Volume 28, No. 2-Summer, 2004
Table of Contents
Rest & Discernment
by Bonnie Wallace
Surrender and Gratitude
by Patience Robbins
Beatitudes of Prayer
by Gerald May
Bread and Wine
by Ann Kline
The Quiet Miracles of Spiritual Direction in Groups
by Ginger Essink
Reflections on Corporate Discernment, Part 1
by Bill Dietrich
Postcards from the Edge of Glory
by Carole Crumley
Rest & Discernment
by Bonnie Wallace
The call to discernment is a call to deep rest and abiding presence. This type of rest is a source of renewal and openness. As Tilden Edwards explains in Sabbath Time, "Our minds and our prayers need to relax their frequent weekday grasping, striving, judging, fearing. Full rest is full openness. Full openness is God's image revealed in us."
This deep and abiding rest is a coming home to the real self, a self that cultivates an interior attentiveness to the real transforming presence of God within and among. This interior attentiveness of the true self must be lived out and made manifest in daily life, and this invites ongoing discernment in making intentional choices and free decisions.
Discernment is to hear well the one word of God, which is one's own life-a graced transcendence if you will. It is God who opens one's life to God's infinite life. Discernment is a gift already given by the Spirit. One simply has to rest to receive it. All else follows.
Full rest opens me to my real self and to the real prayer that happens within me as I direct others. I notice I wait longer and can tolerate silence easier without adding words or unnecessary chatter. And I don't strive so hard to find answers. I breathe deeper and relax more.
Rest begets openness for me, and openness keeps me honest and vulnerable. When I am resting in God I find myself being a channel of grace and creativity in praying for the rest of my directees. The graced invitation is physically, emotionally and spiritually given. I try to give them plenty of grace just to be as they are with me and before God during our time together. I also try to make the room comfortable and welcoming. When I am rested I have a quieter confidence in the flow of grace as invited by the direction process. Not much is forced. Would to God I could be this rested and open in most moments.
During my first residency at Shalem, when asked what my hope was for my time there, I shared that I wanted a place where I could catch my breath. And I did. One of the most powerful parts of the residency for me was the observance of the Sabbath. I relished the silence and rest. My soul rested, and I opened. And my ongoing prayer and heart's desire is to be more and more open and know rest at a soul level. Somehow this desire matters as I continue to sit before others in rest and discernment.
Bonnie is a participant in Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, Class of Summer 2004. This article is taken from one of her program papers.
Surrender and Gratitude
by Patience Robbins
Fourteen years ago, St. Therese of Lisieux, a Carmelite nun who lived in France from 1873-1897 came into my life. While reading her autobiography, The Story of a Soul, this line took root in my heart: "Jesus does not demand great actions from us but simply surrender and gratitude." That message continues to speak deeply to me-calling me back again and again, even as she continues to companion and mentor me.
The reminder to surrender is an ongoing one as I attempt to figure out and control the many aspects and circumstances of my life. Which school for my 13-year-old daughter is a challenging question, and I would like to have the perfect answer. I go round and round with thoughts, ideas and the many pros and cons of the options. I hear the whisper: surrender-open this to God. Maybe there is no perfect or ideal solution. I pray that I can just let it unfold, trust that I am doing what I can, and be grateful for what has been and is given.
The news of a dear friend who is ill, what can I do about it? How can I understand or make sense of it? How do I live with the uncertainty and helplessness? I seem to hear an invitation to be faithful-without knowing or having answers to all the questions and without being able to change or fix anything. I pray that I can be available and present and let God be God in the midst of all of it-even be thankful for all the unknown as well as my inability to make things better.
I have a friend, Nancy, who is mentally challenged, was abandoned to an institution as an infant and has never known a family. She is now 55, lives alone and is totally dependent on others for her survival. When we first met, I often pondered the deep poverty she experiences-no family, no job, very few skills, no friends. She has learned to fend for herself, live with the TV and radio but always delighted with any contact with others. I sit with this question before God: How could life be so poor and who can I be for her? I receive no explicit answers but some nudging to let it be what it is and be grateful-grateful for the opportunity to learn from her as well as be her friend.
The continued barrage of news of another death in Iraq, another bombing in Palestine, rampant spread of AIDS in South Africa, an uprising in Haiti-what am I to do about the violence, bitterness, and suffering in the world? How can I respond? It feels overwhelming and I can easily be paralyzed. Can I invite God into all of this and all my feelings about it, and as I "relax and submit to God," as Thomas Kelly reminds us in A Testament of Devotion, let God be, love, pray through me in ways I couldn't know or understand? This requires deep trust that God cares even more than I do and really is lovingly present and acting although I may not ever see or know the results. It also allows for an openness to any way I might be invited to act or respond to these events, but with freedom.
