of pilgrimage. But pilgrimage is never finished. Vox is ready to start the end of walking. Imaginational paradox. Yet, there is sadness in a successful completion of the Way. The task will be done. The work will be over. And the community will come to an abrupt end.
The final day into Dublin is three miles up, three miles down, then three miles up, and three miles down again. Two 1200 foot ascents. Not easy. Especially at the end of a 100 mile hike. Our group started out too quickly on that first steep 500 yard climb. The first of many. Not enough rest at the top. A bad cocktail. Potentially producing a wicked hangover.
A mile and half into the hike, we met a very large brilliant white ball of fur. I'm not good with dog breeds. His feet were huge, he was strong and tall, like a husky. He was incredibly friendly. He greeted everyone with his inviting eyes and a lick. Unconditional love is so irresistible. Someone checked his tag. His name was Cado and he decided to follow us. Actually, he led us up the mountain. Clearly, he had been this way before. I had hoped he would get tired and turn around. At the half way point I feared he would follow us all the way to Dublin.
We stopped at a bridge for lunch. Hikers going in both directions of the Wicklow Way found the bridge a great place to rest. Without surprise, Mark and Roz met us there as well. A few of our group had left their lunch at the Knocree hostel. Mark carried them in his pack, knowing he would catch up with us.
As we ate, I was troubled by Cado's fate, I saw a young man, walking alone, down the hill ahead of us. He moved at a quick pace as he came down the hill. Something in me said this guy could help us with Cado. I stopped him and asked where he was headed. "Enniskerry." Perfect. I told him about Cado and asked if he could help us. He obliged. We offered him half a sandwich to entice Cado. The dog was hungry and the chap was a pro at baiting Cado with just a tidbit here and there. Off the two went for what we hoped was a lovely return home.
Meanwhile, Ian, the Vox videographer, set up his camera. He had been interviewing our pilgrims along the way. Now that Mark and Roz had become so dear to the group, Ian asked if they would mind answering a few questions on camera. He asked one question and they filled up twenty minutes of film about the power of walkabouts and Vox's influence on their Wicklow experience. I doubt Ian could have written a better script.
After a long break, the final ascent was difficult. Tired legs. Burning lungs. The thrill to finish. The sadness to leave this newly formed community of pilgrims. The climb to the top of Dublin Mountain was extremely slow. No one got too far ahead. In fact, for the first time we reached the top together. Lots of pictures. Some sat down to get a long look at Dublin Bay. There seemed a reluctance to head down the mountain. The end was just a few miles away.
We entered Marley Park together. Crossing the finish line one by one. Of course, to the applause of Mark and Roz.
Cathy, who has been our support team all along the trip, distributed Wicklow Way completion certificates. More pictures. Full pack pushups. Lots of hugs. Plenty of tears. Celebration.
While the walking may be completed, a pilgrimage is never over. For Vox Peregrini tomorrow and Friday the work continues at Christ Church Cathedral and St. Patrick's. Will their concerts simply be just another performance? Or will the pilgrimage appear in their voice?
The final day into Dublin is three miles up, three miles down, then three miles up, and three miles down again. Two 1200 foot ascents. Not easy. Especially at the end of a 100 mile hike. Our group started out too quickly on that first steep 500 yard climb. The first of many. Not enough rest at the top. A bad cocktail. Potentially producing a wicked hangover.
A mile and half into the hike, we met a very large brilliant white ball of fur. I'm not good with dog breeds. His feet were huge, he was strong and tall, like a husky. He was incredibly friendly. He greeted everyone with his inviting eyes and a lick. Unconditional love is so irresistible. Someone checked his tag. His name was Cado and he decided to follow us. Actually, he led us up the mountain. Clearly, he had been this way before. I had hoped he would get tired and turn around. At the half way point I feared he would follow us all the way to Dublin.
We stopped at a bridge for lunch. Hikers going in both directions of the Wicklow Way found the bridge a great place to rest. Without surprise, Mark and Roz met us there as well. A few of our group had left their lunch at the Knocree hostel. Mark carried them in his pack, knowing he would catch up with us.
As we ate, I was troubled by Cado's fate, I saw a young man, walking alone, down the hill ahead of us. He moved at a quick pace as he came down the hill. Something in me said this guy could help us with Cado. I stopped him and asked where he was headed. "Enniskerry." Perfect. I told him about Cado and asked if he could help us. He obliged. We offered him half a sandwich to entice Cado. The dog was hungry and the chap was a pro at baiting Cado with just a tidbit here and there. Off the two went for what we hoped was a lovely return home.
Meanwhile, Ian, the Vox videographer, set up his camera. He had been interviewing our pilgrims along the way. Now that Mark and Roz had become so dear to the group, Ian asked if they would mind answering a few questions on camera. He asked one question and they filled up twenty minutes of film about the power of walkabouts and Vox's influence on their Wicklow experience. I doubt Ian could have written a better script.
After a long break, the final ascent was difficult. Tired legs. Burning lungs. The thrill to finish. The sadness to leave this newly formed community of pilgrims. The climb to the top of Dublin Mountain was extremely slow. No one got too far ahead. In fact, for the first time we reached the top together. Lots of pictures. Some sat down to get a long look at Dublin Bay. There seemed a reluctance to head down the mountain. The end was just a few miles away.
We entered Marley Park together. Crossing the finish line one by one. Of course, to the applause of Mark and Roz.
Cathy, who has been our support team all along the trip, distributed Wicklow Way completion certificates. More pictures. Full pack pushups. Lots of hugs. Plenty of tears. Celebration.
While the walking may be completed, a pilgrimage is never over. For Vox Peregrini tomorrow and Friday the work continues at Christ Church Cathedral and St. Patrick's. Will their concerts simply be just another performance? Or will the pilgrimage appear in their voice?
Friday, July 03, 2015
Vox Peregrini Day Seven - White Hill
This morning, like every morning since day two, the wounded gather to have their feet, ankles, and sore knees tended. Blisters on heels, toes, and the bottom of feet. Already one hiker backed off the trail due to an open wound on a heel. I wondered each morning how others kept going. Today, though, I heard a few odd comments as they sleepily stumbled into the tiny hallway for bandages.
One voice said, "My blisters are getting better."
Another said, "I think mine are too."
Once blisters form, they don't get better as you walk a 100 mile hike. At best, they are managed and hopefully don't get worse. But better? No. Curiously, though, as I bandaged each blister and taped a few ankles, indeed, there was some healing. I began to wonder about that as I walked the day.
The sixteen mile hike over White Hill, the highest point in Western Ireland, taunted Vox like a playground bully Dangerous enough fear. But not enough to keep them from their destination.
A prayer was said each morning before the hike. This morning's words were a humble plea for Father Sky and Mother Earth to be gentle with us. I've hiked over White Hill three previous times. Twice in a bone soaking, wind whipping rain. Last year the group I hiked with was embraced by quick moving mist filled clouds. In all the times I have walked Ireland, I had yet to experience a cloudless day. Today would be the first.
After walking six miles to get to the base of White Hill, the cloud cover blew passed us and we were left, fully exposed to Brother Sun and the Irish wind as we climbed. A paradoxical pair, sun and wind. Unprotected by friendly clouds, the sun can bring a blistering sweltering summer heat in Ireland. The strong wind, however, on this day, kept the temperature bearable. We climbed to the point where we could see the water rippling across Guinness Lake far below. Indeed, the shape of the lake, its black surface and white beach looks exactly like a perfectly poured pint of the famous Irish beer. From our vantage point, we could see the huts left behind from the filming of the History Channel's "The Vikings." A reminder of some of the darker days of Ireland's history.
We pushed long past our normal lunch time in order to reach a perfect resting place at the peak of the Hill. There, hiding from the wind behind a quartz outcrop, we dropped our packs and weary bodies on the grass. The cloudless sky delivered a brilliant view far into the sea. I could see a ship floating on the horizon. I wondered if Vox would try to sing against the wind and their exhaustion.
Our Australian friends, Mark and Roz, wandered by as we ate lunch. They dropped their packs to join us. I took the opportunity to ask them about their walkabouts. England, Portugal, and of course their home land Australia. Retired teachers, they had enjoyed a lifetime filled with hiking. Amidst all their travels though, they were smitten with this singing group like no other experience.
Lunch came and went. No lunchtime song. John was planning a long rehearsal that night at the Knocree Hostel. We had many miles ahead of us. As we headed down the backside of White HIll, one our group suffered what I thought to be a serious knee injury. A sharp pain on the outside of her knee. At one point she appeared to have buckled and sat down a large stone. I was worried she might not be able to finish the hike. It was three miles to the bottom and six to any crossroad. There are only two ways off the Hill. Walk under your own power. Or call Mountain Rescue. It would take them as long to reach us as it did for us to climb to that point. Long ago, I had made peace with myself that if I had a heart attack or life threatening injury on that hill, I would most likely die there. There are posted warnings about the dangers of hill walking in Ireland and this could have been one of those moments I knew was a possibility.
Fortunately, one of our guys produced a knee brace he had been carrying. The brace fit her knee perfectly. Slowly, gingerly she moved down the hill. I called ahead to find some possible pick up points at the bottom. But, by the time we reached the bridge over Powerscourt waterfall, she was committed to finish the day's final five miles. Her will and the group's support carried her.
Just before reaching the Knocree Hostel is my favorite tree in all of Ireland. Not the tallest tree. Surely not the oldest. Maybe not the most unique in shape and form. But truly the most inviting. Over at least the last century, the tree has grown around a trapezoid shape stone six feet long, over three feet high. The rests at an angle inside the tree. Growing around the stone has created a womb like opening at the base of the tree. Standing on the stone, a person can almost disappear from view inside the tree. There I have left mementos as tributes to past lives. A few sat on the stone in the tree for a picture. But as I took a picture of our pilgrim with the wounded knee, I could feel the tree offering her some healing grace. She finished the day. Tomorrow she would re-evaluate the possibility for the final hike.
After dinner that night, Vox Peregrini would rehearse for the final time before their concert at Christ Church Cathedral in two days. John encouraged them, challenged them, pushed them, and thanked them. They responded each time to his subtle changes with a beautiful sound.
Our Australian friends, Mark and Roz, were also staying at the hostel. Other guests and employees of the hostel listened in for the 90 minute session. Some even hung around after to chat. Mark said the music felt like it was shaping his soul. Vox Peregrini is gaining confidence and with it, power of voice. They have been together only eight days, yet it sounds as if they have spent years together honing their sound. I wondered if the pilgrimage itself was adding her voice and refining them into gold? At the very least, it appears the pilgrimage trail is providing some healing for Vox.
One voice said, "My blisters are getting better."
Another said, "I think mine are too."
Once blisters form, they don't get better as you walk a 100 mile hike. At best, they are managed and hopefully don't get worse. But better? No. Curiously, though, as I bandaged each blister and taped a few ankles, indeed, there was some healing. I began to wonder about that as I walked the day.
The sixteen mile hike over White Hill, the highest point in Western Ireland, taunted Vox like a playground bully Dangerous enough fear. But not enough to keep them from their destination.
A prayer was said each morning before the hike. This morning's words were a humble plea for Father Sky and Mother Earth to be gentle with us. I've hiked over White Hill three previous times. Twice in a bone soaking, wind whipping rain. Last year the group I hiked with was embraced by quick moving mist filled clouds. In all the times I have walked Ireland, I had yet to experience a cloudless day. Today would be the first.
After walking six miles to get to the base of White Hill, the cloud cover blew passed us and we were left, fully exposed to Brother Sun and the Irish wind as we climbed. A paradoxical pair, sun and wind. Unprotected by friendly clouds, the sun can bring a blistering sweltering summer heat in Ireland. The strong wind, however, on this day, kept the temperature bearable. We climbed to the point where we could see the water rippling across Guinness Lake far below. Indeed, the shape of the lake, its black surface and white beach looks exactly like a perfectly poured pint of the famous Irish beer. From our vantage point, we could see the huts left behind from the filming of the History Channel's "The Vikings." A reminder of some of the darker days of Ireland's history.
We pushed long past our normal lunch time in order to reach a perfect resting place at the peak of the Hill. There, hiding from the wind behind a quartz outcrop, we dropped our packs and weary bodies on the grass. The cloudless sky delivered a brilliant view far into the sea. I could see a ship floating on the horizon. I wondered if Vox would try to sing against the wind and their exhaustion.
Our Australian friends, Mark and Roz, wandered by as we ate lunch. They dropped their packs to join us. I took the opportunity to ask them about their walkabouts. England, Portugal, and of course their home land Australia. Retired teachers, they had enjoyed a lifetime filled with hiking. Amidst all their travels though, they were smitten with this singing group like no other experience.
Lunch came and went. No lunchtime song. John was planning a long rehearsal that night at the Knocree Hostel. We had many miles ahead of us. As we headed down the backside of White HIll, one our group suffered what I thought to be a serious knee injury. A sharp pain on the outside of her knee. At one point she appeared to have buckled and sat down a large stone. I was worried she might not be able to finish the hike. It was three miles to the bottom and six to any crossroad. There are only two ways off the Hill. Walk under your own power. Or call Mountain Rescue. It would take them as long to reach us as it did for us to climb to that point. Long ago, I had made peace with myself that if I had a heart attack or life threatening injury on that hill, I would most likely die there. There are posted warnings about the dangers of hill walking in Ireland and this could have been one of those moments I knew was a possibility.
