Volume 18, No. 1-Winter, 1994

Winter Trees
by Monica Maxon

A Week in December
by Peter Ellsworth

Looking at Life from the Edge of Death
by Rose Mary Dougherty

Contemplation: Natural and Wild
by Gerald May

God's Design
by Art Alexander

Graced Giving
by Ed Ruen

The World Spiritual Culture Growing in Our Midst
by Tilden Edwards

Winter Trees

by Monica Maxon

On a recent walk with a friend, we came to a place in the woods where we could sit for a while and catch our breath. A large, dead trunk was our seat; the winter trees let in plenty of light; birds chattered constantly but in the distance.

As we sat I was struck by the power and size of the trees, by the silence that surrounded them, by how good it was to see those bare, exposed limbs and the thousands of delicate branches against the sky. In winter the trees show their strength more clearly, it seems to me--the trunks look more rugged, more solid; the branches curve and bend and come alive. And their beauty is more apparent, too. With no gaudy colors to distract the eye, the simple, veined patterns can emerge.

It's no wonder I suppose, that as I looked at those trees I thought of my own life, too, and of choices recently made. In July I left my office desk behind (having been at Shalem for about 15 years and some other offices before that) to spend more time with my son and my writing.

It was a change I was yearning to make, a change that indeed seemed natural, but it also has involved a conscious stripping away of old routines, habits, committees, meetings, even a few friendships--all so that I could be who I felt called to be or at least begin walking in that direction.

At times, though, in the last few months, I have raced around madly, avoiding the things I wanted to do, feeling the need to perform, accomplishing little, and thinking all the while that surely now I should be the perfect mother, writer, friend. Along with these feelings comes this fear that I have stripped away to nothing; nothing is here.

I guess I look to the trees because I want to believe that something is indeed happening to me now, just as it is to the trees. But whatever it is, it's something too subtle or perhaps too ordinary to see or to really understand. In fact, when asked recently if the change still seemed right to me, I could only stare blankly ahead. Right and wrong were suddenly gone (or temporarily not quite as important) as I realized that my life just is. I am right now in the doing, the being; I am. And if the outer, familiar things are gone, I can only hope that what remains is--or soon will be--as simple and as strong as the delicate, bare branches that I watch each winter.

Meanwhile I wait. The known, the comfortable parts are peeling away; new patterns have yet to emerge; my life seems on "hold" these days. But perhaps that's what winter is for--a time to let our roots go deep. Winter trees only seem unproductive, I remind myself; in reality the opposite is true. Underneath the ground much is happening, growing, waiting to find expression, new birth.

A Week in December

by Peter Ellsworth

One week in December, while many Shalem staff members were at the Winter Retreat, a loyal few remained behind at the office. At a staff meeting, when all were back together again, Peter shared some thoughts about "the week that was," and we in turn share them with you.

The past week was a week of many struggles for the few Shalem staffers who remained in the office. One less creature comfort was left with each passing day. The men's room, the proximity and convenience of which I had never really thought much about, lost one fixture after another until it was at last rendered virtually useless. I sought refuge in the executive washroom adjoining Tilden Edward's office until this, too, was taken away. The women of Shalem experienced a similar fate as the plumbers commandeered their bathroom, also. Having never ventured inside this room, I speculated endlessly about its size as seemingly dozens of workers squeezed themselves in with an overwhelming array of tools and machinery. They had a large sign taped to the door with the words "Keep Out" with an exclamation point, just in case we lost our minds and decided to madly rush the bathroom. Undaunted by the deafening roar of drills and hammers and the lack of facilities and soon faculties, we Shalem loyalists remained.

The heating system was the next to go. I had begun jogging in place while coding checks to avoid frequent trips to the Cathedral men's room, so heat wasn't all that important at first. As time passed, though, and the winter wind rustled through the Saran Wrap across my office window, I began to feel a bit frigid. I huddled in front of my computer screen hoping to get some warmth from the radiation being emitted. I also began to miss Lin Ludy's hugs with a passion.

