Volume 19, No. 1-Winter, 1995

Being Action
by Joanna Macy

Perfect Trust in God's Goodness
by Rose Mary Dougherty

God's Transforming Work
by Connie Clark

What I Think I Know About Love
by Gerald May

Wilderness Reflections
by Tina Brown

At Last! Shalem Finds A New Home!
by Tilden Edwards

Being Action

by Joanna Macy

Action is not something you do, it's something you are. In other words, you are not a noun, you're a verb. That is our true nature. In our old paradigm, the substantialist view of the world, rocks, atoms, molecules, trees, people, nation states were seen as separate entities, and what happened between them--in terms of inter-changes, communications, messages, relationships--were considered less real because you can't see it or weigh it or touch it. And that was true for Aristotle, Newton, Galileo. Now in the view that has emerged in our time, natural scientists see reality as flows, interconnecting currents of matter, energy, and information. They see that what appeared to be separate entities are patterns made by flows and sustained by flows. This reversal of perspective is happening now and we can live it in our lives. Systems thinker Norbert Weiner said, "We are not stuff that abides, we are patterns ... in a river of ever-flowing water." Or, to use another image, we are flames that keep our shape by burning, by the act of combustion--matter in and matter out. So action isn't a burden to be hoisted up and lugged around on our shoulders. It is something we are. The work we have to do can be seen as a kind of coming alive. More than some moral imperative, it's an awakening to our true nature, a releasing of our gifts. This flow-through of energy and ideas is at every moment directed by our choice. That's our role in it. We're like a lens that can focus, or a gate that can direct this flow-through by schooling our intention. In each moment we can give it direction.

This true nature of ours tells us what our power is. Understanding power is absolutely critical because you can have all the smarts and devotion and information to carry forth a campaign of action, but if you are still falling for the old notion of power you are crippling yourself. The old notion tells us that power is what one substance does to another piece of substance. And what can it do? It can push it around. It can exert its will. Hence we have identified power with domination--power over. And we've imagined that power means having strong defenses, really being invulnerable so others don't push us around. In contrast, an image frequently used by systems thinkers is the nerve cell. In a neural net, nerve cells are constantly interacting and interdependent, allowing flows of matter and energy and information among them and transforming those flows. What is the power of one nerve cell in relation to another? It's not power over or the power of being invulnerable. If a nerve cell were to build strong defenses to protect itself from painful information, it would die. An effective nerve cell lets the charge through. It communicates and develops collaborative assemblies or networks. We can call that power with, or as systems theorists do, synergy. So when we remember our true nature as change, as action, we remember also the true collaborative nature of our power.

A second thing that helps is mudra. We go from philosophy to gesture. There are two symbolic gestures, or mudras, in Buddhism that help me a lot. The abhaya mudra, palm outward, means "Fear not." Don't be afraid. It arose with the teachings about impermanence and interbeing. When I wonder where is my refuge, my safe haven, it reminds me that my real refuge is in my action, in the flow going out of the heart, in the connection. The other mudra is this gesture--touching the ground. When the Buddha was sitting under the bodhi tree, Mara said, "By what authority are you doing this?" Gautama didn't recite his pedigree or what he had accomplished in his life; he reached down and touched the earth. This is my right to be here; this is my right to seek freedom from endless suffering and inflicting of suffering. The scriptures say that when he did that the earth roared.

Knowing this, we know we don't need to fear pain. We can see our pain for the world as flow-through of information in the great net. Grief can ambush us at any time and our power doesn't have anyting to do with being immune to that. It derives rather from our capacity to suffer with--the literal meaning of compassion. To be able to suffer with is good news because it means you can share power with, share joy with, exchange love with. Let your pain tell you that you are not alone. What we thought might have been sealing us off can become connective tissue.