Fortunately, one of our guys produced a knee brace he had been carrying. The brace fit her knee perfectly. Slowly, gingerly she moved down the hill. I called ahead to find some possible pick up points at the bottom. But, by the time we reached the bridge over Powerscourt waterfall, she was committed to finish the day's final five miles. Her will and the group's support carried her.
Just before reaching the Knocree Hostel is my favorite tree in all of Ireland. Not the tallest tree. Surely not the oldest. Maybe not the most unique in shape and form. But truly the most inviting. Over at least the last century, the tree has grown around a trapezoid shape stone six feet long, over three feet high. The rests at an angle inside the tree. Growing around the stone has created a womb like opening at the base of the tree. Standing on the stone, a person can almost disappear from view inside the tree. There I have left mementos as tributes to past lives. A few sat on the stone in the tree for a picture. But as I took a picture of our pilgrim with the wounded knee, I could feel the tree offering her some healing grace. She finished the day. Tomorrow she would re-evaluate the possibility for the final hike.
After dinner that night, Vox Peregrini would rehearse for the final time before their concert at Christ Church Cathedral in two days. John encouraged them, challenged them, pushed them, and thanked them. They responded each time to his subtle changes with a beautiful sound.
Our Australian friends, Mark and Roz, were also staying at the hostel. Other guests and employees of the hostel listened in for the 90 minute session. Some even hung around after to chat. Mark said the music felt like it was shaping his soul. Vox Peregrini is gaining confidence and with it, power of voice. They have been together only eight days, yet it sounds as if they have spent years together honing their sound. I wondered if the pilgrimage itself was adding her voice and refining them into gold? At the very least, it appears the pilgrimage trail is providing some healing for Vox.
Thursday, July 02, 2015
Vox Peregrini Day Six Glendalough to Roundwood
Glendalough has a deep mystery. Those who are open to the soul of the land, the lakes, and the ancient ruins find themselves in wonderment long after leaving the valley. Place has presence.
The climb out of Glendalough is steep and long. Plenty of time to stop, catch your breath, and look back over the resplendent scenery. The Wicklow Mountain is not shy this day with her sumptuous beauty. The heaviness of the previous day's reflection in Saint Mary's Chapel, the slow pace of the climb, and the stunning beauty of the landscape held our group in a hushed silence. The long days of pilgrimage were having their effect.
We found a three-sided hut at the mid-point in our hike. Some sat at a picnic table. A few sprawled out on the grass. Others leaned their tired backs against the inside of the tiny building built by Mountain Rescue. John found a traveler's journal placed in a water proof canister attached to the wall. Those who tended the hut had placed the book there for hikers like our selves to leave a comment. He read other's reflections while we ate our lunch. I could sense that Vox Peregrini was forming community.
A group of thirteen hikers in not a typical sight along the Way. Most hike in pairs or alone. To see so many people quietly eating lunch usually gets a surprised smile and a gentle hello from anyone who wanders by. Today, a couple in their early sixties stopped for a moment. The woman asked where we were from. We exchanged pleasantries and one of the young women in our group asked if the couple would like to hear them sing.
"In all my walkabouts, no one has ever sung for me," the man said.
Vox took their places quickly and sang, "That Lonesome Road." Our fellow pilgrims were obviously touched. I could see the man's lip trembling. I think Vox sensed something about the couple and asked if they would like to hear another.
"Why, yes of course," the woman said in a sweet Aussie accent.
The second song seemed almost overwhelming. The music swallowed the couple like a spirit rising from the soul of the earth. The man had to steady himself. The silence after the final note hung in the air like an Irish mist.
Finally the woman broke the stillness, "So who are you?" A question with so many layers.
As our new acquaintances, Mark and Roz, hiked on, John gathered the group in the hut for an unusual extended lunch time rehearsal. In the early stages of healthy community formation, each person can find their role. Johnny, an enigma of showmanship and deep water soul, suggested Vox begin this rehearsal with a moment of gathering. HIs base voice resonated against the walls of the tiny enclosure and my own body. Three times he let out an earthy and long "ohm." The group dropped into the moment.
The director whispered his instructions. "Hear the wind in the trees." The pines sung. Vox listened. "Match their rhythm." My skin tingled as Vox and the trees sang in harmony. Something more than community was emerging here. Human souls of an eon who has long dismissed the choir of nature had, in that moment, now bound themselves to the voice of Mother Earth. The pilgrimage was having her way on Vox Peregrini.
As we walked away from the hut, I noticed the group spread out a little more than usual over the next easy five miles. They walked mostly in single file. I didn't heard little of their usual light hearted chatter.
Late in the afternoon, in the corner of The Coachman Inn in Roundwood, the group rehearsed again. Sitting at tables, a pint of Guinness sitting here and there. A cup of tea. A glass of wine. Water bottles. All part of the support team that tends to the voices of Vox Peregrini. Long days filled with mountainous miles, weary bodies, tender souls. Nurtured with music of the spirit, something anew was stirring in the soul alchemy of Vox Peregrini.
The climb out of Glendalough is steep and long. Plenty of time to stop, catch your breath, and look back over the resplendent scenery. The Wicklow Mountain is not shy this day with her sumptuous beauty. The heaviness of the previous day's reflection in Saint Mary's Chapel, the slow pace of the climb, and the stunning beauty of the landscape held our group in a hushed silence. The long days of pilgrimage were having their effect.
We found a three-sided hut at the mid-point in our hike. Some sat at a picnic table. A few sprawled out on the grass. Others leaned their tired backs against the inside of the tiny building built by Mountain Rescue. John found a traveler's journal placed in a water proof canister attached to the wall. Those who tended the hut had placed the book there for hikers like our selves to leave a comment. He read other's reflections while we ate our lunch. I could sense that Vox Peregrini was forming community.
A group of thirteen hikers in not a typical sight along the Way. Most hike in pairs or alone. To see so many people quietly eating lunch usually gets a surprised smile and a gentle hello from anyone who wanders by. Today, a couple in their early sixties stopped for a moment. The woman asked where we were from. We exchanged pleasantries and one of the young women in our group asked if the couple would like to hear them sing.
"In all my walkabouts, no one has ever sung for me," the man said.
Vox took their places quickly and sang, "That Lonesome Road." Our fellow pilgrims were obviously touched. I could see the man's lip trembling. I think Vox sensed something about the couple and asked if they would like to hear another.
"Why, yes of course," the woman said in a sweet Aussie accent.
The second song seemed almost overwhelming. The music swallowed the couple like a spirit rising from the soul of the earth. The man had to steady himself. The silence after the final note hung in the air like an Irish mist.
Finally the woman broke the stillness, "So who are you?" A question with so many layers.
As our new acquaintances, Mark and Roz, hiked on, John gathered the group in the hut for an unusual extended lunch time rehearsal. In the early stages of healthy community formation, each person can find their role. Johnny, an enigma of showmanship and deep water soul, suggested Vox begin this rehearsal with a moment of gathering. HIs base voice resonated against the walls of the tiny enclosure and my own body. Three times he let out an earthy and long "ohm." The group dropped into the moment.
The director whispered his instructions. "Hear the wind in the trees." The pines sung. Vox listened. "Match their rhythm." My skin tingled as Vox and the trees sang in harmony. Something more than community was emerging here. Human souls of an eon who has long dismissed the choir of nature had, in that moment, now bound themselves to the voice of Mother Earth. The pilgrimage was having her way on Vox Peregrini.
As we walked away from the hut, I noticed the group spread out a little more than usual over the next easy five miles. They walked mostly in single file. I didn't heard little of their usual light hearted chatter.
Late in the afternoon, in the corner of The Coachman Inn in Roundwood, the group rehearsed again. Sitting at tables, a pint of Guinness sitting here and there. A cup of tea. A glass of wine. Water bottles. All part of the support team that tends to the voices of Vox Peregrini. Long days filled with mountainous miles, weary bodies, tender souls. Nurtured with music of the spirit, something anew was stirring in the soul alchemy of Vox Peregrini.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Vox Peregrini Day Five - Glendalough's Sorrows
I called this a day of rest, but it seemed anything but. After breakfast, I wandered into the ancient ruins to journal. There I saw many of my fellow pilgrims doing the same. They sought solace to reflect before the work that lie ahead. By noon the choir was in rehearsal at St. Kevin's Catholic Parish a mile up the road from Glendalough. They sang through their most difficult piece. John pushed them. Challenged them. Sought their input. Gently guiding them into places some would have rather avoided. "You have lovely voices. Feel affirmed. But what we're missing in an expansiveness." He used metaphors from life to evoke the emotions intended by the song writer. He seemed to instinctively know how to gently nudge them from one place to another. John's body language, silence, pristine use of the professional musician's secret vernacular guided his choir to another level. While I am not a musician, with every new start, my ears tell me something beautiful is being born. Two and half hours felt like ten minutes to me. The choir continues to have boundless energy, but as they walked out the door I could sense their weariness.
An hour later we were making our pilgrimage to St. Mary's Chapel. A thousand year-old ruin. The hollowed ground where grieving mothers brought their dead children for burial. The tiny chapel sits outside the walls of the monastery as a reminder the church has built more barriers than paths to the divine. To get to the hideaway we had to pass through three sheep gates and knee high grass. Our trail through the grass followed the footprints of centuries of pain in a journey to the house of tears. And the final entrances to the confines of St. Mary's we had to climb over a four foot stone wall. Only those willing to confront death would dare crawl over those stones. Once inside the grounds, we were confronted with dozens of ancient tiny crosses. Graves of unbaptized children. The Mother of Sorrows, a universal archetype from which we often cower to avoid our own grief. But there we stood around a humble piece of bread and sour wine, reciting our meager prayers.
Somber, reflective, tentative. Who could dare know what to expect of our souls? We could simply hold the space for one another's experiences. Withhold judgment. Honor one another. Cherish one another. Present to one another. Maybe we were pushing at the edge of the expansiveness we were so shy to consider?
An hour later we were making our pilgrimage to St. Mary's Chapel. A thousand year-old ruin. The hollowed ground where grieving mothers brought their dead children for burial. The tiny chapel sits outside the walls of the monastery as a reminder the church has built more barriers than paths to the divine. To get to the hideaway we had to pass through three sheep gates and knee high grass. Our trail through the grass followed the footprints of centuries of pain in a journey to the house of tears. And the final entrances to the confines of St. Mary's we had to climb over a four foot stone wall. Only those willing to confront death would dare crawl over those stones. Once inside the grounds, we were confronted with dozens of ancient tiny crosses. Graves of unbaptized children. The Mother of Sorrows, a universal archetype from which we often cower to avoid our own grief. But there we stood around a humble piece of bread and sour wine, reciting our meager prayers.
Somber, reflective, tentative. Who could dare know what to expect of our souls? We could simply hold the space for one another's experiences. Withhold judgment. Honor one another. Cherish one another. Present to one another. Maybe we were pushing at the edge of the expansiveness we were so shy to consider?
Monday, June 29, 2015
Vox Peregrini Day Four (for reals) Glenmalure to Glendalough
The Glenmalure lodge was built in 1801 as a hunting lodge. Though, the legend goes it was a hideout for those who needed refuge from the English law. If you can be still enough within your soul, the faeries and ghosts of those rebellious folk might appear. The lodge and the woods themselves hold the stories of lives long forgotten by the world of the seen—but always to be told in the realm of the unseen.
Before leaving the lodge to hike into the Wicklow Natural Forest, Vox Peregrini sang just outside the front door. Their rich voices attracted several guests and hosts as well. I'm always fascinated to watch the faces of those who listen; their faces relax into the presence of being blessed by the holy, gentle smiles, their bodies often sway in rhythm with the a capella flow. Immediately after Vox Peregrini finished the first piece, "Another please," quickly arose. And the musical pilgrims responded in kind with another few minutes of blissful sounds.
Packs on, day four, on to the ancient monastic ruins in the Valley of the Two Lakes, Glendalough. After singing, I've noticed our pilgrims have high spirits and energy in their weary legs. This morning even more so. The promise of only walking 10 miles and then a day off seemed to add to their good feeling.
Slowly we climbed the mountains of Wicklow. Through the dark dense forests. Higher past the tree line where we were to cross the bald bog. To get to that point we had to climb several natural stone stairways. Only Mother Earth could create such perfect placed souls of stones to aid our path so safely. Yet one slip and injury was for sure. Finally to the summit and the scenic payoff was spectacular. Looking back over the mountains and valleys where we had climbed were the rolling mountains of emerald green, spotted with outcrops of glistening quartz. The mountains were so green they were black. The haunting purple clouds rolled across the peaks of the mountains and darted down into the low places. Mother Earth provided us with a full display of her best work. No picture can capture what the eye and soul will witness at the moment of having struggled to reach that point, in time and life.
We carefully negotiated the railroad ties graciously placed by Mountain Rescue and Hill Walkers, so that we might safely cross the deep black bog covered with slick tufts of lime green grass. The wind pushed against us, hoping for a laugh if we fell. I would imagine the wind was more than 30 mph. Strong enough I paid careful attention to my own footing. No falls from the pilgrims of Vox Peregrini.
By the fourth day of a pilgrimage, while exhausted like never before, a strength emerges. Pilgrims seem to tap into a new found wellspring. They drink, not from a reserve, but from a dark place they never knew existed. In that place of shadows, where only the pilgrimage can shine a light of discovery—there in moments of the fear of failure, there in the darkness is found the water that renews like none other. I have witnessed the pilgrims of Vox Peregrini begin to drop their cups into that well.