As I welcome God into these situations and events, both personal and global, there is an opening to be grateful-grateful for the mystery that I cannot comprehend as well as the love, compassion, the goodness that is present and flowing through it all (perhaps in very hidden ways). Gratitude emerges and grows because God is in charge and I can freely entrust all to God. I am reminded of Anthony de Mello's line: "There is no sweeter prayer than a grateful heart." And so I thank God for all those many events and circumstances that make no sense to me-even seem very wrong and unjust. They do not follow my line of reasoning or how I might arrange or design things, but they challenge me to reaffirm my faith in a God who is more loving and merciful than I could ever know or imagine.
As I continue to live into this surrender and gratitude, my heart seems to be expanding to hold all kinds of mystery-no answers and definitely no control. I also notice that I am drawn to respond on ever deeper levels to this God who breaks all boundaries that I might create. The love that I experience invites me into more and more willingness to accept what is, trusting indeed that all shall be well.
Patience is the Director of Shalem's Personal Spiritual Deepening Program.
Beatitudes of Prayer
by Gerald May
"These are the times that try men's souls." This is the first sentence of Thomas Paine's December, 1776 essay entitled The American Crisis. The revolution was underway, and it was indeed a crisis, a soul-trying time. In the two centuries since then, America has encountered many such crises: great wars and national schisms, economic depressions, broken confidence in government and drastic conflicts of values. Each tried the American soul in its own way, and America saw it through. Another crisis ripped into our consciousness with the events of September, 2001, a crisis that even now continues, and seems to be trying our souls more deeply and profoundly than perhaps ever before. And we are a long way from seeing it through.
This crisis is forcing us to experience some of the hatred and bloodshed that have enveloped our brothers and sisters for years, even centuries. At least to some extent our fear has joined theirs. Religious and ethnic animosities, some long-buried, emerge with a virulence that cannot and will not be explained away. We have the capacity to hate, and we are hated, and we know it. The most soul-trying aspect of this crisis, as I see it, is the recognition that we are deeply vulnerable. No longer can we rely on our military might to protect us. And our great economic power and material possessions are clearly not going to save us, if ever we thought they would.
Even more devastating is that we can no longer self-righteously claim the moral high ground among the nations of the world. There is a great leveling going on. I think we are being shown that if we are unable to let go of our arrogance, it will sooner or later be ripped from our grasping hands. We are victims to be sure, but we are also perpetrators. We must share responsibility for what has happened, and we must face the burden of discerning what, if anything, we can do about it. How do we reach out with calming hands? Are there amends as well as sacrifices to be made? How do we live our daily lives in a stance of healing and peace? What actions do we take? How do we vote and otherwise involve ourselves in politics? In a very practical sense, what vision do we want to emerge from the elections this year?
For praying people, the more important questions are, "What does God want?" and "How can I join God's desire, God's loving flow of mercy and justice on this earth?" Reflecting on this, I felt led to re-examine the Beatitudes. Usually, the Beatitudes are interpreted in terms of external action. This is certainly valid, but I found myself wanting to explore what their meaning might be for prayer- especially in the gift of contemplative prayer. So I looked into the meanings of the Greek words and their contexts. What I found was an alternative interpretation that has become quite inspiring for me.
I want to share these thoughts, but a few preliminary comments are important. First, it is good to remember that contemplative prayer, when it is given, includes a confrontation with the reality of "what is," no matter how ugly or stressful it may be. There is no place to hide, no way of denial, no avoidance. So a contemplative stance implies a willingness to bear things just as they are, at least for a while. Second, like contemplation itself, the Beatitudes are gifts, not accomplishments. Putting them into words may give us a sense of direction for our prayer and presence, but there is no "how to," no way of making them happen on our own.
The scripture quotes that follow are from Matt 5, KJV. I continue to use the word "blessed" in the interpretations because it is consistent in the text, though the Greek term also means "happy" or "made happy."
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
Blessed are those who do not try to play God, but instead pray with
humility, recognizing their utter dependence upon God, knowing they can
do nothing worthwhile on their own, for they will find deepening trust
in God's power and love in every moment.
"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."
Blessed are those who pray in sorrow and grief when the suffering of
others becomes inseparable from their own. In this they share God's own
sorrow, and they shall be given affirmation, consolation, and ease.