Third, it has been helpful to me, too, to reflect on the meaning of apocalypse. A theologian brother who knew his Greek told me that the real meaning of the word is to uncover, to disclose. What can be disclosed in us? If we really face the magnitude of the dangers--the possibility that this may be the end of the road for our species--what can be revealed in us? People think that if we allow ourselves to experience this fear, it will paralyze us. And they think that if we don't look at it, we won't be paralyzed. But what if we were to live each moment as if it were our last? That's a central spiritual teaching ... Look into apocalypse and let that free you from triviality, evasion. If you're in a game and the chances of winning are minimal and it is only minutes to the end, what does the coach say to you? He doesn't say, "It'll turn out okay; just relax," but rather, "The odds are overwhelmingly against us; go out and give it all you've got." Use that sense of being on the brink to come alive, to discover who you really are, to let all the falseness that we imprison ourselves in be stripped away.

This article is an excerpt of a talk given by Joanna Macy at a summer school in Deep Ecology at the Shenoa Retreat Center in Philo, CA. The complete text appears in the Winter 1993 issue of Tricycle and is reprinted here with the permission of Shambhala Publications.

Perfect Trust in God's Goodness

by Rose Mary Dougherty

The first full day of the winter retreat this year was warm but dreary. The sun was hardly visible throughout the day. But, as we ended our afternoon session, I walked outside to another side of the building to watch the sunset. When I got to the spot where I usually stand, I said to myself, "You silly thing! What are you doing here? Why would you expect to see the sunset when you've hardly seen the sun all day?" Just as I turned to walk away, I heard someone say, as though they had read my mind, "There it is." And there it was: a muted red ball showing through the parting clouds. I stood in silence with others, appreciating what, except for the prompting of another who could see what I couldn't see, I would have missed.

I remembered last year's retreat when sunsets were very vivid and most of us gathered outside in silence, leaning against the same wall, to watch them. I thought about the time a young woman working in housekeeping approached me during that retreat, asking, "Who are these Shalem people and what do they do?" I asked her why she wanted to know. She responded, "They're something! I was leaving work yesterday, dead tired. I couldn't wait 'till I got home. I was hurrying out to get in my car and I saw all these people lined up against the wall in silence, everyone looking in the same direction. I stopped to see what they were looking at. It was beautiful, that sunset! I can't believe I've worked here all these years and have never seen it. I would have missed it then if I hadn't seen those Shalem people looking at it. I want to take time to see it before I go home--as many days as I can."

I thought about those two incidents several times throughout the retreat. They brought to mind a conversation I had had with a Jewish friend not long before. We talked about what keeps us from living contemplatively, from being present to the real, how we often hurry past some people and facets of life because they appear insignificant. They don't have the same glitter as others we encounter. He shared with me some words from the Jerusalem Talmud that translate into something like this: "We are destined to give an account of everything our eyes have beheld and from which we did not partake."

Inherent in these words is the re-affirmation of the Genesis truth that God sees all is good, that at the core of all of life is goodness. They challenge me to expect goodness, to keep my eyes open for it, and partake of it fully. They imply responsibility for seeing what is to be seen, for being contemplative.

Responsibility can often be a heavy burden for me. It can trigger all the "shoulds" and all the striving of which I have ever been capable. But this particular responsibility has not seemed heavy. Rather, there is within it the simple invitation to awareness and the desire to claim my response-ability to life. The awareness will show the authentic response. When I get into figuring out how to figure out appropriate responses, there is the call to trust the guidance of God's spirit in each moment: "Don't worry about tomorrow or what you should say. What you are to say will be given to you" (Luke 12:12).

This idea of being open to God in all of life is not new to me. I have read the Christian contemplatives, like Julian of Norwich and Ignatius of Loyola, who speak of finding God in all things, and Meister Eckhart who writes, "Apprehend God in all things, for God is in all things." But it seems as though the process of finding God in all things has been slowly evolving for me. For a long while in my spiritual journey, God and I both seemed content to have me look for God and sometimes even find God mostly in times of intentional prayer. Gradually, however, prayer began to dry up; God was no longer present as I had once known God to be. It seemed, instead, that God was luring me from the cell of privatized intimacy, replacing it with the sanctuary of life where I have begun to find God in and through others who share my desire for God. I also find God more easily in nature. Sometimes even in the midst of the work I am doing, I remember to expect that God is present and I turn to God in prayer.

