"They praise the Lamb in hymns above, And we in hymns below"

John Calvin (left) and John Wesley (right) at the John Rylands Library, Manchester

It's November 1, the beginning of my least favorite month, partly because the skies tend to become gloomy, the trees (except for the pines) become bare, and the temperature drops.  But mostly, I dislike November because my mother died on November 16, 2010, and that has left a hole in my heart that nothing can fill.  This morning, I felt a bit melancholy as I turned the page of the calendar over, until I remembered something else about November, something that carries joy within it even though it is also tinged with grief.

November 1 is a somewhat neglected holy day among Protestants, though some churches are finally starting to value and celebrate it as All Saints Day.  It is a time set apart to give thanks to God for the gift of the life and love and example of the faithful ones who have preceded us in death. 

As I write this, today is All Saints Day, a time to reflect and remember them, a day to pay special attention to that phrase in the Creed about the "communion of the saints."  John Wesley had a great fondness for this holy day.  He mentioned its importance to him on several different occasions in his journal, calling it "a festival I truly love," and "a day I peculiarly love."

On All Saints Day in 1788, his journal records his thoughts: "I always find this a comfortable day." Comfortable, not like a warm, cozy sweater, but comfortable in the sense of consoling, of encouraging, of soothing and even strengthening.  Mr. Wesley lived to be nearly 88 years old, outliving his parents, his not-so-beloved wife, and all but one sibling, Martha, and she died a few months after him and is buried in the same grave. 

He knew the keen edge of grief, but he also knew the "sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life in Jesus Christ," and trusted that not only those well-known saints but also the ordinary faithful folk are gathered into God's loving presence. In the Holy Spirit, we, too, are part of that communion of saints with those we love but see no more.  As Charles Wesley wrote:

The Church triumphant in his love,
Their mighty joys we know;
They praise the Lamb in hymns above,
And we in hymns below.

So together with John Wesley and John Calvin (both pictured above), with my mother and with those whom you name as saints in your life, let us join the everlasting chorus of praise, rejoicing that, if we also are faithful: "Our spirits too shall quickly join, like theirs with glory crowned!"

United in Love

The above picture was taken last weekend.  I was officiating at the wedding of a former parishioner whom I've known since she was a sophomore in high school.  Because marriage, the uniting of two people in love is a joyous occasion, it is customary to wear a white stole, and because I am a United Methodist pastor, I decided this was a great occasion for this one featuring our cross and flame.  The irony of this is that the wedding was taking place in a Presbyterian church.  But the greater irony is that this beautiful symbol, a cross with a double flame, which was created when two streams of  the Christian faith (the Methodist Church and the Evangelical United Brethren) flowed together in 1968, may soon become only a relic of a failed attempt at unity in love.   The United Methodist Church trembles at the brink of divorce, not along lines of the former EUB or Methodist traditions but between competing ideas about how best to live out the Wesleyan Christian heritage with regard to the hot-button issues of the day, especially homosexuality.

According to umc.org, “the Commission on a Way Forward was proposed by the Council of Bishops and approved by the 2016 General Conference to do a complete examination and possible revision of every paragraph of the Book of Discipline concerning human sexuality and explore options that help to maintain and strengthen the unity of the church.”  A daunting, and some would say, impossible task.  Just what such a "way forward" might actually look like is anybody’s guess, and truthfully, the outlook is grim.  The United Methodist Church will turn 50 in 2018, but when the Commission presents its recommendations to the called General Conference scheduled for February 23-26, 2019, it could well mark the end of the line for the UMC as we know it.

Every possible opinion has been or is being expressed, and not surprisingly, every side is staking its claims based both on its particular interpretation of scripture and by appealing to the sermons and writings of John Wesley.  In a sermon entitled “On Schism,” Wesley states:

To separate ourselves from a body of living Christian, with whom we were before united, is a grievous breach of the law of love. It is the nature of love to unite us together; and the greater the love, the stricter the union. And while this continues in its strength, nothing can divide those whom love has united. It is only when our love grows cold, that we can think of separating from our brethren. And this is certainly the case with any who willingly separate from their Christian brethren. The pretences for separation may be innumerable, but want of love is always the real cause; otherwise they would still hold the unity of he Spirit in the bound of peace. It is therefore contrary to all those commands of God, wherein brotherly love is enjoined: To that of St. Paul, "Let brotherly love continue:" -- that of St. John, "My beloved children, love one another;" -- and especially to that of our blessed Master, "This is my commandment, That ye love on another, as I have loved you" Yea, "By this," saith he, "shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye love one another."