The local government soon joined in the conspiracy to force us to acquire a new respect for water bordering on worship. A reservoir technician dropped some crumbs from a sandwich he had been eating for lunch into a nearby filtration unit contaminating the city's water supply and making our lives at Shalem just a bit more challenging. I personally had ceased intake of all liquids as soon as the men's room was dismantled, so I suffered very little. Feeling sorry for my coworkers, though, I brought in a case of pure spring water from West Virginia. In an emergency staff meeting convened by Tilden on the spot, he suggested that we begin selling the water out on the street corner to desperate citizens at a sizable mark-up. He explained that we would make enough money to purchase the Cathedral itself as Shalem's new home.

As the week wore on, I began to feel the pain resulting from the most devastating disaster to strike the office during this time: the M&M's and Hershey's Kisses were gone and the morning pastry I had become so fond of had suddenly stopped. Patricia Clark's supply closet was locked, and Norma Locher and Rose Mary Dougherty were miles away. I came dangerously close to experiencing dessert-loss trauma until Sheila Carruth threw some yogurt-covered nuts my way, although it just wasn't the same as the chocolates and pastry.

By week's end, as we approached delirium, our spirits were actually starting to improve when Diane Wegener came to Sheila and me about rehearsing a class presentation. We were dehydrated and freezing and hadn't seen a restroom or chocolate eclair in days, so we acquiesced. I really was hoping for a discussion of some happy art form such as the dogs playing poker series. But instead Diane's discussion was on art and suffering, and as exceptional as it was, as she spoke I imagined an oil on canvas of a Madonna figure who looked like Sheila huddled under layers of sweaters, shivering at her computer with me in the background, plundering Patricia's office in search of M&M's.

In all seriousness, though, I can't honestly say that I personally experienced much suffering this past week. However, the week's events did create a renewed sense of awareness for me of others who suffer more than mere inconvenience from inadequate nutrition, lack of heat and shelter, or who simply don't have access to a safe water supply. Thus I would like to offer the following intercessory prayers (from stories covered in last week's Washington Post):

For the estimated seven to ten thousand orphaned children in Angola who are facing starvation.
For the homeless individuals and families who suffer from the winter's cold and the homeless man who died in Alexandria from hypothermia.
For the 1.3 billion people who do not have access to safe drinking water.
For the 1.7 billion people without adequate sanitation facilities.
For the millions of babies who die each year from water-related disease.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Looking at Life from the Edge of Death

by Rose Mary Dougherty

Every once and a while we are given an experience which causes us to stand still, to see the beauty we have never seen before, to contemplate life with new awareness. Often the fruit of this awareness is the simple appreciation of all that is, even ourselves. For some, this simple appreciation is associated with death: the death of a friend, the pronouncement by a physician that we have only a short time to live, our growing sense of physical diminishment, reflection on the meaning of death.

Many world religions encourage the practice of frequent reflection on death as a way of cultivating this simple appreciation. The reflection is not meant to be frightening or morbid, or to disengage one from life. Rather, it is meant to give perspective on life, to assist one in making choices consonant with one's true being.

The early years of my life in a religious community included the practice of this reflection, although I never quite got the point of the practice. Of course we would all die. Why belabor the point? Death was still far away from me.

Events of these past eighteen months brought death closer to me, first the death of four friends and then my preparation for a trip to South Africa which carried with it thoughts of my own impending death. My friends all died in very different circumstances: one chose her death through suicide, another was murdered. Two others suffered the gradual diminishment of cancer. One at the end lost all consciousness to the disease and was only passively present to what was happening. The other was fully conscious, wanting to do the dying right and finally having to let go of even that.

These deaths raised many questions for me: Was suicide an act of cowardice, an opting out of life? Or could it be a courageous act, a choice to end the stranglehold of that which seemingly binds us? What of a violent death? Does it do violence to one's soul? Does one fight death to the end? Or is there a point where one welcomes it as a friend, loving one's murderer as an agent of this friend? What of prolonged suffering? What is its value in preparing one for death? Does it matter whether or not one participates actively in the dying process? Or does the process happen deep within us as life goes on? Why are some people given the opportunity to know that death is imminent and others not? What difference does that knowledge make? Is death the end of life or the beginning, or just a part of it? Is death friend or foe?