>But the words of the Jerusalem Talmud: "We are destined to give an account of everything our eyes have beheld and from which we did not partake," suggest to me that God is wanting to take me beyond the sanctuary of the beautiful and "holy" into the theater of the real so that I might find God in what I label as ugly and "unholy," so that I might see through sin, and evil, to the goodness of God.

What if I do not find God in this theater? Is that a possibility? It certainly is. But not because God is not present. If I do not find God there, it may be because I am afraid to look for God there. Or perhaps I have so conditioned myself to finding God only in the beautiful and holy that I have blinded myself to other possibilities. If I sense that I am pre-conditioned for what I might find, perhaps I can ask that God remove the film of my conditioning, clarifying my vision to see what is. Perhaps when I really look at what I judged as "unholy" I will be given to see my own misperceptions. Or perhaps I will stand with God, weeping in the face of evil, longing to unleash the essential goodness hidden in its camouflage.

Julian of Norwich says that when she saw the suffering Christ who had forgiven her she could see for the first time the good in all, see God in all. Perhaps even in the face of my own sin I will see my own good and thus be free to see the good of all.

In the the end, though, it doesn't matter whether we find ourselves in the cell of personal intimacy, the sanctuary of the holy, or the theater of the real. Wherever we find ourselves we are meant to participate fully in the life that is offered us. As Jean-Pierre de Caussade reminds us, "(Our lives flow) unceasingly in that unknown deep where all that is necessary is to love and accept the present moment as the best, with perfect trust in God's universal goodness."

God's Transforming Work

by Connie Clark

The following is an excerpt of comments given by Connie Clark at Shalem's book-signing party for Holy Meeting Ground.

I'm so happy to be here tonight, and to have this book here, because creating it was an impossible job. Now that it actually exists, I have even more evidence that God can and will do just about anything.

The idea for this book was born in a committee meeting here at Shalem. For some reason, I mentioned that I had written a number of books about non-profit organizations, and that these books were used as fund-raising and public relations tools. I threw that out without a thought that Shalem would even want such a book.

Next thing you know, I'm writing a proposal for this project--a book, part anthology and part original narrative, to celebrate Shalem's 20th anniversary. Sometimes things move slowly at Shalem. Sometimes they move with blinding speed. The book concept tore through the place. My head was spinning. I was thrilled and excited. But secretly I was scared. As usual, I had "gone for it"--plunging in and saying, "sure, I can do that, and I want to!" The morning-after's in my life are the frightened follow-ups to this impetuousness.

Well, creating this book was one long morning-after. "How in the world will I ever do this?" became my constant refrain. But I set out to do 30 interviews with people who have been important to Shalem throughout its history. Immediately I knew this project would be really different. With the previous books, I'd always run into at least one or two people with heavy agendas about the organization or their part in the book. I learned how to deal with them and I was prepared to do that with Shalem people too. But I never needed to.

Interviewing Shalemites was a great experience--an honor. I wish more of the material from those interviews was in the book. I want to share with you just a few quick quotes that didn't make it into the book but will give you an idea of how much richness I encountered.

RHODA NARY: "I think of Shalem people as journeying on a pilgrimage together--and not sure where--but wanting to take it because the desire is great. And we help each other with that desire. We help each other keep the desire strong--not squashing it. And we accept wherever the other is. It's an acceptance that doesn't smother, doesn't take care of, doesn't try to pull you into anything but your own journey."

DICK LAWRENCE: Speaking about how contemplative prayer has changed his worship and spiritual life: "I really look forward to the Eucharist now and I essentially am in contemplative prayer as all of the three or four hundred people file up for communion and I find it doesn't make any difference to me whether it's ten minutes or 15 minutes, the time is just marvelous. I used to be impatient with communion. ... Now I think I'm listening in a different way than I used to. I almost always have my eyes closed during all these experiences."

ED BAUMAN: "When we think of contemplative prayer we often think we're in a nice chapel or some quiet, beautiful place, and it's very silent and you're moving into that peaceful thing. But there's another dimension now I understand to contemplative. [In my prayer recently] I wasn't asking God to do anything. It wasn't a petition--it wasn't that sort of thing at all. It was just being with God, but it was being with God in the pain that I was experiencing."