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."
Blessed are those who pray with and for gentleness, who turn to God
with their anger, who stand still in the midst of their own turbulent
feelings, for they will be empowered; the energy of their feelings will
join with God's love and give them freedom in all of life.
"Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness,
for they shall be filled."
Blessed are they who pray with absolute faith in and commitment to God,
for their trust shall be deepened in each moment.
"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy."
Blessed are those who find themselves filled with compassion and who
pray with tenderness towards themselves and others, for they shall be
bathed in God's own love.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God"
Blessed are those who pray with honesty and sincerity, whose heart's
desire is for God alone, for they will commune with the Holy in the
depths of their souls.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the
children of God."
Blessed are those who pray for God's peace, the peace that passes
understanding, the peace that is God's yearning and not their own, for
they are united with God's desire.
And the last two seem to go together:
"Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and
shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake."
Blessed are those who are refuse to relinquish their commitment to God
and God's reign, who cannot justify or rationalize their action or
apparent inaction to others, who are accused of quietism, of avoiding
responsibility through prayer, for they will be empowered and their
faith will be ever affirmed and deepened.
Bread and Wine
by Ann Kline
On Friday nights, the beginning of my Sabbath, I make kiddish. I bless the wine at my table. I wash my hands and bless the bread, breaking off a piece to eat in reverent appreciation before passing it around for others to do the same. It is for me the recognition of, and grateful participation in, the constancy of God's creative love. It is this sanctification I think of when I witness the Christian sacrament of bread and wine. This, too, as I understand it, is the recognition of and grateful participation in God's givingness.
In these two rituals I see the promise and the challenge of interfaith understanding. I do not say dialog, because all too often for me such "dialog" has consisted of talking across our fences. Too often, my experience has stayed at the level of sharing about our symbols, without sharing in them. We show and tell, but we do not step through those symbols to engage and embrace each other at the deepest level of those symbols' meaning.
When I am at Shalem retreats and the time ends with worship together, there is always that moment for me-will they do Communion? How will it be offered? What should I do? It is bread and wine, the symbols of my Shabbat, of a divinity that I would embody in everything I am and do. It is bread and wine, the symbols of Christian participation in the same self-giving of God, of a divinity that they would embody in all that they are and do. It feels so right to share this together. And yet the gap between us is too wide to cross. I cannot take bread and wine offered in communion with Jesus Christ; my sense of "theological" integrity gets in the way. I stand in the circle, I pass the wine, I place the bread in the hands of another, but I do not partake. Too often, this is what interfaith dialog has meant for me-protecting a divide that we look over and dare not cross.
I do not mean for this to sound one-sided. Recently, a Christian friend came to Sabbath services with me. At one part of the service the Torah scroll is paraded around the sanctuary and the congregants use their prayer book or prayer shawl to touch it and receive the blessing of that connection. He could not join in that devotion, to kiss and reverence a covenant we Jews and Christians historically share with God. A covenant that, in its broadest, truest sense, all people share with God.
To have life, our symbols must be more to us than the identifying markers and rallying points of specific communities. This is not to deny the power and poetry of our religious symbols and rituals. I appreciate the significance of the specific stories which birth them. They hold, however, a greater potential than coloring and recoloring those stories. To be fully realized, those symbols must take us beyond the shores of our own communities to the other side. Abraham Joshua Heschel said that prayer takes us to a threshold beyond words where we stand trembling before a deeper, unfathomable sense of holiness. In the same sense, the true life of our spiritual symbols begins when they convey us past their exclusive, contained meanings into their more unbounded, universal and unifying ones. When we can come from that place, it is no longer our dialog, but God's soliloquy.
Richard Rohr wrote:
People the most obedient to commandment and church formulas can very often be the hardest to convert. They've taken the symbol for the substance...the ritual for the reality...the means for the end and become inoculated from the experience of the real thing. That's called idolatry when we worship and protect the means. It actually keeps us from the journey to the end. (Everything Belongs, p. 46)
The gift of a "contemplative" stance in all of living is the way it can free us from imaginations that are too small for the breadth and depth of God's heart. The true poetry and power of the bread and the wine can be felt in all its potential when we reach the place where it is more than the kiddish of my Shabbat table, and it is more than communion with Jesus Christ. Can we experience the kiddish as the sanctification that reveals the Divine present in all of life? Can we see in that communion with Jesus Christ "the full meaning of Jesus's self-offering as God's offering to everyone"-God's presence in and with us (to quote Tilden Edwards). When our symbols become a broader invitation to self-giving, an invitation to live and share God's love together in this world, it becomes bread and wine with which we all can be nourished. It becomes a Communion I can share.