My rational approach to these questions gave me few answers. It did, however, provide a buffer for my grief, and it also held at bay the invitation to grapple with the inevitability of my own death. Then came the preparation for my trip to South Africa. I began to have an underlying sense that I would die there. There were no specifics of how or where I would die. I had no fear or heaviness, just the thought that I would not come back. My theoretical questioning about death was put to rest. I now had to deal with the matter on a personal level.

Unconsciously the thought of my death began to prioritize my choices for life. I spent more time with the people I really wanted to be with. I expressed gratitude and affection for them more easily. I overlooked insignificant hurts. I was less compulsive about doing the right things for people. I trusted more the essence of love that I knew would endure. I wanted people around me who could pray for me and hold me in the fire of that love. In retrospect, it seems that what I chose to do came more from a place of love than of obligation. I chose the work that seemed to choose me and let go of other tasks. I didn't have an urgency to complete my life's work. Somehow I knew that would go on.

I arranged a scrapbook of pictures that captured significant moments in my life. I prepared an envelope for my family and one for my religious community, each one containing materials that said more about me than I could ever tell them. I looked around my house for tokens of beauty and thought of who might like them. I gave my favorite icon to a friend for her prayer for me. I told two friends, in a joking way, to be sure there was a party in my house if I didn't return.

Obviously I did come back from South Africa. Only a few people knew of my premonition, so I didn't have to be too embarrassed about returning. I also don't have to deal with too many of my projections about people looking at me and saying, "I thought she had this life-changing experience. How come she's still her same old self?"

In many ways I am my "same old self." Life is back to normal. I don't so easily overlook hurts. I neglect people who are really important to me. I have much unfinished business that I wish I could take care of. I have strained relationships that I wish could be resolved. I am faced with brokenness in myself that I long to have healed. But there is a capacity for appreciation that was not there before, despite all this. And I think I trust God more.

I don't know whether dying in South Africa would have been any more significant than living here, now. Maybe more sensational but certainly no more valuable, since I have come to see living and dying as part of the same process--God's transforming process of bringing me to myself, a loved being-in-love. Life is not the last chance to "get it all right" (as though I could anyway). Unfinished business, strained relationships, my own brokenness will continue to be dealt with in the dying. Perhaps in the dying, as images of myself are relinquished, I can participate more fully, more willingly in the transforming process, but the transformation itself is really God's work. I trust that is going on even now, bringing unfinished business to completion, resolving strained relationships, healing my brokenness.

What then of the events of these past eighteen months, the death of my friends, the death thoughts around the trip to South Africa? What is the meaning for me? I have prayed to know the meaning, to live its significance, and maybe I am doing this but I don't know that I am. I keep feeling that life is too short for anything but truth and love. But I also feel that a lifetime is never enough time for all the truth and love I want. I know that this is what I want to give myself to, but in the frequent moments when, with all my wanting, I fail to give myself to it, I trust that God is somehow doing the truth in love despite me. In fact, my wanting may be all that I can bring to the process, along with a trust that in the end we will all be brought together into the fullness of love, that we already are in the fullness of love.

I wonder if my experience around death was, and continues to be, the invitation to stand still, to see the beauty I have never seen before, to contemplate life with new awareness. Perhaps it is the invitation to be here now and appreciate life and trust God for the rest. I hear in fresh new ways the words from Scripture, "See I set before you this day life and death. Choose life...." And I pray to my friends who have died, "Help me in the choosing. Give me your wisdom." Help me choose life just for this day.

Contemplation: Natural and Wild

by Gerald May

Twenty-five years ago, I thought contemplation was an "altered state of consciousness," an extraordinary improvement upon natural human awareness. But in actual experience I have always had the feeling that contemplation is absolute naturalness. Becoming quiet, body and mind easing, I sense a moment of true presence. I am simply here, simply now, simply being, and it feels like a homecoming rather than something being altered or enhanced. It is how I was as a little child, how I was always meant to be, completely natural, pricelessly ordinary. From this perspective, contemplation is the opposite of an altered state. It is consciousness in its pure, unadulterated, wholly natural condition.