RAY DUNGAN: "At Shalem, the Holy Spirit is working--there's no ifs, ands or buts. One thing I've also learned is that there are no exact answers. Unfortunately, I have an accounting background."

JUNE DAVIS: "I have a little grand-daughter and she used to use the expression 'need it.' When she wants a peanut butter sandwich, she says, 'need it.' We were very touched as we went out to visit them and we left after four days and they were taking us to the airport. Her mother was explaining to her that grandma and granddad were going home and she said, 'Need 'em.' It's very concise. Shalem is growing--there's an unseen strong quality of Shalem in vibrations going all over the place--they are good and people do 'need 'em.' "

Then there were 20 years' worth of Shalem News to be gone through. Try picking out a relative handful of articles from this wonderful publication and you will see why my whole house was littered with copies of articles, notes scrawled across the top, index cards in the bathroom ... it was a mess. An embarrassment of riches.

My mother died in March 1993, when I was supposed to deliver the finished manuscript. The book was very late. I would love to say it was all because of Mom's illness and death and my grief, but it wasn't. I looked back at my interview notes from Marcia Brewington and she had told me, "Well, I'll tell you what works with me. Get the first sentence." It took me a long time, but when I got that first sentence, I was off and running.

Putting this book together taught me a lot. Just the exposure to Shalem and its people--what could be better? I also learned that I needed to give up my image of what writing should be like. I should be in a quiet cottage in the woods, peacefully writing for a couple of hours, then going out for a walk, then editing for a while. I should be deeply into it. I should feel good.

Well, I'm learning that any time you build up an image like that, it gets knocked right down. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't in a cottage in the woods. It was interrupted by numerous phone calls and minor crises. It was confusing. I was ashamed of myself for being so late with it. It didn't feel prayerful at all.

But guess what? And here's the great learning for me from Shalem to date: it might not have felt like God was in it, but God was in it. Inescapably, tenderly, generously. I am grateful for this experience. I hope this little book will tell Shalem's story and spread the light we share here a little farther. It has already done its transforming work with me.

From Shalem's newsletter archives, an article by past staff member, Gerald May:

What I Think I Know About Love

by Gerald May

For the past four years I've been privileged to be a part of a stimulating and ground-breaking annual conference on Psychiatry and the Christian Faith sponsored by the Institute of Religion at Texas Medical Center in Houston. Last October the conference focused on love. I entitled my presentation "What I Think I Know About Love," and explained that if I spoke of what I didn't know about love, my talk would have gone on for days; if I spoke only of what I knew for certain, I could only smile and sit down. So I made a list of ten things I think I know about love, and now share them here with you.

1. Love is a Mystery
I barely have a sense of what I mean when I say love, let alone what it means to you. That's as it should be; God save us if we ever believe we have figured love out. James Thurber defined love as "that pleasant confusion we know exists." It's the best definition I have heard, but you have to appreciate the difference between confusion and mystery. Confusion is what happens when you try to figure out a mystery. Mystery itself can be very sweet, just as it is.

2. Love is the Essence of Creation
Love not only makes the world go round, it makes the world. The great contemplative traditions are of one mind about this; the universe is created out of love, by love, for love, and is made up of love. Get down deep enough into the reality of anything and love is what is there. It is the foundational energy field of creation. We are in love like fish are in the sea. It is love that connects us with and draws us toward one another and the world around us.

3. Love is Our Primary Motivation
It may be simplistic, but I can think of only three fundamental motivations we have: love, reflex and revenge. Love makes us do most everything we do. It is our eros, our passion, our spirit. It is behind everything creative and many things destructive. Even many of the worst wars and acts of violence can be traced to distorted love: love of power, possession, security, of one's own tribe or nation. Love--as self-survival--is behind most of our reflexes too. It is only in acts of pure vengeance that I can find no essence of love. Perhaps that is why the Spanish proverb says revenge is a dish best eaten cold.

4. Love is Usually Accompanied by Attachment
Much as we might hope otherwise, our loves are nearly always accompanied by some level of possessiveness, drivenness, compulsion or dependency. At the very least we project images onto those we love or see them as extensions of ourselves. This is one of the many reasons love hurts us so much. Loving makes us vulnerable, literally "capable of being wounded." Only in rare, exquisite moments is our love truly free and unconditional. In several of my books I've talked about the neurological reasons for this. It's just the way we are, the way our brains and bodies work. No use fussing about it, but it's good to recognize when it's getting out of hand.