In a simpler world and time, we might say from here it's downhill. Pastor Amy, however, pointed out that she had a new understanding of that American phrase. The difference being she said, is that she would now rather walk uphill. The downhill slopes are painfully troubling. I wonder now. How will we take our new insights into a world that may never be able to fully understand our journey? Where language is lost on those who have not walked our way. Or care to hear our stories. I do wonder about those who seem to be casual tourists in life.
As we approached Glendalough on this pleasant Saturday, we met those looking for a scenic view of the valley and her upper lake. We passed families as well as locals out for their daily exercise. We heard the sound of children laughing as they played in the luscious green park below. The closer we got to our destination the more people we encountered. Finally, as we dropped down onto the two mile stretch of Glendalough Valley, we were almost run over by large groups of well meaning tourists who had arrived via bus. Many languages, nationalities, and races. Joy, wonder, and laughter. Yet, in their pleasantness, there was an assault on our 50 miles of silent struggle through the Wicklow Mountains. For the first time our group huddled to protect ourselves from the noise slamming against our souls. Seeking solace from this onslaught of what others consider "normal." But now as pilgrims, our normal has shifted, if ever so slightly. Looking at the world through the lens of a pilgrim, the world appears slightly askew. Now we must re-negotiate with our mind, body, and soul how we will walk through this life of strangers slightly leaning to one side or the other.
Before leaving the lodge to hike into the Wicklow Natural Forest, Vox Peregrini sang just outside the front door. Their rich voices attracted several guests and hosts as well. I'm always fascinated to watch the faces of those who listen; their faces relax into the presence of being blessed by the holy, gentle smiles, their bodies often sway in rhythm with the a capella flow. Immediately after Vox Peregrini finished the first piece, "Another please," quickly arose. And the musical pilgrims responded in kind with another few minutes of blissful sounds.
Packs on, day four, on to the ancient monastic ruins in the Valley of the Two Lakes, Glendalough. After singing, I've noticed our pilgrims have high spirits and energy in their weary legs. This morning even more so. The promise of only walking 10 miles and then a day off seemed to add to their good feeling.
Slowly we climbed the mountains of Wicklow. Through the dark dense forests. Higher past the tree line where we were to cross the bald bog. To get to that point we had to climb several natural stone stairways. Only Mother Earth could create such perfect placed souls of stones to aid our path so safely. Yet one slip and injury was for sure. Finally to the summit and the scenic payoff was spectacular. Looking back over the mountains and valleys where we had climbed were the rolling mountains of emerald green, spotted with outcrops of glistening quartz. The mountains were so green they were black. The haunting purple clouds rolled across the peaks of the mountains and darted down into the low places. Mother Earth provided us with a full display of her best work. No picture can capture what the eye and soul will witness at the moment of having struggled to reach that point, in time and life.
We carefully negotiated the railroad ties graciously placed by Mountain Rescue and Hill Walkers, so that we might safely cross the deep black bog covered with slick tufts of lime green grass. The wind pushed against us, hoping for a laugh if we fell. I would imagine the wind was more than 30 mph. Strong enough I paid careful attention to my own footing. No falls from the pilgrims of Vox Peregrini.
By the fourth day of a pilgrimage, while exhausted like never before, a strength emerges. Pilgrims seem to tap into a new found wellspring. They drink, not from a reserve, but from a dark place they never knew existed. In that place of shadows, where only the pilgrimage can shine a light of discovery—there in moments of the fear of failure, there in the darkness is found the water that renews like none other. I have witnessed the pilgrims of Vox Peregrini begin to drop their cups into that well.
In a simpler world and time, we might say from here it's downhill. Pastor Amy, however, pointed out that she had a new understanding of that American phrase. The difference being she said, is that she would now rather walk uphill. The downhill slopes are painfully troubling. I wonder now. How will we take our new insights into a world that may never be able to fully understand our journey? Where language is lost on those who have not walked our way. Or care to hear our stories. I do wonder about those who seem to be casual tourists in life.
As we approached Glendalough on this pleasant Saturday, we met those looking for a scenic view of the valley and her upper lake. We passed families as well as locals out for their daily exercise. We heard the sound of children laughing as they played in the luscious green park below. The closer we got to our destination the more people we encountered. Finally, as we dropped down onto the two mile stretch of Glendalough Valley, we were almost run over by large groups of well meaning tourists who had arrived via bus. Many languages, nationalities, and races. Joy, wonder, and laughter. Yet, in their pleasantness, there was an assault on our 50 miles of silent struggle through the Wicklow Mountains. For the first time our group huddled to protect ourselves from the noise slamming against our souls. Seeking solace from this onslaught of what others consider "normal." But now as pilgrims, our normal has shifted, if ever so slightly. Looking at the world through the lens of a pilgrim, the world appears slightly askew. Now we must re-negotiate with our mind, body, and soul how we will walk through this life of strangers slightly leaning to one side or the other.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Vox Peregrini Day Four - Moyne to Glenmalure
Day Four Vox Peregrini - Moyne to Glenmalure
The Irish often refer to what we are doing as hill walking. They have organized clubs and major events built around walking the hills of Ireland. Hill walking is a big deal. Walking the hills from Moyne to Glenmalure is so strenuous our host at Kyle Farm House reminded me that when we reach the halfway point at Iron Bridge it is would be the last point at which I could call if anyone in our group couldn't finish today's 16 miles. Such a reminder in an ominous beginning to a long days hike.
The seven miles to the Iron Bridge is a long slow climb that starts with three miles of feet pounding pavement. Several members of Vox Peregrini are suffering from blisters, sore knees, and hip related issues to carrying a pack. This morning it took almost an hour to bandage all the blisters and tend to their needs. But this is the most positive group I can imagine. They support one another. Tell the funniest stories. Sing to lift one another's spirits. And I have yet to hear one word of grumbling.
When we reached the Iron Bridge I pointed up the hill that lie ahead. Like a taunting demon, the stretch we were about to embark in the Wicklows seemed foreboding. No one flinched. They all said they were ready for the challenge. Their optimism made me nervous. I knew what the next eight grueling miles were going to be like. I had walked them in reverse three times, having met others strugglling from the direction we were now walking. The singing rehearsal sounded good, but weary. I couldn't tell if it was my projections onto them, fearing the climb, or truly their exhaustion.
The first hill to climb after lunch is unforgiving. The trees along the path had been harvested leaving the steep incline unprotected. The Irish sun, beautiful as it can be, is no friend to the hill climbers. A sharp hill carrying a pack under an altitude sun makes the climb challenging for the experienced hill walker. The group stretched out. We had a good leader who set a reasonable pace. Even the strongest were stopping regularly to catch their breath. I could hear their prayers as we climbed. I was near the middle of the group. One by one I saw them disappear at the top, out of sight, where I knew they had made the climb. Looking back I could I see the struggles of those with the most physical issues. The group behind me walked two by two. Supporting one another. Their strength brought tears to my eyes. Those would not be the only tears I would shed today.
As the last pair made it to the top there were cheers and high fives. I wanted to warn them we had a few more hills that were equal to the challenge, but I thought better of it and we kept moving. We continued to move slow and steady. They have taken to calling themselves a herd of turtles.
Along the Wicklow Way at random and rare locations there are three sided sheds built by the Mountain Rescue that can be used for those who need a break from the weather or want to camp the night. Camping is not something people typically do on the Wicklow Way. At about our three quarter mark we came to one of the wooden huts just before another daunting climb. There we met Frank, a young man from Germany. We stood and sat in small clusters, resting, catching our wind.
Pastor Amy Wiles reached in her back pack and pulled out one of the Pilgrim's Prayers for strength and offered the prayer we all needed. Her husband then asked her to bless us as she does pour out such grace over her congregation every Sunday.
"May the Lord bless you and keep you.
May the Lord's face shine upon you and give you grace.
Grace not to sell yourself short.
But grace to risk something big for something good.
Grace enough to see that the world is now too dangerous for anything but truth.
And too small for anything but love.
So may God take your minds and think through them.
May God take your words and speak through them.
May God take your hands and work through them.
And may God your hearts and set them on fire."
I wept. I have never been so blessed. All of the divine's creation rose from the Irish landscape and bowed their heads to receive Pastor Amy's blessing. All said Amen. I felt inspired to live out her spirit graced words.
Then John Wiles, the director, asked the group to sing for Frank. The young man from German seemed so genuinely pleased and excited. He pulled out his camera to record and sat in expectation. As the sound rolled over him like a gentle Irish mist, I could see his soul settle. In the midst of a harsh day, gentleness and power visited us within the span of three minutes.
We moved on to finish the challenge of the longest day so far. Vox Peregrini took a picture at the halfway marker of the Wicklow Way. It was the perfect end to a blessed day. One more day lie ahead on our way into Glendalough for a Sabbath day of rest.
The Irish often refer to what we are doing as hill walking. They have organized clubs and major events built around walking the hills of Ireland. Hill walking is a big deal. Walking the hills from Moyne to Glenmalure is so strenuous our host at Kyle Farm House reminded me that when we reach the halfway point at Iron Bridge it is would be the last point at which I could call if anyone in our group couldn't finish today's 16 miles. Such a reminder in an ominous beginning to a long days hike.
The seven miles to the Iron Bridge is a long slow climb that starts with three miles of feet pounding pavement. Several members of Vox Peregrini are suffering from blisters, sore knees, and hip related issues to carrying a pack. This morning it took almost an hour to bandage all the blisters and tend to their needs. But this is the most positive group I can imagine. They support one another. Tell the funniest stories. Sing to lift one another's spirits. And I have yet to hear one word of grumbling.
When we reached the Iron Bridge I pointed up the hill that lie ahead. Like a taunting demon, the stretch we were about to embark in the Wicklows seemed foreboding. No one flinched. They all said they were ready for the challenge. Their optimism made me nervous. I knew what the next eight grueling miles were going to be like. I had walked them in reverse three times, having met others strugglling from the direction we were now walking. The singing rehearsal sounded good, but weary. I couldn't tell if it was my projections onto them, fearing the climb, or truly their exhaustion.
The first hill to climb after lunch is unforgiving. The trees along the path had been harvested leaving the steep incline unprotected. The Irish sun, beautiful as it can be, is no friend to the hill climbers. A sharp hill carrying a pack under an altitude sun makes the climb challenging for the experienced hill walker. The group stretched out. We had a good leader who set a reasonable pace. Even the strongest were stopping regularly to catch their breath. I could hear their prayers as we climbed. I was near the middle of the group. One by one I saw them disappear at the top, out of sight, where I knew they had made the climb. Looking back I could I see the struggles of those with the most physical issues. The group behind me walked two by two. Supporting one another. Their strength brought tears to my eyes. Those would not be the only tears I would shed today.
As the last pair made it to the top there were cheers and high fives. I wanted to warn them we had a few more hills that were equal to the challenge, but I thought better of it and we kept moving. We continued to move slow and steady. They have taken to calling themselves a herd of turtles.
Along the Wicklow Way at random and rare locations there are three sided sheds built by the Mountain Rescue that can be used for those who need a break from the weather or want to camp the night. Camping is not something people typically do on the Wicklow Way. At about our three quarter mark we came to one of the wooden huts just before another daunting climb. There we met Frank, a young man from Germany. We stood and sat in small clusters, resting, catching our wind.
Pastor Amy Wiles reached in her back pack and pulled out one of the Pilgrim's Prayers for strength and offered the prayer we all needed. Her husband then asked her to bless us as she does pour out such grace over her congregation every Sunday.
"May the Lord bless you and keep you.
May the Lord's face shine upon you and give you grace.
Grace not to sell yourself short.
But grace to risk something big for something good.
Grace enough to see that the world is now too dangerous for anything but truth.
And too small for anything but love.
So may God take your minds and think through them.
May God take your words and speak through them.
May God take your hands and work through them.
And may God your hearts and set them on fire."
I wept. I have never been so blessed. All of the divine's creation rose from the Irish landscape and bowed their heads to receive Pastor Amy's blessing. All said Amen. I felt inspired to live out her spirit graced words.
Then John Wiles, the director, asked the group to sing for Frank. The young man from German seemed so genuinely pleased and excited. He pulled out his camera to record and sat in expectation. As the sound rolled over him like a gentle Irish mist, I could see his soul settle. In the midst of a harsh day, gentleness and power visited us within the span of three minutes.
We moved on to finish the challenge of the longest day so far. Vox Peregrini took a picture at the halfway marker of the Wicklow Way. It was the perfect end to a blessed day. One more day lie ahead on our way into Glendalough for a Sabbath day of rest.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Vox Peregini Day Two Shilaleagh to Moyne
Day Two of Vox Peregrini - Shilaleagh to Moyne
The walk from Shilaleagh to Kyle's Farm house in Moyne is 14 miles. We are walking the Wicklow Way from south to north, towards Dublin. I've walked the Way three previous times from Dublin to the south. This new perspective has already revealed some fresh insights. What was the final day of the Wicklow Way was now the first, the we walked yesterday. I had not realized how mundane that stretch was—it was always the last day and I simply wanted to finish. I have realized because I simply wanted to finish, I couldn't remember anything about the trail now. That's the reason I missed the pickup point yesterday. This became so clear to me on day two of the walk. I could remember all the landmarks, though walking in the opposite direction, much of the walk felt so familiar. Except for one point.