Our differences may have their own gifts. I am not an advocate of one universal religion (except perhaps the Dalai Lama's-who said, "my religion is kindness"). Nature contains more than one kind of tree. A tree is not an end in itself, but part of a larger, dynamic whole, and so are we and our religious communities. My prayer is that as we celebrate our sacraments we see them not as ends in themselves but as starting points in a journey that takes us, together, into the universal heart of God.
The Quiet Miracles of Spiritual Direction in Groups
by Ginger Essink
I fell in love with what Shalem has to offer by starting in group spiritual direction. During the five years I've been with my group, I have been more enriched than I had ever imagined possible. This program of once-a-month meetings can create deep relationships in small groups of people, often lasting for years, where quiet miracles occur as people share their journeys within sacred space.
My own involvement began because I was strongly drawn to the whole idea of spiritual direction in groups and I had heard of Shalem through a friend. I was in transition-I had recently "retired" from corporate life after seventeen years, to address chronic migraines and to spend better time with my son before he grew up. It was through God's grace that I had finally been able to leave my work world, and now I was straining to hear what on earth I was to do next. The idea of a little community who could somehow help me hear God and share the ups and downs of my journey seemed an answer to an unasked prayer. I learned what I could through the web site and by reading Rose Mary's book on group spiritual direction.
When I started to fill out my application for the group, I discovered some "musts," some questions, and some unfamiliar language, and I began to worry. What are these questions for? Will my spiritual life be judged? Will it be found wanting? My prayer life seemed irregular, too. I often wrote to God in my journal and quieted my soul with long walks, but I wasn't sure either counted. I spent a long time writing my application essay, knowing I needed Shalem but unsure if Shalem would accept me.
Since then, I have learned that the questions are used to identify people who might prefer individual spiritual direction, rather than a small group environment. The leader talks through their desires with them and helps them make the decision before the groups are formed. (A number of people do both individual and group spiritual direction.) There is no judgment in the questions. The requirements, however, are real. People who wish to partake of the bounty of group spiritual direction need to have some kind of relationship with God that they want to deepen, and they have to be willing to show up for each other and to share their journeys with each other. There is no group, no spiritual, no direction without these.
When people do show up and practice spiritual direction in groups, lives can be greatly enriched. How is this possible? What actually happens?
The process sounds simple enough. A facilitator guides each new small group in a sort of graceful dance: a time of sharing and intense listening, then prayerful silence while group members wait for guidance in how to respond, then responding, silence, and then the "dance" with the next person. At the end we always take time to talk about how the experience worked that day. I found that the silence after sharing stopped any tendency (however well-intentioned) to listen with half an ear while thinking of an appropriate response. I learned what it meant to listen and be listened to with full attention. And from the silence I found much more.
Although I'm still uncertain about the future, I've learned through this process that my life is infinitely richer if I pay attention to where God is in my life now. I had, it seems, segmented God. I knew God intimately in certain places-in most natural settings, and in times of joy and sadness. Early on I learned that someone in the group could always be counted on to ask, "Where is God in this?" and I learned to find God in entirely new places-in arguments with my adolescent son, in places of deeply held anger with my spouse, even in places of intense frustration with my computer. Someone in my group always responded to my sharing with an image, others with a phrase, a word, a question, and I often found an entirely new way of looking at things. And, always, regardless of whether I came in feeling troubled or happy, I left feeling that people who cared about me and my journey with God had helped me see my path better.
I was initially attracted to the group for companionship. It wasn't until I had been in group spiritual direction for a while that it dawned on me that this process works not only because the groups are safe places to share, but because each person in a group learns to become a spiritual director for the others. In this facilitated process of sharing, listening and silence I learned what it felt like to wait until a response seemed to bubble up and needed to be said versus my instincts to jump and offer consolation, empathy, or worse, advice. And the times that my own ego caught me up and I couldn't hear that deep place of truth within, the facilitator and group process gently got me back on track. Learning to hear that voice within for others, in ordinary times, has been an extraordinary gift-one more quiet miracle of spiritual directionin groups.
