A Sacred Journey

practicing pilgrimage at home and abroad

Our Father in Heaven, Mystery Beyond Knowing: A Prayer of Abundance

our father via https://www.asacredjourney.net

This past Sunday’s reading at church was was “The Feeding of the Five Thousand,” and the liturgy created by my church community served as an invitation to experience the passage in new ways.

I think I often skim over it since it’s a story I’ve heard told since childhood, thinking only of a miracle of impressive numbers and paper loaves and fish (or perhaps felt, depending on your Sunday School era). However, yesterday’s liturgy expanded this passage for me, revealing that this snapshot of Jesus’ ministry isn’t necessarily about the “what,” as I had thought in childhood (Jesus proves he is the Son of God because of this miracle of multiplication), but instead the “who”—the character of the Divine.

Instead of just a magic trick, it’s a gesture of abundance, generosity, and enough (and then some). And it’s a testament to the gesture of the Divine toward us. Not like the prosperity gospel, though, where faithfulness is rewarded with a flashy car and a mansion. Instead, God shows generosity through nourishment (in the case of this passage, literally) and offers abundance through things that bring lasting life—body, mind, and soul.

As we transitioned to the time of Eucharist in last night’s service, we recited the Lord’s Prayer, as is common to the liturgy, but this time with additions to remind us to ask for—and rest in—the generosity and abundance of a life-giving God.

I’m in a season of discerning what brings me life and what weighs me down, and am also learning to rest in the abundance that surrounds me (much more difficult than I would have ever imagined), so the additions to this well-known prayer especially stood out to me. It’s my prayer for the week (or season) ahead, and I want to share it with you, too.*

Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name.

Mystery beyond knowing,
close to us as our breathing,
in humble awe we pray.

Your Kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as in heaven.

We pray for your vision of justice and mercy
to be made real in our world even now.

Give us today our daily bread.

We pray for your vision of enough;
enough sustenance, enough warmth,
enough healing for all of your children.

Forgive us our debts,
as we forgive our debtors.
Lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.

We pray for the grace to let go of that which is death-dealing
as we embrace your vision for life.

For the Kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours.
Now and forever.

Giving thanks for presence that defies definition
in this life and beyond. Amen.

*Note: These additions are from Liturgy Outside.

GO FURTHER…

Which of these additions resonates with you most? How can you practice recognizing and receiving God’s generosity and resting in Divine abundance in the week ahead? Share your response to these questions or the post in the comments.

I Am a Spiritual Misfit: My Journey toward Contemplative Spirituality

Today’s post is inspired by Michelle DeRusha’s book, Spiritual Misfit: A Memoir of Uneasy Faith, and Convergent Book’s #IAmaSpiritualMisfit Contest. Read my spiritual misfit story below.

contemplative-spirituality

I grew up in a small town. In that small town, there was one post office, one school district, one small movie theater, and only one thing to do on Sunday mornings.

And there was only one place to do that one thing on Sunday mornings—or so it seemed to me as a young girl growing up beneath the tent of conservative evangelical faith—and that, of course, was my church (or, to put it correctly, the church I attended, but a child never sees it that way).

It stood in the center of town at three-stories high, making it the tallest building in the area, along with the dormitories at the conservative evangelical university of the same denomination just a mile down the street. (That was, until they built the four-story bank on the edge of town—that skyscraper along the highway.)

My church was my world—I knew nothing else (well, except for the “Doxology” from visits to my grandmother’s church in a much smaller town a few hours north). As far as I knew, my church was the church, and consequently our way was the way, the truth, and the light.

This was my experience as a child who “was blessed to grow up in a Christian home” (the opening line of my go-to testimony)—not necessarily what I was taught (although…maybe a little bit). But this experience shaped my faith and made me feel like a misfit if things didn’t fall into place.

Luckily, I was a rule-abider with a fear of getting in trouble from the start. Note: this is an excellent quality if you’re trying to fit into a mold. By the age of 11 (thanks to Bible Drill), I’d memorized a sizable collection of verses and key references and could find any book of the Bible (and also name the books nestled before and after) in less than ten seconds flat. I had the “Romans Road” marked in my Bible—upside-down, so I could still read the references while the one I proselytized stood across from me, should the opportunity to witness arise. (I also had it “hidden in my heart” just in case I was without the Good Book or needed the occasional reminder of my own depravity.) I closed my eyes as I sang in the praise band, signed pink abstinence cards in the presence of an accountability partner, and rededicated my life every once in a while just to make it stick.

To the outside world, I fit right in, and on most days, I felt as if I fit, too. But as I left that small town for college and beyond—growing into myself in the process—the distance between the faith of my childhood and the spirituality that God was birthing within me seemed as great as the literal distance between the small town of my youth and where I landed on a map.

