Volume 30, No. 2-Summer, 2006
Table of Contents
Love Will Be Done
by CeCe Balboni
Pilgrimage: Going and Returning
by Carole Crumley
Growing Home Along the Way: Reflections on Shalem's Southwest Regional Gathering
by Len Deloney
Witness in the Desert
by Dana Greene
Spirituality and Fundraising
by by Mansfield Kaseman
Beauty in the ICU
by Joan Maxwell
A Witness to Love and Peace
by Patience Robbins
Death and Life
by Pam Sawyer
Love Will Be Done
by CeCe Balboni
In early February the narcissus were blooming--three of them--and so was the forsythia. Guess where. In my dining and living rooms. Guess why. I forced them. I placed the narcissus bulbs in a bowl of water on top of some rocks, and I simply stuck the budded forsythia branch in a vase of very hot water. While I was able to enjoy their beauty and the promise of spring they foretold, something bothered me. It was the "I forced them" part of the story.
Also in February I traveled with Shalem to Texas for the Southwest Regional Gathering. To be with Shalem often means to be with icons. At the close of that wonderful five-day gathering, the group's reflections yielded two wise aphorisms about praying with icons: "Become an icon," and "see icons in everyone." The significance of that type of presence in the world is to either be the one pointing toward God or be the one pointed toward God.
Along with forcing spring and traveling to Texas, I have been rereading some of Jerry May's books lately. In Jerry's first book, Simply Sane, the cover has become an icon and has answered for me what bothers me about my forced bulbs and forsythia branch.
The cover of the book is a close-up, likely magnified, photograph of rich black dirt with an emerging seedling. While a still photograph, I think it is an action shot--wise action, that is. The seedling is simply being/doing seedlingness--it is growing. In that photograph is the thesis of Jerry's book and, I submit, the thesis of his subsequent work as well: growth and healing are happening, we don't do it--it is done. Don't force it; do participate--by watching, remaining aware, and if you must, only "gentle meddling." Above all, trust it. The farther Jerry went in his own experience and writing, the more specific he became about the reality of the gift of faith--what the "it" is that we aren't to force. It is simply and beautifully summed up in the last line of his chant: "Love will be done." It is Love.
Jerry, like many who will read this, was a caregiver. He was a doctor, a teacher, a spiritual director, a husband, a parent and a friend. He could be and has been called a healer. And, according to his own testimony, he was willfully engaged in an effort to "live the truth contained in the pages" he wrote. Knowing that "Sanity lies in just simply being," he admitted with tenderness that, "for most of us just simply being includes some desire to change the way we experience life (Simply Sane)." Wisely and honestly he wrote of the struggle of trying not to try; of moving between willfulness and willingness; of yielding to receive that gift of Love. It is this quotable caregiver whose voice is still heard on the shoulders of many Shalem guided spiritual directors, "You can't fix it, and you won't fully mess it up either." Love will be done.
Well, what can we do? In Simply Sane and his later books, Jerry allowed for this gentle meddling by providing exercises to aid in the yielding or letting go process. He knew what the 14th Century English author of The Book of Privy Counseling knew when writing, "nothing I can do, and no exercise of my physical or spiritual faculties can bring me so near to God and so far from the world, as this naked, quiet awareness of my blind being and my joyful gift of it to God." That author suggested keeping oneself "recollected and poised in the deep center of your spirit" and also that one worship the Lord with first fruits, feeding the poor. Jerry May's suggestion was similar: "live as lovingly, honestly, gently and beautifully as we can." He said it wouldn't achieve "what we most desire, but it does express our desire-and that alone is an act of human beauty."
Focused on that seedling icon, pointed toward God, and meddling still, we can allow ourselves a little of that type of gentle living. And, as we do, we might sense a little space and openness. It occurs in traffic between our car and the one ahead of us, in our lives just between a thought and a behavior, in our memories between the recollection of an event or a person and a judgment about that event or person. In that spaciousness we might recognize the Gift, have a moment of sane being, and finally become the privileged party to Love being done.