At the halfway point of the walk, instead of the yellow marker of the Wicklow Way, there was a red marker. There was a sign marking a Loop Trail. We decided to stop there for lunch. It was noon. And I wanted to check my maps carefully, especially after missing our pick up point yesterday. I did not want to make a mistake today. The red arrow was marking a starting point for a local loop trail with a sign and a large map detailing the trail. Using my map and the help of two of our pilgrims, we determined, between the three of us, with some certainty that we should not take the loop trail, which was tempting, but continue on the more mundane trail we were walking. The group had lunch and rehearsed some music. I nervously searched up the loop trail and the trail we were on for a familiar yellow Wicklow marker. I couldn't one.
So we set on our road we had been walking. I took the lead with one of my trusted pilgrims who knows how to read maps much better than I - he is an Eagle Scout. A half mile down the road, my anxiety was relieved. There was a yellow hiking man. I couldn't help myself, I stopped and kissed that marker.
The loop arrow and sign had been there before the last time I walked the way, just walking the opposite direction I hadn't seen it. Had I been walking alone today I may have made the wrong decision. My fellow pilgrims brought their skills and confidence to the moment. Yeah for the Eagle Scouts! Thank you Richard.
The great joy of the day was when we left the mundane trail and walked for seven miles through the rolling sheep land of this region. The trail took us through the tree lined boreans, up over the side of the mountains where the sheep roam. There we had a glorious view of the farmlands below and the bald mountain above. This was our groups first look at the beauty of the Irish farming region. Their excitement brought a renewed energy to my step.
Later in the afternoon, near the end of walk, heading into a very wooded and dark section of the trail, John, the music director, chose an off the trail place within the woods for the group to rehearse. There, against an abandoned wall of green moss covered stones, they sang the song of Healing Light. The stones and the trees joined the choir. The dark forest glowed with a warm light. At the end of the final piece, the world sat in silence for a minute, listening to the vibrations of communion of all the divine's creation. I felt a positive energy. And as our group got back on the trail, I noticed some healing had taken place. Steps were stronger, spirits were higher, more laughter rose from their souls.
Vox Peregrini has nestled themselves into the hands of Mother Earth and sang their prayers for healing. Creation added their voice and a new harmony was created, a healing harmony.
The walk from Shilaleagh to Kyle's Farm house in Moyne is 14 miles. We are walking the Wicklow Way from south to north, towards Dublin. I've walked the Way three previous times from Dublin to the south. This new perspective has already revealed some fresh insights. What was the final day of the Wicklow Way was now the first, the we walked yesterday. I had not realized how mundane that stretch was—it was always the last day and I simply wanted to finish. I have realized because I simply wanted to finish, I couldn't remember anything about the trail now. That's the reason I missed the pickup point yesterday. This became so clear to me on day two of the walk. I could remember all the landmarks, though walking in the opposite direction, much of the walk felt so familiar. Except for one point.
At the halfway point of the walk, instead of the yellow marker of the Wicklow Way, there was a red marker. There was a sign marking a Loop Trail. We decided to stop there for lunch. It was noon. And I wanted to check my maps carefully, especially after missing our pick up point yesterday. I did not want to make a mistake today. The red arrow was marking a starting point for a local loop trail with a sign and a large map detailing the trail. Using my map and the help of two of our pilgrims, we determined, between the three of us, with some certainty that we should not take the loop trail, which was tempting, but continue on the more mundane trail we were walking. The group had lunch and rehearsed some music. I nervously searched up the loop trail and the trail we were on for a familiar yellow Wicklow marker. I couldn't one.
So we set on our road we had been walking. I took the lead with one of my trusted pilgrims who knows how to read maps much better than I - he is an Eagle Scout. A half mile down the road, my anxiety was relieved. There was a yellow hiking man. I couldn't help myself, I stopped and kissed that marker.
The loop arrow and sign had been there before the last time I walked the way, just walking the opposite direction I hadn't seen it. Had I been walking alone today I may have made the wrong decision. My fellow pilgrims brought their skills and confidence to the moment. Yeah for the Eagle Scouts! Thank you Richard.
The great joy of the day was when we left the mundane trail and walked for seven miles through the rolling sheep land of this region. The trail took us through the tree lined boreans, up over the side of the mountains where the sheep roam. There we had a glorious view of the farmlands below and the bald mountain above. This was our groups first look at the beauty of the Irish farming region. Their excitement brought a renewed energy to my step.
Later in the afternoon, near the end of walk, heading into a very wooded and dark section of the trail, John, the music director, chose an off the trail place within the woods for the group to rehearse. There, against an abandoned wall of green moss covered stones, they sang the song of Healing Light. The stones and the trees joined the choir. The dark forest glowed with a warm light. At the end of the final piece, the world sat in silence for a minute, listening to the vibrations of communion of all the divine's creation. I felt a positive energy. And as our group got back on the trail, I noticed some healing had taken place. Steps were stronger, spirits were higher, more laughter rose from their souls.
Vox Peregrini has nestled themselves into the hands of Mother Earth and sang their prayers for healing. Creation added their voice and a new harmony was created, a healing harmony.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Vox Peregrini Clonegal to Shilaleagh
The day started out with like most pilgrimages, a group picture at the starting point. For me, it felt odd. This was where I had taken pictures after finishing my previous walks across the Wicklow. Everyone is on their own pilgrimage—and mine is to lead a group while walking in the opposite direction.
This stretch of walk is 14 miles. The path has too many miles of paved roads and gravel covered farm roads. Too little walking down pristine wooded trails on the first day. With this having been the final day of the Way on previous walks, I honestly hadn't noticed how mundane the path had been. I kept telling the group that the deep dark forest lie ahead and that on each day we would be walking more in the forest and less down paved roads.
But, this is their pilgrimage. They are a spirited group. Lots of positive energy. Morgan's bag didn't arrive at the airport in time for him to have his hiking gear. So the group pitched in. Someone had an extra pair of hiking shoes that fit Morgan. Pants, shirt, rain jacket if needed (which we didn't), a Camelback water pack, and an extra hiking stick. He was ready to go. This group has never been together before. Some of us had met for the first time the night before. Community typically takes months if not years to build. Yet, these folks, drawn together by their relationship with the director, their powerful skills of singing, and their curiosity of such a unique opportunity of pilgrimage, are indeed, quickly being knit together.
At lunch, sitting at a crossroads in some lush grass, they sang. Sacred music. Ancient music. When I asked a few about the experience, singing outside is not they're used to doing. The sound disperses into the air like smoke from a fire. They said they had trouble hearing one another. Yet, as an observer, their voice was strong, yet delicate against the terrain and the challenge ahead.
Near the end of our day, my part of walking in a new direction down a familiar trail came to meet me like an old acquaintance in an unexpected place. I walked right by our pick up point. I didn't even notice it. Then we came to a cross roads I recognized, but I talked myself into thinking that this should be a part of the first day, which felt like the 'last day'. I looked at the map. Shared it with two others. Something in me said to simply call right then for a pick up. I foolishly ignored my intuition. This wasn't the place I had in my mind. My thinking function convinced me to push on.
We walked a mile up the road to St. Fiinian's church. John, the director decided this would be good place to sing. The Catholic church was open and the sexton said the group was welcome to sing. Exhausted, sore backs, blisters already emerging, they sat in the pews and lifted their voices within the lovely, simple, Irish sanctuary. I was amazed at their ability to deliver such a divine sound after more than seven hours of hiking.
Soon we were back to walking. Up the road, now having missed the pick up point, one young singer told she's not an emotional person, but sitting in the vulnerability of pilgrimage, singing in this simple church, no audience, just the choir and their voices, those hidden emotions began to arise to the surface. She was imagining this would not be the first and only time her emotions would visit her during this journey.
Within a mile, I finally saw a place I recognized, triggering within me the realization we had gone too far. Last year, Erik spent the night camping at that location. Then I knew we had missed our pick up point. Fortunately, a few phone calls, backtracking only a mile, and the van was there to met us.
I wasn't lost but I had walked too far and caused 13 other people to endure my pushing forward. There is much to learn on pilgrimage. I continue to be humbled by the power of walking in my soul's shadows. Daylight is stirring our pilgrims this morning. We will be walking in a few hours. The teacher of the pilgrimage awaits us with another lesson for the day.
This stretch of walk is 14 miles. The path has too many miles of paved roads and gravel covered farm roads. Too little walking down pristine wooded trails on the first day. With this having been the final day of the Way on previous walks, I honestly hadn't noticed how mundane the path had been. I kept telling the group that the deep dark forest lie ahead and that on each day we would be walking more in the forest and less down paved roads.
But, this is their pilgrimage. They are a spirited group. Lots of positive energy. Morgan's bag didn't arrive at the airport in time for him to have his hiking gear. So the group pitched in. Someone had an extra pair of hiking shoes that fit Morgan. Pants, shirt, rain jacket if needed (which we didn't), a Camelback water pack, and an extra hiking stick. He was ready to go. This group has never been together before. Some of us had met for the first time the night before. Community typically takes months if not years to build. Yet, these folks, drawn together by their relationship with the director, their powerful skills of singing, and their curiosity of such a unique opportunity of pilgrimage, are indeed, quickly being knit together.
At lunch, sitting at a crossroads in some lush grass, they sang. Sacred music. Ancient music. When I asked a few about the experience, singing outside is not they're used to doing. The sound disperses into the air like smoke from a fire. They said they had trouble hearing one another. Yet, as an observer, their voice was strong, yet delicate against the terrain and the challenge ahead.
Near the end of our day, my part of walking in a new direction down a familiar trail came to meet me like an old acquaintance in an unexpected place. I walked right by our pick up point. I didn't even notice it. Then we came to a cross roads I recognized, but I talked myself into thinking that this should be a part of the first day, which felt like the 'last day'. I looked at the map. Shared it with two others. Something in me said to simply call right then for a pick up. I foolishly ignored my intuition. This wasn't the place I had in my mind. My thinking function convinced me to push on.
We walked a mile up the road to St. Fiinian's church. John, the director decided this would be good place to sing. The Catholic church was open and the sexton said the group was welcome to sing. Exhausted, sore backs, blisters already emerging, they sat in the pews and lifted their voices within the lovely, simple, Irish sanctuary. I was amazed at their ability to deliver such a divine sound after more than seven hours of hiking.
Soon we were back to walking. Up the road, now having missed the pick up point, one young singer told she's not an emotional person, but sitting in the vulnerability of pilgrimage, singing in this simple church, no audience, just the choir and their voices, those hidden emotions began to arise to the surface. She was imagining this would not be the first and only time her emotions would visit her during this journey.
Within a mile, I finally saw a place I recognized, triggering within me the realization we had gone too far. Last year, Erik spent the night camping at that location. Then I knew we had missed our pick up point. Fortunately, a few phone calls, backtracking only a mile, and the van was there to met us.
I wasn't lost but I had walked too far and caused 13 other people to endure my pushing forward. There is much to learn on pilgrimage. I continue to be humbled by the power of walking in my soul's shadows. Daylight is stirring our pilgrims this morning. We will be walking in a few hours. The teacher of the pilgrimage awaits us with another lesson for the day.
Vox Peregrini - The Night Before the Walking Begine
Vox Peregrini is a singing choir. Thirteen professional singers from across the United States and Canada. All under forty years of age. All university trained, some with terminal degrees. Their director and founder of Vox Peregrini is Dr. John Wiles, professor of choral music at the University of Northern Iowa.
By today they had all arrived in Bunclody, Ireland, a few miles from the starting point of the Wicklow Way. Tonight they rehearsed at St. Mary's Catholic Church. Fr. O'Connor was very gracious to let the group rehearse for three hours. They sat in a circle and sang eleven pieces for the first time as a group. While their director pointed out small nuances he wanted subtle improvement on, Cathy and I sat awash in the polyphonic four part harmony of people dedicated to the craft of their art. It was like sitting in the forest of the divine and listening to the sounds of the gods and godesses uttering otherworldly secret messages to one another. Not only was it a three-hour behind the scenes opportunity to sit in on their rehearsal, it was the privilege to sit encircled in their sound. We were not sitting in the audience. We were not sitting on the stage. We were sitting in the choir. Their melodious notes rose off the floor, danced along the walls, swirled aloft the ceiling. The sound felt as if it drifted down over our souls.
One day you too can hear their voices when the documentary and the music is available. July 2 they will sing at Christ Church Cathedral and St. Patrick's Cathedral, both in Dublin.
My privilege is to walk with this group. Guide them along the way and be present to their physical, spiritual and emotional needs. Cathy has made preparations for all the lodging and hospitality. Her experience of walking the Way and knowledge of Irish ways is indispensable.
The pilgrimage started a year ago when John launched his plan. Tomorrow morning the walking begins.
By today they had all arrived in Bunclody, Ireland, a few miles from the starting point of the Wicklow Way. Tonight they rehearsed at St. Mary's Catholic Church. Fr. O'Connor was very gracious to let the group rehearse for three hours. They sat in a circle and sang eleven pieces for the first time as a group. While their director pointed out small nuances he wanted subtle improvement on, Cathy and I sat awash in the polyphonic four part harmony of people dedicated to the craft of their art. It was like sitting in the forest of the divine and listening to the sounds of the gods and godesses uttering otherworldly secret messages to one another. Not only was it a three-hour behind the scenes opportunity to sit in on their rehearsal, it was the privilege to sit encircled in their sound. We were not sitting in the audience. We were not sitting on the stage. We were sitting in the choir. Their melodious notes rose off the floor, danced along the walls, swirled aloft the ceiling. The sound felt as if it drifted down over our souls.
