back home

I've needed to end my walking a few days early. Rick had gotten me from Portsmouth and brought me back home before I was to head for a last few days in the northern end of the state (Woodsville to Lisbon to Littleton). Instead of heading north, I've decided that the better wisdom is to pay attention to the heaviness in my chest and the asthma issues it raises. I will take chances in this life, but as much as possible they will always be measured ones. I know myself and my asthma enough to know that this was a time to not be out walking.

So instead, I'm home early. I am sorry to be missing the northern loop of this journey. It is an area where life is so different than in the southern, larger towns.

But, I've still got lots of notes, lots of experiences, lots of thoughts, that I wasn't able to blog about earlier. You'll still hear more from the June walk, even as I move into the next period of this sabbatical.

what the walls say

One of the things I've been thinking about is our buildings.

What do our buildings say about us? I've walked by different churches. Stepped inside some. Peered in the windows of others. Tried to get inside, and couldn't.

"Open daily for prayer" the sign out front said. I couldn't find an open door. Someone from that church comments to me that they don't think it's left open for prayer anymore. I think about my own church, with the sign out front that is accurate MOST of the year. But what about those who come in the summer, looking for that 6:30 service? And they only find a locked building.

I think it says: doesn't matter what we say to the world . . . you really have to already be an 'insider' to know what's going on here. (I make a note to call the Jr Warden about finding a way to adjust our own sign.)

I walk up the street and see lovely modern arches and rounded roofs. A modern building that speaks "Greek Orthodox" to me (who spent some time worshiping with the Greeks when I first left the church of my upbringing). I come around the corner, and sure enough . . . the Greek Orthodox Cathedral. I walk up the front path to the large glass doors and peer in. A large icon sits in the front entrance, with candles lit before it. I can see colored light further in - the sunlight streaming through windows. There are more votive candles flickering in the darker interior of the church. I wish to enter and pray. The door is locked, although I can see people at the other end of a passageway connecting church with what must be classrooms and offices. They stand there and watch me. Nobody moves. I take my pack off and kneel to pray, outside the glass doors looking in. Pack back on, I walk back out to the sidewalk and continue my journey.

A beautiful, absolutely beautiful stone church, sitting at the far side of a grassy 'commons'. Very English looking. Very proper looking. Large rose window in the gothic stone building. They hold the 'family' service in the multi-purpose building across the street. Have they been listening to their own buildings?

My own church - we had to cut down the very very large pine trees that surrounded the property. They had reached the end of their lives, were getting diseased and presented an increasing danger of coming down on their own. Many people, even 6 years later, wonder about why we cut the trees down. But there's the other comment that has stuck with me: "It's like you all came out of hiding! You can be seen now."

The Boston Globe is on the table before me in the morning. The cover story is about the move that the Roman Catholic Archdiocese is having to make. They've had to sell their buildings and are moving into modern, cheaper, office space. The paper quotes Cardinal William H. O'Connell 80 years ago, talking about their location, surrounded by schools and seminaries. Sitting in their beautiful enclave, safely separated from the 'other' world, he says, "Every hilltop now for miles around gleams the sacred sign of our redemption." The paper comments on their new location: "Now their neighboring hilltops feature a multiplex, a sports club, and a lottery billboard."

I walk into a church built not too long ago. The worship space is large and open, 'multi-purpose' feeling, with wood beams and high ceilings. Chairs, rather than pews, are arranged facing an altar in the corner. Clear glass windows are behind the altar, allowing the outside world to be seen. Color and softness are provided by 'liturgical' quilts hanging on the walls. I, who love that English gothic stuff - stained glass and dark wood and stone walls- and who resonates with the Greek Orthodox love of image and icon and symbol, find myself drawn to this space. So different. Modern. Open. Clean. Looking out on the world. I wonder what difference it makes to the worshiping community - to the gathering of God's people.

What difference does it make - - when we open our doors and make every effort to communicate well with the world? When we no longer separate ourselves from the world but allow ourselves to both see and be seen?

the little children

Two images:

(1) I'm sitting at the bar. In front of me is a wall of sports pictures. You know the type - the great hockey moment; the pensive face of the coach in deep thought; the slam dunk. All signed, of course. This wall had, overall, a very refined look to it, compared to most.

Except.

Except for that one picture, right in the middle.

The beautiful blond haired boy. Probably about 5 years old. Maybe 6. But not older than that.

He's in the stands at a baseball game. Red Sox fan shirt very visible. I guess his picture was hanging there because someone thought it was cute.

Instead, it's a very sad picture. This beautiful little boy has that angry shouting sports fan face going. He's leaning forward. Mouth open in a growling shout. Right arm extended . . . giving the finger. To the ump? To the Yankees? Who knows.

But it was about the saddest thing I've seen. And maybe more so because it was hanging there because someone thinks it cute.

Second image (2) I stay with a young family. Three small children. The oldest is a boy about the same age as the one in the picture.

Going to church was still a pretty new thing to this young father, in his mid-30's. He hadn't grown up going to church. It wasn't out of 'habit'. I ask him what started it all - what had gotten him through the door in the first place?

His answer: "My son said to me, 'Dad, I'd like to go worship God with you.' "

*****
We can nurture the best, or the worst, in these children. What a gift to me to see some of the best being nurtured in these three young children. And through them, being nurtured in their parents. What a gift to be welcomed into that.

Pay attention

Durham is a quiet place in the summer. UNH does offer some summer classes, but I imagine the flavor of life is much changed from when the full school is in session.

I went to a small celtic pub around 7 last night. It was empty. Me and the bartender. Sometimes that is a good thing - bartenders in empty pubs can be good conversation! But she was so intent on the movie she had playing on the bar TV that it simply wasn't to be. The conversation would have to start something like: "Excuse me, I know that Tommy Lee Jones is just about to shoot at the bad guys . . . .but wouldn't you rather talk with me about God and church and faith???" Nope . . . It would have been silly to have even tried. I ate a few of their 25 cent wings, waiting in vain for anyone else to come in, paid my bill and headed on down the street.

Libby's Bar and Grill seemed to be more active, so that's where I headed next. It seemed to be a wider cross section of community life gathered there than would ever dream of hanging out at that first pub. I took a seat at the bar, ordered my Guinness, and scanned the menu. Greens. I needed greens. Got my order in for a chicken caesar and settled in.

A young man sits down, orders a beer and lets out a tired sounding sigh. "Long day?" I ask.