5. Nevertheless, Love is Freeing
It may sound like a paradox after the last point, but love always invites freedom. It always points toward increasing freedom for both lover and beloved, encouraging them to be who they really are. The essential meaning of salvation in the Judeo-Christian tradition (the Yesh root in Hebrew) connotes being set free. Love always wants to become more unconditional and unconditioned.

6. Spiritual Growth is Growth in Love
We can and do grow in love, and in freedom for love. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, this means increasing fulfillment of the two great commandments. I think of Anthony deMello saying that early in his life he wanted to be a holy man. Then in mid-journey he wanted to be a loving man. Finally, he said he wanted to be a free man.

7. Growth in Love Depends on Grace
We can't do it ourselves. As the 12-step programs know so well, salvation happens by grace. There's a story of a little village in Bosnia that refused to join the fighting. When militias recruited young men for battle, they said no. When the militias then burned their houses, other families took them in. Other towns had tried everything to keep from joining the war, but they failed. But in some way, the neighbors in this village remained at peace while fighting raged all around them. No one knows how it happened, but nearly everyone in the country knows the story. They slowly shake their heads. "God," they say, "It can only have been God."

8. Love Can't Be Separated From Attentiveness
Somewhere Erik Erickson said that a foundational element of infant development is experiencing "the gaze of a delighted other." When we love someone, we really look at them, listen to them, delight in their presence. Similarly, whenever we really see someone, truly hear them, it is virtually impossible not to love them, if only just a little. The deepest act of love is not help or service; it is immediate, attentive presence.

9. No One is Incapable of Loving
When I was practicing psychotherapy, many patients questioned their ability to love. Maybe we all do now and then, and God knows we are all capable of acting in very unloving ways. But I've worked in prisons with people who committed unimaginably violent crimes, and I've been in war. Everywhere, in everyone, I have seen times of deep caring, feelings of tenderness, and acts of selfless compassion. Maybe no one is incapable of loving because love isn't a capability. It's a gift that we have a capacity for. John of the Cross said all our faculties are endless "caverns," bottomless capacities for love.

10. We Do Not Love Ourselves Enough
Just as I have never met anyone who was unable to love, neither have I met anyone who loved themselves sufficiently. It is even a very rare person, I think, who knows self-love enough to really understand the meaning of the second great commandment. Of course we're all selfish to some degree, but most of our selfish acts come from fear or compulsion and are more self-defeating than self-loving. St. Bernard of Clairveaux said that real love of self comes late in the spiritual journey, by means of falling in love with God. I don't know because I'm not there yet. But I do think that we are all always being gazed upon by a continually delighted Other, and as we slowly learn that, as we gradually come to know the truth of it, we do grow into the two great commandments. I see it happening all the time, all around me; in the midst of the worst suffering and violence and despair, love is still happening. We do learn, and as God said to Julian of Norwich, "You'll keep on learning love, and you'll never learn anything else, ever."

That's what I think I know about love.

Wilderness Reflections

by Tina Brown

Today I remember the wilderness retreat as one grand, pristine moment of grace. So many images sweep my mind: the nippy chill of the mornings; awakening seemingly with a smile on my face; the steamy, campfire--perked coffee embracing all my senses as I cuddled my hands around the cup. Images also of people being present to God in the way right for them--in quiet; sharing a thought occasionally; joyously singing; savoring food; laughing; swinging on a swing hanging from a mighty big tree; so many images they go on and on.

I remember hiking with my family as I was growing up, and there always seemed to be a magnetism for me in the natural surroundings of the woods, an alluring call that has always carried a sense of seduction for me. And yet I see now that somehow this natural attraction has been laid aside for years.