One day you too can hear their voices when the documentary and the music is available. July 2 they will sing at Christ Church Cathedral and St. Patrick's Cathedral, both in Dublin.
My privilege is to walk with this group. Guide them along the way and be present to their physical, spiritual and emotional needs. Cathy has made preparations for all the lodging and hospitality. Her experience of walking the Way and knowledge of Irish ways is indispensable.
The pilgrimage started a year ago when John launched his plan. Tomorrow morning the walking begins.
Monday, June 22, 2015
I Intend To Do My Part To Reduce Racism
Today I am in Belfast. Five days ago a twenty-one year old white male shot and killed nine African-American parishioners of the Charleston, South Carolina Emanuel AME church, during their Wednesday night prayer service. I am sad. I am grieving. I'm not sure what to do.
I want to recount all the reasons I am not racist and try to absolve myself. I want to. But I can't. Despite all the reasons I am not a racist, by saying I am not a racist, I have to accept some responsibility. I am white. I am privileged. I have not suffered racial prejudiced in America. As a white male, I am in a long line of those responsible for racial prejudice in America. What can I do?
Riding in taxi yesterday, I asked the driver about the troubles in Belfast. He said there's no room for hatred. "We need to leave it all behind us and find a way to peace." I told him there are racial troubles in America. He said he thought that was over. I told him it has never been over. It's always existed, we have just turned a blind eye and done nothing to move towards full peace with all our brothers and sisters in America of all colors.
When Clyde Cunningham and his family moved two doors down in the mid-60's, we became friends and teammates. I didn't realize how isolated he felt as a teenage African-American. He and his brother were two of a dozen young blacks at a high school of 5,000. That was Arizona. Then, as a minor league baseball player in the early 70's I saw what life was like in the South. When a black player danced with the white wife of another player, the owner asked our black teammate to leave. So, we all left the bar. In 1973, I witnessed the prejudice towards Bernie Smith, the first African American manager in professional baseball. I played for him that year in Danville, Illinois in the Midwest League (A). Years before the majors would hire Frank Robinson as the first African-American manager. Bernie could only suffer the insult for one year. But, we became better professionals and young men because of him. All during my playing career I watched good men like Dick Davis and Lafayette Currance and countless others endure ridiculous and insane prejudice because they were black.
Again, in the 1980's, I saw unbelievable prejudice when I hired John Shumate to be head basketball coach and the first full time African American employee at the then Southern Baptist Grand Canyon University. The slanders and threats he suffered were intolerable and to say the least, unChristian. Ten years later when I hired African American Leighton McCrary to be the then third African American full time employee the letters were no better. As a college baseball coach for twenty years, I took my players to places you would think prejudice wouldn't be tolerated. But John Patterson, Israel Walker, Channing Bunch, Larry Ross and many others suffered too many insults. I didn't do enough to attack the problem of racism in my own neighborhood.
Racial prejudice is alive and rancid in America. Why? Because I have not spoken up loud enough. I have kept too quiet. I am tired of watching injustice being suffered by my African American and black sisters and brothers. Today I worry about my own nephew being racially profiled. What will I do?
I will no longer tolerate any act that sounds, smells, tastes, feels, or looks like racism. Whether it be family, friend, or acquaintance, I will speak out and call it what it is. And anyone who senses the same from me, I expect them to call me on any racism they see exhibited in my life. If white people would call one another on any semblance of racism, then at least we could make a dint in the inherent racism that exists in this country. Because whether we want to admit it or not, our families of origin are the cause of the problem. The sin of grandfathers and grandmothers and fathers and mothers are passed down upon their children, generation to generation. If you are free of prejudice or complicit behavior, thanks be to God. But, I doubt it. I want to contribute to the end of racism. I intend to do my part.
I want to recount all the reasons I am not racist and try to absolve myself. I want to. But I can't. Despite all the reasons I am not a racist, by saying I am not a racist, I have to accept some responsibility. I am white. I am privileged. I have not suffered racial prejudiced in America. As a white male, I am in a long line of those responsible for racial prejudice in America. What can I do?
Riding in taxi yesterday, I asked the driver about the troubles in Belfast. He said there's no room for hatred. "We need to leave it all behind us and find a way to peace." I told him there are racial troubles in America. He said he thought that was over. I told him it has never been over. It's always existed, we have just turned a blind eye and done nothing to move towards full peace with all our brothers and sisters in America of all colors.
When Clyde Cunningham and his family moved two doors down in the mid-60's, we became friends and teammates. I didn't realize how isolated he felt as a teenage African-American. He and his brother were two of a dozen young blacks at a high school of 5,000. That was Arizona. Then, as a minor league baseball player in the early 70's I saw what life was like in the South. When a black player danced with the white wife of another player, the owner asked our black teammate to leave. So, we all left the bar. In 1973, I witnessed the prejudice towards Bernie Smith, the first African American manager in professional baseball. I played for him that year in Danville, Illinois in the Midwest League (A). Years before the majors would hire Frank Robinson as the first African-American manager. Bernie could only suffer the insult for one year. But, we became better professionals and young men because of him. All during my playing career I watched good men like Dick Davis and Lafayette Currance and countless others endure ridiculous and insane prejudice because they were black.
Again, in the 1980's, I saw unbelievable prejudice when I hired John Shumate to be head basketball coach and the first full time African American employee at the then Southern Baptist Grand Canyon University. The slanders and threats he suffered were intolerable and to say the least, unChristian. Ten years later when I hired African American Leighton McCrary to be the then third African American full time employee the letters were no better. As a college baseball coach for twenty years, I took my players to places you would think prejudice wouldn't be tolerated. But John Patterson, Israel Walker, Channing Bunch, Larry Ross and many others suffered too many insults. I didn't do enough to attack the problem of racism in my own neighborhood.
Racial prejudice is alive and rancid in America. Why? Because I have not spoken up loud enough. I have kept too quiet. I am tired of watching injustice being suffered by my African American and black sisters and brothers. Today I worry about my own nephew being racially profiled. What will I do?
I will no longer tolerate any act that sounds, smells, tastes, feels, or looks like racism. Whether it be family, friend, or acquaintance, I will speak out and call it what it is. And anyone who senses the same from me, I expect them to call me on any racism they see exhibited in my life. If white people would call one another on any semblance of racism, then at least we could make a dint in the inherent racism that exists in this country. Because whether we want to admit it or not, our families of origin are the cause of the problem. The sin of grandfathers and grandmothers and fathers and mothers are passed down upon their children, generation to generation. If you are free of prejudice or complicit behavior, thanks be to God. But, I doubt it. I want to contribute to the end of racism. I intend to do my part.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Synchronicity from Belfast
Timing is everything. Good timing, when the stars align and all is right in the world, can create what may feel like spontaneous magical synchronicity,
A year ago John Wiles invited me to be the spiritual director and walking guide for Vox Peregrini. John is the choral professor at the University of Northern Iowa. He has recruited thirteen professional singers to walk the Wicklow Way and perform mideval music as they make their 100 mile trek. The dates were set, Cathy and I began making plans to leave for Ireland June 15.
Six months ago, Chad Sundin and Bishop Kirk Smith began making plans for Chad's ordination into the Holy Order of priesthood. Ordination dates are chosen for several reasons including meeting Episcopal canonical law, the bishop's schedule, Chad graduation from seminary. Chad asked me to be the preacher for his ordination, so my plans were graciously considered. Given all the various nuances and requirements, June 13 was chosen as the blessed day. By tradition, then, on Sunday June 14, Chad would celebrate his first Eucharist. It is also custom not to ask the newly ordained to preach because all the preparation and stress of getting ready for the ordination. So, I would preach the day before I would leave for four weeks of vacation. All seemed to be in place for the exciting events.
Three months ago the bishop announced the opening of a newly created position. The position was to be two part time jobs, Canon Theologian for the diocese and assistant to the rector at St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Litchfield Park, Arizona. The Canon would be responsible spiritual formation opportunities across the diocese. The assistant position at St. Peter's would in essence do the same kind of work in the parish. Both jobs seemed very intriguing to me. I wasn't looking to leave my job at the time. I loved the people and the work fit my vocation. But I had been there 10 years and the new job offered two irristible attractions, time to write and my commute would be reduced from from 90 minutes a day to ten minutes and I would office out of our home. After several conversations I was offered the position.
Then came two decisions. First, it was decided my final day at St. Augustine's would be June 14. The second decision was that Chad was selected as my successor. He would be ordained June 13. The torch would be passed June 14. The following day I would leave for a month in Ireland.
I announced to the congregation and the Episcopal Campus Ministry community I would be leaving. For six weeks I carried their grief and mine. Yes, while I was excited about the new job, I was also sad to be leaving a people I have loved deeply for 10 years. The physical training of preparing for another 100 mile Irish pilgrimage, supporting a grieving congregation, and making all the necessary steps for a heathy leaving has been exhausting.
More than anything, I wanted to leave well. I didn't want 10 years of good work to be ruined by six weeks of mismanagement on my behalf. When I came to St. Augustine's I promised myself to leave the place better than I found it and I didn't want to make a tragic misstep in the final few weeks.
I can't say for sure, you'd have to ask the people, but it felt like the final days were a celebration of great time together and an acknowledge through the ordination of one of our own, that indeed all is well and all will be well,
At the reception after Chad's ordination I took a picture of three priests the bishop has ordained in the past two years who have come out of our congregation. Sunday morning Chad was assisted by two deacons who have been ordained out of our congregation in the last five years. Chad's wife, Jana, was hired last year as the Director of Children's Ministry for the Diocese. Two young adults were given Neely grants. The bishop's committee is a diverse group of excellent leaders. The parish is in good hands. Leadership development has become a way of life in this community.
All I can truly say is that St. A's are a people who have lived out their vision of Prayer, Discernment, and Hospitality. Now is their time to see a new vision given to them by their new vicar and prior the Br Rev Chad. All is well and all will be well. God loves you. Love God with all your heart. Love your neighbors as your selves. And all will truly be well.
From Belfast, Ireland, the land of the troubles, know that peace and love of neighbor is possible because we are all one in the eye of the Holy Living God.
A year ago John Wiles invited me to be the spiritual director and walking guide for Vox Peregrini. John is the choral professor at the University of Northern Iowa. He has recruited thirteen professional singers to walk the Wicklow Way and perform mideval music as they make their 100 mile trek. The dates were set, Cathy and I began making plans to leave for Ireland June 15.
Six months ago, Chad Sundin and Bishop Kirk Smith began making plans for Chad's ordination into the Holy Order of priesthood. Ordination dates are chosen for several reasons including meeting Episcopal canonical law, the bishop's schedule, Chad graduation from seminary. Chad asked me to be the preacher for his ordination, so my plans were graciously considered. Given all the various nuances and requirements, June 13 was chosen as the blessed day. By tradition, then, on Sunday June 14, Chad would celebrate his first Eucharist. It is also custom not to ask the newly ordained to preach because all the preparation and stress of getting ready for the ordination. So, I would preach the day before I would leave for four weeks of vacation. All seemed to be in place for the exciting events.
Three months ago the bishop announced the opening of a newly created position. The position was to be two part time jobs, Canon Theologian for the diocese and assistant to the rector at St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Litchfield Park, Arizona. The Canon would be responsible spiritual formation opportunities across the diocese. The assistant position at St. Peter's would in essence do the same kind of work in the parish. Both jobs seemed very intriguing to me. I wasn't looking to leave my job at the time. I loved the people and the work fit my vocation. But I had been there 10 years and the new job offered two irristible attractions, time to write and my commute would be reduced from from 90 minutes a day to ten minutes and I would office out of our home. After several conversations I was offered the position.
Then came two decisions. First, it was decided my final day at St. Augustine's would be June 14. The second decision was that Chad was selected as my successor. He would be ordained June 13. The torch would be passed June 14. The following day I would leave for a month in Ireland.
I announced to the congregation and the Episcopal Campus Ministry community I would be leaving. For six weeks I carried their grief and mine. Yes, while I was excited about the new job, I was also sad to be leaving a people I have loved deeply for 10 years. The physical training of preparing for another 100 mile Irish pilgrimage, supporting a grieving congregation, and making all the necessary steps for a heathy leaving has been exhausting.
More than anything, I wanted to leave well. I didn't want 10 years of good work to be ruined by six weeks of mismanagement on my behalf. When I came to St. Augustine's I promised myself to leave the place better than I found it and I didn't want to make a tragic misstep in the final few weeks.
I can't say for sure, you'd have to ask the people, but it felt like the final days were a celebration of great time together and an acknowledge through the ordination of one of our own, that indeed all is well and all will be well,
At the reception after Chad's ordination I took a picture of three priests the bishop has ordained in the past two years who have come out of our congregation. Sunday morning Chad was assisted by two deacons who have been ordained out of our congregation in the last five years. Chad's wife, Jana, was hired last year as the Director of Children's Ministry for the Diocese. Two young adults were given Neely grants. The bishop's committee is a diverse group of excellent leaders. The parish is in good hands. Leadership development has become a way of life in this community.
All I can truly say is that St. A's are a people who have lived out their vision of Prayer, Discernment, and Hospitality. Now is their time to see a new vision given to them by their new vicar and prior the Br Rev Chad. All is well and all will be well. God loves you. Love God with all your heart. Love your neighbors as your selves. And all will truly be well.