I don’t know what will happen in the next couple of years in the UMC, but I am grieved by the lack of love that some of us are displaying.  Wesley was no “believe what you want to believe” kind of guy, but he was adamant that our spirits should not be sharpened against others with whom we disagree. He was fond of 2 Kings 2 10: 15, “And when he was departed thence, he lighted on Jehonadab the son of Rechab coming to meet him, and he saluted him, and said to him, Is thine heart right, as my heart is with thy heart? And Jehonadab answered: It is. If it be, give me thine hand.”  In reflection upon that text, Wesley preached that we need not be of the same opinions in order to work hand in hand or to love one another.  Just how we might apply this to the current state of affairs in the UMC is not completely clear, but the injunction for Christians to love each other as Christ first loved us must surely be the foundation of any discussion and of all decisions.  I close with these words from his sermon “Catholic Spirit:”

I mean, Lastly, love me not in word only, but in deed and in truth. So far as in conscience thou canst (retaining still thy own opinions, and thy own manner of worshipping God), join with me in the work of God; and let us go on hand in hand. And thus far, it is certain, thou mayest go. Speak honourably wherever thou art, of the work of God, by whomsoever he works, and kindly of his messengers. And, if it be in thy power, not only sympathize with them when they are in any difficulty or distress, but give them a cheerful and effectual assistance, that they may glorify God on thy behalf.

Some wise words to ponder, not only for those who love the United Methodist Church, but for all of us who are called by Christ’s name as we live alongside others who may see things differently from us.

A Word about the John Rylands Library and Enriqueta Rylands

One of the most important places from my sabbatical journey, the John Rylands Library, has received very little attention from me in this blog.  Part of the University of Manchester Library system, it was created over 100 years ago by the generosity of Enriqueta Rylands to honor the memory of her husband John Rylands, Manchester's first multi-millionaire. Rather than spending all that textile-industry money on herself, Enriqueta Rylands determined to give a lasting gift to the people of Manchester, a public library like no other.  During her lifetime, she spent hundreds of thousands of pounds to purchase books and manuscripts, and upon her death, bequests from her will enabled the library to continue expanding and adding to its collections.  Note that the last line of the above plaque states that "Enriqueta invites you to your library." (Emphasis mine)

Work on the building began in 1890, and the library opened on 1 January 1900, becoming part of The University of Manchester in 1972.  It holds the Special Collections of the University of Manchester, and most importantly, for my purposes, it houses the world's largest collection of Methodist archives. The Methodist Church of Great Britain established the Methodist Archives and Research Centre (MARC) in 1961 at John Wesley's Chapel in London, but in 1977 it was transferred to the John Rylands. MARC holds the world’s largest collection of manuscripts relating to the Wesley family, including approximately 5,000 letters, notebooks and associated papers of the period 1700–1865. According to their website, the John Rylands is part of the third largest academic library in the United Kingdom, with over 250,000 printed volumes, and well over a million manuscripts and archival items.  You can see that this was an exciting place for me to visit and explore!

In 1843, Enriqueta was born in Havana, Cuba to Stephen Cattley Tennant, an English sugar merchant, and his Spanish wife, Juana Camila Dalcou. Enriqueta grew up in New York, London, and Paris, and she moved to Manchester to be a companion to Martha Rylands, marrying John Rylands some eight months after Martha's death.  Enriqueta and John shared a passion for education and were members of the Congregational Church rather than the established Church of England, so she decided a public library that leaned towards collection of Nonconformist religious literature would be a fitting memorial to him.

She was the very opposite of the Rich Fool in Luke 12: 13-21 who decided that the crops and money and other riches that came his way belonged to him and him alone.  That young man pulled down his small barns in order to construct bigger, better ones, only to find that his wealth counted for nothing in the eyes of  God and that he could not take it with him upon his death.  Enriqueta no doubt enjoyed the perks of marriage and widowhood to a wealthy industrialist, but she saw clearly that the way of love, the way of the Christ she worshipped, demanded that she give freely, liberally, graciously to others rather than hoarding her money and spending it lavishly on things that do not last.  She believed in the kind of gift that keeps on giving, the kind of legacy that blesses others even more than the giver herself.