Reflections on Corporate Discernment, Part 1
by Bill Dietrich
"Discernment is a gift from God, not a personal achievement. The gift is not the result of training, technique or analysis. Like other gifts of God, its origin is mysterious and gratuitous. It is given for the building of the community and of relationship with God rather than for self-fulfillment or self-aggrandizement." -Patricia Loring
Over the past couple of years I've received so many questions around corporate discernment that even I couldn't help but see the invitation to probe this theme more deeply. Many of the questioners begin with the premise that after 30 years Shalem must have some experience with corporate discernment that might help as their communities face major decisions about aspects of their future together. This theme is also timely in Shalem's life now as we face major discernments around how we're being called to respond to our current fiscal challenges and program opportunities. In this article I'll describe some general reflections on this theme and in a future article will include some examples drawn from my own and Shalem's learnings-and struggles-with discernment in community.
Beneath many of the questions I've received there often seem to be two underlying assumptions about corporate discernment. The first is that corporate discernment differs in some basic way from individual discernment, that God dances with groups differently than with individuals. The second assumption is that there is some process or technique we can use to accomplish discernment in community, that the process can, in effect, be the discernment.
I can understand how these assumptions arise. As we think about dealing with all the unique persons in our communities, we confront the difficulties of dealing with all the inevitable differences we have. All our unfreedoms conspire to block our willingness for God's corporate vision for us--our opinions, preferences, deeply held theologies, different ideas of prayer, attachments to particular outcomes, desire to avoid conflict in the name of a false charity, and so on. What unifies us as God's people seems to slip into the background and can easily become lost to us.
Perhaps this is why business world models seem so popular in our spiritual communities when undertaking major discernments such as strategic planning, envisioning mission, or choosing leadership. In my experience with strategic planning models, the process is typically linear, objectives-driven, and can leave the group with a feeling of accomplishment (and often exhaustion!).
When used in the context of spiritual discernment, I'm sure there is a sincere desire and intention for the process to be Spirit-led, prayerful and open to God's will. But despite our desire and intention, the reality is that no process model or technique, nor any amount of openness can achieve our discernment for us. As Quaker Pat Loring writes, "There are...no rules in this matter of leadings and discernment. Leadings come from the mysterious depths of God, the indefinable, the unpredictable, whose ways are not our ways, who is clearly not running the universe like a business, an institution, a bureaucracy, a family, or anything else within our ken." This is true whether we discern as individuals or as communities. Even Ignatius of Loyola recognized that his Spiritual Exercises were only intended to help clear the way for God's invitations to be known but were no guarantee that any discernment would be given.
Thus in any context the fundamental nature of discernment is the same. Like contemplation, it is pure gift, not the result of anything we can do or achieve. Embracing this basic reality is essential to understanding the deeper invitation of discernment both as individuals and as community. The essence of that invitation, as Thomas Merton said, is to join in the movement of the Spirit unfolding moment by moment, inviting us to participate in the dance of creation to bring about a world of shalom.
Just as important as understanding the gift nature of discernment is knowing that God desires to gift us beyond and even through our unfreedoms. In this reality we can have hope to commit ourselves to living lives-individually and corporately-in the habit of discernment, where we strive to open ourselves in freedom to God's presence and action moment by moment.
And this is where process can and does have its place in our discernment-to help support and honor our desire for freedom, our desire and willingness to join the Divine flow. To honor that desire, all we can do is offer our openness, our willingness, "our hearts, soft and tractable" as the prayer of St. Irenaeus goes, and hope that we stay awake and aware of the Spirit's often gentle nudgings.
Any process or practice which honors that desire to be open and receive the gift can thus have a place in our discernment. In a corporate context, these practices can lead us beyond our differences to claim our deepest common desire, that which draws us towards God and together in community, calling us to our common home in God's Spirit. Thus it can be very helpful to employ practices (often similar to those in Quaker practice) such as using silence to open meetings and after each person speaks, encouraging all persons to speak and to listen without judgment, and seeking a transcendent "sense of the meeting" (a deeper sense of God's desire for the group) versus mere consensus. In a future article I'll say more about such practices including many Shalem has employed over the years in discerning its way.
But while process can support our willingness, it can also subvert our freedom by creating subtle expectations that results will be forthcoming, especially if we have tied our process to a timetable. Here the wisdom of Quaker practice can be instructive in that we must also have the freedom not to make a decision if no clear discernment is given. This is certainly easier said than done in situations where we have carefully crafted schedules and elaborate processes based on defined deadlines and goals. The sheer weight and momentum of the time and effort involved can propel us towards a decision whether or not we have any real clarity. We can rationalize forcing a result simply because we are too attached to the process or too exhausted to consider extending it. We can't bear postponing a decision when what we're really being invited into may simply be a deeper listening and trust.