From Belfast, Ireland, the land of the troubles, know that peace and love of neighbor is possible because we are all one in the eye of the Holy Living God.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Wisdom Walking
My wife and I are in Seattle for a week visiting our daughter and son-in-law. We’re also doing some hiking in preparation for our Ireland pilgrimage with Vox Peregrini in less than a month. Today we walked a bit more than seven miles. We walked from our daughter’s house to Beaver Lake. Near the Lake I spotted this tree. It reminds me of a tree in Ireland near Knockree. The tree is ancient. It has to be more than 200 years old. And though the core of the tree has died, its wisdom remains, Like The Tree of Life.
Walking in the midst of creation is an opportunity to gain wisdom from ancients. I have learned so much on my pilgrimage experiences from the wisdom of the trees as well as the mountains, birds, and animals. The souls of nature can teach us so much if we can listen deeply at a soul level. Our soul listening to the soul of the tree.
This kind of listening is a process that begins with being consciously aware of our surroundings. First, we must use our five senses to be fully connected to our experience. What do I see? I have to be looking for the Tree of Life. I have to stop. What does the tree feel like? Can I smell it? Do I dare taste it? If I am intimate and vulnerable in the presence of the tree—then she might speak to me. Especially if she thinks I am listening. If I listen carefully, I might gain some deeper truth of wisdom.
The process of wisdom walking has four phases, of which sensing is the first. We move from sensing to thinking, then feeling, and finally into the phase of imagination. The final phase is where we can hear deeply from creation and learn from those nuggets she has to teach us. I believe wisdom walking is an alchemical pilgrimage. Turning the raw experience of our journey into golden wisdom. This sensing phase is akin to the blackening of alchemy. The interesting thing about this tree is that it was struck by lightening. The interior was scorched. Still, in this black phase, this tree has much to teach me. The tree has endured to share her wisdom with those who pass by. What did I hear? Truthfully, it only matters to me. In the same way, what you hear is for your ears only. I can tell you this, her blackened interior had a sweet taste.
Walking in the midst of creation is an opportunity to gain wisdom from ancients. I have learned so much on my pilgrimage experiences from the wisdom of the trees as well as the mountains, birds, and animals. The souls of nature can teach us so much if we can listen deeply at a soul level. Our soul listening to the soul of the tree.
This kind of listening is a process that begins with being consciously aware of our surroundings. First, we must use our five senses to be fully connected to our experience. What do I see? I have to be looking for the Tree of Life. I have to stop. What does the tree feel like? Can I smell it? Do I dare taste it? If I am intimate and vulnerable in the presence of the tree—then she might speak to me. Especially if she thinks I am listening. If I listen carefully, I might gain some deeper truth of wisdom.
The process of wisdom walking has four phases, of which sensing is the first. We move from sensing to thinking, then feeling, and finally into the phase of imagination. The final phase is where we can hear deeply from creation and learn from those nuggets she has to teach us. I believe wisdom walking is an alchemical pilgrimage. Turning the raw experience of our journey into golden wisdom. This sensing phase is akin to the blackening of alchemy. The interesting thing about this tree is that it was struck by lightening. The interior was scorched. Still, in this black phase, this tree has much to teach me. The tree has endured to share her wisdom with those who pass by. What did I hear? Truthfully, it only matters to me. In the same way, what you hear is for your ears only. I can tell you this, her blackened interior had a sweet taste.
Friday, May 22, 2015
The Homeless Holy Spirit
A normal Sunday morning at St. Augustine’s in Tempe usually includes a handful of homeless folks who show up for cup of coffee, a few snacks, a gift card to the local grocery, and communion. The homeless seem to enjoy the safe space. The parish folks are kind and hospitable. Matthew 25:35 is our guide—when we entertain those in need, we entertain Jesus.
A few weeks ago we had a typical Sunday morning that turned even more entertaining. One of our regular homeless visitors, though, was acting a bit out of character. His paradoxical behavior appeared to be sparked by his rare sobriety. During worship service he always sits at the back. This Sunday he sat up front. He and his friends are quiet during the service. This Sunday he commented on my sermon—his timing was impeccable. What he said was probably what other people were thinking just they were unwilling to say it out loud. Then after the Peace we offer blessings. None of the homeless had ever come forward for a birthday, anniversary, or memorial blessing. This Sunday he stepped up for a blessing. Actually he wanted to address the congregation, but I asked him to face me and tell me what he had to say. Of course he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, which was fine. He told me about the difficulty of his life and how he was trying to do the hard work of making life better. I prayed for him. He thanked me and returned to his seat. A poignant moment—all was well.
At the celebration of communion, I was in my normal place offering the Eucharistic Prayer, facing the people behind the altar. Somewhere in the middle of that Prayer, I saw our friend moving towards the communion rail to my right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the ushers walk up front and quietly ask him to return to his seat. I could see the homeless man follow the usher to the back. A few minutes later, I felt a presence from my behind my right side approaching the altar. While continuing the Eucharistic Prayer I caught a glimpse of the homeless man tip-toeing across the area behind me. I fully expected him to be standing at my side in a moment. Then from my left, I saw the movement of our music leader heading towards the man. The homeless man quietly followed our musician. The usher was now on the left side of church to help escort the homeless back to his seat. At the distribution of communion, the homeless man was kneeling in front of me, with a curious and happy smile. His face had a gentle feminine hint to it at that moment.
After the service, the usher, our music leader, and I were having a good laugh about the whole affair. The musician, a monk, deacon, and soon to be priest, said, “Ah, the wily Holy Spirit, she showed up today, masking as a homeless man. She is so funny.” Indeed. We never know who will be entertained this day.
A few weeks ago we had a typical Sunday morning that turned even more entertaining. One of our regular homeless visitors, though, was acting a bit out of character. His paradoxical behavior appeared to be sparked by his rare sobriety. During worship service he always sits at the back. This Sunday he sat up front. He and his friends are quiet during the service. This Sunday he commented on my sermon—his timing was impeccable. What he said was probably what other people were thinking just they were unwilling to say it out loud. Then after the Peace we offer blessings. None of the homeless had ever come forward for a birthday, anniversary, or memorial blessing. This Sunday he stepped up for a blessing. Actually he wanted to address the congregation, but I asked him to face me and tell me what he had to say. Of course he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, which was fine. He told me about the difficulty of his life and how he was trying to do the hard work of making life better. I prayed for him. He thanked me and returned to his seat. A poignant moment—all was well.
At the celebration of communion, I was in my normal place offering the Eucharistic Prayer, facing the people behind the altar. Somewhere in the middle of that Prayer, I saw our friend moving towards the communion rail to my right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the ushers walk up front and quietly ask him to return to his seat. I could see the homeless man follow the usher to the back. A few minutes later, I felt a presence from my behind my right side approaching the altar. While continuing the Eucharistic Prayer I caught a glimpse of the homeless man tip-toeing across the area behind me. I fully expected him to be standing at my side in a moment. Then from my left, I saw the movement of our music leader heading towards the man. The homeless man quietly followed our musician. The usher was now on the left side of church to help escort the homeless back to his seat. At the distribution of communion, the homeless man was kneeling in front of me, with a curious and happy smile. His face had a gentle feminine hint to it at that moment.
After the service, the usher, our music leader, and I were having a good laugh about the whole affair. The musician, a monk, deacon, and soon to be priest, said, “Ah, the wily Holy Spirit, she showed up today, masking as a homeless man. She is so funny.” Indeed. We never know who will be entertained this day.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
It Could be Worse, He Could be Your Priest
Recently, a colleague asked if he could take a picture with me. I said sure, but had no clue as to why. The request seemed a bit out of place. As the picture was snapped, my colleague said one of his parishioners had a traditional image of a priest. Obviously he wasn’t fulfilling that parishioner’s expectations. He told me he’s going to show them my picture and tell them, “Well it could be worse, Gil could be your priest.”
I’m not sure how to feel about that? But, I’m going to take it as a compliment, I guess. Of course we all know that outward appearances are not the measure of the inner being. It feels so cliché to even write that sentence. Then, I have to ask, so what is my outward appearance? Is it what you see with your eyes? Or could it be how I appear to your soul, consciously or most likely unconsciously? I think I would rather trust my soul to communicate with your soul. Then there’s nothing lost in translation. Whatever happens at that level probably falls into the realm of something like God looking “on the heart.”
I’ve learned a bit about this seeing what’s in the heart stuff by spending the last sixty years trying to figure out how to listen to my sister. She has Prader-Willi Syndrome, the deformity of Chromosome-15, which leaves her mentally and physically handicapped. She also has great difficultly speaking. Even under the best circumstances, understanding what she is trying to say is a challenge. If we relied on her outward appearance and ability to tell us what she was thinking and feeling—we would be at a total loss and cut off from her life and reality. To know my sister is to learning how to see her heart, her inner being. To listen to her silence. To let her outward appearance speak the powerful words of her heart.
Bill Plotkin’s book Soulcraft: Crossing into the Myteries of Nature and Psyche is a good resource for how to do the difficult work of soul making, which includes deep soul listening. Plotkin challenges us to dive into the dark depths of soulcraft. The dark place, he says, is the inner world where the light rarely shines, the place where we encounter our ego, self, and soul. Here, Plotkin says, is where we can begin to see who we really are. In getting a true portrait of our self, we can then begin to integrate our disparate fractured outward appearances into our inner self, the soul. I think Plotkin struggles in his attempt to write about the soul. But in all honesty, if you don’t struggle publicly about how to articulate the subtleties of the unseen soul, then you’re probably not being honest with the reader. I also don’t like a few of his metaphors. I think he tried to slide around Carl Jung’s work with Sol and Luna and by doing so, confused the alchemist work of ascending and descending. But, aside from those few issues, Plotkin provided me with some very practical methods of doing soulcraft; something I am constantly striving to do in order to listen to the silent soul of my companions, especially my sister. For that I recommend his book.
Sorry, I can’t get that moment I had my picture taken out of my head; me being the worse image of a priest. I wonder if my soul images have long hair? Maybe they wear jewelry? Must be the bare feet. Of course, that’s it—no shoes, no collar, no Eucharist.
I’m not sure how to feel about that? But, I’m going to take it as a compliment, I guess. Of course we all know that outward appearances are not the measure of the inner being. It feels so cliché to even write that sentence. Then, I have to ask, so what is my outward appearance? Is it what you see with your eyes? Or could it be how I appear to your soul, consciously or most likely unconsciously? I think I would rather trust my soul to communicate with your soul. Then there’s nothing lost in translation. Whatever happens at that level probably falls into the realm of something like God looking “on the heart.”
I’ve learned a bit about this seeing what’s in the heart stuff by spending the last sixty years trying to figure out how to listen to my sister. She has Prader-Willi Syndrome, the deformity of Chromosome-15, which leaves her mentally and physically handicapped. She also has great difficultly speaking. Even under the best circumstances, understanding what she is trying to say is a challenge. If we relied on her outward appearance and ability to tell us what she was thinking and feeling—we would be at a total loss and cut off from her life and reality. To know my sister is to learning how to see her heart, her inner being. To listen to her silence. To let her outward appearance speak the powerful words of her heart.
Bill Plotkin’s book Soulcraft: Crossing into the Myteries of Nature and Psyche is a good resource for how to do the difficult work of soul making, which includes deep soul listening. Plotkin challenges us to dive into the dark depths of soulcraft. The dark place, he says, is the inner world where the light rarely shines, the place where we encounter our ego, self, and soul. Here, Plotkin says, is where we can begin to see who we really are. In getting a true portrait of our self, we can then begin to integrate our disparate fractured outward appearances into our inner self, the soul. I think Plotkin struggles in his attempt to write about the soul. But in all honesty, if you don’t struggle publicly about how to articulate the subtleties of the unseen soul, then you’re probably not being honest with the reader. I also don’t like a few of his metaphors. I think he tried to slide around Carl Jung’s work with Sol and Luna and by doing so, confused the alchemist work of ascending and descending. But, aside from those few issues, Plotkin provided me with some very practical methods of doing soulcraft; something I am constantly striving to do in order to listen to the silent soul of my companions, especially my sister. For that I recommend his book.
Sorry, I can’t get that moment I had my picture taken out of my head; me being the worse image of a priest. I wonder if my soul images have long hair? Maybe they wear jewelry? Must be the bare feet. Of course, that’s it—no shoes, no collar, no Eucharist.
Friday, March 13, 2015
Listening to the Talking Tree
We’ve recently moved into another house. Picking up forty-three years of living together and moving eight miles can be exhausting. The process has all gone fairly well. The house we’ve moved into was my parent’s home. With some work, we’ve incorporated their life together here with our future in this home. We already feel like we’ve lived here for years.
Part of moving into a new house is putting everything in its new place. Cathy has plenty of houseplants. She loves them dearly. She waters them. She’s been moving them around the house, assuring that they have the perfect light. She talks to them; asking each plant if they feel comfortable where she has set them. Cathy’s is a dialogue with the ancient.
Stephen Herrod Buhner in The Lost Language of Plants and David Abram in his book The Spell of the Sensuous present a strong case that before language, humans, animals, plants, and everything we consider inanimate shared knowledge. Humans have long had a communication connection with animals—it seems rather easy to image. With plants, however, we seem to have lost our innate ability to listen and learn from those of creation who provide us with sustenance and healing. Both Buhner and Abram point out what seems to be the obvious that in our loss of connection we are destroying the world around us and risking our existence.