The top floor of the John Rylands is the research area/Rare Book Room, and I spent many hours hunched over precious letters written to and from John Wesley, Susanna Wesley, and others.  There I discovered Charles Wesley treasures, manuscript hymns written in his spidery but precise hand.  And there I felt my heart strangely warmed by the ongoing gift of a woman long dead, a woman whose love for her husband and for her God still extends an invitation to the people of Manchester and from far beyond to come and study and read. Enriqueta holds a special place in my heart for her generosity and her good stewardship of the resources that came into her life.   As you think about the stewardship of your own resources, how do you think  God might be calling you to bless others?  Are you listening for the Spirit's voice?

And just for fun, enjoy this picture from the main floor of the library.  Many different figures from the world of religion and education are found there, including these two.

John Calvin (left) and John Wesley (right) playing together nicely at the John Rylands

The Second Breath/Practicing the Pause

Flowers at the Old Rectory, Epworth

I mentioned in an earlier post that my readjustment to life back at home and at work is tougher than I had anticipated.  Well, the book my two book groups are reading this fall is called Wrestling with Grace:  A Spirituality for the Rough Edges of Daily Life by Robert Corin Morris.  One of the first things he emphasizes is taking a second breath before reacting, before speaking, before well, just about everything.  It's sometimes called "practicing the pause," and it's an invitation to stop that immediate response that arises when we stub our toe, get stuck in line, or feel insulted. It's about taking a moment to allow the Spirit of God to enter in and help us settle into a different mode of being, of being present in the moment and allowing blessing to flow instead of cursing.

The picture of flowers in this blog is one small gift from my sabbatical that is helping me to take a second breath.  I have no idea if Susanna and the Wesleys had flowers in their yard.  They certainly had crops like barley and wheat, but I'd like to think that the shade trees and masses of colorful blooms that are there now might be representative of what her yard might have looked then.  And I'd like to think that she occasionally went outside to escape her brood of energetic children to consider the lilies or daisies or phlox of her field.

If you are feeling harried or stressed out, sit with this picture and imagine walking in the soft green grass under the lovely shade trees, taking in the glory of these waving blossoms, feeling a gentle breeze waft across your face and tousle your hair.  May the Holy Spirit help you to be still, to be present, to be filled with peace as you picture yourself quietly being receptive to God. Practice this daily, for just a few moments, with or without words, and let Christ be formed in your heart, and you may find that you are being shaped and remade into his image, completely filled with love for God and neighbor.

Real People

When I first started thinking about my sabbatical, it was with vague thoughts of making some small contribution to the field of Wesley studies, but that probably isn't going to be the outcome of this venture.  I simply didn't have time to explore the masses of material held at the John Rylands, but being there whetted my appetite, and I learned new things, and perhaps I will write some sort of devotional rather than an academic piece.

One thing I discovered is real people.  Remember the TV show by that name in the late 1970's/early 1980's?  Well, these were real people who struggled with their health and worried about their children and prayed for God to be real to them.  John Wesley, while a gifted and Spirit-filled preacher, had a wretchedly unhappy marriage, and as is the case with most things, there was plenty of blame to go 'round.  Charles Wesley thought his brother was going too far with some of his actions that took the Methodist movement slowly but steadily out of the Anglican fold, and he blasted him in verse, and oh, yeah, he didn't exactly help with John's love life.  (That is perhaps the subject of another post sometime later.) 

Sarah Ryan had a bit of a checkered past, rather like the Samaritan woman, a bit like Charles and John's sister Hetty, and she became a leader of a class, a surrogate mother in an orphanage, a preacher, and a Mother in the faith to other preaching women like Mary Bosanquet Fletcher, who was before, during, and after her marriage an example of a woman exhibiting a gospel-changed, Christ-focused life.  She was half of a clergy couple before such things even existed, and between her preaching, pastoral care, and spiritual direction (especially of women), she became known as a "Mother in Israel," high praise from Wesley and other Methodist leaders indeed!  She left masses of written material, a treasure trove of letters, manuscripts of a sermon or two, an account of the life of her friend Sarah Ryan, and more.  Someday, perhaps, I will revisit the John Rylands and delve more deeply into the riches of her written legacy.