I remember the strong pull for me to go on this retreat the minute my eyes read about it. I could hardly believe this pull. I couldn't ignore it. I tried. I tried because first of all the timing seemed quite inconvenient. A number of meetings and plans would have to be foregone. Once I got by this I remember being just plain scared. The very attraction of nature that I revered for so long quickly revealed another side. A side that leaped into anxiety with occasional nightmares and a few very restless nights. I remember the fear setting in after I sent in my registration and signed some sort of release paper with the word "death" in it. Death. What was this all about?

Many thoughts scared me. I remember one "daymare" where I awoke in the morning and looked out to see dozens of snakes surrounding my tent! And thoughts around the darkness of night, alone in my tent, came often. Even the six-hour drive into unfamiliar country concerned me. What if I got lost? Would I be able to put up a tent--I'm so unmechanical. I remember nearly calling Shalem to say I'd changed my mind; I'm not going.

Monday morning, September 19th, arrived. I pulled out of my driveway at 5 AM, clutching a cup of coffee. It was still night. The waiting and anticipating were over. My fears seemed to dissipate, and a strange sense of freedom filled me. I felt like I was driving "home." HOME. What was this about?

Driving west the full moon seemed like a welcoming beacon. I was going someplace to live simply, to be somehow closer to God, more available to God. No schedules, open-ended time, and no fuss with clothing choices and makeup. I was struck with how complicated the previous weeks of planning were just to go somewhere to live simply, to live lovingly, to just be. I sensed I was leaving the wilderness of my everyday life and going to a clearing of some sort. I desperately wanted this, I desperately wanted to feel God. For so long my prayer life had seemed flat, impoverished. Maybe this time would help somehow. While the moon descended, I saw the sunrise in my rearview mirror. Never before had I seen the setting moon and rising sun simultaneously.

For three days I tasted the luxury of simple living. Time was not much of a factor. In fact, it didn't have to be a factor at all. I decided I wanted to join the rest of the group for supper, reflecting with one another about our day around a campfire, so I needed to have a little sense of time.

But things weren't quite as simple and serene as I thought. Now I can see that there were times when I introduced a bit of complication. This mostly had to do with trying to capture the essence of some moments forever, like freezing the moment I suppose. I had brought my camera with lots of film, brought a journal to write in and write a lot, brought my bible to read scripture. Yet whenever I moved into taking pictures, writing or reading scripture, I felt a dissonance. How could this be? These are all good things to do. And yet my intent seemed more to capture the moment or to force an expansion of meaning into the moment. I was moving away from exactly one of the things I went for. Just to be--to be in the moment. Thankfully, I was open to God who I heard say, "Tina, not now," when I was taking pictures, writing or reading. This was a time to just be in the moment as the moment came and went. This was a time to soak in the holiness of God in everything and everyone. Just to soak in God's love.

I know at least one of the times, though, I didn't listen to God. That occurred as I set out for a long hike. I had named a particular destination which after hours of hiking I never found. I kept on hiking, looking for the place, long after the place seemed no longer important anyway. It's as if I were frozen in a moment that occurred hours before, the moment I decided to go to a particular place. I remember some dissonance on that little trip but paid no attention to it until just a few moments ago.

"Home" seemed like a place where I would shed the shackles of everyday life, a place where each moment was to be lived gently, not forced in any way. But no, even there, high up in the mountains, living simply in my $30 tent, I managed to move into some of my old ways. And yet I'm glad, because God used that time to etch into me a little more deeply how important it is to listen to God, to listen through the din of daily activity no matter how "good" I think I'm doing. Even here, back from the wilderness, I can shed some shackles, be kinder to myself around scheduling and follow more closely the Holy Spirit in all of my choices. "Going home" can happen every moment, whether I'm on the mountain top away from my daily wilderness or whether I'm at my earthly home here in Pennsylvania. I just need to listen to God, to listen, listen more, never stop listening. And when I miss God's guiding presence, God won't give up on me. I trust that God will eventually get my attention. I know that now ever so more deeply. Yes, I do!

Tina is a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program and Group Leaders Program.

At Last! Shalem Finds A New Home!

by Tilden Edwards

Beginning in April and culminating a two-year search, Shalem will have a new home: 5430 Grosvenor Lane, Bethesda, Maryland 20814, on the spacious grounds of the Renewable Natural Resources Center, very close to the Washington Beltway, Wisconsin Avenue, and the Grosvenor Metro Station. All events scheduled for the Cleveland Park Church this spring we anticipate will continue to meet at the church, and the major lecture/workshop with Joanna Macy still will be held at the Metropolitan United Methodist Church.