In my studies, I came to understand that contemplation is characterized by two basic psychological qualities. The first is immediacy, centeredness in the present moment. In contemplation, one is not lost in memories of the past or fantasies of the future, but is directly conscious of what comes to awareness in the here-and-now. When memories, fears, hopes or plans happen within contemplation, they do not take one out of the moment. Instead, one has a subtle, soft appreciation that they are part of what is happening right now, right here.

The second quality is openness, a simple receptiveness to all the thoughts, feelings, sights, sounds and other perceptions that each moment brings. In contemplation, one is not concentrating, focusing on one "important" thing to the exclusion of other "distracting" things. Nor is one avoiding, denying, or distorting what is given. Instead, there is a gentle willingness to acknowledge whatever comes.

This tender, powerful combination of immediacy and openness may seem strange because our minds are unaccustomed to it. We are more in the habit of being "away" from the present moment, more used to focusing our attention and controlling our perceptions. In this sense, the uncontrolled freedom of contemplation may indeed seem unusual. But if your experience is like mine, you know in the moment that contemplation is home. It may be unusual, even abnormal in the sense that we aren't used to it, but it is certainly not unnatural. Nothing could be more natural than contemplation.

The word "natural," like "native" and "natal" comes from the Latin "natura", meaning birth. When we say something is natural we are saying it is close to our birth, our original being, our true home. This is certainly true of contemplation. Babies just are contemplative, wholly immediate and completely open. But we train our children to goal-orient themselves and to focus their attention on specific tasks. We educate them out of their natural tendency toward contemplation. Some of this may be necessary for success in our culture, but one wonders if we don't overdo it. Wouldn't it be good to help our children retain an appreciation of their original contemplative presence? Then when they later come to seek the deeper meaning of things, this most natural way of being might not seem so strange.

Whenever I think of the naturalness of contemplation, I am reminded of some neurological studies on domestic cats. Like other animals, cats are normally very open to the sights and sounds around them. But the studies showed that when a cat sees a mouse, it becomes far less sensitive to other stimuli. It concentrates, focusing its attention on the mouse so intently that it becomes virtually undistractable. Like humans, cats are naturally contemplative, but they become much less so when something really captures their interest.

In reflecting on these studies, I am quite certain that the focusing behavior of domestic cats has something to do with being tame. Such concentration simply would not work in the wild. Wild animals have to be open to everything around them, most especially when stalking or being stalked. African lions, wolves and other species that hunt in groups must be aware of the movement not only of their prey but also of their hunting mates. A mountain lion hunting alone will often follow a track, then take a circuitous route to get ahead of the prey and lie in wait for it. This requires immediate sensitivity to landscape, wind direction, sounds, scents, and many other stimuli all at once. Whether predator or prey, wild animals simply must be contemplative. Without immediacy and openness they will not have food to eat--or they themselves will be eaten. Predator animals raised in captivity are often unable to survive when released into the wild. The same is true for domestic animals; many die before becoming feral--before they have a chance to unlearn their civilized ways and recover their wild contemplative nature.

I am certain that one of the reasons we sense such a gulf between nature and civilization is that nature requires immediacy and openness while civilization expects planning and focusing. Perhaps this is also why contemplation seems so radical in our contemporary take-control society, why it threatens so many of our cultural assumptions. And perhaps it is also why contemplatives have always been drawn to the wilderness in one form or another: to deserts and mountains, forests and waters, earth and sky. The wild has something to teach us, something about our nature.

Much depends upon the teaching. Think for a moment of a day in the fall when human children are in school, being taught how to control themselves and not be "wild," how to concentrate, how to organize themselves according to behavioral objectives. At the same time, many miles away in the wilderness, a mother mountain lion is teaching her kittens how not to become too absorbed in one thing, how to remain open to everything here and now, how to move with the moment, how to grow fully into their wildness.

Contemplation is absolutely natural and fundamentally wild. It is our birth-way of being. But contemplation also must be taught. For wild animal babies--and perhaps ideally for our own children--the teaching involves honing immediacy, sharpening openness, deepening responsiveness in each present moment here and now. We human adults require a little remedial education, some un-learning, some de-conditioning from certain of our over-civilized ways. Then we too can become wild babies, ready to be taught.