And then coming back again to John Wesley.  Here was a man whose passion for  God sustained him through threats of violence, pain and heartbreak, grief, loss, and spiritual uncertainty, taking him in directions he never imagined or even wanted. He sometimes gave rough, seemingly unfeeling counsel, yet he ruthlessly applied the same to himself.  Into old age, with fading eyesight, wavering hand-writing, quavering voice, and failing physical strength, he could write in a letter at age 86, a few months before his death,"But all is well:  I can still write almost as easily as ever, and I can read in a clear light; and I think, if I could not read or write at all, I could still say something for God."

His voice and hands are now stilled in death, yet he still has something to say for God.    Among his last words were these:  "The best of all is, God is with us."  And the epitaph on his tombstone, not written by him, contains these words, after several glowing, mellifluous phrases --
"Reader, if thou art constrained to bless the instrument, give God the glory."  To that, he would heartily agree because even in death, he is still pointing to the one his brother called the Lover of our souls.  And for that, and so much more, thanks be to God!

Living in the Midst of So Much History

If you have ever been to England or Scotland, you know that there's a lot of old stuff there -- houses, statues, graveyards, churches, castles, papers, etc.  It's always a bit of a shock to me as an American where "old" is anything 200 years old to come face to face with a parish church built in the 1400's (Theddlethorpe St. Helen's) or a document (Magna Carta) dating back to 1215 or a castle from the 1000's (Lincoln Castle).

When I was in Epworth, Lincolnshire, I stayed for twelve days at the Red Lion, a a coaching inn so old that it is mentioned in the Domesday Book of the 11th century, and it just happens to be where John Wesley slept whenever he returned to preach in his hometown.  After his father's death in 1735, the family had to vacate the Old Rectory, so when he came back to Epworth, this was pretty much the only place to stay. His first visit to the Red Lion was apparently in 1742, and this is commemorated by a blue historical placque next to the front entrance.  I jokingly suggested they add one that mentioned my first visit in 2017, but they see far too many odd Methodist types to take me very seriously.  ;-)

                            

Being surrounded by so many visible reminders of people who have gone before was exciting and maybe a bit intimidating, and I wondered how living in that milieu affected those who have never known anything different.  Might it be easy to be a little blasé about seeing venerable buildings day in and day out or to walk the same village streets once frequented by notable people who quite literally changed the world?

As I traveled, I posed that question to people living in various places, and they all stopped to give it some serious thought.  To a person, they all admitted that it's something they almost take for granted.  Scott and I laughed when the young man in Castlebay, Isle of Barra, told us in an offhand way to "have fun at the castle," like it was no big deal to take a small boat into the harbor to explore Kisimul Castle, but he's probably seen that tiny fortress every day for all of his 19 years, so it doesn't hold the mystique it surely did for us!

                              

It made me ponder the things back home that I don't really see or appreciate nearly often enough. I may not have an ancient cathedral in my backyard or own a chair that Susanna Wesley sat in, but what is unique and special in my life? And who is unique and special in my life?  Tragedies and accidents and losses usually make us stop for at least a moment, but it passes, and we go right back to acting the same old way.

But what if we made a conscious effort to remember how short and precious life is?  What if we developed a habit of not only thanking God for the blessings in our lives but of expressing our love and delight to those significant people who grace our existence?  What if we saw that we, too, live in the midst of history, common-place though it may seem?  With the Apostle Paul, let us pause to say, "I thank my God every time I remember you" whenever we reflect on the gifts of life and love and laughter shared with others.  Thanks be to God!