He's an MBA student - going part time and working still. Had just gotten out of class. "At least this pace is only for a few years," was his comment. There seems to be no room in his life to add another obligation, another thing to put on his calendar. No room for church. No room to pay attention to any of that.

An older man sits down on the other side of me. (Older is all relative here in a college town, although he did seem to be a little older than I am.) Someone else spots him and comes over to greet him. It ends up that neither live here . . . And both just happened to be here at the same time. They share family news. "My daughter is getting married! She wanted to get married in June, but couldn't get on the church calendar until August. I guess that's what happens in such a large church."

I see my opening, and charge right in.

"What church is that? Is it around here?" (This is where I learn that neither man is from here.) The church in question has 3800 members, and I assume it must be Roman Catholic.

I'm wrong. It's Lutheran - in Minnesota.

They ask about my church affiliation, and we talk a bit about the Episcopal church. Man from Minnesota has a nephew who just became an Episcopal priest. "I think he's probably the tallest priest in the country!" His nephew is 6'7". I tell him about a priest I know who is taller. He's going to get his nephew in touch with Peter. He enjoyed getting that contact, and then returned to his table where he had been eating with his wife.

The man at the bar continued the conversaton with me. He teaches Greek and Latin at a Boston high school, and is here in Durham for a conference of the American Classical League.

He taught college for a number of years, and then moved to the high school ages, and truly loves it. I listened to him talk about opening up this other world to these students through the gift of Greek.

He has students who come from so many difficult family situations. Many are being raised by their grandparents. Or a neighbor. He is obviously in pain for these students, and the challenges of their lives.

He told a story about one student who got hurt somehow and ended up on crutches. This teacher set it up with the student to meet him in the morning to borrow his elevator key for the day, so the student wouldn't have to navigate the stairs. Then the student would meet him at the end of each day to return the key.

The first day he was off the crutches, he still went and met his teacher in the morning. Not for the key, but to thank him. He threw a huge hug around the teacher, and almost cried his thanks.

The teacher was at first totally baffled by the response. He really hadn't done much at all, he felt. The response of the student seemd so out of proportion to the event. But as he thought about it, he realized that this was a student who very possibly didn't have anyone in his life simply paying attention. And here was someone who had paid attention to his needs, and stepped forward with a small gift to meet that need, and then stayed consistent in the giving.

He talked about what he has learned through his years of teaching, and the most important thing of all has simply been to pay attention. To respect the students enough to pay attention.

It continues to be the almost constant refrain of this time I've been gifted with: listen. Pay attention. Get out of myself and pay attention and listen to each one in front of me.

This teacher loves his job. Loves the opportunity to pay attention to these students and in turn, have them pay attention to what he is so passionate about: the beauty and world that the Greek language opens up for him.

I think about how Jesus paid attention to each one in front of him. Nicodemus and his questions. Zaccheus and his curiosity. The Samaritan woman at the well, and her hunger to be known.

And we are, each one of us, called to follow as disciples. Learning to pay attention.

Love God . . . Love your neighbor. You've got to pay attention in order to love. Love is such a powerful verb. But it doesn't have to be big powerful acts. Love can be done by simply paying attention.

********
Other stuff I'm mulling over from those conversations:
The young man with 'no time' for church, and another young man I know who has commented to me about what a deep deep need it is in his life to find those 'set aside' times and places. One who has discovered the real gift that Sabbath is, and how extra important it is in the midst of a hectic young life. How do we help those who have already decided that there simply isn't time?

And with the teacher: these are students who are 'forced' to go to school. And he is working within that to open up in them a passion for learning. How does this relate to 'forcing' our kids to go to church? How does it become sharing our own passion for journeying with God and with a community of faith, instead of it becoming "cramming it down their throats." Even this teacher talked about his own daughter and her reaction to church being one of it having been 'shoved down her throat'. (Interesting to hear those exact words come from him.) He and his wife were the first couple that the then Cardinal of the Archdiocese of Boston allowed to be married by a priest and a Congregational minister with the service being held at the congregational church (in the late 60s) and they tried to raise their one child with a foot in each.
*********
Conversation going on at the table next to me this morning and I sit here in this coffee shop and write: 6 guys, all in their work uniforms, on some kind of a coffee break . . . "Yeah, life is tough (older man to young 20-something). But church is a whole lot cheaper than drugs."
Evangelism going on in the work crew. Simple sharing.
******
I got my book blurb submitted yesterday. Me! Writing something in 25-50 words. Ha! I'm taking it out on you all today by writing lots and lots.

Choke hold

A few days ago I had a wonderful, but brief interlude at home- the transition from Concord to the Seacoast area needed a car ride. After picking me up from Concord (and bringing me home), Rick then brought me down to Rochester to begin this part of the journey, and we had to once again make our goodbyes. I think it's the hardest part of this entire sabbatical journey.

But the challenge to "find answers" is also hard. Not emotionally, like the goodbyes, but hard nonetheless. Early on in this month, another clergy had wistfully said to me, "I know it's probably too much to ask for, but I think it would be wonderful if you were able to come back from your sabbatical with a list of '5 Things We Should All Be Doing' to break through those barriers between the unchurched and the church community."

5 things. That suggestion has actually stuck with me, and I'm working on it. But as I travel and listen, I realize that it really isn't about discovering something new. Something we don't already know. Something we haven't already read about and thought about.

I'm not going to end up reinventing church. Or finding one amazing breakthrough 'thing' that will turn us instantly into the church of the 21st century.

But I will come home with new focus on old things. A renewed commitment to the important things, rather than the urgent ones.l And a new commitment to evangelism.

Yes, the E word. It's about sharing good news (which is what euangelion is all about in the greek anyway).

My first afternoon in Rochester had some major clouds piling up. The thunder and lightening began rolling, and I was desperate for a place to get in out of the rain. Slim's Tex Mex Saloon had a sign that said that they opened at 4, which was still 10 minutes away. But the neon open sign was lit, so I tried the front door and walked in out of the rain into an empty place.

Right on my heels two young men slipped in as well.

Within moments someone came out of the back, and we were assured that yes, we could come on in. I settled my pack into a corner, and took a seat at the bar. The other two left a bar seat open between us, and took seats as well.

Chips and salsa and a guinness before me, the rain no longer dripping out of my hair, I asked the bartender about what she knew about the Episcopal church here in Rochester. "I know it closed, but I was wondering if you knew where it was?"

She had no idea. I asked the two young men, even specifically asking about a church that I had seen that was now a bank. (Which I later found out was the former Episcopal church.) The only church they knew up in that area was Holy Rosary.

