Volume 26, No. 1-Winter, 2002
Table of Contents
Confessions of a Practicing Protestant
by Ron Skidmore
God Only Knows
by Gerald May
To Hold Lightly
by Nancy Eggert
Why Not Now?
by Rose Mary Dougherty
Snowdrops
by Bill Dietrich
No One Has Greater Love Than This
by Gigi Ross
Reflections on St Paul's Chapel
by Carole Crumley
My Journey to Shalem
by June Costa
Confessions of a Practicing Protestant
by Ron Skidmore
In 1974 I took a course in Transcendental Meditation. One day, soon after I finished, I remember walking in a field near my home and feeling a sense of joy. It seemed that I had found my path; a way I had longed for had at last opened up.
I had been aware, at least since high school, of having an active interest in spirituality. In college, a teacher introduced me to the writings of both the Christian mystical tradition and the Zen Buddhist tradition. The mystics' theology showed me that Christianity was not all social convention and moralism, as I was inclined to believe. But it was the Zen writings that caught my imagination and longing because they talked of achieving awareness of unity within and behind the plurality of things that was grounded in a simple yet challenging practice: just sit.
I tried just sitting. I brewed myself strong pots of green tea and read books about Zen practice. Often, as I read, a longing seized me. I wanted to know whatever profound experience might be gained by sitting still and straight, mind focused and attentive. I would set my reading aside and plunge into a determined bout of sitting.
It was neither as simple nor as easily rewarding as I had imagined, yet I couldn't leave it alone. I realize now that whatever promise I sensed in the writings of those who talked about "mindfulness" or "no mind," transcendence of the ego and union with the divine, called to a longing I neither knew how to name nor how to satisfy. In that experience of joy at having found a technique that seemed to "work" for me, I felt that my longing had been, in the stroke of a mantra, both named and shown the road to fulfillment.
I didn't know it at the time, but I was beginning what author James Finley, in The Contemplative Heart, calls our "trail of abandoned spiritualities." I practiced TM quite faithfully for a year or so, somewhat less regularly after that, and finally only sporadically. I thought about practicing and fondly remembered practicing, but after a time I almost never practiced anymore. Still, I had learned a couple of things about real practice. I had learned how to sit still, and in doing so on a regular basis, the knowledge that I could be still and attentive and desired more of it was in me. I had found my "contemplative heart." Though I could and often did ignore it for periods of time, I couldn't really forget it.
In the following years, I continued to nurture that contemplative longing at irregular intervals, attending various retreats and a denominational program in spiritual practice called the "Pilgrimage Retreat," for which I became a leader. I also began wilderness backpacking, which gave me other opportunities for contemplative solitude. As part of that ongoing nurturing of my "contemplative heart," I discovered Shalem in 1999 when a friend gave me a brochure. I was aware of Shalem's reputation, but it had not occurred to me to look into it for myself. So I signed up for the "Spiritual Life of Spiritual Leaders" retreat.
I left that retreat feeling that my "contemplative heart" had found a "contemplative home." There was just the right balance between informed leadership, group interaction and silence. I literally dove into the silence, meditating four to five hours a day (sitting) and continuing a meditative silence during long afternoon walks. I was in silence long enough to experience the expansive, deeply connective sense of Presence that I identify as "Divinity." I was also in the silence long enough to begin to experience the rather embarrassing, repetitive nonsense that some Buddhist writers call the "monkey mind," which so often blocks my awareness of the Presence. I had experienced that "monkey mind" before, but at that retreat I gained just enough bemused distance from it to be able to watch it with interest, compassion and a new understanding of what the real "work" of sitting meditation is about. It was on the basis of that experience that I enrolled in Shalem's Personal Spiritual Deepening Program (PSDP). I wanted to give myself a good excuse to keep going back to Shalem.
The PSDP has given me a chance to integrate my understanding of my own spiritual path and practice with my current vocational challenges as a teaching minister. In the PSDP I began to realize that I was finding what I felt I had been lacking: a community of practice. When I realized that, it occurred to me how odd and sad a commentary that is from an ordained Protestant minister who has been working in the church for nearly 20 years.