Homecoming

                   
                      The exterior of Theddlethorpe St. Helen's Church, Lincolnshire

Many years ago, a distant cousin on the Fowler side of the family researched and wrote a history of the family, tracing them back to Nansemond, Virginia, and someone else figured out that the William and Margaret Fowler who traveled across the Atlantic on the ship Abigail in 1621 almost certainly originally came from a tiny settlement called Theddlethorpe St. Helen in Lincolnshire, England.  As Lincolnshire just happens to be the county where the Wesleys lived in a market town called Epworth, I had hoped that I'd get to visit the spot for a homecoming of sorts, but given the difficulty of transportation, it didn't look likely.  However, my friend Louise Howard (mentioned prominently in another post) talked with the Rev. Stuart Gunson and his wife Marion who are very active at Wesley Memorial Methodist Church, and they took me on a whirlwind tour of the Lincolnshire countryside and into Lincoln itself.

Theddlethorpe St. Helen was originally built in the 14th century but was largely rebuilt in 1866, and it is located near Mablethorpe, not far from the coast.  Still in use, it offers a service of Holy Communion once a month and a service of Evensong the fourth Sunday of each month.  The interior shows inevitable signs of wear and tear from centuries of use, and there were tarps over some of the furnishings, but there were also fresh flowers in front of the baptismal font and paraments on the altar and pulpit.  We walked around and looked, and I took some pictures.

Then we went outside to poke around in the graveyard to see if we could locate any long-dead Fowler ancestors, but the headstones are so ancient that many have disintegrated into the earth or become impossible to read, but once we stomped down some of the high grass, we did find a couple of tombstones from the 19th and 20th centuries, so I figured they must be distant cousins and snapped a picture anyway.

Stuart offered to take one of me standing next to the church after jokingly asking me if I felt my heart strangely warmed, if I felt any sense of homecoming or belonging there.  I had to say that I didn't feel any particular pull towards the place, but it was undeniably beautiful in its faded Gothic splendor, set in the shade trees in a sea of green.  Even though I didn't find the graves of my great-great-zillions of times back great-grandparents or get some eerie sense of coming full circle, it satisfied a deep yearning on my part to stand where they might have stood, where they were probably baptized and almost certainly were married.

Everyone wants to feel part of a story bigger than her/himself, and this was more than likely a piece of my family history, a piece of ground into which my roots were planted, but you know what?  Even if it wasn't MY set of Fowlers, in a sense it doesn't matter because this was a church, a place of Christian worship, a sacred site where down the years, countless knees have bent in prayer, voices have been lifted in song, hands have been clasped in supplication.  These are my foremothers and forefathers, even if there is no genetic tie between us, and their faith is my faith, even all these centuries later in a land they could never have imagined.  And that is homecoming enough for me.

Wee Mr. Wesley

Several people have asked me what was my favorite thing about my sabbatical, and I can't narrow it down to just one thing because the entire experience was a gift from God, filled with such grace.  So I decided instead of trying to arbitrarily choose one thing, I would highlight several different aspects of my sabbatical in this blog, so here's the first one not covered in a previous post written while I was traveling.

When I was a teenager, like a lot of other teenagers, I had posters all over the doors of my closet, my walls, inside my locker at school, pretty much everywhere.  They featured cars I wanted to drive, perfume I hoped to wear, and singers I liked to listen to.  That's what you do when you're 16 -- you put posters of rock stars all over the place because you want everybody to know just how special the singer(s) are to you.  Well, in the 18th and 19th centuries, nobody put posters on the wall to show how big a fan s/he was, but after John Wesley's death in 1791, a lot of folks wanted to honor him, to have a little piece of Wesley in their homes, so thousands upon thousands of inexpensive pottery and ceramic and even bone figurines featuring him were created.  Many of these are collectors' items today, and museums like the John Rylands in Manchester have a varied selection, but occasionally, the average person can find one in an antique shop or online.

While I was in Manchester, I posted a picture on Facebook of some of the ones at the John Rylands, and a friend helpfully sent me a link where I could purchase one of my very own.  She convinced me that this would be the perfect souvenir of my sabbatical, and since it wasn't very expensive, I sent the seller my credit card information.  I was about to leave Manchester for 12 days in the Wesleys' hometown, Epworth, and I was staying at the Red Lion, the inn where JW stayed whenever he came back to town to preach, so with childish glee, I gave the seller that address and waited for my wee Mr. Wesley to be delivered.