The one young man admitted that he never went to church anymore, and that he might even be an agnostic.

"Anymore? Did you used to go to church?"

He talked about having church crammed down his throat when he was a kid. Roman Catholic school even. He really used that term: "crammed down my throat."

It didn't sound as if it ever tasted like good news to him. It sounded more like he was still gagging on it instead.

We've got good news. I think he would respond to that. But how do we begin to help people who are already choking because of the way it's been given to them in the past? How do we overcome the gag reflex they've already developed?

From what I've been hearing, over and over again, that would be one of those "5 things".

Jesus is in the house

One thing I'm becoming more and more aware of as this journey continues is how 'in the moment' such a journey needs to be. I suspect the rest of my life should try to function more like that as well.

What I mean by this is that need to listen to the flavor of a moment, the flavor of a room, of a time. To not force an idea or agenda, but to be open to the needs at hand. I guess it goes back to how I see Jesus traveling - not bringing an agenda but listening and asking and responding to what is in front of him. Hungry people get fed. Blind people are healed. Those not even knowing their need of it, are forgiven. "Tax collectors and sinners" are hung out with. Are welcomed into relationship through an evening meal. A dinner party.

I have discovered that for me, 'one off' conversations happen best at quiet places. Even for an extravert like myself, the spirit of the place prevails. The quiet Irish pub. The bench along the street where you can stop and sit a spell. The shopkeeper in the small store.

When I entered "The Village Trestle" for an evening, it was obviously not going to be a quiet night. It was busy and noisy and happy. People joked with one another. Teased each other. Connected with each other in many different ways. Before smoking was banned in all restaurants, I suspect it was the premier smokers' hangout. It still seemed to be, as the steady stream of people moved in and out, "Coming outside with me?" There they'd stand or sit, continuing their connections as they smoked.

There were two of us there who were first timers at this place. Both of us were welcomed in and joked with. The other a soldier just back from Iraq, who had discovered the $1.50 draft beer for happy hour and decided this was the place to hang out at while he waited for his laundry to finish at the laundromat around the corner. Myself, not in clergy collar, trying to see which way conversation might go without its immediate recognition.

They taught me to play pool (well, I've played around with pool in the past, but never like this). They shared strategies and corrected my form. TC even lost a game on purpose to make sure I could play a second game (winner stays at the table and takes on the next person).

But a place like this was not the place for the quiet conversation. Not on a first visit. This was the kind of place to hang out in time and again. To build relationships in. To become friends in. To let the relationships be part of God's love and welcome.

They introduced me to Jesus. "Jesus is in the house!" came the loud exclamation as he came in through the door. I expressed my disbelief. Jesus claimed to have the ID to prove it, although he had no idea what his mother was thinking when she named him (they are not hispanic - the only group that I know of that still uses the name regularly).

Jesus took what was obviously his regular stool at the bar. He bantered easily with Renee, the bartender. Friends came and chatted with him. He was at home there.

I think the other Jesus would have been very comfortable there, too.

I wished, and not for the first time on this trip, that I had another night to come back. Another night to be in this particular gathering spot. With these particular people.

How did Jesus do it (our Jewish Jesus, rather than this American one at the bar) - always being on the road? Moving on from town to town. "The son of man has no place to lay his head." A wanderer, without home.

I'm glad I'm not called to be Jesus. I think I really really like the gift of being called to one place. To be able to know and to be known.

The trick though is to figure out how to know and be known better outside the normal boundaries of parish life. In our own towns. Where we have more than one evening.

Not a sparrow falls

Not sure why I did this, but when I came across the dead Indigo Bunting I was so sad .. . and took a picture. Then about a mile later was the Redstart. I took another picture, and my mind went to the gospel, which I realized later was the gospel for today: Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.

It was reassurance along the road, that God was there.

dog love

I've been carrying a book along with me on this trip. I had planned on carrying (and reading) one book or another about the emergent church . . . but instead I found myself first carrying (and reading) one about a dog.

From the introduction: a friend asks the author, "Is there any religion - has there ever been one - that speaks of a God who loves us as much as dog?" And she then quotes a student: "If I thought that God loved me as much as my dog, it would change everything."

The book is called "Dogspell: The Gospel According to Dog" (I can't figure out how to underline things on this blog, so please excuse the formatting here.) The author is Mary Ellen Ashcroft, and the book is due to be re-released this fall. I was asked to write a "blurb" for the back cover, and received the publisher's proof copy right before leaving for this trip, with the expectation that I'd have the blurb in by July 1.

So . . . I'm carry, and reading, "Dogspell".

It's a re-reading for me. I read this book when it first came out, and have given away many copies over the last few years. But it had been a long time since I've actually read it myself. So I'm re-reading it now.

"Dogspell" is a lengthy parable. Or maybe a series of parables. About God's love. About Mary Ellen's black lab, Cluny, who loved her so deeply, so thoroughly, so consistently. Who taught her about what God's love really looks like. Waiting to welcome her, no matter what. No matter.

Each short chapter of this book is a heart moving look at love. God's love. The love that dog offers. No strings. No conditions. Nothing held back. Ever.

What if??? What if we were able to really believe that God loves us as much as dog does? What if we were able to share that with the world around us?

Dogspell seems to be the perfect book for this journey of mine. God's love. God's faithfulness. God's welcome. Waiting for all. Eager and wagging and yearning to leap all over us and cover us with wet kisses.

Isn't that what we all need? Doggie love. Godly love. Love without bounds. Without reason. Without end.

It's what every one I've met yearns for. And somehow, we've missed telling them that God is yearning to welcome them home. Yearning to jump up on them and tell them that nobody else will do.

As the author says: "Despite years of prayer, religious seeking, theological training, and church involvement, I believed more fully in the steadfast love and faithfulness of dog than of God."

I think that this is what we each want to believe. And what the world wants to hear from us.

Waiting for you to come home, dog is waiting eagerly to bound across the floor and cover you with greeting and with love. No explanations needed. Just welcome. Waiting. Eagerly waiting. Not for excuses. Not for repentance. Not for penitence. Just waiting for YOU.

It is heartbreaking, heartmoving, heartwarming, just to move around the edges of such a possibility.

Can God really love me that much? That easily? That fully?

Can I possibly find a way to let the world know that God loves them that much, that easily, that fully, too?

My husband's black lab, Berry, has adopted me as his own. He waits at home while I travel. He sheds hair in his grief at missing me. The vacuum can't keep up with his love, poured out in hair all over the house.