My experience at Shalem helped me move from what I have known for many years as a personal need for spiritual practice and contemplative experience to an understanding that this may now be the center of my vocational commitment as well. I have had a steadily decreasing interest in the typical roles of pastoral ministry and more interest in building a community committed to practicing the presence of God.
For the past three years, I have worked as a full-time adult educator in a fairly large congregation. This has given me more opportunity to focus my efforts on building such a community. Much of my work is about helping people connect their own everyday, spiritual experience with the language, symbols and practices of their religious tradition. It is re-teaching work, often having to be accompanied by a good deal of "un-learning" of erroneous or one-dimensional understandings of Christian (and human) spirituality. Of course, the purpose of this remedial work and of attempting to form a community of practice is to develop a working spirituality that allows us to be people who are more fully willing and able to serve life-giving and life-enhancing purposes in and for the world.
My vision of being a "Practicing Protestant" is a vocational commitment that has taken more solid shape for me during my participation in Shalem retreats and programs. I will continue with Shalem as I explore the dimensions of my own practice and hold open the question of how to best follow my "contemplative heart" into the next phase of my vocation.
Ron is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ, serving as the Minister of Spiritual Development (Adult Education) at Park Congregational UCC in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is a graduate of Shalem's Personal Spiritual Deepening Program, Class of 2001.
God Only Knows
by Gerald May
When I was six years old I prayed, "Dear God, let me do what you want me to do." By the time I was a young adult the prayer had changed to "Dear God, let me know what you want me to do." The two prayers may seem similar on the surface, but underneath they are very different. The childlike prayer is intimate and trusting, asking only to be led and leaving the leading to God. In the adult prayer I asked for knowledge of God's desire, with the implied message that once I knew what God wanted, I would try to carry it out.
I don't know how many years I spent with that adult prayer. I do know that the more I tried to discern God's will so I could carry it out, the further away from God I felt. It got to the point where I sometimes acted as if all I needed from God was my marching orders; I'd handle the rest on my own. I thought I understood discernment, but what I had really done was substitute intermittent contact and willful activity for abiding intimacy and trust.
Then, thank God, a time came when my discernment abilities evaporated. In what I now call my "dark night of discernment" I lost all capacity for clarity or understanding of God's desire for me. All the discernment methods
I knew produced nothing, and it seemed somehow absurd to keep working at them. Further, I realized I no longer even under-stood the concept of discernment. The term seemed to have lost all meaning for me.
To say the least, this was disconcerting at the time. It felt like some kind of brain problem, as if whatever lobe does discernment had simply ceased to function. I talked to friends and colleagues about it. Some nodded wisely and smiled as if they understood. I hate when they do that. Others tried to help me recover my old ways or discover new ways of being discerning, but it was all to no avail.
The effect, as usually happens in dark night experiences, was to lead me to simplicity. In this case I found myself guided back to my childhood prayer: "Dear God, let me do what you want me to do," under my breath adding, "even if I don't have a clue what it is." Since my own capacities had completely failed, I had no choice but to trust God again in each moment, like a little child.
I had been brought to my knees. In that position I felt relief, freedom and an intimacy I'd long forgotten. I still had to deal with certain self-image issues, like competence for example. It doesn't sound very responsible to answer questions with "I have no idea," or "God only knows."
Recently however, I found some Scriptural support for my incompetence. In fact, Scripture says my childhood prayer is a very good prayer indeed; loving trust is a whole lot more important than understanding. There's the passage about the lilies of the field where Jesus says not to worry about tomorrow because God knows what we need. And there's Deuteronomy 30:14 that says the Word is already in our hearts so we don't have to go searching for it.
More powerful for me is Jeremiah 29:11, where God is saying, "I know the plans I have for you, plans for your wellbeing... reserving for you a future full of hope." In context, those words are a rebuke of false prophets who think they understand God's thoughts. But they do not; only God does. Some translations even render it, "I alone know..." So maybe it's true that God only knows.
Here's what the passage says to me: "I alone know the desires I have for you; the prophets do not know my plans, and neither do you. Nor do you need to, because I have told you my desire is for your wellbeing."
In this light, the following verses (12-14) become especially beautiful: "Then when you pray to me I will hear you; when you feel your desire for me you will find me; when you want me with all your heart, I will let you find me." These words say to me that it's not understanding God's will that counts, but simple abiding love and trust.