While my relationship with God seemed more intimate than ever, when I visited faith communities similar to my childhood church, I felt like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. If I wanted to fit, I’d have to smooth out my newly-formed edges—if not every day, at least for an hour on Sunday mornings. I’d have to silence newly held beliefs and pick up ones I had left behind, and I wasn’t willing to do that any longer. Instead, I chose to remain true to my convictions in hopes that I might find a square hole that might welcome my newly-formed edges.

Over the past few years, I’ve drawn closer to that hole, and I slipped right in before I even knew its name. It was as if God had formed me for this path from the start, and I had finally found my way. It is the path of contemplative spirituality—a path that is ancient in practice, yet rooted in the present moment—and in it there is room for my edges, my doubts, my questions, and my longings.

We are still in the honeymoon phase—contemplative spirituality and I—and I am learning and loving more with each new day (though not always without a fight). And as I look back on scripture and my Christian roots with a contemplative lens—at those verses and key references memorized so long ago—I’m starting to experience the depth of the Gospel in new ways. I finally feel like I have good news to share. But this time it’s not a list of verses, written upside-down in my Bible for optimum delivery—all of the boxes checked after you “admit, believe, and confess” (thanks VBS).

This time, its an invitation to journey, the Sacred Guide beckoning me each day.

“The soul’s journey in Christian spirituality is a journey of becoming, not simply doing or even being.”

David G. Benner

I am a Spiritual Misfit

GO FURTHER…

When have you felt like a spiritual misfit? Share your response to the question or the post in the comments.

Thoughts from the Other Side: Cultivating Spaciousness as an Everyday Practice

Ravenna Park

Whether I’m ready for it or not, my week of spaciousness has come to an end. Or perhaps I should say instead that my time to work has returned, because in the end, that would be more accurate. Spaciousness, after all, is always available—if we choose it.

My week of spaciousness was less a week of complete freedom (as I had dreamed it would be) and more a daily (and hourly) lesson in choosing to make space. I’m often dreaming of days or seasons filled with complete freedom and fulfillment. It seems that the grass is indeed greener on the other side, at least in my mind. My desire for days like these springs from something real, to be sure. But those days and seasons of freedom and fulfillment that I cling to occurred less because of circumstance and more because of choice.

That was one of my greatest lessons last week as I sought to create space. In preparation for my time, I had cleared my calendar diligently, ensuring there would be plenty of room to follow wherever my soul leads. Saying “no” and shutting down shop for a week can be difficult, but I was stern. Wasn’t that enough?

I quickly learned that it wasn’t, and that lesson became my theme for the week.

You see, while I was keeping options open to pursue whatever felt spacious to me at the moment, there was one thing I knew I wanted to do during my week of spaciousness: spend plenty of my time in my garden reading. It’s where I’ve felt most grounded over these past many months as we’ve settled back into Seattle. What better place to spend a week of spaciousness? I had even bought a new book for the occasion (Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things, in case you’re curious).

The Signature of All Things

As Sunday rolled into Monday, I entered the week with every intention of spending most of my hours lounging in the garden, coffee or rosé in hand (depending on the time of day, obviously), and reading Gilbert’s latest novel voraciously, looking up only on occasion to contemplate in amazement the vivid blue hue of my hydrangeas. (And, getting up on occasion to refill my bowl of kettle-cooked potato chips—it was a week of spaciousness, after all.)

Dreamy, I know.

And it would have been, except for the fact that last week seemed to be the week that my landlords chose to do repairs on the facade of our apartment building, which meant lots of banging on our walls and men on ladders in our tiny yard—my beloved garden, my thin place, my Sacred space.

I had done everything I could to make my fantasy a reality. I’d cleared my schedule—said “no” to all of the things! I’d cleaned up the garden and bought a new book. I had even chilled the rosé!

But on Monday morning, although the birds’ song was beckoning me outdoors, I sat inside, construction workers hammering outside my window. The only place of complete privacy was the bathroom, and even there you could hear the banging.

I had all the time in the world, but it didn’t feel spacious.

I allowed myself time to sulk, because sometimes sulking is important. It let me know that my soul was upset, and that it wasn’t going to give up its desire that easily simply because it was inconvenient. But once my time of sulking had sufficiently passed (a period that involved the coffee, rosé, and a fair amount of the potato chips), I realized I had a choice to make: I had already made the space. What could I do now that would feel spacious, in light of the circumstances?