God/dog loves me that much.

It is enough.

It is more than enough.

Riding along

Some towns seem easier to find conversation in than others.  Nashua was a good place.  Benches all along the main street invited people to 'sit a spell' - and we did.  Sometimes I started a conversation, sometimes someone else did. 
 
Manchester seems to group all the benches in the park areas.  Someone commented to me: "If they put in benches, people might sit on them!"  I went to the parks, but couldn't bring myself to wake those who were curled up, jacket pulled over their heads, catching a nap.  And there weren't too many others around.  No one just 'sitting a spell.'   The lunch cafe was bustling, but everyone was in such a hurry.  
 
So I got on the bus.
 
You've got to understand - that was foreign territory to me.   I've always been a 'car owner' and public transportation has not even been a viable option in most of the places I've ever lived.  At least, I don't think it was a viable option.  But who knows?  I never really tried, either.
 
I looked all around the bus stops, looking for maps or directions or routes.  What do you do to ride the bus?  I had a particular destination - the Mall of New Hampshire.  I wanted to pick up a light jacket as some evenings had gotten cool for all my shortsleeve stuff. 
 
I walked to the downtown bus hub, and still couldn't find a map or list of routes.  But there was a phone number on the signs - - so I called it.  On hold for quite a while, but then was very nicely told that I could get a route map from any stopped bus.  There was one right in front of me.
 
I ran over to the bus, climbed on and asked.  And discovered that it was even the bus I wanted.  $1.  Exact change only.  I settled into a seat. 
 
We wound our way through town, through parts of town that I had been warned about not walking through.  People got on and off.  The bus driver climbed down at one point and helped a woman with her bag, as she struggled with the stairs climbing into the bus.  She settled into a seat right up front.  I wondered how far she needed to carry that bag when she finally got off the bus. 
 
I wasn't alone in being a stranger to the public transportation.  Most of the people I spoke with later, who go to the larger Episcopal church in town, didn't know how to use the public transportation either.  They admitted, with genuine sadness tinged maybe even with a bit of shame, that there is a bit of prejudice or snobbery or whatever you want to call it - - those "other" people used the buses.   I know that in much larger cities there are many who don't own cars and that public transportation of one kind or another is part of the fabric of life that crosses all kinds of social boundaries.  But in our smaller cities, that doesn't seem to be the case, yet.

Many of those on the bus spoke other languages. A fascinating thing I learned about Manchester was that it is such an 'international' place. I went to the Millyard Museum to learn some of the city history, and learned that the entire history of Manchester is filled with people coming from other countries. In 1970 there was about 30% of the population that were either born in another country, or their parents were born in another country. It was a glimpse of New Hampshire that I hadn't had before (with most of my New Hampshire experience being up north).

I didn't have 'conversations' on the bus, but I found it an eye-opening experience as everyday people got on and off, in neighborhoods where they sought to create 'home' and speaking languages that connected them with 'home' in a different way than mine does. I take English for granted. I take it for granted that I understand what is being said around me.

I struggle with our 'church' language sometimes. It is such a comfort to hear the language and know that I am 'home'. But I am more and more aware of how foreign that language is to so many. How it speaks of being in a foreign land, so to speak, to those who don't understand what we say.

How do we love and live into our language, without it being a barrier to those who don't know it? Narthex. Eucharist. Rite I or Rite II. Service Music. Sanctus. Sacristy. Sexton. "Open your Bibles to . . . " The confusing array of books in the pews in front of a person. The music everyone else seems to know, but you don't, and you don't know where to find it (happened to me even this last week). All these things can make someone know or feel that they are the foreigner.

How badly do you need something to live in a foreign land? To learn a new language?

******************
Most of this was written yesterday, while sitting in Goffstown, but there was 'maintenance' being done on the Blogger site and I couldn't post it then. Trying again this morning, while I sit at the laundromat and wait for my clothes to finish.

We should Dance

I took the scenic route into Manchester today. Meaning: I missed a turn and walked about 2-3 miles extra. It was not something the bottoms of my feet wanted. Today was tough on them as much of the walking didn't lend itself to slipping off the pavement and walking on unpaved ground. I was stuck instead mostly with pavement and sidewalks, and my feet could truly tell the difference.

The legs are fine, but the bottom of my feet are screaming at me. And, as a result, tonight I kinda hobble.

I went to a local Irish pub, figuring that if I didn't know much about any particular restaurant's food, at least I knew I could get a Guinness there. And I also figured that the "sports bar" would be no place for easy conversation on this night of the Celtics.

The Irish pub was a pretty quiet place tonight. But Chris was there. And we easily started up a conversation, neither one of us anxious to sit and eat totally alone.

We talked environment. Care of the earth. Our use of resources. I found out he has a Smart Car! (Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's Smart Car. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's Smart Car.) I kept repeating that to myself, but it really didn't do much good. I was coveting. I tried not to drool on the bar. That's just bad form, even for very very cool things like this. But I was impressed - here was someone willing to try to live what he believed . . . and had found a fun way to do it! Does it get any better than that?

I asked about how it was on the highway - - and found out that he had driven it on a road trip to Maine and then immediately down to Massachusetts, and found it to be a great car for the trip.

But in that 'car talk' I picked up that there was something else important in Chris' life. He's a contra dancer. And caller.

And he converted me tonight.

He talked about the contra dance community in ways that made my heart ache - I do so want to hear people talk about church community like that. With such deep affection. Joy. About it being a place where all are welcome, and newcomers who really don't know what they're doing are surrounded with help and care and - - dare I wish it for church? - - - fun!

I know that there are times and places when we do talk about our faith communities that way, because we have experienced it that way. But I'm also so sad that we don't experience that fullness often enough.

Chris talked about the community as not being perfect. As struggling to figure out how best to deal with problems that arise. How best to balance the needs of the various people who come. It sounded awfully familiar!

And he talked about being a caller -- about being gifted with the position of calling people into the dance . . . about what it means to him as his gifts and abilities create a place where others can dance into community and joy. He knows something about what I do, at its best.

The Greek Orthodox talk about the Trinity using the word perichoresis (um . . . someone want to look that up and see if I've got the "English" spelling right?) It's a greek work that means to dance together. It's an amazingly incredible way of seeing God. God as a community dancing together.

I wonder what might happen if we got rid of the pews, and made room for ourselves to be called into dance as well. It may not need to become physical reality in that way . . . but it does need to be the reality of our lives. Lives of dance that welcome and surround and create community. Lives of dance, with God calling the best out of our hearts, and dancing us deeper into joy.