But what if the pressures of time or circumstance do subvert our process and we make a decision without a clear discernment? What if despite our best efforts there is no clear leading but we nevertheless decide to move forward to meet some perceived expectations? Here again, there is no real difference between our personal and communal discernment. Our stumbling missteps are nothing new to God, who still calls us home, offering compassionate guidance to us from moment to moment. For the call to discernment is never a one-time shot, but rather a life lived with God individually and supported in community.
Postcards from the Edge of Glory
by Carole Crumley
Shalem's 2004 Pilgrimage, "A Glimpse of Glory," took us to two of the earth's holiest islands, Iona and Lindisfarne, both places of prayer for over 1000 years. Iona was once home to Columba, patron saint of Ireland, who settled there in the late sixth century. Under his leadership, a great monastic community grew up, and Iona became the cradle of Christianity in Scotland. One of its offspring, Lindisfarne, in Northumbria, was a missionary outpost. Far from its mother community, but steeped in Celtic prayer and praise, it flourished under the inspired leadership of Aidan, its first abbot and Cuthbert, his successor. Our band of pilgrims discovered that these two islands are still infused with the holiness of their great Celtic saints and that centuries of prayer welcome the contemporary soul. As the priest at St. Mary's Church on Lindisfarne said, "These walls are practically dripping with prayers."
One vivid memory is of ending a quiet day on Lindisfarne. After spending the day alone and in silence, our pilgrim group came together on the little island that Cuthbert used for his hermitage time. From the shore, the island is a distant spot both inviting and forbidding. When the tide is in, the island is completely cut off from the rest of Lindisfarne. When the tide is out, it is accessible only to those willing to venture across rocks, seaweed and debris to climb over boulders onto this lonely piece of earth. Not knowing what to expect, we discovered the island is lush and green and covered with wild flowers. After making the stony crossing, we stood on a surprisingly soft purple, yellow and green carpet.
Standing there, I understood better why the ancient Celts considered themselves to be living on the fringe of the civilized world, between civilization and wildness, sky and sea, heaven and earth. I once read that these pioneers in faith would go the very edge of the island to intone their prayers. The edge seemed to beckon them further and empower their trust in all that is unknown. As they stood on the edge where the primal elements of earth, air and water joined the fire of their passionate hearts, they claimed to discover nothing less than the glory of God.
As our quiet day came to a close, we took up this practice, each one going to an edge of Cuthbert's island. Some stood at the water's edge, others on rocky outcroppings to pour out their prayers. The wind was blowing so hard that we who were perched on the rocks had to struggle to maintain our balance, needing to be firmly rooted and yet wanting to be fully open to the life-giving force of the Spirit. The words, sighs and sounds of our prayers were carried on these wild Celtic winds.
One of the pilgrims on this journey told me that when she travels, she sends postcards to herself every day. When she returns home, the cards serve as her journal, reminding her of sites visited and experiences shared. I now carry a mental postcard of our praying on the edge and I send it to myself every day.
Back home, this image helps me remember the invitation to live both firmly rooted and fully open. I find myself looking for edges in the landscape of my neighborhood and community, my work place and home place. I notice where manicured lawns meet the untamed edge of forest and parkland, where wealthy neighborhoods meet impoverished "'hoods," where healthy friends meet the raw edge of unexpected illness, where dawn meets dark. And I am noticing the edges of my prayer, the inner landscape where my desire for God meets my resistance, where freedom meets attachments, risking meets holding back.
In all of this, I pray that the wild winds of the Spirit will blow through me releasing, softening, empowering my willingness for the more of God 's love and compassion that is just beyond the edge of my knowing, seeing and believing. And I pray for a deeper grounding and trust in the grace of this moment that centers and anchors my living.
This year at Shalem we will be focusing on our mission, seeking to discern God's vision for us for the years ahead. Once in a Shalem gathering, I remember Tilden Edwards praying that we would be given the grace to see the edge of God's dream for the world and Shalem's part in fulfilling that dream. Now I believe that only a venturing out will take us to the edge of that dream where there is an interplay between old and new, a mix of past, present and future, a joining of wildness and domesticity, stability and uncertainty. The journey to get there may seem forbidding, the way uncharted. But we go in a graced community of other God-seekers, willing to lean into the strong wind of the Spirit and believing in the glorious welcome of a new green, flowering possibility.