By definition, a dark night experience always leads a person to greater freedom of life and deeper intimacy with God. I think that's what has happened to me in my journey with discernment; I'm a lot less competent and a lot more grateful.
To Hold Lightly
by Nancy Eggert
I didn't remember "Mike," but he remembered me. He remembered the prayer exercise I had led. He remembered the rhythmic and prayerful breathing that took us into the silence. Something about it had changed his life, and now so many years later, Mike was about to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of his ordination.
It was a lovely and unexpected phone call; sincere and kindly words. But as for me, I hardly remembered Mike or that moment that meant so much to him. I know that Mike's experience wasn't about me. I had, in truth, only been assisting a dear friend who had presented the retreat. Even so, his comments felt like an unanticipated gift--I had not been aware of doing anything special that day, but now I held Mike's praise as if it were a beautiful stone revealed by the receding tide, a gem to hold gently in my palm and turn in the light. A gift--not to be clutched as my own, but to be enjoyed and then tossed back into the surf, released to the gracious goodness that had generously revealed it.
The aftermath of our actions (I hesitate to call them results) are not so easy to hold lightly or receive graciously in other circumstances-when the stakes are high, when our ego is involved. And how hard it is to hold the aftermath of our actions lightly when something goes awry. Did you meet the budget? No? Why not? Was the program a success? No? Well, how did that happen???
The impulse is to justify ourselves, to protect our ego, to wrestle the outcome into submission-submission to our will. We can cling to our failures as tightly as we can cling to our successes. We can become so attached to an outcome that it becomes an idol, something which compels us, co-opts us, and dissipates our sense of God's presence.
I wonder if this inability to hold gently the aftermath of our actions is the source of so much resistance to planning, to looking at the future. Is there another way to pose the usual accountability questions, Did we meet our goals? Did we do what we said we were going to do? Did you do what you thought was important 12 months ago? Might there be another way, a way that does not so easily ensnare the ego, a way that leads us into God's presence?
We spend a lot of time listening at Shalem, intending to be totally present to God, to one another, to the depths of a situation. Perhaps an accountability question that beckons us into God's gracious presence is, Where are we now? We listen to the depths, being receptive and vulnerable to the precious but unanticipated gem of the present moment resting gently in our palm. And then, with open hands and surrendered wills, ask, What is called for now, at this moment, in this place?
Our concern here is radical freedom, total detachment. Sure (as Bonhoeffer says in his Ethics), we must observe and weigh-up before we decide and act, giving proper accord to people, circumstances, and principles. But we act out of our own most personal freedom-our detachment from rewards and principles, opinions, preferences and ideas, secure in our knowledge that we are already God's beloved sons and daughters in whom the Holy One, the Lord of History is well pleased.
I am reminded of my sister and her patterned response to her young boys tangling with each other in the back of the car on family outings. Their mantra was, He started it. No, he started it. My sister's mantra was, We are not here to assess blame, we're here to have a good time.
The same is true for us today as we stand faithfully in the present moment. We are not here to assess blame-or to award brownie points. We are not here to be a success. We are here to respond freely, gratefully, and sacrificially. But how do we create a good climate for discerning the future-a future without limits, without attachment to results? How can our stance be one of open-handed trust in God, rather than concern over bottom-lines, upper-limits, or one mayor's constant watchword.
How'm I doing?
I like Mike's response: gratitude. A thankful outlook seems like a good way to hold lightly both what we have done and what we have failed to do. Thanks, Mike!
Why Not Now?
by Rose Mary Dougherty
It's mid-January. I've known for almost a month when this article was due, but I just haven't gotten to it. Yesterday, when I got home, there was a gentle message from Monica, the newsletter editor, on my answering machine: "Rose Mary, this is Monica. I just want to remind you that your newsletter article is due today. I'm looking forward to reading it, as usual."
Immediately, the clutching hand that often makes its presence known when I'm feeling overwhelmed grabbed my innards. Simultaneously my mind began its usual hoops through logic: "I can't do this now. I don't have time to give it the attention it deserves. I can't do this now, my mind's too full to focus. I can't do this now; I'm too empty. I just don't have anything to say." And so the game of logic continued.