I may be hobbling tonight . . . but I really just want to dance.

Chilly Monday

I'm glad I didn't end up spending an extra day here in Londonderry. Maybe if I wasn't on foot I'd figure out where people "hang out" in this area . . . But the picking has been pretty sparse along the road I've been walking. Maybe they all drive the few miles on into Manchester?

I walked into my lunch stop today at about the same time as a family who had just climbed out of their big new shiny Hummer. We were definitely a study in contrasts.

The contrasts at least led to some easy talk as we sat inside and ate our lunches. "Mom" couldn't get her conversation past the fact of my backpack and that I was out walking around New Hampshire. WHY I was walking wasn't of interest to her. THAT I was walking, was. How far was I planning on walking? Where was I staying? Was I really able to carry everything I needed in my backpack??? (I got the feeling that she never travels light.) The youngest son was totally fascinated by my little cell phone/keyboard combination as I sent off an email to my sweetie. But conversation didn't go any further or deeper than that. They weren't interested in pursuing what I tried to offer as gentle lead-ins to a conversation about faith or God.

It's a chilly day - such a difference from a week ago when I was overbaked by heat and the sun. And today was the first time I actually found myself walking in a downpour. Whereas a week ago the 'breeze' a large truck passing by brought with it was a welcome thing, today the upwash of dirty spray water following in the wake of a large truck has been not pleasant whatsoever.

I'll walk on a little further today, and hopefully find somewhere to be this afternoon. If not, I'll find a spot to sit down and 'blog' some more. There is much I have been mulling over in my mind, and many conversations that I haven't shared yet.

In out of the drizzle

I've slipped into the public library in Londonderry to get out of the chilly drizzle for a few minutes. I just wanted to take a quick moment to let people know that I do get the comments that you leave on this blog, even while I'm out here on the road. It's nice to stay in touch, and in conversation, that way. Thank you.

I've got my email problem solved (for now?) as well, and can now email out again from my phone.

This library, though, has only a 15 minute time limit for computer usage . . . so I'm needing to head back out!

Filled with good things

I woke this morning with a deep yearning to be in church.

I've actually been better this past week about reading the daily lessons and spending focused time in prayer than I normally am. I tend to be one who 'prays without ceasing' . . . living in a constant conversation with God, which is a really good thing (although it can feel funny to stop in the middle of a running conversation to try to have a more formal 'prayer' before a meal or other time)- but it has been nice to not always be running around during those conversations this week. It's been the difference between talking with a friend while running around doing errands as compared with being relaxed with a glass of wine in front of the fireplace, and having the whole evening ahead of you to share conversation.

So it surprised me a little this morning when I knew I simply had to be in church. I had thought that I'd be ok for a month, staying outside the walls of our churches. The way my month's plans had come together even originally meant that I'd be walking every Sunday!

So, instead of walking to Londonderry this morning, I went to church (I'll walk early tomorrow instead.)

It was a big morning there - the bishop's visitation. I balked at that - - I really wished it were a different week. Now don't get me wrong - I love my bishop, and am so grateful that he is my pastor and my friend. He's been very good at both. But the selfish part of me wanted to hear someone else preach. Pretty much these past years I've either had to listen to myself preach every week, or I have heard the bishop preach. There are three priests at this parish, and I had never heard any one of them preach.

And I still haven't.

But it was good. The bishop's sermon was gift to me. Sarah laughed - laughed at the ludicrous idea that God had about her and about what could be. And the disciples probably laughed too, as Jesus sent them out with the ludicrous idea that they could do what he'd been doing. And I've been laughing this week at the idea that God could use this journey for something positive, somewhere. Now that I'm actually out here "doing this" (whatever "this" really is) it has seemed absolutely ludicrous to me at times that "this" could BE something. That something could really be born from this. But the reassurance is there, in the midst of the skeptical laughter - all of this comes, is born, from God. Not from our own resources or abilities or planning. Not because we are able (Sarah certainly wasn't, and the disciples were a pretty unlikely "able" bunch as well!) but because God is able. And there's that extra bit of reassurance for me in Jesus' sending out his disciples as he warned them that they wouldn't find "success" everywhere.

It was a gift of a morning. I've listened to a week of people telling me why they're not in church, and I got to be there as an 18 year old chose to be IN the church. He was baptized this morning, and we cheered and clapped and welcomed. I've listened to people talk about how the church has failed them, and this morning I got to be there as we recommited ourselves in the baptismal covenant - to continue in ministry "with God's help." (Whenever we fail - whenever we fall into sin (not if, but whenever) that we'll repent and return to the Lord . . . with God's help.) I got to be there as person after person after person presented themselves to the bishop, "I wish to be confirmed." And I heard that prayer again and again from the bishop as he laid hands on each one: " . . . strengthen . . . empower . . . . sustain . . . "

I needed to be in church this morning. I needed to be surrounded by 'such a great cloud of witnesses'. To be fed by Word and sacrament. To kneel and to listen and to rejoice. And to be sent out.

And, I needed to be there to thank the woman with the shy smile, who wandered up and down the streets of Nashua yesterday. I was out there all day . . . and so was she. I do believe I was in her home, just as surely as I've been staying in JoAnne's home. Yesterday she wouldn't approach me, wouldn't speak to me. But each time she'd walk by (as far away from me and anyone else as the sidewalk would allow) she'd look at me a little longer. Smile that sweet shy smile. Even eventually giving me a little finger wave. I was a stranger on the streets of Nashua, and she was the one there to welcome me. And there she was in church (wearing the same clothes), shyly keeping her distance from others. I did approach her after the service this morning, and thanked her for welcoming me, a stranger to Nashua. She dropped her eyes and mumbled a "you're welcome" and then looked back up - straight at me, and smiled again. Then walked on toward the after service reception.

She sat on a chair along the side of the room at the reception, eating sandwiches. Still keeping her distance from others. We caught eyes once more before she left, and she smiled again.

She and I both needed to be in church this morning. We both managed to show up. And I think we both went away filled with good things.

Go in peace.

The Friendly Neighborhood Church

Walking up to the door, you pause. Just that momentary pause that allows you to take a breath and enter this place you've never been before.

The door is slightly heavy, but pulls out toward you. You step over the threshold, and you are in.

A smile. A greeting. "Hello." You smile back. You try to look like you know what you're doing. Like you belong here.

The heat of the day is held at bay inside this quieter place. The lighting says that you have stepped out of the frantic pace of the world.