CeCe, a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, Summer 2001, is on the staff for Shalem's upcoming Southeast Regional Gathering.
Pilgrimage: Going and Returning
by Carole Crumley
Happy are the people whose strength is in you! Whose hearts are set on the pilgrims' way. -Psalm 84
Pilgrimage is one of the spiritual practices that is common to many of the great faith traditions. Muslims, Jews, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists and many others find their common ground in this ancient and contemporary spiritual practice. Historically there have been many motives for making a sacred journey. For some, the journey was an expression of their hope for a healing miracle. For others, it was an offering of thanksgiving for God's goodness and gifts. Medieval Christians regarded pilgrimage as a penitential activity, so much so that criminals were often given the choice--pilgrimage or jail. Not surprisingly, they chose the pilgrim path.
Perhaps, for other pilgrims, it was just a way of traveling to distant places; a sense of adventure and restlessness urged them on. But for all, pilgrimage required a leaving of home, familiar routine and landmarks, family and friends and venturing out into unknown territories with trust and hope.
I became a pilgrim unawares many years ago when traveling in Mexico with family members. We hired a driver to take us around to various sites and he insisted that we go to Guadeloupe and visit the healing shrine dedicated to Mary, mother of Jesus. Along the way, I noticed there were others going in the same direction--some on donkey back, some walking and even some moving slowly and painfully on their knees. I asked the driver who they were and he answered, "Pilgrims."
Some years later, I joined a pilgrimage led by the National Council of Churches to the former Soviet Union. The intent of the journey was to support the churches as they struggled to live under an oppressive regime and as they prepared to celebrate 1000 years of Christianity in Russia. It was through that experience that I learned almost everything I know about pilgrimage: the need to prepare through study, the importance of traveling with questions rather than answers, the value of forming spiritual community with fellow pilgrims as well as with those whom we met, and the realization that prayer supports and sustains our journey more than we can ever know.
Our pilgrim community experienced some of the fruits of such a prayerful journey--changed lives, reconciled hearts, deepened compassion, new hope and inspiration for the future and an awareness of God's grace sufficient for each moment. It was then I sensed that what can happen on a pilgrimage is the same as what happens in any of our programs--lives are transformed and grace abounds. It's hard to express how this happens, how the miracle of community forms and how grace reveals itself, but there are multiple testimonials to the fact that it does.
As I have led pilgrimages for Shalem over the years, I have discovered that going on a pilgrimage is only one half of the journey. The other is coming home, bringing back the blessing. Jim Cotter expresses this beautifully in his version of Psalm 84, from Psalms for a Pilgrim People. He writes that those who go on the pilgrim way discover unexpected springs of mercy and return home as "springs of healing for others, reservoirs of compassion to those who are bruised. Strengthened themselves they lend courage to others and God will be there at the end of their journey." Those who are blessed become a blessing to others.
In 2007, Shalem is offering two pilgrimages. Whether or not you join us on one of these sacred journeys, I encourage you to live each day with a pilgrim heart, open to all that is, just as it is, and trusting in God for both the journey and the journey's end.
Growing Home Along the Way: Reflections on Shalem's Southwest Regional Gathering
by Len Deloney
Hear me, You who have the power to make grow! Guide the people that they may be as blossoms on your holy tree. Make it flourish deep in the Mother Earth and make it full of leaves and singing birds. -Black Elk
Early last month I took my 5- and 7-year-old daughters to their classrooms before school started, gave them an extra goodbye hug, and reminded them I would be back in five days. Minutes later I was headed south for the Shalem Regional Gathering at Camp Allen, north of Houston, Texas. For me, it had been four years since I had met with others during a Shalem residency of our Spiritual Guidance Program at Bon Secours. Much of those four years I have been the primary childcare provider (or what I prefer to call "home holder"). Although I have found small "chunks" of time for retreats and traditional spiritual guidance, mostly I have been occupied with the "daily dance" of children. The grace-filled gift of fresh wonder and play have abounded here. (As I write this, my 7-year-old daughter climbs over the fence nearby in an attempt to whisk me away for an "Easter egg" hunt.)