Then, from another corner, came the all too familiar voice of responsibility: "If eventually, why not now?" This evoked a round of challenging questions: "Why are you procrastinating? If you know you're going to do it, why not now? What are you waiting for? Do you expect some divine intervention to give you a push and get you moving? 'If eventually, why not now?'"
I took each of these questions as accusation. I felt obliged to refute each of them. There was no conscious prayer in the moment. There was no contemplative space simply to be with what was going on, to allow something new to show itself. I wasn't watching what was going on; I was kidnapped, taken to my own little world, which didn't seem to have much space-even for God.
Sleep can work wonders for the soul! I woke up the next morning with the same question, "If eventually, why not now?" but I was in a gentler space. I didn't feel obliged to do battle with the question or even try to answer it. I could simply be with God around it and see what it had to show me.
I continue to be with the question and to look at my life with God in relation to the question. As I do, I sense I am learning much about my approach to writing newsletter articles and to other areas of responsibility, also. The question-the "why not now?"-invites me to pray, to ask of God in each endeavor, "Is this really the time? Is now the time to begin or is there a waiting period called for, perhaps a gestation period?"
I don't always get a clear answer. More often than not, it is a matter of moving when I can, in an act of supreme trust in the goodness of God, of God present with me in the moment. I have begun to notice, though, that sometimes I tend to "run ahead of grace," to get a leading/insight into something called for, and then plunge into it as though it's all mine to do. I've also noticed that I sometimes forge ahead out of sheer determination when in hindsight waiting is what was called for. I'm also aware that there are times when I've judged myself harshly for not moving ahead. I've named as lack of trust or resistance what was in fact an inner knowing that the time was not yet ripe for action. I've seen, too, that when I am in a place of judgment, I am defensive and move into a place of seeming separation and autonomy.
Mostly, though, through staying with the question "why not now?" I've noticed the faithfulness of God in my life process and the invitation to trust, now and always, in what Teilhard de Chardin names "the slow work of God" in that process.
I don't envy Monica her job. What if all the newsletter writers began to listen carefully? Would she ever be able to hold us to a deadline? I suspect so, at least sometimes. I suspect God can work in temporalities, also. In deep trust, I want to tell Monica, "If not now, the time will come, in the right time."
Snowdrops
by Bill Dietrich
Recently someone who knows I enjoy gardening asked what I did during winter when there was "nothing to do in the garden." I found myself reacting impulsively with a "to do" list of garden tasks: pruning, raking, protecting tender plants, building retaining walls, tidying up the compost pile, and, foremost, repairing the fence to foil the deer who'd begun munching some newly planted azaleas. The list grew steadily in proportion to the energy I gave it. As my family knows all too well, I've had an obsession with things of the garden (witness a planned two-weekend pond construction project that consumed an entire summer a few years ago). It's such good and noble stuff. "One's nearer God's heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth," the old prayer goes. And anything that invites so much prayer can't possibly be wrong. My romanticized notions of gardening have seduced me time and again.
By grace alone I resisted the urge to plunge immediately into fence-fixing. I prayed a bit on my friend's question and began to touch a deeper invitation of this year's winter garden. After a heavy fall work schedule, I shouldn't have needed much coercion to set aside busyness for a while. Yet my impulse to busyness runs strong, a remnant perhaps of years as a CPA and then entrepreneur where self-starting seemed essential and nothing good happens unless you do it. Even after I began full-time work at Shalem, those same urges still emerge. It's such good and noble work, and there's so much that could be done.
What I soon realized is that what most needed pruning and cleaning was my own agenda. Instead of more busyness, however noble I might imagine it, what I sensed called to in this winter's garden is simply to appreciate, to gaze, to take the time to see what was there and what it could teach me.
Icons abound in the winter garden. It invites a time for looking deeply into the essential structure of things, a time for touching more deeply our naked desire for the only thing that can fulfill us. Most obviously, trees display their limbs like maps of their lives. We can trace their growth, their struggles, their woundedness, how their brokenness has been healed. Limbs dangle or fall to earth, some withered by lack of light, others broken perhaps by storm or some climbing child. All wait patiently for pruning by wind or snow or ice, as is nature's way. I remember that even in winter tree roots continue to grow deep and wide, feeding and storing energy for spring's eruptions of new growth. I imagine the Carmelites Brother Lawrence and Elizabeth of the Trinity smiling knowingly at this ongoing conversation between arboreal souls and the literal ground of their being. I wouldn't so much be surprised by what these souls were saying as be envious of how intimately they must know their God- "...ever more deeply rooted in thee" as the chant we often use at Shalem goes. I long to know such deep intimacy. I can trust that it's there, even when I'm captured in that busyness.