You look around. The ones already there are obviously friends. They lean in toward each other and talk. They sit together. There is no empty seat near them, so you take a seat by yourself. Separated by a large post. Separated by their friendship that draws their circle together. They catch you watching them, smile at you again, and return to their chatter.

You had come here because you were told it was a friendly place. It had that reputation. Their smiles tell you that they believe that reputation with all of their heart.

You open the paper before you. Read what is offered here. Look for something, anything, within it. At least it's something to read so that you don't have to simply sit there, the only one with nobody to talk with.

An older couple comes in and finds a seat. A younger man breaks free from his group of friends and goes over and greets them. He sits with them for a few minutes and chats, before returning to his own seat.

A pretty blond comes in. Friends shuffle their seats to make room for her to join them. It is a friendly, neighborhood place. At least, if you're already part of the friendly neighborhood group.

You still sit there. Greeted when you entered. Welcomed with smiles. But alone and watching the friendliness envelope the others.

The bartender brings you your beer. Smiles at you, engages in a little small talk, and returns to the friendly neighborhood group.

How does the church become MORE than our culture? How do we break through our own natural ways of being . . . Our own natural tendency (and joy) of being with those we know and love? We smile and welcome. We know that we are a friendly church, because we are there with friends.

How do we open our circle and make room for the stranger?

It is said that you should always have an extra chair at your table, because you never know when Elijah will come. But even that would not be enough, if the stranger was not joyfully welcomed to sit there. Welcomed as an expected friend.

It's good to be friendly. But that doesn't move us into Gospel (good news) territory all by itself.

Elisha's pub didn't give me much in the way of conversation last night. But that friendly neighborhood bar certainly gave me some things to think about.

*****************
Today I walked into Nashua. I have been blessed these past nights to stay with people I already knew - some better than others, but all people I had met before. Many thanks to Christian and Jane, Sarah and Adrian, Peter and Suzy! And tonight, to my new hostess, Joanne, who opened her front door to this complete stranger and welcomed me into her home, and warned me before I got here that I'd better pick up a swimsuit because she had a pool that was just waiting to welcome a foot weary traveler. I sit here refreshed and cool! Of such is unexpected blessing.

Trying to listen

Thursday, June 12

Conversations seem to come unexpectedly. A few days ago I sat at a lunch counter, expecting that to be a good place to connect, but people were just in a hurry to eat their lunch and go. I sat in a pub on an early week evening, and all around me were couples intent only on each other. I try to be patient, and wait.

"Don't hurry," God says. "Slow down."

I wander around town, not in my collar. I slip into a small shoe store looking for a better solution to in-town walking, my hiking socks and shoes feeling so totally hot and restrictive (and already having dumped back home the hiking sandals that couldn't stand up to the hard roads). I'm looking for foot relief . . . and it is there that I find conversation. "Be patient," God whispers. "It's not going to look like you planned for it to look!" I hang around the shoe store, talking between other customers, watching as the shop owner takes care of those who come in after me. I pray for the mother of one of the customers (please pray for Joanne as she dies). I marvel at how unlikely it seemed to me - I go shopping and find the connections.

I take advantage of the community dinner, and eat and talk with a woman who has lost her job, and goes from community dinner to community dinner. She won't talk about herself much, about her hunger for God or where she finds God. But she will share it in another way - she shares it through the eyes of her teenage daughter. They quit going to church. I listen, and try to not speak. Try to not be defensive. "All the church talked about," she reported, sharing what her daughter complained about the church, "was money, money, money. Give, give, give." I bit my tongue and didn't talk about 'stewardship.' Didn't defend. I tried to listen with my heart to this woman without a job. Without money for dinner.

The community dinner ended and we helped clean tables, while we continued to talk. We stood outside on the sidewalk while they locked up the building, and continued to talk.

She just wanted to be heard.

I keep thinking I'll hear from people like the young hiker I befriended back in North Conway who had never even been in a church before. I keep thinking I'll be listening to people like the one that called the church office and asked, "How do I come to church?" I tried to give her driving directions. She stopped me. She knew where the building was, but she didn't know what to expect when she opened the door. "Where do I go? What will I see? What should I wear? What do I need to bring with me? How will I know what to do????"

I haven't met them yet. But I have met person after person who has come . . . who has walked through the doors of one church or another . . . and has found the church wanting. Not welcoming to them. Not welcoming to their kids.

I want to defend us! I want to point out that we are just people- that we are not perfected in God yet, but struggling together. That we fail. In fact, many of us are there because we know how much we fail, and what a help it can be to journey together and watch out for each other. And we know how much we each need forgiveness.

But I'm trying to still just listen. So I don't say much (well, except for the conversation initiated with me in the park yesterday afternoon as I got into Milford after a 14 mile walk - too hot to be wearing my collar. Two young men in white shirts, and ties, and LDS name tags and their Book of Mormon .. . . I'm not sure they were quite expecting what they got when they approached the sweaty woman in shorts and tank top, sitting in the grass leaning on her backpack! We did have a great talk together. But I suspect I did more talking than listening during that one!)

I sat at the Mexican Cantina. It was quiet with just one other person at the bar with me. He looked at my pack. "What's that all about?" I tried a new opening line: "I'm on a spiritual pilgrimage across New Hampshire. I'm looking for God. Have you seen him lately?"

He looked at me for a minute. For another minute (well, it did seem like that long).

"Can't say that I have. But I have seen some strange things . . . " and I heard about his travels - learning to drive a grain combine, hiring on for a pony roundup and learning to swing a rope, being part of a rattlesnake roundup with prizes to the person who catches the largest rattlesnake.

Today I'm in my collar, and found that it opened up conversation with the waittress at the lunch counter. She welled up, but fought back the tears, as she talked about how she felt like she somehow lost out when she was a child and wasn't taken to church. The seemingly "perfect" family next door went every week, and in her child-eyed view of the world, she was sure that was why they were so 'perfect.' Her grandmother insisted that they found God everywhere, so didn't need to go to church . . . But she still didn't sound like it ever convinced her.

But it mattered that I listened.

In seminary they taught me how to preach. Maybe we all simply need to get better at listening.

Pilgrimage

"Why don't you just drive from town to town?" I've already been asked that a number of times. "Why walk?"

Believe me, on Sunday, about an hour into that hot day's walk, I was seriously asking myself that exact same question (interspersed with other heat induced comments I won't repeat here).

But, the simple answer is that this, for me, is not just sabbatical but pilgrimage.