Everyone is naturally contemplative. The people we call contemplatives are not unique in their nature; they just have a little extra longing to recover the nature that is common to us all. Scripture tells us that we must become like little children, and that the teaching we need is right here if we have eyes to see and ears to hear. It tells us that we live and move and have our being in a divine One who is already at home in us, ready to guide us where we need to go. It tells us that Holy Wisdom cries in the streets for us, promising that in self-abandonment we will never be abandoned. It assures us that we will find what we seek, that we shall know the truth, and that it will make us free.

God's Design

by Art Alexander

The development of each person is, in a sense, unique. We can never say to another how they will experience God. Nevertheless, there is direction in their growth. But with everyone, we directors can take seriously and give full attention to signs of grace, a burst of praise, a pang of guilt, an episode of doubt, a desire for prayer, hope for acceptance.

Sarah (*) made an appointment to come and see me. She had been attending church for several years, on and off, and all I really knew about her I knew from personal observation. It was obvious to me that she "had a lot of problems."

She had the look of a person who was heavily medicated, and she displayed strange behavior around other people. At times she would appear to be very upset and cry when there was no obvious reason. At other times she would seem very "up," animated, talkative, laughing. It was not unusual for Sarah to get up in the middle of a class and walk out, apparently oblivious to others around her.

I had no idea about why she wanted to see me, but if it was to get help, she was way out of my league. I was very willing to see her, to pray with her and offer affirmation, but I wasn't open to the possibility of giving her spiritual direction. In fact, I didn't think it was possible.

When we met, I learned the history of her life, the diagnosis of her illness, that she was Bi-polar affective, and the medication she was on. But why did she come to see me? She said, "You might think this is strange, but I just wanted to tell you what is going on inside me. I wanted to talk about God and me."

She began telling me about her first experience with God, her conversion, thirteen years ago at the age of seventeen--how God comes to her in dreams; about her failings, sins, how she feels about them and how much she loves God and only wishes that He would love her. She told me of strange experiences she would have while fully awake. She would begin by saying, "You will think I'm crazy, but ... one day I was watching you preach, and I saw milk coming out of your forehead. Now, I know that it really wasn't happening, but that's what I saw."

When I asked her what she thought this meant, she said, "Oh, I don't know, but I think it symbolizes mothering or nurturing or something. It could mean that I'm to desire the sincere milk of the Word. You see, I have a good feeling about you, you're my pastor. I love you. You never left me, even when I was weird and nasty."

Sadly, in the past, I would not have thought that the experiences of a person struggling with psychological problems were authentically from God. Perhaps they were special children, loved by God, but could such people actually grow in grace and wisdom? Today I know they can and do.

I found that it was a false division, putting spirituality and psychiatry in different compartments, mutually exclusive and not related. Whereas people who are sick need psychiatric help, they also need spiritual guidance. In fact, even when psychotherapy is not open to many except the affluent, God is open to them. Sarah is a case in point, and she is seeking God. I saw, in her story about me, a possibility in directing her in her image of God.

As I have continued to meet with Sarah, I have seen firsthand the movement of God in her life. Sarah has a marked spiritual maturity. She accepts her responsibility to listen to God for herself. She seeks out places for silence and expresses her feelings well through journaling and writing poetry. Some of my times of greatest awareness in prayer with someone else have been with Sarah. In a sense, she enjoys more freedom from what other people think of her than I find in less neurotic people. She is less intolerant, moralistic, dogmatic and rigid than many others. She is able to live with mystery, and she pursues meaning and value in human life. She has shown an ability to live in ambiguity and with change.

Who, or what, was responsible for her spiritual formation? Meister Eckhart wrote: "Whether you like it or not, whether you know it or not, secretly nature seeks, hunts, tries to ferret out the track on which God my be found."

In one of Sarah's poems, she writes:

Gulls flit along the frothy shore
Fighting for carrion.
I wander along the receding shoreline
Saying to my teacher, the sea,
"Sea, wash me; salt me; make me free;
Awaken me with your intrusive roar.
Let me fly free like the seagulls soar."

The development of each person is, in a sense, unique. We can never say to another how they will experience God. Nevertheless, there is direction in their growth. But with everyone, we directors can take seriously and give full attention to signs of grace: a burst of praise, a pang of guilt, an episode of doubt, a desire for prayer, hope for acceptance.