One icon that can almost be missed is the common snowdrop, the first flower to bloom in my garden. Galanthus nivalis grows at best 8 inches tall, emerging in clumps that slowly expand over time in woodsy soil. Its flower consists of three snowy white petals drooping downward at the end of a long thin stem amidst several strap-like leaves. The flower and stem look every bit like those candle snifters used in church--except when the weather turns warm and the petals flare outward to reveal its jewel-like real flower, a miniature version of the outer petals but intricately edged in green. Snowdrops are solitary souls. Like cloistered monks they stand alone in the winter garden and then retreat into the earth as other plants emerge in spring's advance.
This year a clump of snowdrops, nestled at the foot of a tall scrub pine, emerged in early December, a month or more earlier than normal, lured awake by the long, warm autumn. I imagined them encouraged also by several inches of new compost I'd heaped over the garden in October. That rich humus, the decayed stuff of last year's abundant growth, both feeds and protects new growth, the wonder of God's economy in the garden. I thought about how my own new growth emerges from all the stuff of my past, my gifts, my foibles, my missteps, my graced moments of awareness. The spontaneous heat of the compost pile calls to mind that deep transforming process that results from giving over all the stuff of life to God's mercy in prayer.
By Christmas the clump's leaves were well displayed above the black leaf mold, and slivers of white began to show from the tips of the stems. But when it turned bitter cold around New Year's I began to fear for them. Their fragile stems and leaves had drooped low in a frozen tangled mess, their green now taking on a blackish hue. I tried to untangle the plants but soon gave up as they flopped over despite my efforts. Finally I plucked one stem and brought it in the house to sit in warm water on a sunny window. At least I would enjoy this one, I thought, and wondered about the fate of the rest. But the plucked flower languished in the window, and the flower dried and shriveled rather than open. I mused that this must be some cruel divine joke, or perhaps more evidence of global warming confusing God's orderly plan.
Two weeks passed and milder weather came, coaxing me out into the garden again. There I beheld the clump of snowdrops, standing tall, blooming brightly against the rich black leaf mold, their flowers held proud above erect bright green leaves. They seemed to be looking sideways at me with knowing smiles, as if to say that my concerns for them were just that-my concerns and not theirs, and certainly not God's. The flower I picked was not ripe, its time not right. It was being cared for in ways I couldn't see and didn't trust. Had I left it alone, it would be there singing in the choir with the rest. My willfulness, by "doing," had gotten me again.
Snowdrops have shown me God's mercy, compassion, and faithfulness. They remind me to trust and live more fully into my own desire for God, to live fearlessly, to risk being who I am in God even when the elements seem against me. They know that Love is sustaining, protecting them. Can I know that too and resist the urge to usurp God's action for my own? I can but pray for continued grace to recognize my own romanticized notions of doing for what they are.
I look forward to spring's rebirth, but I'm now less impatient for it. Crocus and hellebores, daffodils and tulips will grace the landscape soon enough, blaring their Hosannas 'til we're deaf. But for now it's enough to just be in the winter garden, to see what's really there, and to let God show me, as Mary showed Martha, the one thing necessary to do.
Bill is Shalem's Executive Director.
No One Has Greater Love Than This
by Gigi Ross
Rock, dark hunter, rock.
To the rhythm of rage and lament.
Hmmm. Hmm. Hmmm. Hmm.
Trauma encounters chaos.
There is no place a woman speaks.
Reluctant Magdalenes of our tomorrow
cut their hair. The perfume jar
is empty. Because you love
the burning ground. I have made for you
a burning ground of my heart. Steel leans
on steel. Smoke-stench our sorrow.
Perishing pulls us awake for the knowing.
And still we fight the new that has come
to embrace us, give us what we crave.
In the hermit's hovel we hold the one thing
eternally us. No one we love is ever lost.