On December 28, Shalem signed a lease for office and meeting space that culminates a long search for a new physical home. Little did we realize at the beginning of this search that it would also lead us to thoroughly re-examine Shalem's long-term mission, re-shape its internal structure, and learn a deeper patience in trying to adhere to a God-centered decision-making process. I would like to share with you a few of the highlights of this search for space, in the hope that it might ring some bells for you about the mysterious relation of divine invitation and human response in organizational life.

Two years ago, while leading a Shalem contractual event at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico, one of our staff/board members came across the plaque of the donor of the land. When she read it, she suddenly felt a strong indication that she was meant to sell her house and donate its proceeds to Shalem so that we might be able to move out of our cramped office/meeting space that we had come to about ten years ago. While she was at that event, several other staff members had sensed strong new indications that we were meant to move. Later when all of us were together and we found out about these seemingly independent leadings, we began to feel that God's Spirit was at work in this. The staff member sold her house with amazing speed, generously gave the proceeds to Shalem for a special Home Fund, and a space committee was organized to begin the search process.

We immediately discovered through a friend that a nearby convent was available for sale. We looked at it carefully, thinking that this might well be the space that was meant for us. As it turned out we were nowhere near ready to make such a major decision (nor was the convent). It became clear that we needed to look not just at the invitation to new space but also at developing a clearer sense of our long-term mission, staffing, finances, and real space needs for the years ahead. Thus began a long, arduous process of envisioning our future, the results of which were reported to you last Spring. In the past year that process has led to a major re-shaping and clarification of staff roles and relation of staff to our Board, as well as a much greater sense of team decision-making. This process still is not fully completed, but it has already had a very positive impact on our work.

In the meantime, the space committee continued its search. As we became aware of prices and upkeep costs, our original thought of having a combined residential/office/event space faded. We became much more modest in our views of what we could afford, even for office/event space alone. Besides high costs, we were very frustrated by strict zoning laws and by both a lack of adequate parking and of a numinous environment for events. Place after place showed itself as inadequate or too costly for us. By last summer we had reached the point of wondering if there really was any place right for us.

When the space committee met again this Fall it did so as a chastened body. The committee and everyone else around Shalem had given a great deal of prayer for the right space to show itself ever since the search began. It had not happened. A subtle shift took place in many of us: I think we began looking at places with more detachment. We still wanted new space, but we had lost the last vestiges of thinking that we could take this into our own hands and make the right place show itself through the right kind of extra effort and thought.

Just as we seemed to reach the end of any viable possibilities, we learned about the availability of space for non-profit organizations in a building owned by the Renewable Natural Resources Foundation, which is set amidst 36 acres of partly forested land. This was the first opening that had been available there in 12 years. Another organization had just suspended its decision about occupying the vacancy. We carefully explained to the foundation director who we were, and though he was not used to dealing with religious organizations, he seemed to grasp why the place could be especially right for us. When the board and staff saw it, everyone agreed as to its potential goodness for us. Within two weeks the lease was signed.

We will tell you more about the new space in the next issue. For now, we will just say that it will include two meditation rooms, one of which will double as our library. For large events we will use space elsewhere, and probably for a few smaller events as well. Residential events will continue to be held at Bon Secours Spiritual Center. We also plan to continue our long-term covenant with the Washington Cathedral.

In hindsight, it feels like a guiding divine hand has been with us. The lure of space was a lure to much more than space. It was an invitation to listen more deeply to the nature of our mission for the years ahead, to let our internal relationships and structure be renewed and revised, and to learn how to be prayerfully attentive to what was really called for in terms of space, waiting for the Spirit to show the way rather than trying to engineer anything separately. It's clear that we were simply not ready for new outer space until our internal spaces had been opened to the Spirit's fresh waters. Once again, always in hindsight, we've discovered that God's Spirit knows what it's about and that we need to trust its circuitous paths.

Shalem E-Newsletter