The spontaneous passions and play of children are indeed a means of grace in our hurried, overscheduled, efficiency-driven world. Yet as I left my home for Camp Allen, a yearning stirred deep inside me. Not many miles down the road I realized I was singing the old Beatles verse, "We're on our way home." With joy and anticipation I realized this journey felt like a home-coming. I even spoke the words aloud, "It really is like I'm going 'home.'" But almost immediately this reply seemed to call forth, "Yes, but really, we are growing home." The change of words happened so simply, so gracefully, I realized I'd best pay attention to it along the way.
When I arrived at Camp Allen the sense of homecoming as reunion was almost immediate. As I walked up to the registra-tion desk I saw Tilden Edwards wearing his ever-impish grin. And other new "connections" happened so easily even before we began. God's loving spirit seemed to be calling forth to all of us for something to grow ever deeper "at the heart of everything" (to quote Peter Mayer, another one of my favorite soulful-singer-songwriters).
Near the beginning of our official gathering, we introduced ourselves and shared impressions about why we had come. One woman confessed she had wanted to go to a Shalem event for many years to no avail, but with this regional "roadshow" and the predicted appearance of "Elvis" (a.k.a. Tilden Edwards) she would not miss this opportunity. The deep laughter of grace-filled humor weaved its way throughout the week. The small groups were a delightful mix of people new to Shalem and others who had participated in the contemplative journey for a decade or more. For some it gave an oppor-tunity to share a memory or two of Jerry May since his death last year. And this gift of deep community and connection with a "host of witnesses" was nourished by the fact that many of us in the small groups are close geographically.
On the final day, the majority of the participants clearly showed interest in gathering again and decided they would like another Southwest Regional Retreat. We have seeds for the community to grow. As we explore possibilities, we are reminded to settle into the soil of grace. As we wait for the seeds of the Holy One to emerge, we are reminded to tend the Sabbath rhythms in all our communities...and to connect...and reconnect. This can happen anywhere and anytime, with the help of our contemplative intention. Recently, as I read an article in Shalem News by Carole Crumley about the newly forming Shalem Society for Contemplative Leadership and its first gathering planned for October 2006, I gave thanks for all those connected with Shalem and all the efforts to deepen roots of authentic community across the country (and around the world). I'm saddened that I will not be able to attend that gathering in October, but now more than ever, I feel the interconnectedness and trust that it is deepening the roots of an enduring contemplative way.
This connecting and reconnecting through the Regional Gathering has helped me in the ongoing challenge to make space for being present wherever I am. The memory of the retreat and the growing community reminds me to be "at home." It reminds me to be more truly present to the unfolding mystery, in whatever busy day... wherever I am.
As Tilden Edwards prepared to step out from his role as Executive Director of Shalem almost six years ago, he entitled his closing article for Shalem News, "Going Without Leaving Home." Perhaps with the new Regional Gatherings and the newly forming Shalem Society for Contemplative Leadership, "going without leaving home" and "returning home without leaving the contemplative community" are joined and fed with a living, grace-filled spring, flowing with God's ever-present love. Drawing from the wisdom of Black Elk's words, perhaps we are all blossoms on God's Holy Tree, growing home along the way.
Thanks be to the Holy Mystery.
Len is a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, Winter 2002 class.
Witness in the Desert
by Dana Greene
The highway north of Damascus snakes through unrelenting desert. After about eighty kilometers a small road heads east from Nebek to the edge of the Great Syrian Desert; the border with Iraq lies further on. There, in mountain caves, early Christian hermits lived out an ascetic existence ultimately forming small monastic communities.
One of these was Deir Mar Musa, founded in the sixth century by St. Moses the Abyssinian. In this harsh and empty wasteland it is only with difficulty that the extant monastery, indistinguishable from the surrounding mountains, comes into view. The long haul up eight hundred steps finally yields the fortress-like building that housed a religious community that flourished in the eleventh and twelfth centuries and slowly declined until it was abandoned in the 1830s. Entrance is through a low stone doorway into a dim light. One is startled not so much by this dramatic change from brilliant sun to semi-darkness, but by the fact that life could be carried on here at all or that any vision could reclaim this ancient place. After all, this is the desert, the Syrian Desert at that. The combination of the all-encompassing barrenness and isolation with that of a nation reviled seems too unlikely a source of hope.