Reflections on St Paul's Chapel
by Carole Crumley
I recently visited New York City and Ground Zero. These are some of my journal notes from that visit and some questions that have come to me as I reflect on that journey.
I have wanted to go to New York City ever since September 11. The desire was fueled by conversations with colleagues at Trinity Episcopal Church who told me about St. Paul's Chapel, their mission church located at Ground Zero. St. Paul's, where George Washington once worshipped, is the oldest public building in continuous use in Manhattan. Everyone assumed that it would be severely damaged, if not completely destroyed, by the volcanic collapse of the World Trade Center buildings. It is very small, and all the other larger buildings around it were in ruins.
To everyone's total amazement St. Paul's was not harmed in any way. Even the most fragile objects, the crystal chandeliers, were undamaged. In ponder-ing this mystery, engineers could come up with only one reason: the homeless. On weekdays, St. Paul's serves as a homeless shelter, and September 10 was a hot night. The homeless men sleeping in the balcony area of the Chapel opened some windows for fresh air. The next morning, when the Trade Center buildings came down, those open windows saved the church by allowing the hurricane force of air to sweep through the building rather than shatter windows and walls and everything else in its path.
"How can I open the windows of my soul a little wider so that the winds of the Spirit can blow through me?"
In the aftermath of September 11, St. Paul's very quickly became a different kind of shelter, a refuge for those working at the site of the attacks, a place of spiritual and physical support, of healing and hope.
"Whom am I willing to shelter in my heart and through my prayers?"
When I walked into St. Paul's, my eyes were inundated with images. The little Chapel is filled with banners, quilts, and posters that hang from the balcony and cover every inch of wall space. Cards and letters are taped to the backs of every pew. Words and images of appreciation, encouragement and blessing bathe the eyes with love.
"To whom might I offer words of encouragement, appreciation and love?"
The Chapel is filled with other things as well. Tables line the outer aisles, stacked with things that workers need: boots, socks, tee shirts, hats, sunglasses, gloves. Other tables hold warming trays for the food that is in constant demand. Soft drinks, coffee and tea are plentiful. Volunteers stand quietly at each table ready to assist if needed.
"What are the physical things I need to nourish and protect my body? Where might I find them? Who stands ready to assist me in the physical hardships of my journey?"
In one corner are cots for sleeping and in another, cots where volunteer masseuses, chiropractors, and Reiki practitioners offer their services. Podiatrists have taken over the "President's Pew" where Washington once sat and now use it for tending to the foot-sore and weary. Musicians frequently show up to play. Clergy, counselors and psychologists are present and ready with a kind word, a listening heart, a gentle touch, a prayer. Teddy bears and blankets are at the end of every pew giving their own special kind of comfort.
"Who or what is a channel of God's grace and healing for me? What gifts do I bring from my own uniqueness that I could offer to others?"
Occasionally one of the workers falls asleep, stretched out on one of the cots or while sitting in one of the pews. Their exhaustion is palpable.
"When and where do I give myself permission to rest?"
In a very real sense, St. Paul's has become an icon of God's saving presence. I have often thought of an icon as a window into eternity that shows me more of what God's heavenly realm is like. Inside St. Paul's I felt like I had stepped inside the icon and was seeing the world from the other side, seeing with the eyes of God. Seeing with God's eyes, all of life was gift. The words, music, food, quiet, touch, prayers, sleep, work, even the doubt, questions and confusion were gifts. The abundant gifts of the Creator were pouring through this tiny space and being offered in multiple ways through human hands and hearts.
I stood and gazed for a long time. In the dark and stark reality of destruction, I saw a shining.
My Journey to Shalem
by June Costa
In the words of one of the great gospel singers, Mahalia Jackson, "Then The Answer Came" aptly describes my journey to Shalem. It never ceases to amaze me how we as individuals, when given the opportunity to reflect in silence, can see how our journeys are really preparing us for new beginnings with inner strength and peace.
My journey began with my grandparents, who raised me through early childhood in a community environment of "the village helps raise the child." My family's roots continue to be steeped in the traditional Black Southern Baptist Church, and even though I profess to be African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E.) in practice today, the influences of that early Baptist training have shaped my spiritual life. It no longer amazes me how this foundation has become the rock of my endurance and fortitude throughout my life's journey.