My guess is, if you are reading this, you most likely agree with Buhner and Abram. Many of us are frustrated by the voices of denial and fear who have become strange bedfellows. Right-wing fundamentalists Christians have oddly enough joined forces with liberal atheists. Many politicians are in denial because global warming conflicts with capitalism. Many in the general public are in fear of scientific research, resulting in potential reoccurrences of diseases like measles. Those of us who are looking for some ground between common sense and twenty-first scientific research seem to be lost in the shouting from either side. The question is, "what can I do?"
For me, I’m going to start with admitting what neuroscientist David Eagleman suggests are the three most important words that science has given us, “I don’t know.” Honestly, I don’t know what is the best action to take. But not knowing what to do shouldn’t paralyze me. I can get involved. On the global, national, and local scene there are many worthwhile organizations with which I can share my resources and time. But beyond that, I have to take seriously my willingness to communicate with the world around me and ask them, the animals, plants, mountains, rivers, and stones, what they need from me.
While Cathy is talking to our houseplants, I’ve decided to make a connection with the trees, plants, flora, and stones surrounding our house. I’ve started the conversation with the largest, and what I surmise is the oldest, pine tree in the backyard. She seems to have been here before the house was built. My hope is she will tell me stories about the life before and clue me in how to best care for her and the rest of her friends. Sitting for a bit most every evening. Quite, expectant, hopeful—I’m listening. I’m ready to take action for the sake of my new friends and the world in which all live together.
Part of moving into a new house is putting everything in its new place. Cathy has plenty of houseplants. She loves them dearly. She waters them. She’s been moving them around the house, assuring that they have the perfect light. She talks to them; asking each plant if they feel comfortable where she has set them. Cathy’s is a dialogue with the ancient.
Stephen Herrod Buhner in The Lost Language of Plants and David Abram in his book The Spell of the Sensuous present a strong case that before language, humans, animals, plants, and everything we consider inanimate shared knowledge. Humans have long had a communication connection with animals—it seems rather easy to image. With plants, however, we seem to have lost our innate ability to listen and learn from those of creation who provide us with sustenance and healing. Both Buhner and Abram point out what seems to be the obvious that in our loss of connection we are destroying the world around us and risking our existence.
My guess is, if you are reading this, you most likely agree with Buhner and Abram. Many of us are frustrated by the voices of denial and fear who have become strange bedfellows. Right-wing fundamentalists Christians have oddly enough joined forces with liberal atheists. Many politicians are in denial because global warming conflicts with capitalism. Many in the general public are in fear of scientific research, resulting in potential reoccurrences of diseases like measles. Those of us who are looking for some ground between common sense and twenty-first scientific research seem to be lost in the shouting from either side. The question is, "what can I do?"
For me, I’m going to start with admitting what neuroscientist David Eagleman suggests are the three most important words that science has given us, “I don’t know.” Honestly, I don’t know what is the best action to take. But not knowing what to do shouldn’t paralyze me. I can get involved. On the global, national, and local scene there are many worthwhile organizations with which I can share my resources and time. But beyond that, I have to take seriously my willingness to communicate with the world around me and ask them, the animals, plants, mountains, rivers, and stones, what they need from me.
While Cathy is talking to our houseplants, I’ve decided to make a connection with the trees, plants, flora, and stones surrounding our house. I’ve started the conversation with the largest, and what I surmise is the oldest, pine tree in the backyard. She seems to have been here before the house was built. My hope is she will tell me stories about the life before and clue me in how to best care for her and the rest of her friends. Sitting for a bit most every evening. Quite, expectant, hopeful—I’m listening. I’m ready to take action for the sake of my new friends and the world in which all live together.
Friday, November 14, 2014
DNR
“Do you have a Living Will?” the nurse asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you have a DNR clause? You know, ‘Do Not Resuscitate’.”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Have you had a heart attack?”
“Ah…no.”
“Okay, good. Now relax while I take your blood pressure….Well…it’s a little high. But, that’s normal, given the circumstances.”
I thought I was fine. Jesus, it’s just cataract surgery. Why all the questions about DNR and a heart attack?
Welcome to sixty-one. I’ve crossed the barrier. DNR is a legitimate question, I guess.
Sixty was an awesome year. For one, I walked the Wicklow Way with my wife, daughter, son-in-law and some amazing friends. That was a hundred miles through the rugged Irish mountains. I put in another two hundred miles getting ready. And I carried my pack, fully loaded. I’m getting ready for another walk this coming summer.
Truthfully, sixty was great. My book was published. I spent an awesome four months on sabbatical, writing another book. Cathy and I started 2Wisdoms Way Spiritual Formation School. And some beautiful things are going on for our children. Our daughter-in-law and son are having another holy grandchild. Our daughter got an amazing promotion. Hell, I even got some extensive tattoos on my left arm and back. Sixty…well, was amazing.
Okay, the cataract and lens replacement surgery went pretty well. Actually, I didn’t realize how bad my eyesight was until I could see again.
So, what’s up for the sixty-one year? I don’t know. But, I feel good about it. And that’s the incredible part of it…every day I become more and more comfortable with, “I don’t know.” What I trust is my intuition. Maybe I should have answered the nurse’s questions by saying; “I don’t know, but I feel that all will be well.”
My grandfather used to tell me, “With age comes freedom.” At the time, I had no idea what he meant. He was a truck driver. I wasn’t sixteen at the time. I figured he was telling me, when I got a driver’s license I would have a lot freedom. Turning sixty-one, I realize now my grandfather was talking about the freedom that comes from being old enough that you don’t sweat the small stuff, but instead focus on the more important issues of life. A friend used to tell me, “Major on the majors and minor on the minors.” That’s been a good lesson for me to learn—and be reminded of, often, as I get older.
For me, one of those “majors” is the desire for wisdom. I used to think that simply by the virtue of getting older and having more experience, I would automatically acquire wisdom. What a naïve thought. Wisdom is one of those paradoxical virtues in life. According to the scriptures, we must seek the instruction of Mother Wisdom—while at the same time we pray that she finds us. We search for wisdom with the desire we will be found by that same wisdom (Wisdom of Solomon 6:12-20). You can’t find wisdom unless you search for it, but you can’t find it unless it finds you.
It’s like me wanting to see better—I had to go to the doctor—and I had to trust the doctor to cut open my eye. In the same way, if I desire wisdom, I have to go on the search for wisdom. Then trust Mother Wisdom to cut open my soul and pour in her light so that I might see the way of wisdom much clear. Paradoxical truths can bring the greatest rewards—and simultaneously an equal amount of risk and pain. No wonder my blood pressure goes up every time I contemplate what is the wisest approach to the problem confronting me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you have a DNR clause? You know, ‘Do Not Resuscitate’.”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Have you had a heart attack?”
“Ah…no.”
“Okay, good. Now relax while I take your blood pressure….Well…it’s a little high. But, that’s normal, given the circumstances.”
I thought I was fine. Jesus, it’s just cataract surgery. Why all the questions about DNR and a heart attack?
Welcome to sixty-one. I’ve crossed the barrier. DNR is a legitimate question, I guess.
Sixty was an awesome year. For one, I walked the Wicklow Way with my wife, daughter, son-in-law and some amazing friends. That was a hundred miles through the rugged Irish mountains. I put in another two hundred miles getting ready. And I carried my pack, fully loaded. I’m getting ready for another walk this coming summer.
Truthfully, sixty was great. My book was published. I spent an awesome four months on sabbatical, writing another book. Cathy and I started 2Wisdoms Way Spiritual Formation School. And some beautiful things are going on for our children. Our daughter-in-law and son are having another holy grandchild. Our daughter got an amazing promotion. Hell, I even got some extensive tattoos on my left arm and back. Sixty…well, was amazing.
Okay, the cataract and lens replacement surgery went pretty well. Actually, I didn’t realize how bad my eyesight was until I could see again.
So, what’s up for the sixty-one year? I don’t know. But, I feel good about it. And that’s the incredible part of it…every day I become more and more comfortable with, “I don’t know.” What I trust is my intuition. Maybe I should have answered the nurse’s questions by saying; “I don’t know, but I feel that all will be well.”
My grandfather used to tell me, “With age comes freedom.” At the time, I had no idea what he meant. He was a truck driver. I wasn’t sixteen at the time. I figured he was telling me, when I got a driver’s license I would have a lot freedom. Turning sixty-one, I realize now my grandfather was talking about the freedom that comes from being old enough that you don’t sweat the small stuff, but instead focus on the more important issues of life. A friend used to tell me, “Major on the majors and minor on the minors.” That’s been a good lesson for me to learn—and be reminded of, often, as I get older.
For me, one of those “majors” is the desire for wisdom. I used to think that simply by the virtue of getting older and having more experience, I would automatically acquire wisdom. What a naïve thought. Wisdom is one of those paradoxical virtues in life. According to the scriptures, we must seek the instruction of Mother Wisdom—while at the same time we pray that she finds us. We search for wisdom with the desire we will be found by that same wisdom (Wisdom of Solomon 6:12-20). You can’t find wisdom unless you search for it, but you can’t find it unless it finds you.
It’s like me wanting to see better—I had to go to the doctor—and I had to trust the doctor to cut open my eye. In the same way, if I desire wisdom, I have to go on the search for wisdom. Then trust Mother Wisdom to cut open my soul and pour in her light so that I might see the way of wisdom much clear. Paradoxical truths can bring the greatest rewards—and simultaneously an equal amount of risk and pain. No wonder my blood pressure goes up every time I contemplate what is the wisest approach to the problem confronting me.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
42
Cathy and I love to try out new restaurants. We like a funky setting that offers fresh and surprising food. Because I’m a vegetarian, unique entrees are a rare find. Usually, we check out the menu on line, or call, before we head out for some new place, just to be sure there is something I can eat. So, when we do find some new place, it’s a real treat for us.
If the vibe is good, and the server asks, “Can I answer any questions for you?” I just can’t help myself. I have to ask, “What’s the meaning of life?” Typically I get a smile, as in “I’ll oblige you because you’re the customer.” Sometimes the server says, “Wish I knew?” I’ve asked the question more than a hundred times. Rarely do I get an answer worth keeping. Until a few months ago, we were in Tucson visiting my sister. We went to a unique place we hadn’t been before. The server asked my favorite question, “Can I answer any questions for you?” I said, “The meaning of life?” He said, “42.”
Of course, the server’s answer was from Douglas Adams’ book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. At a pivotal point in the book, two alien beings ask a giant computer “The answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.” The computer tells the questioners to come back after she has had 7.5 millions years to work on the answer. Upon their return, the aliens receive their answer, “42”.
There are hundreds of speculations as to why Adams choose “42” as the answer to the meaning of life. He skirted around the question from interviewers most of his life. At one point, apparently bored of being asked why he selected 42 as his answer, he said he was staring out the window, over looking his garden, pondering his book, and the number popped in his head. Being a writer myself, I am fascinated to read biographical stories of the authors I’ve read and enjoyed.
Admittedly, Adams’ book dates me—but so do a lot of other popular cultural references. They are awfully hard to avoid, because life is exponentially more time sensitive with each passing day. While the answer “42” is time relative, the question is timeless.
Adams was an atheist. Scientist and atheist Richard Hawkins acknowledged Adams at his death as a man that scientist, atheist, conservationist, and the animal kingdom would dearly miss. The fact that Adams was an atheist is germane to his question about the meaning of life. He was poking fun at religion’s weak attempt to provide an answer to every unanswerable question.
Apparently, most religious leaders believe they have found the simple answer to unanswerable questions. They proclaim an absolute undeniable answer to the meaning of life and how to find eternal purpose. While those types of questions haunt most of us, religion in general, and especially Christianity, demands that its followers accept their version of the correct answer. Without regard to the fact that the answer seems fleeting, out of context for the culture, or worse, irrelevant, Christianity (and I think most religions) holds onto to their illusionary ideas of the truth.
In the twenty-first century, more and more people in Western culture, Americans, see religion, especially Christianity, as out-of-date and meaningless. To make matters worse, recently we have witnessed betrayal, hypocrisy, and an abandonment of the faith from prominent leaders.
In a most recent article in Huffington Post, Bart Campolo, well known in his own right and son of the famous Evangelical academic, writer, and speaker, Tony Campolo, announced he was no longer a Christian.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/06/bart-campolo-humanist_n_5941232.html
He left Christianity to become the humanist chaplain at the University of Southern California. The younger Campolo left Christianity, he said, after deconstructing several of the tenets of the faith, most prominently, the sovereignty of God and the authority of the Scriptures. The final blow to his faith came at the hands of a near fatal biking accident in 2011. It was then he decided that when the body dies, that’s the end.
Since Christianity is “my tribe,” to quote the elder Campolo, I have to wonder if Bart ever felt safe in a community of Christians, aliens in a foreign land, to discuss his doubts and to wonder about the writings of Origin, Clement of Alexandria, Meister Eckhart, the Gnostics, Carl Jung and the likes of Marcus Borg. I wonder if having a safe community where he could be an atheist and still be a part of tribe was in reach for him?