Yet Deir Mar Musa is alive and witnessing to both its contemplative past and to the great need for religious dialogue in a world driven to destruction. Today the small monastic Community of Khalil, extraordinary in its aims and composition, inhabits this craggy terrain. Its story began in the 1980s when a young Italian Jesuit, Paulo Dall'Oglio, a student of Arabic, visited the abandoned site. Inspired by the great French scholar of Islam, Louis Massignon, and the modern desert father, Charles De Foucauld, Dall'Oglio took up the promise to love Islam. He was ordained in the local Syrian Catholic Church and began working with that community to restore the monastery's ruins. In 1991 an ecumenical community of Syrian Catholic and Orthodox men and women was formed.
Members take vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, and make promises of contemplation, work, hospitality, and love of Islam. They follow a daily rule of prayer, meditation and Eucharist carried out in Arabic. The rule is entered into by other lay persons who join the community for shorter periods of time. This little band is linked to the wider world not only through its purpose but through electronic communication, making their mountain community accessible to all who have interest in their work.
It is to the contemplative life that the community gives priority; it is this which serves as the basis for reinventing the earliest relationship of Christians and Muslims, that of peace and respect. Their sacred labor is hospitality, the welcoming of the other and the dialogue among believers in Allah, God of reconciliation and peace. Father Paolo--clear, intense, attached yet free from attachment--is chastened and humbled by this commitment; he lives in hope and trust that the community's vision may somehow be realized.
The center of the monastery is its eleventh century church embedded deep in the mountain interior and entered through a series of small doors. Its arched vaults, rugged floors and painted fresco walls create a space where prayer is palpable. The iconography of Mary, the saints and the judgment of sinners links back to the community's Byzantine origins. People come to pray, visit, retreat and study. Workshops and seminars on Islamic-Christian dialogue take place in a new building that has been hewed from some nearby caves. Here hope is strong and commitment to a particular vocation is intense.
Outside the church, the simple tasks of community go on: tending goats, making cheese, harvesting olives, assisting the many seekers, Christians and Muslims, who make the steep climb to the monastery. As an agricultural community eking out a living from this rough place, the community is alive to its natural environment, protecting its harmonies and living simply with it.
It is the vastness of desert and mountains that dominate at Deir Mar Musa. Human efforts, no matter how visionary, are dwarfed by them. In the cliffs encircling the monastery, one finds the caves of ancient hermits and experiences, as they must have, the "thinness" of this place. If one can hold at bay the surrounding primal forces, the emptiness is filled with a presence both awful and unrelenting.
Daily, in the brutal heat and dust of summer, in the snows of winter, this small community witnesses both to the faith of its forbearers and the hope that Abrahamic peoples can be reconciled. Theirs is the work of purification, what Father Paulo calls "the jihad of the soul." It is the beginning point of the transformed life, pursued in the desert, a witness to believers everywhere.
Dana Greene, Professor of History and Dean Emerita, Oxford College, Emory University, is a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program and former member of the Shalem Board.
Spirituality and Fundraising
by Mansfield Kaseman
Upon arriving in my new parish I was told by some that "spirituality" was considered a four-letter word. My esteemed predecessor, who was admired for his integrity, sound moral principals, and capacity for making God's Word relevant to life, associated "spirituality" with a false sense of piety deserving criticism for being otherworldly and sentimental.
I came to love this crusty man of faith who remained active in our parish following his retirement. Thanks to a bond of mutual respect, we could disagree and enjoy the creative tension that generated in the congregation. One can imagine the conversations when I entered Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program early in my tenure.