Many people take pilgrimages to many places. But it's not tourist travel - travel to see the sites. A pilgrimage is traveling to move your soul.

When I'm giving instruction in why we do what we do in church, I use the phrase "what I do with my body affects my soul." We are connected beings. Body and soul. What I do with my body affects my soul. Sin. Kneeling in prayer. Dancing a little jig in the soft morning sunshine. Immersing my fingers in the soft fur of a beloved pet.

Sometimes pilgrims do what seem like strange things -walk up long hard stairways on their knees; get up in the very wee hours of the morning and walk up a mountain barefoot before the sun comes up. In the light of what some people do with their bodies to help take their souls on pilgrimage, simply walking seems like a minor thing!

I walk, because I'm on pilgrimage. My body slows down and watches, and my soul does too. I ponder and pray and listen. And, surprisingly to me who knows backpacking and walking as something to do away from people and roads and cars, my walk along the road today has been reflective and grounding and even calming, amidst the roar and whoosh of the passing cars and trucks.

So I walk.

Pilgrimages often have destinations that are generally recognized as sacred or holy - celtic thought refers to these as 'thin' places - where many have experienced the intersection of the mundane with the divine. Places where the veil that keeps us from experiencing the divine is thinned to such an extent that the divine breaks through.

My own pilgrimage is into our streets and our towns. Into homes and taverns and deli counters. How do we recognize the 'thinness' of all these places? How do we learn to live there? To inhabit this world in such a way that WE become thin places that help allow the divine to touch the lives of others.

So I walk on. On pilgrimage. My soul's journey.

(Written at a lovely little hot dog stand in Wilton, on my way from Peterborough to Milford.)

Moving south

I got up Monday morning (yesterday) to a very nice breakfast provided by my hosts, but even more so to some wonderful conversation about the place of God in their lives, and how they connect with that. They had done some thinking about it all before I even got there, and we truly enjoyed the exchange of ideas. They gave me 'grist for the mill' so to speak. We took a few pictures and I was taken back out to the main road to continue my journey, while they sought out some June skiing on the snow fields of Mt Washington.

The day was hot, but not totally as brutal as Sunday had been. I stopped and dunked my head in Silver Lake and enjoyed the cooling effect for quite a while.

I am enjoying moving slower. Well, overall I am. I'll be enjoying it even more when this heat wave breaks on Wednesday.

But I have always enjoyed slowing down and taking hikes or going on backpacking trips, and I've loved reconnecting with the physical world at that slower pace. But this walk is feeling very different. I'm not walking out where there are no people - I'm walking past their beautifully tended flower beds, their work places with cars lined up outside. Front porches on homes that speak of a generally slower time in the past, when walking by also meant stopping to chat with whomever was sitting there. But nobody sat on any porches. People whizzed by in their cars (me? I wasn't coveting their airconditioning! Well, maybe just a little bit - it takes some time to make such a transition.) Some waved. A couple honked. But that was the extent of the connection.

And I slowly, increasingly slowly as the heat grew and the uphills appeared, walked on.

Did you know that blue jays can't flap their wings and squawk at the same time? I laughed out loud while I watched that. Gliding, rather than flapping, whenever they wanted to let out that raucous call. And I watched a slight breeze seemingly encourage a tree to let go of it's entire load of pollen all at once. The little breeze felt so good . . . But then I looked up and saw that thick cloud of yellow just pouring from the tree.

And the people just kept whizzing by, as I stood still, waiting for the pollen cloud to dissipate before walking into it.

I realized, at one point, that I was walking right past a friend's house - the home of a retired priest and her husband. Car parked in the drive. Hmmmm . . . I was going after a cold drink of water!

I stayed inside having a nice chat with Peg and Lee, enjoying a little coolness, good conversation and cold water, when suddenly the skies let loose with a very hard rain. I hadn't even seen it coming! In this kind of heat, these storms come up so suddenly. They were planning on going out to get their mail, and I quickly accepted the offer of a ride on into Tamworth.

The rector in Tamworth had suggested The Other Store as a place to hang out for lunch time conversation. It was a good find. The friendliness there was genuine.

The first person who saw me, immediately recognized me. "You did Vern's funeral!" The woman behind the lunch counter recognized me from the article in the local paper about this walk that came out the day before I left. I was excited -- my first "casual" conversation of the walk.

I ordered a sandwich and sat at the counter and ate, and chatted with the house painter who had come in out of the rain for a while. The woman behind the counter joined in the conversation, and then continued after the painter left. I wanted to listen to people . . . So I let her lead the conversation. She wanted to talk about her daughter who is a hiker. Who goes off and hikes long (thousands of miles long) trails. She wanted to talk about her worries about her daughter, and also about her pride in her daughter.

"As Jesus was walking along . . . " began last Sunday's gospel reading. And it strikes me that Jesus, walking along, didn't bring his own agenda too often. Each person he met, he allowed to tell what they needed. To simply reach out and touch him, to beg for the life of a daughter. It always struck me as a little funny the when a blind man would cry out to Jesus "Son of David, have mercy!" Jesus would respond by asking what he wanted. It seems pretty obvious to me, but Jesus didn't come, telling them what they needed. He listened, and responded to where people were.

So I tried. I wanted to ask about church. About God. About her faith. I let her lead. Maybe she simply needed to feel like someone understood her journey with her daughter. I'm not sure. But I'm pondering this . . . This challenge to my ideas about the shape of conversations.

I finally left that lunch counter and started walking again. Heat rising from the pavement, I checked out the strange markings on my lower leg I had discovered that morning. I had never seen anything like it before, and it bothered me. It seemed to be getting a bit worse that afternoon. I was still pretty close to my doctor - - as compared with the next day when I was taking a car trip to the southern part of the state - - so I called. Talking on the phone, describing what it was . . . She wanted to see me.

Long story shortened - I called a friend for a ride, who came and took me to the clinic. Doctor couldn't tell for sure what was causing the petechiaea (not sure at all how to spell this!) and wanted to do some blood work (my legs were bleeding out under the skin near the ankles) but it was too late in the day to get this particular one done (had to be same day work) so I would have to come back the next morning (today).

So I lost my evening in Tamworth as Rick took me home. I lightened my pack . . . Iced my legs . . . Worried just a little. Got a ride arranged to get me to the clinic in the morning, and then hopefully on to Peterborough with the doctor's ok. I'm writing this from Peterborough! The doctor can't say for sure what's causing this, but thinks it's most likely from the extreme road heat this week. But she cleared me to keep going, as long as I promised to keep an eye on it and get it checked out again if it gets worse or other symptoms appear.