The Crumpet Shop at Pike Place Market

The Crumpet Shop at Pike Place Market

And so, I made plans to seek spaciousness elsewhere, at least until they were finished. I went on walks, visited Pike Place Market (one of my favorite places in Seattle), and did my fair share of people watching while sipping lemonade. And during the times I was at home, I baked muffins with the music turned up loud enough to drown out the banging. I also did a fair amount of pinning on Pinterest—if the world around me wasn’t feeling spacious, I could at least channel my energy into imagining things that do.

By the end of the week, the construction workers were gone, and I was finally able to sit in my garden and read away. But even then, there was distraction, and it became a daily (and hourly) practice to remind myself to choose not simply what seemed attractive at the moment (oftentimes it’s looking something up on the Internet), but to choose instead the activity that brings me life. Little bursts of fulfillment can be fleeting, but choosing spaciousness will nourish and root me—satisfactions that last far longer than a moment.

This is the lesson I take with me as I return to work this week. And this is why I started by saying that my time of spaciousness isn’t over, because it’s always available, if I choose it. As I enter back into rhythms of work, I’m contemplating how I can also establish daily rhythms of spaciousness. It begins with clearing time in my schedule, for sure, but it will also be something that I will have to be intentional about, day by day and moment by moment, being flexible when less than ideal circumstances arise (and they will).

It will be a daily practice, certainly. But I have a feeling it will be a practice that, when cultivated, will produce a Sacred garden of delight and rest—perhaps even with it’s own bright blue hydrangea.

GO FURTHER…

How will you choose to cultivate spaciousness today or this week? Leave your response to this question or the post in the comments.

We Almost Bought a House (on great desire, deep disappointment, and the meaning of prayer)

skeleton key

Yesterday, we almost bought a house.

This house had everything we wanted at a price we could afford. Sure, there was room for improvement, as would be expected for most things in our price range, but we’re DIY people so we like it that way.

Not only was the house ideal, with sunny nooks for reading, raised beds prepped for gardening, and a mountain view from the master bedroom (bonus!)—the location couldn’t be beat.

It was less than 500 feet from the library  and a stone’s throw from there to the post office. Next door to the post office was my new favorite used bookstore, where I found these on Saturday while listening to the live Irish music being played in the back of the store. Further down the street was Kyle’s favorite coffee shop and multiple restaurants we’ve been wanting to try. In the other direction was the zoo and the farmers’ market. And on a nice day, we could even ride our bikes to church—just a couple of miles down that same winding road.

Do I have you dreaming along with me yet? Truly, we were in a state of bliss.

In the Seattle real estate market, we’re learning, homes go quickly. Not only do you have to move at a fast pace, but you also have to be willing to compete, because it’s more than likely that each home has multiple offers.

After studying every detail online Saturday night and Sunday morning, we looked at the house in person yesterday in the early afternoon. Less than two hours later, we were making an offer, writing our initials and the date on more papers than I could have ever imagined. With only one other on the table, our agent thought we were a shoo-in, and we put in an escalator, saying that we would beat any offer up to a certain amount, to guarantee it.

With the offer in and waiting to be reviewed at 6pm (we would know by the end of the night!), I found myself more full of hope than I had ever been (or so it seemed). Desire sprung out of my soul like a geyser with a force equal to that which had kept it down for so long, and I danced in its rain as it fell to the ground as if a season of drought were finally coming to an end.

It felt so good. I felt so free.

I’ve been wondering about the meaning of prayer a lot these days—what it is, what happens during prayer, what it results in—especially in times like these when I want to gather up Prayer Warriors in hopes that their faithful petition on my behalf might solidify the deal (you know, so as to cover all of the bases). But really, I’ve been thinking that it’s not about might, but instead all about desire. Praise, petition, thanksgiving—each is an expression of deep longing. And the expression of deep longing requires surrender—of defenses, of ego, of control.

It is an intimate exchange, which seems appropriate for communion with the Divine. That’s what prayer is, really—something that I feel any person of faith would agree with. And communion means “an act or instance of sharing.” And that doesn’t mean it’s just me sharing my desires with God, because the prefix “co” means “together, mutually, in communion.”

When I bring my desires to God—in praise, in petition, in thanksgiving—letting go of defenses, ego, and control in a stance of complete surrender, God is with me in my desires—together, mutually, in communion.

But to risk by surrendering to desire is to also risk surrendering to pain. I thought of this as Kyle and I sat in church last night as the clock passed 6pm, our phones on vibrate just in case we might get The Call. I wondered if I should be risking so much by being vulnerable with my desires—was it wise? After all, there was still a small chance that we might not get the house—that my desires, now laid bare on the table as an offering of hope, might not be fulfilled.