That was 1980 and now in my retirement I am gratefully reflecting on the impact of Shalem on my life and ministry. The programs and soul mates have been marvelous sources of guidance, healing and spiritual renewal. Worship came to include periods of silence; seminars and small groups came to deal with spiritual formation; and the Church Council came to use a contemplative bell for calling decision-makers back to prayer. In short, "spirituality" became a twelve-letter word laced with promise.
Upon joining the Shalem Board I was told that "fundraising" was a problem for some because it seemed at odds with trusting in the leading of the Spirit. For them, Shalem was like a precious pearl that when found generates gratitude and generosity. To engage in fundraising would mean distrusting this Spirit-led process and possibly falling prey to the values and anxiety of the dominant culture.
Yet I believe that fundraising at Shalem is indeed Spirit-led and, like spirituality in my church experience, provides many opportunities for connecting our lives with divine purposes. And I feel inspired in reaching out and encouraging financial contributions because Shalem is an authentic spiritual community in which lives are being transformed and leaders are being prepared to help others delve deeper into the love and peace of God. Nothing in this world is more important, and it seems irresistible not to share such good news and to seek support that makes it possible for others to gain the same benefits.
I trust that "fundraising" at Shalem will be as positive an experience as "spirituality" proved to be for our parish. With your help, we can make it so.
Mansfield "Kasey" Kaseman is a Shalem Board member and chairs Shalem's Development Committee.
Beauty in the ICU
by Joan Maxwell
A hospital's Intensive Care Unit (ICU) is a place of suffering, transformation, life, and death. Machines beep, whir, and sometimes cry out; patients are frequently comatose; nurses tend to trot rather than walk from one task to the next. Flowers are banned; red bins labeled "medical waste" provide the only touches of color. In this strange world, high technology seems to overwhelm the humans lying flat under white sheets. The one thing an ICU is not is a place of beauty. But one day not so long ago, in the midst of all these machines and medical tasks, I was surprised by beauty.
As the chaplain on-call, I got a call from an ICU nurse, urgently asking for a chaplain to visit Mrs. Thompson,* a patient the staff believed to be actively dying. When I asked about Mrs. Thompson's faith tradition, the nurse replied, "All I know is that the patient said she 'was hanging on to Jesus.'" I grabbed my Bible and went to the ICU.
After introducing myself to her nurse, I went into Mrs. Thompson's room. She was a middle-aged woman, eyes closed, lying very still, her body horribly swollen from the IV fluids. I took her hand and noticed there was no flexion in her wrist-when I lifted her hand slightly her whole swollen arm rose with it, as stiff as a tree trunk, and nearly as heavy. I prayed for guidance, and it came to me that it would be appropriate for me to read a few Bible verses and see what happened. Since Mrs. Thompson was "hanging on to Jesus," something from the Farewell Discourse of the Gospel of John seemed like the right place to turn. The Bible fell open to the start of Chapter 15 in that Gospel, and I read a few of the verses about "abide in me."
Then I stopped, and after a little silence Mrs. Thompson's eyes opened and although she didn't speak, she smiled at me with her eyes. "I'm Chaplain Maxwell," I said. "I understand you're hanging on to Jesus. I hang on to Jesus too, so I came to be with you. Is that OK?" She gave me assent with her eyes. "Would you like me to pray?" I asked her. Again she silently assented, and I prayed. She closed her eyes during the prayer.
When the prayer was over, I stopped, and after a little time she reopened her eyes and again smiled at me. We smiled at one another for a moment. Then she opened her mouth--for the first time since I had come into her room--and began to sing. In a lovely, soft voice she sang a beautiful hymn to Jesus, one that I had never heard before but clearly a hymn, with a simple tune and words that rhymed. I was able to follow the tune and so hummed along with her as she sang. It was an amazing moment, this hymn rising out of her dying body, the two of us singing in the middle of the ICU with life-sustaining machines beeping in the background. Clearly she was getting in voice before joining the heavenly choir.
When she finished, I reminded her that (as her nurse had told me) she had family due in about twenty minutes, and asked her if she wanted to get a little sleep before they came. Once again she smiled, then closed her eyes, and fell asleep. I tiptoed out.