With Sarah I continue to find it a bit difficult to know what to let flow past me and what to catch and build on. What is part of her illness, what is coming from God, or is it all? I know in Sarah's case, her diagnosis/therapy has helped her understand her problems and gives her a language to express her struggle, but it is not her. She is more than her illness, and I have experienced with her God's grace touching her and helping her, at times, transcend her illness.

God has designs on this person and so, with her, I will simply continue to ask the same question. How does this experience connect with Scripture and tradition? What is she being invited to? How can I help her respond to God's invitations?

Art, senior pastor of the Church of the Nazarene in Long Island, is a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, Summer '92. This article is taken from one of his program papers.

(*) The name "Sarah" was chosen by us to protect the identity of Art's directee.

Graced Giving

by Ed Ruen

Diane Wegener called and asked if I would consider writing an article for the Shalem News on fundraising and spirituality. Because it was Diane calling from Shalem, I said, "Yes." Only after putting down the phone did I really begin to question the decision. Then I remembered my friend Grace. I thought she might be able to teach us something about spirituality and fundraising.

My first call as a pastor was to a small, struggling parish in the South Bronx. It was the late1960's, and the area was already seen as the human dumping ground for much of New York City -- a place of abandoned homes, drug addicts, prostitutes, gangs, and poverty. Everyone studied it, but few wanted to live there.

The church reflected the community in many ways -- the buildings were run down, welfare checks from the national church kept the doors open, the leadership that was strong and vital took the escalator out as soon as possible, and many people had given up hope. There was a handful, a remnant, left to manage and care for the place. Grace M. was one of them.

Grace had spent most of her life in the South Bronx. She had married, raised a family and retired there. When I first met her she lived on 140th Street. Later she moved to the St. Francis House on 141st and Brook Avenue. The South Bronx was home to her.

Grace was a joy-filled person. From the first day I met her she took a great interest in my ministry, my family and the work of the church. She was wonderful to meet on a good day and certainly the best of medicine on a bad day.

Grace was not a wealthy person. Most people would consider her well below the poverty line. Yet in her poverty, she would always manage to place a few dollars in the collection plate. You knew she was giving her tithe and then some. What made Grace's tithing even more unique was her special effort to increase her giving.

Several times a year, Grace would announce that she was going to be selling barbeque dinners to help raise money for the church. She would spread the word in the church and on the street. The sale would always be on a Saturday close to "check day." And the program went as follows: On Friday, Grace would go to John who had a vegetable market and buy her potatoes and greens. Next she would stop at the meat store, also owned and managed by a man named John, and purchase the goods. She would buy on credit, promising to pay them back on Monday.

Late Friday night and early Saturday morning, Grace was busy in her small kitchen preparing the dinners. Most of the dinners had been spoken for, so what she needed to do was prepare and deliver them and collect the money. By late Saturday, the dinners were sold and Grace was ready to relax and celebrate with a Miller High Life. Bright and early Sunday morning, she arrived in church with her special gift. Monday she paid off the bills for meat, vegetables and greens.

What did I learn from Grace about giving? A great deal! She had discovered something greater in her life that she wanted to give her all to: God and her church. She was grateful for the gifts that God had given her. Her gratitude was overflowing, touching her stewardship in all areas of living. Her giving attitude infected all of us. We gave more because she gave, and we gained a measure of the same joy she enjoyed. Through her giving the institution benefited and the community was enhanced. People who never crossed the doorway of a church--drug pushers, pimps, and prostitutes--purchased dinners. Perhaps in some small way they could see this as a gift to God and just possibly feel God's presence. It opened a door, however slight.

She made it a community affair from the shop-keeper to the young children who delivered the dinners to those who enjoyed eating them. She demonstrated creative faith-giving at its best. From poverty came promise and profit. Finally, she wasn't shy about celebrating her good fortune: the gifts she had received and the gifts she could give.

The essence of fundraising is based upon a heart being touched by a story in such a way that the heart can respond fully and that means joyfully. Poverty doesn't exist to the giving heart. God's love embraces the giving heart. I call it Graced Giving.