I'm sitting under a tree in Peterborough, looking forward to my first full evening in a town. And wondering how I listen and learn what I WANT TO HEAR while following the lead of those I meet.

Maybe I can just reshape that question a bit. What do you want? From God. From the church. From a faith community.

We'll see. More to come later.

Shade

I survived!

What a way to start this adventure - - on the hottest day of the year. I haven't heard what the temperature actually got up to (it was supposed to get into the 90s, with high humidity) but I now know how hot road walking can be! It is a totally different experience that walking any trail.

So I started out this morning from church . . . with a very wonderful gathering of some of my favorite people. I managed to walk about two blocks, and already had to stop and pay attention to my feet. I had hoped in this heat to wear my walking sandals, but they actually didn't hold up to the heat as well as my hiking shoes, with socks. And nothing really held up to the heat coming up from below all day - - the rest of me is in pretty good shape tonight, but my feet are still yelling at me, almost 4 hours after I stopped walking.

Besides being the hottest day of the year so far, it was also one of my longest planned mileage days for June as well. You just don't get anywhere from North Conway without putting in the miles. The sun was brutal, and the heat was absolutely oppressive. I admit that there were many moments when I wondered about my sanity, taking on such a walk on such a day.

I found myself walking from shade to shade, hating the distances that didn't provide any at all. The worst was a stretch that I hit at noon, and when I got to shade again a half hour later, I thought I was possibly done for the day. But I got something cold to drink, something to eat (although I won't go in depth into the story of watching my chicken salad sub slide down the shady hill I had found to sit on and end up in the dust and the gravel . . . totally unedible. Ah well. I was feeling too hot to eat anyway). I sat there for an hour and a half. By 2 pm the worst of the heat seemed to let up, and back I went, walking from shade to shade.

I found myself pausing at the edge of any shady area, dreading stepping out into the full brunt of the sun and the heat. Life became focused on being in the shade (and drinking my ever-warming water). Shade was my friend. Shade was my protector.

From Psalm 121 -
The Lord himself watches over you;
the Lord is your shade at your right hand,
So that the sun shall not strike you by day,
nor the moon by night.

That psalm played in my head. What an immense expression of faith - - from someone who lived in the Middle East. Someone who knew wilderness and brutal sun. The psalms express the heart of the psalmist, and this one knew the importance of shade. The necessity of shade. The life-preserving quality of shade. And then turned to that imagery to express something about God's care. That line has never hit me before, like it hit me today. I trudged from shade to shade, thanking God each time I made it back out of the direct sun (which beat both from above and from the asphalt below).

"The Lord is your shade .. ."

There's such deep, real faith in those words. May we all trust that God will be our shade, from all that seeks to wear us out, beat us down, sap our life.

Day 1: North Conway to Madison 13 miles
Many many thanks to Christian and Jane for hosting me tonight.

Home

I have been so blessed to be able to live in my "tree house". It has been my own special retreat. A place to try to be quiet in, away from the stresses of 'the rest of life.' Yes, it's a bit odd. And very tall (lots and lots of stairs in a 6 story house). But it is cradled amongst the trees, and serenaded by the birds (what music to listen to the owls at night and the hermit thrush in the day). This picture couldn't have been taken in the summer - you'd never be able to see the house with all the leaves out. But from inside, with all the windows, you live in the midst of the seasons and the changing flavors of the natural world. We've now moved past the early fresh spring greens and reds of leaves budding out, into the full blown lushness of the summer woods.

I get to sit at my dining room table, 30 feet up into the trees, and find myself wrapped in that lushness. I've been in the living room and watched a moose walk by the window. When I got married and Rick moved in here too, he added a wonderful deck onto the front of the house, expanding the little walkway that spanned the hillside to the front door into an area that allows us outdoor living space as well.

I guess all this is to say that I really am not looking forward to leaving home. (And I'm not even going to write about the emotional part of being away from my sweet man! That is my own private agony and challenge.) But the physical presence of my home is something that I treasure, and will miss deeply.

Looking at this coming Sunday's readings (yes, even though I'm not preaching this week, I still just had to read them over and ponder them a bit), I thought more about Abram's call to leave his home. At least I get to come back! But there's something there about being able to trust when you are called forth. Something about being willing to be open to see where such a calling forth leads. I wonder about my comfort in my church home - the way we've been doing church, the ways that have nourished and fed me - will I be called to leave that home forever? To strike out into new territory? There is assurance for me in that last line of this reading: "And Abram journeyed on by stages . . ." By stages. I guess I can do that.

And then I turned to the Gospel reading for Sunday: "As Jesus was walking along . . ."

Maybe it's time I left home, and took a walk?

Slowing Down

Originally I had thought that I should finish my pre-sabbatical work on Sunday, June 1 and then start walking around New Hampshire on Monday, June 2. I knew that over a year ago I had agreed to do a wedding on June 7, so I wanted to get out there right away and 'get this thing going!' before taking a two day break to come home and do the wedding. I have no idea what got me thinking like that, except that it was really the way I thought about so many things.

And one of the things I should really be working on is slowing down enough to be able to listen. To be with people in the relaxed moments of their lives - over coffee, over a beer. That's where we share our thoughts and our lives. When we're not busy running on to the next thing.

So I decided to try it myself. I'm spending this week simply slowing down. Letting go of the urge to run to the next thing. Sitting with a book. Actually even taking my time doing the laundry (not just fittiting it in somewhere!). Doing what I can to slow down my mind and my soul.

Maybe I'll be better able to listen and be there with this couple getting married, too. They are part of the world I want to listen to this summer. "Spiritual, but not religious." They are getting married at a local Inn, not in a church. But still, they sought out a priest rather than a Justice of the Peace.

I have discovered that weddings are one place, one time, where people seem able and willing to find a way through the barriers that normally keep them away from any connection with 'church.' They struggle to come up with language that describes their deep need to acknowledge and seek out that which is beyond them (the divine) at this most special moment. But it is there. And they call me. And, if they are willing to work with me, beginning to make some exploration of what that divine hunger might mean for them as a couple in their life ahead, I am more than willing to work with them and hopefully make it easier for them to get through those barriers between themselves and a faith community in the future.

So I am moving slower this week. Not walking yet. But hopefully getting prepared to be better at listening . . . to this couple on Saturday who have come to the 'church' with an almost unnamed call out to God . . . and to those that I am walking away from the church to listen to. Who I believe are also calling out to God.