She died the next day.
Joan Paddock Maxwell, a member of Shalem's Board of Directors, serves as a hospital chaplain.
* The patient's name and other identifying characteristics have been changed to protect her privacy.
A Witness to Love and Peace
by Patience Robbins
In recent months I have been carefully following the case of Stanley "Tookie" Williams, a person convicted of killing four people, on death row for 24 years, and executed on December 15, 2005. I was captivated by his story in the local paper and then began reading whatever I could find on his life as well as seeing the movie about him entitled, "Redemption." His life has reminded me of that wonderful line from Deuteronomy: "Choose life and you shall live." He bears witness to the deep courage within us all to choose life and the mysterious movement of a person to goodness, to God, even in seemingly impossible circumstances.
At 17, Tookie formed a gang with a friend in order to survive on the rough streets of Los Angeles. He had realized that he needed to be strong, tough and use whatever violence and brutality was necessary in order to make it. He really lived into this image of a gangster and became one of the most notorious and feared gang leaders in California. All types of cruel methods, beatings, killings, stealing, were part of that role, and so he lived and breathed the role of destruction and hate. He was arrested at the age of 28, and even in prison, continued to harass and attack other prisoners and create trouble; eventually, he was put in solitary confinement. During those six years of solitary confinement, he began a process which he described as "self-education, soul-searching, spiritual cultivation, all of which led to my redemptive transition."
For me, he is a striking example of conversion, what he called redemption! Turning full circle was radical since it involved letting go of all he had known of power, control, and survival. He was willing to allow life patterns and his image of himself to be transformed. As he saw and owned the error of his ways, he even had the courage to make this public by speaking out, especially to young people-owning the destructive and vengeful ways he had previously embraced. He begged young people to turn away from gangs, hate, violence, revenge and turn to peace.
He authored 14 children's books and an auto-biography as a way of conveying this new life and awareness that he had found. His message was so clear, real and so compelling, that he was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize five years in a row and the Nobel Prize for Literature a few times. Truly he was a voice of one who had undergone a dramatic transformation.
As the politicians and others debate capital punishment and the need for justice, my heart reaches out to the generosity and courage in this man. His capacity to see and acknowledge self-hate and destructive ways and his willingness to open that to God and receive love and forgiveness is very inspiring. He made a profound and dramatic choice for good over evil, for life over death. His transformation reminds me of what is possible in and through the grace of God. I recall Meister Eckhart's words:"The seed of God is in us. Now the seed of a pear tree grows into a pear tree; and a hazel seed grows into a hazel tree. A seed of God grows into God."
Currently, I am feeling called to work with teenagers--to be (as Tookie was) a presence, a witness and reminder of the power of love. Although I have found it very intimidating to be surrounded by a group of cynical, questioning, and preoccupied teenagers, I see how hungry they are for hope, meaning in their lives, and for role-models who embody the choice for life and goodness. Like Tookie, I tell the kids, each of us has a unique contribution to our world that no one but we can make. How we choose to be does make a difference in our world, and that is powerful. And so I stand with Tookie--with a deep prayer in my being--that I too might be a witness to love and peace in our world and I, too, choose life.
Patience is the director of Shalem's Personal Spiritual Deepening Program.
Death and Life
by Pam Sawyer
I walk in the woods almost daily with my dog and find it a time to be with God. I love to see the deer, pheasant, wild turkeys, even an occasional coyote, moving through the forest or apple orchard. So during the March silent retreat for the Personal Spiritual Deepening Program (PSDP), the forest and meadows around Wellspring were where I wanted to go.
I was walking in a rather haphazard pattern, letting my feet lead the way and had been out for perhaps an hour when I saw a vulture not too far off. I stopped and watched it strut along a dark patch on the ground. It appeared to be eating something. Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was a raccoon that the vulture was enjoying as its meal. I tried to step closer and was awestruck!