The Rev. Edward A. Ruen is pastor at Calvary Evangelical Lutheran Church in Minneapolis, MN. He participated in Shalem's Desert Spirituality Pilgrimage in 1992.

The World Spiritual Culture Growing in Our Midst

by Tilden Edwards

Before me on Sunday morning in the boarding school chapel were 85 people of all hues and many denominations and vocations gathered from all over South Africa. We were in the midst of a ten-day spiritual guidance program led by Rose Mary Dougherty and me. But God's Spirit had gathered us together for much more. A big part of the more showed itself at this morning's Eucharist. I was the presiding celebrant at the morning Eucharist, and the chalice we used was wooden, befitting the wood of the cross. I poured the wine into that cup and led us in the consecration. When I lifted the chalice in offering, I noticed that the wine was slowly seeping through a crack, a wound in the wood, onto my hands, onto the white linen altar cloth. By the time another cup was found for the distribution, my hands and the altar cloth were soaked blood red.

From the human ego side, this scene looked like a messy accident. From God's side, though, I do not think it was; it was a soul-expander and connector. This cross-section of people in a land full of racial, ethnic, class, and religious conflicts was being shown God's poured-out love for all of us. We took love into ourselves. I believe that we experienced more fully its power to overflow our inner and outer boundaries and show us the divine sea that we shared infinitely more deeply than our differences.

In our ten days together we tried to live out of that deep place of connectedness with God and one another, through all our differences. Rose Mary and I pressed everyone toward immediate givenness to God again and again, in the face of God's givenness to us. Out of that vulnerable givenness amazing things happened.

There was an easing of the massive daily tensions with which people live in this convulsing land, especially people who live or work in the impoverished, violent black townships or in jobs dedicated to co-creating with God a peaceful and just future together. People who never spoke vulnerably across racial and other lines began telling their stories to each other and forging caring bonds they could not have imagined. People whose religious conditioning emphasized a legalistic, fearful, authoritarian, over-securing way to God, began to taste a divine invitation to a riskier, loving spontaneity and freedom.

Many other fruits of our givenness to God together showed themselves. One woman who had just quit a very difficult job in an interracial situation felt called to return. A Zulu priest found a liberating new wholeness in his cultural and spiritual life through a movement meditation to African music. Old psychic wounds were opened to divine healing. A charismatic woman found her deepening call to wait quietly on God affirmed in the way it had been denied in her own community. Another found her call to an ecstatic spiritual leadership affirmed in the way it had been suppressed in her very staid religious community. I sensed that everyone found common ground in their desire for a deeper soul-life, a soul-life that included all dimensions of their being.

On the last Sunday together another Eucharist was shared. At one point the presider put out an invitation to public confession. A white woman went over to a black man whose story of great suffering under apartheid she had heard earlier. She publicly confessed her complicity as a white person in that destructive system and asked for forgiveness; when he embraced her, she broke into uncontrollable sobbing for several minutes. The room full of people shared that confession and reconciliation in wordless and worded ways. The chalice was lifted once again, and we took into ourselves God's redemptive sharing with us.

I believe God was grounding us deeper in the soil of our shared spiritual culture during those days. The seeds that were sown expressed God's hope that this very religious land might model for the world a more fertile and inclusive spiritual ground for communal life than the hard, fenced ground that made it a pariah state. Those seeds, I believe, are growing in every nation, in every neighborhood, in every willing heart. God is a relentless evangelist, never willing to be finally defeated, even in the worst of situations. The divine Spirit gathers people under many names and shows them something of the love that is beyond boundaries, and something of the great possibilities of our souls when they are allowed to breathe deeply the Spirit's liberating breath. Cups full of expansive love are shown forth and shared in countless forms around the world.

Such signs of an unfolding, boundary-less spiritual culture look very fragile amidst the willful and confused ego empires inside and around us that vie for power. In the end, though, it is the strongest culture in the world, because it is the only one that cannot disappoint our deepest yearning for loving wholeness. Our spiritual practices hollow out a space in us for this love and for its overflow into the world. God quietly grows the mustard seeds of this spiritual culture deep in the soil of our mingled souls. Our prayer, our energy, needs to be fervently dedicated to the flowering of these seeds in our midst.

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