But there was something about that sweet communion of bliss that felt so full, so whole, so authentic. I didn’t want to be protected from it by reason, however “wise” it might seem.

If the Divine was truly there with me, alongside me in my desire, then I wanted to bask in the glow of that radiant hope, no matter how fleeting. In the same way, if I surrendered to my disappointment and grief if my desires weren’t fulfilled, I knew that the Divine would be there alongside me as well, however sorrowful that communion might be.

As the service came to a close, Kyle tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention and showed me his buzzing phone. Our agent was calling. This was The Moment—one we had only been waiting only six hours for, but with desire that seemed to hold the weight of a lifetime.

We quickly ducked outside and found a private place so we could answer the phone. Reason told me it was so we could hear clearly; my desire told me it was so we could have plenty of space to burst into celebration. I watched as Kyle listened intently, nodding his head as our agent spoke on the other end. Because I couldn’t make out what our agent was saying, I focused on his eyes and his mouth, waiting attentively to catch the first glint of a brightened expression that said, “We got it!”

But nothing came. There were more words that I couldn’t decipher on the other line (too many to be good news?), but still no expression from Kyle.

And then it happened.

He looked straight into my eyes with mutual longing and slowly shook his head back and forth. No. “We didn’t get it,” he mouthed.

The others who had put in an offer countered our offer by $25,000—tens of thousands more than the house was really worth, our agent said. We couldn’t do it. It would be foolish, our agent advised.

And so we walked away—from the possibility of getting that house, from the bliss of surrendering to our desires, from the place where moments ago we thought we would be celebrating—eyes wide, hearts full, grins glued to our faces.

And then, we walked into our grief—into the valley that comes with mountains, the desolation that counters the consolation, and the devastation that is the other face of desire. And we stayed.

Communing with God in the midst of sadness isn’t as easy as sharing in the delight. It’s far easier to regain control, pick up my defenses, and just keep going—”It’s okay, we’ll find another one. Where’s the next house?” In the moments that the sadness does creep in, it quickly turns to anger, often against myself—”I don’t deserve it. I’m not good enough. I shouldn’t have risked and surrendered to desire. I knew better. Just keep going…”

It’s harder to be met in your grief by the Divine and to stay there and honor it just as much as you honored your desire. In some ways, it seems impossible to bear. But it’s often by facing the things that seem unbearable that transformation occurs, particularly in relationship. And it is only when we truly surrender—feeling both our highs and our lows in the presence of the Divine—that we can fully commune with God.

This, I think, is prayer. At least that’s what I’m wondering.

GO FURTHER…

What are your thoughts on prayer? Do you freely express your highs and your lows? Have you felt God come alongside you in moments of grief just as in moments of delight? Share your response in the comments.

Declare Your Independence: Where Could You Use More Freedom?

Declare Your Independence: Where Could You Use More Freedom?
Today is Independence Day in the US. It feels strange to call it “Independence Day” because we usually refer to the holiday simply as the “Fourth of July” (even Wikipedia says so), but then again, it’s the fourth of July everywhere, so I’ve been feeling the need to make the distinction lately.

Referring to this holiday is “Independence Day” rather than simply the Fourth has also allowed me to think of the day more liturgically. This year I really loved the idea of Mother’s Day not only being a day to celebrate our earthly mothers, but also an invitation to celebrate the Divine as our heavenly mother—an image so often overlooked and even rejected.

I’d like to think that Independence Day has a similar invitation, too. Certainly it invites us to remember the history of the United States, the freedom we have, and those who have fought for that freedom—both abroad and at home. But it can also serve as an annual invitation to not only remember independence gained in the past, but to declare personal independence in the present.

Today I’ll be joining friends for a cookout and to watch fireworks, just like the rest of the United States. I might even be inspired by the sounds of a brass band to sing a patriotic tune. But I’ll also be celebrating freedom beyond an eighteenth century document and revolution. The independence I’ll be declaring—and the freedom I’ll be celebrating—will also be my own.

No matter where you live in the world, today I invite you do join me in the practice of declaring your own independence from whatever weighs you down in life and celebrating what brings you freedom.

(Unfortunately, though, you might still have to go to work.)

GO FURTHER…

How can you declare independence from whatever weighs you down in life? What brings you freedom? Leave your response in the comments.

PS: I should probably add a disclaimer about the photo and say that by sharing a photo with the absence of the US flag on a post about Independence Day I’m not trying to make any sort of statement. But I will say that I automatically have great affection and respect for whoever lives in a house that hangs a pirate flag on their flagpole. With playfulness like that, I have a feeling they know a little about freedom and declaring independence from the things that weigh them down in life.

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