The vulture watched me, stepped back slightly, then resumed his meal. This went on for a few minutes as I gradually grew closer until the vulture decided he had had enough of my interruption and flew on to the upper tree limbs directly above. I thought he might be preparing for me to become his next meal, so I turned to head back into the meadow. But as I did, I saw three deer no more than thirty feet away, watching me. Our eyes connected. Death, then life. I was struck by the strong contrast and the interrelatedness of nature.
Death and life are completely interwoven; there is not one without the other. As a Christian, I thought of Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection--horrible death, then the joy of rebirth. I had been having difficulty with Jesus--who he is, where he stands in history, what he is to me. My son's diagnosis of cancer two years ago and subsequent treatment left me questioning my faith. Until his illness, my belief in God and Jesus had been smooth and easy.
As a Lutheran I had been brought up with the faith that God was in control of the world and that Jesus was God's mortal/divine Son. Jesus loved and cared for the poor, the destitute, those suffering and grieving. My religion was clear to me, and I did not doubt its doctrine. But my spiritual rug was pulled out from under me with my son's illness. Why would God make him so very sick? How could a loving God cause his own son so much suffering? Why would God want to harm someone he loved? Having watched my own son suffer, I could not understand why God would choose pain and suffering for his son.
Death and life. Crucifixion and resurrection. I have seen death many times. As a youngster I attended funeral services for grandparents, aunts and uncles, my 24-year-old cousin who was killed in Vietnam and my best friend who died in a car crash at age 18. As a nurse, I have often seen death on a person long before their last breath. I have been to funerals for infants, young children, friends of my children, my parents. I know the pain of grieving, the sense of loss and hopelessness, the desire to awaken from the nightmare. I also know the slow, healing process, the power of transformation, the hope of new life. It does not happen to everyone, but it is possible.
These rush of feelings stayed with me after the vulture and the deer experience. Was this a life-changing experience or just a strange happening? Time went on as it always does, and I moved forward with daily living.
At the second residency, I once again headed for the woods, to a large pond where ducks and geese are often found. As I approached, I saw a giant blue heron standing in the water close by. We looked at each other briefly, then she took off, tucking her long legs under her belly, and flew to the other side of the pond. I watched her settle once again and was thinking of the beauty of God's world when I looked towards the ground in front of me. Bending down, I saw the nearly complete skeleton of a deer. The bones were tan--not bleached white--and there was a leg bone a few feet away. Death and life. Crucifixion and resurrection.
I am also in the midst of death and rebirth in my relationship with God. Shalem's PSDP has awakened me to a new spiritual dimension. I can no longer rely on old childhood tapes and tunnel vision when I think of God. God is bigger, more open and inviting, loving and caring, than I could ever imagine. God has escaped from my box of limited possibilities into the world of limitless wonder.
But rebirth is not without overwhelming pain. The death of the raccoon was horrible and painful, as was the death of the deer. Yet both brought life to the ones who ate them--the vulture, miniscule bugs or perhaps a coyote. This is part of nature's endless cycle.
The circle of life is more complicated in human death. For humans, death of a loved one causes emotional pain and personal isolation to those left behind. There is grieving and emptiness. In the same fashion, the death of an idea can be devastating. For couples, admitting their marriage is dead is often confusing and extremely painful. Many parents are overwhelmed with grief when presented with a child with a disability. Death in any fashion is devastating.
Yet like nature's life cycle, there is rebirth to human death. Death of a loved one may move survivors to promote research for a particular disease, establish support groups for the bereaved, become beacons of hope for others. Couples divorcing have the opportunity to gain wisdom through their pain and help others; parents of the disabled often become child advocates.
Death also may bring one closer to God. In the struggle to understand loss, the light and hope of God may be found for the first time or perhaps at some deeper level. Spiritual emptiness may be the only means to experience God's love. It is only when one has given up on oneself and understands human inadequacy and powerlessness that one can be fully open to God. God comes through to us in the sadness and the darkness. God is in the midst of the pain of death. We are not alone in our dying--God is there crying out with us in our agony. God has tears of pain and sadness running down her face.
Pam is a graduate of Shalem's Personal Spiritual Deepening Program, Class of 2006. This article is an excerpt from one of her program papers.