What are the connecting links that have led me to Shalem? A year ago my answer would have been my professional career. Today, my answer is that my faith journey has been the navigator. Even when I tried to resist that compelling force to make a counter decision in my professional career, my faith journey stirred me in another direction.
Perhaps, then, the question becomes what are the connecting threads that make this patch quilt of my journey? One thread is my move into the nonprofit sector. This began with the Catholic Diocese of Providence, Rhode Island (my hometown) when I was manager of the Catholic Charities Appeal in 1974. It has been a long but most interesting journey since then! That position led me to the West Coast and the Archdiocese of San Francisco Catholic Charities, then to the Graduate Theological Union (GTU) in Berkeley, California, as the Director of Development.
It was the GTU that introduced me to theological education and ecumenism. The GTU is a theological consortium that consists of nine member schools (six Protestant and three Roman Catholic seminaries, including eleven affiliated centers [Judaic, Urban Black Studies, Buddhist, Women and Religion, and the Center for Ethics and Social Policy, to name a few]).
The GTU was the pathway that led me to Harvard University's School of Divinity as the Director of Development and Public Relations (1991/94). I did not seek that position; it found me. What can I say about being at Harvard? It was a rare opportunity to capture and absorb the surrounding knowledge- the cross-disciplinary debates, lectures, discussions and dissection of theological education-only to recognize years later that analytical process/discourse is not the only answer to our search for inner peace.
Many powerful dynamics shaped my thinking and life at Harvard. One event that greatly influenced me was the National University-Wide Conference, "The Black Churches' Economic Responsibility for a New Urban Agenda." It was under this umbrella of visioning and planning with key Harvard leadership, local and national theologians, religious leaders and academics, that I learned about and became an advocate for the integration of theology, faith and public policy. It also led to my present involvement on the board and executive committee of the Churches' Center for Theology and Public Policy, based at Wesley Seminary. More importantly, though, it brought me back to my spiritual base.
My next journey took me back to Oakland, California, and the Vesper Society (1994/96), again as Director of Development. The Vesper Society gave me the exceptional opportunity to participate in international projects/consultations with the World Council of Churches (Geneva, Switzerland) and the German Protestant Academies (Hamburg, Germany), and it provided the opportunity to see the international church at work through another lens.
In 1996, I decided to do consulting and branched out on my own. In 1998, the call came from the Alban Institute in Bethesda, Maryland, for the position of Director of Development. At first, I was not interested in leaving the San Francisco Bay Area. Well, the internal debate was awesome, but suffice it to say that God has a way of turning you around when He is ready to take over your life. My time had come. Six months later I had relocated to Maryland and bought a home.
In January 2000, I became a member of Metropolitan A.M.E. Church in Washington, DC. I had joined a church where everyone was a stranger to me. Two years later, I have become an active member, but my first ten months of worshipping silently strengthened me spiritually.
My time at the Alban Institute became the discerning period of my mission in life. It was Alban's transitional period of visioning and planning on institutional growth that created my internal quest to seek out this special calling. The strategic planning retreats created the sacred space to blot out the loud noises of the business world that truly prevent us from listening and hearing God's voice.
I made a decision to leave Alban in April 2001 and spent nine months doing consulting work at home. I refer to this time as my incubation period of reflection and introspection. My home and church both became my sanctuaries for peace, calm and at times the discontent of not knowing and wondering. Unknowingly, I was becoming "contemplative." I began to wonder where I would find that special place of sustenance to continue this journey in my professional career and nurture my spiritual growth in my work environment. The answer came.
In September 2001, the Director of Admissions at Wesley Seminary sent me Shalem's job announcement. At first, I did not see the connection. But later I decided to submit my resume, only to then withdraw my application as a candidate. Well, my instincts were right! It was that special call from Shalem's new Executive Director, Nancy Eggert, the day after Thanksgiving, that changed my direction. I returned her call that Sunday evening, November 25th, and through her voice the message came to follow God's lead to Shalem. When will I finally learn who is truly in control?!
So, now you know my awesome journey to Shalem - The Beginning.
June, Shalem's Director of Institutional Advancement, began working at Shalem in December.