Now as a humanist chaplain, Bart Campolo ministers to people who don’t believe in God but are looking for community. Maybe community where people seeking the answer to life’s illusive questions gather to find solace in the face of the dark void? Maybe 42 is the answer to the meaning of life? Four, the number of wholeness, plus two, duality, equals the complexity of simplicity—maybe that is the answer? No, too simple. Anyway. Healthy communities can, and do, exist to provide a safe place for us, atheists and Christians alike, together, to work out our stuff. The keys are that the community must be safe, let us do our work without providing the “answers”, and allow my stuff, no matter how wyrd, even if I do believe 42 is the answer to life, in the room. Religious, humanist, atheist, agnostic, we’re all probably searching for a place of safe community to work out our wonderings. Isn’t 42 a card game? Or is that dominos?
If the vibe is good, and the server asks, “Can I answer any questions for you?” I just can’t help myself. I have to ask, “What’s the meaning of life?” Typically I get a smile, as in “I’ll oblige you because you’re the customer.” Sometimes the server says, “Wish I knew?” I’ve asked the question more than a hundred times. Rarely do I get an answer worth keeping. Until a few months ago, we were in Tucson visiting my sister. We went to a unique place we hadn’t been before. The server asked my favorite question, “Can I answer any questions for you?” I said, “The meaning of life?” He said, “42.”
Of course, the server’s answer was from Douglas Adams’ book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. At a pivotal point in the book, two alien beings ask a giant computer “The answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.” The computer tells the questioners to come back after she has had 7.5 millions years to work on the answer. Upon their return, the aliens receive their answer, “42”.
There are hundreds of speculations as to why Adams choose “42” as the answer to the meaning of life. He skirted around the question from interviewers most of his life. At one point, apparently bored of being asked why he selected 42 as his answer, he said he was staring out the window, over looking his garden, pondering his book, and the number popped in his head. Being a writer myself, I am fascinated to read biographical stories of the authors I’ve read and enjoyed.
Admittedly, Adams’ book dates me—but so do a lot of other popular cultural references. They are awfully hard to avoid, because life is exponentially more time sensitive with each passing day. While the answer “42” is time relative, the question is timeless.
Adams was an atheist. Scientist and atheist Richard Hawkins acknowledged Adams at his death as a man that scientist, atheist, conservationist, and the animal kingdom would dearly miss. The fact that Adams was an atheist is germane to his question about the meaning of life. He was poking fun at religion’s weak attempt to provide an answer to every unanswerable question.
Apparently, most religious leaders believe they have found the simple answer to unanswerable questions. They proclaim an absolute undeniable answer to the meaning of life and how to find eternal purpose. While those types of questions haunt most of us, religion in general, and especially Christianity, demands that its followers accept their version of the correct answer. Without regard to the fact that the answer seems fleeting, out of context for the culture, or worse, irrelevant, Christianity (and I think most religions) holds onto to their illusionary ideas of the truth.
In the twenty-first century, more and more people in Western culture, Americans, see religion, especially Christianity, as out-of-date and meaningless. To make matters worse, recently we have witnessed betrayal, hypocrisy, and an abandonment of the faith from prominent leaders.
In a most recent article in Huffington Post, Bart Campolo, well known in his own right and son of the famous Evangelical academic, writer, and speaker, Tony Campolo, announced he was no longer a Christian.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/06/bart-campolo-humanist_n_5941232.html
He left Christianity to become the humanist chaplain at the University of Southern California. The younger Campolo left Christianity, he said, after deconstructing several of the tenets of the faith, most prominently, the sovereignty of God and the authority of the Scriptures. The final blow to his faith came at the hands of a near fatal biking accident in 2011. It was then he decided that when the body dies, that’s the end.
Since Christianity is “my tribe,” to quote the elder Campolo, I have to wonder if Bart ever felt safe in a community of Christians, aliens in a foreign land, to discuss his doubts and to wonder about the writings of Origin, Clement of Alexandria, Meister Eckhart, the Gnostics, Carl Jung and the likes of Marcus Borg. I wonder if having a safe community where he could be an atheist and still be a part of tribe was in reach for him?
Now as a humanist chaplain, Bart Campolo ministers to people who don’t believe in God but are looking for community. Maybe community where people seeking the answer to life’s illusive questions gather to find solace in the face of the dark void? Maybe 42 is the answer to the meaning of life? Four, the number of wholeness, plus two, duality, equals the complexity of simplicity—maybe that is the answer? No, too simple. Anyway. Healthy communities can, and do, exist to provide a safe place for us, atheists and Christians alike, together, to work out our stuff. The keys are that the community must be safe, let us do our work without providing the “answers”, and allow my stuff, no matter how wyrd, even if I do believe 42 is the answer to life, in the room. Religious, humanist, atheist, agnostic, we’re all probably searching for a place of safe community to work out our wonderings. Isn’t 42 a card game? Or is that dominos?
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Who is Jesus Christ for us, today?
This week Kirk Smith, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Arizona, my bishop, wrote this on his Facebook page.
“Doing some research this afternoon for my convention talk, I came across this great quote from the always thought-provoking theologian Leonard Sweet: ‘Let me say first of all that for me, New Age rhymes with sewage. I have such a low threshold for Gaia worship that in the middle of the movie "Avatar" I had to take a break, so severe was my attack of Gaiarrhea. In fact, I have challenged "new age sensibilities" (which now are known as "integral spirituality" or "Enlightenment," not "New Age") for the way in which they goddify the self and expect others to orbit in a Youniverse that revolves around them as if they were a god. "The Secret" of the universe is not that you can have life your way. "The Secret" is that Jesus is The Way (Colossians 3). Jesus did not come to make us divine. Jesus came to show us how to be authentically what God made us to be--human. Because of the culture in which we live, I have encouraged the daily ritual of starting the day by standing in front of a mirror and saying: "God is God and I am not."
Indeed, Leonard Sweet in thought provoking, however, I think his quote is a sad commentary on the current state of the church universal. His comments of negation, what he is against, are in response to criticism from some evangelical Christians. They say he is a heretic, a “New Age” mystic. The largest amount of arrows being flung at Sweet, are quotes taken from his book, Quantum Spirituality, which he wrote in 1991. In his post, he writes, now twenty years later, he would have not written the book. That is unfortunate. His early books, along with Brian McLaren, Marcus Borg, John Shelby Spong, Matthew Fox, Meister Eckhart, Teillard de Chardin, and others, kept me in the Christian tribe long enough to find the Episcopal Church. Our Church has allowed me to continue my pilgrimage. Traveling with the likes of J.A.T. Robinson, Rowan Williams, Evelyn Underhill, Martin Thornton, William Countryman, Cynthia Bourgeault, Thomas Keating, Richard Rohr, Carl Jung, Ken Wilber, and many many others. They have shined a light on my path. We are all mystical pilgrims in a new age.
Sweet’s critics accuse him of “New Age mystical heresy” simply because he quoted a few writers they have determined are not orthodox. These same critics have also declared that Sue Monk Kidd, Richard Foster, Rick Warren, and Rob Bell are also heretics. Going to war over what others call you is a losing battle.
Sweet’s response sounds too much like a recantation while standing in the flames of the Inquisitor’s fire licking at his feet. Leonard, my friend, it’s too late. No matter what you say, they will not put out the fire. You are a threat. You made Quantum Spirituality available free on your website. The congregants of your naysayers are reading your books.
My humble advice to you is to walk away. Let it go. We are all someone’s heretic. If you want to repeat something daily in the mirror, try this on for size. “God is God, and I am called to be who God created me to be.” Living into who God calls us to be, can liberate others to be who God has called them to be. You wrote your books to set people like me free. You did. Thank you. Keep writing your heresy.
At the end of Sweet’s post, he quoted an old German (unnamed) schoolmaster, who carved these words over his door. “Dante, Luther, Goethe, Barth, Heiddeger, live here.” Sweet says, “I only want to write one thing over the doorpost to my heart and life, “Jesus Christ lives here.” That’s sweet, Sweet, but doesn’t say much.
We are living in a new age. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who is also not well liked by those in the anti-Sweet crowd, wrote that we are living in the “World Come of Age.” We live in the age when the world is changing so we cannot keep up with the Tsunami Sweet wrote about twenty years ago. Daily, I would prefer to ask Bonhoeffer’s simple yet complex question. “Who is Jesus Christ for me, today?” The emphasis is on, today. My answer to that question, as was Bonhoeffer’s, evolves continually. Because I learn something new every day about my self and about God, Jesus Christ, and the world in which we live, move, and have our being. I learn from scripture, as well as from those who espouse eco-spirituality, feminist spirituality, and Celtic-spirituality, and yes Gaia spirituality, just to name a few.
Dear Bishop, the anti-Sweet crowd would think you are actually a worse heretic than he is. You’ve vocally supported women’s ordination and gay rights. The list could go on, but that’s enough for many to light their fires (including some in our own Church). My Southern Baptist Christology professor, J. Niles Puckett, would say to his critics, “You may believe whatever you like.” I find his words are often my best response. Instead of defending my faith by identifying what I don’t believe in—I continue to do the hard work of learning and trying to communicate, who Jesus Christ is for me, today? Bishop, at the Convention, I would rather hear you lead us into a twenty-first century exploration of Bonhoeffer’s question, much more than hear you quote Leonard Sweet’s desperate confessional attempt to hang onto his readership.
“Doing some research this afternoon for my convention talk, I came across this great quote from the always thought-provoking theologian Leonard Sweet: ‘Let me say first of all that for me, New Age rhymes with sewage. I have such a low threshold for Gaia worship that in the middle of the movie "Avatar" I had to take a break, so severe was my attack of Gaiarrhea. In fact, I have challenged "new age sensibilities" (which now are known as "integral spirituality" or "Enlightenment," not "New Age") for the way in which they goddify the self and expect others to orbit in a Youniverse that revolves around them as if they were a god. "The Secret" of the universe is not that you can have life your way. "The Secret" is that Jesus is The Way (Colossians 3). Jesus did not come to make us divine. Jesus came to show us how to be authentically what God made us to be--human. Because of the culture in which we live, I have encouraged the daily ritual of starting the day by standing in front of a mirror and saying: "God is God and I am not."
Indeed, Leonard Sweet in thought provoking, however, I think his quote is a sad commentary on the current state of the church universal. His comments of negation, what he is against, are in response to criticism from some evangelical Christians. They say he is a heretic, a “New Age” mystic. The largest amount of arrows being flung at Sweet, are quotes taken from his book, Quantum Spirituality, which he wrote in 1991. In his post, he writes, now twenty years later, he would have not written the book. That is unfortunate. His early books, along with Brian McLaren, Marcus Borg, John Shelby Spong, Matthew Fox, Meister Eckhart, Teillard de Chardin, and others, kept me in the Christian tribe long enough to find the Episcopal Church. Our Church has allowed me to continue my pilgrimage. Traveling with the likes of J.A.T. Robinson, Rowan Williams, Evelyn Underhill, Martin Thornton, William Countryman, Cynthia Bourgeault, Thomas Keating, Richard Rohr, Carl Jung, Ken Wilber, and many many others. They have shined a light on my path. We are all mystical pilgrims in a new age.
Sweet’s critics accuse him of “New Age mystical heresy” simply because he quoted a few writers they have determined are not orthodox. These same critics have also declared that Sue Monk Kidd, Richard Foster, Rick Warren, and Rob Bell are also heretics. Going to war over what others call you is a losing battle.
Sweet’s response sounds too much like a recantation while standing in the flames of the Inquisitor’s fire licking at his feet. Leonard, my friend, it’s too late. No matter what you say, they will not put out the fire. You are a threat. You made Quantum Spirituality available free on your website. The congregants of your naysayers are reading your books.
My humble advice to you is to walk away. Let it go. We are all someone’s heretic. If you want to repeat something daily in the mirror, try this on for size. “God is God, and I am called to be who God created me to be.” Living into who God calls us to be, can liberate others to be who God has called them to be. You wrote your books to set people like me free. You did. Thank you. Keep writing your heresy.
At the end of Sweet’s post, he quoted an old German (unnamed) schoolmaster, who carved these words over his door. “Dante, Luther, Goethe, Barth, Heiddeger, live here.” Sweet says, “I only want to write one thing over the doorpost to my heart and life, “Jesus Christ lives here.” That’s sweet, Sweet, but doesn’t say much.
We are living in a new age. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who is also not well liked by those in the anti-Sweet crowd, wrote that we are living in the “World Come of Age.” We live in the age when the world is changing so we cannot keep up with the Tsunami Sweet wrote about twenty years ago. Daily, I would prefer to ask Bonhoeffer’s simple yet complex question. “Who is Jesus Christ for me, today?” The emphasis is on, today. My answer to that question, as was Bonhoeffer’s, evolves continually. Because I learn something new every day about my self and about God, Jesus Christ, and the world in which we live, move, and have our being. I learn from scripture, as well as from those who espouse eco-spirituality, feminist spirituality, and Celtic-spirituality, and yes Gaia spirituality, just to name a few.
Dear Bishop, the anti-Sweet crowd would think you are actually a worse heretic than he is. You’ve vocally supported women’s ordination and gay rights. The list could go on, but that’s enough for many to light their fires (including some in our own Church). My Southern Baptist Christology professor, J. Niles Puckett, would say to his critics, “You may believe whatever you like.” I find his words are often my best response. Instead of defending my faith by identifying what I don’t believe in—I continue to do the hard work of learning and trying to communicate, who Jesus Christ is for me, today? Bishop, at the Convention, I would rather hear you lead us into a twenty-first century exploration of Bonhoeffer’s question, much more than hear you quote Leonard Sweet’s desperate confessional attempt to hang onto his readership.
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