A few days into my stay, after breakfast, I was sitting in the pub where the wi fi signal was the strongest, and the hotel housekeeper had gone upstairs to "do" my room.  I heard a voice calling, "Hello, hello?"  and since she wasn't back yet, I called out to let the guy know that she'd be right back.  It occurred to me that it might be the post, and when he came around the corner with a stack of mail in one hand and a small box in the other, I told him that it was for me.  "I'm Donna," I said, and after looking curiously at me (the accent gave me away, no doubt), he glanced at the package and said, "OK, sign here."  I did, and right about then, Leslie returned.  "What have you got there?"  "It's Mr. Wesley!"  She rolled her eyes -- but in a friendly way -- and fetched me a knife.  Between the two of us, we carefully cut through the tape, I gently unrolled the bubble wrap and pulled the figurine out.  "Isn't he beautiful?" I asked her.  She shook her head and mumbled something about crazy Methodists and then admired him, probably just to be nice.  I carefully rolled him back up and replaced him in his box and then looked at the address label.  Yep, there it was -- Donna Fowler-Marchant, c/o The Red Lion, Epworth, etc.

So there you have it.  One of the best and most memorable moments of my summer's big adventure, receiving a Staffordshire figurine of John Wesley, delivered to me in his hometown, in the very place he used to stay.  There are many other memories I will share in this space, but for now, I invite you to share with me the simple joy of that happy chain of circumstances.  The picture taken above is of his new home on our mantel.  I think he likes it, and I'm very pleased to have him there!

Labor and Rest

St Moluag's Episcopal Church (Teampall Mholuaidh), Europaidh 

Astronauts and deep sea divers and I have something in common.  We all have to be careful when we return to the point from which we started.  Otherwise we risk burning up in the atmosphere or at the very least, getting the bends.  I'm finding it difficult to re-acclimate to life at home, partly because of lingering jet-lag, partly because of this crazy allergy, and partly because, well, it's hard to think about getting back to work after having enjoyed an extended break from my usual ministry and everything that entails.

As you see, I'm writing this on my first Sunday back at First Prez.  It also happens to be Labor Day weekend, which turns out to be a very good time to return ever so slowly to the usual routine. Because it's a holiday weekend, there weren't many people at church, and I was able to re-enter the atmosphere, so to speak, without too much notice or noise. It was thankfully less overwhelming than I had feared.

This time last week, I was still in Stornoway, the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.  It was Sunday, and that means something very specific there.   Many (if not most) people go to church, but even those who don't attend worship have to live into a particular rhythm of things in which pretty much everything stops for the Sabbath.   On the home front, you don't wash clothes that day, but if you do, there is an expectation that they NOT be hung outside to dry.  There is one gas station on the entire island that opens, all the stores are closed, the only open restaurant in Stornoway is attached to a hotel, and if there is any other food outlet doing business, it may be the Chinese takeaway place.  There is also only one ferry the entire day, and that has been operating on Sundays for less than 10 years.  

The stern Calvinists whose varied expressions of Presbyterianism have held sway over this area for a very long time are adamant that this be a day of rest, and if that used to be defined as a grim denial of pleasure and play, it is refreshing to hear a different perspective from one young woman.  She served us tea and coffee late Saturday afternoon, telling us that she was so glad the next day was Sunday.  "It's nice, you know, for everybody to have a rest.  You don't have to be anywhere or do anything in particular."

So, on Sunday, after I preached at St Peter's, Scott and I walked around the nearly deserted streets, watching the tide slowly come in, admiring the colorful flowers adorning the walkway along the harbor, and we took a drive up to Ness, the northern part of the island, to a tiny place called Europaidh.  There is a most unusual church there which dates back to the 13th century.  Dedicated to St. Moluag, a contemporary of St. Columba, it is associated with healing of various ills, including leprosy and mental disorders.  There is even a leper's squint built into the side where the afflicted could view the priest during Holy Eucharist and then partake after everyone else.  To reach it, you have to walk a 300 yard path between two sheep folds to this tiny stone church which has been buffeted by relentless wind and rain for centuries.  It has no electricity, no bathrooms, no running water, only the peaceful interior lit by oil lamps, a sanctuary where regular Christian worship still takes place at least twice monthly.

We walked slowly in and around the tiny church, marveling at the quiet within.  Even as the wind rose and fell outside, blasting into cracks in the stone, there was a sense of peace, of serenity, of rest from one's labor.  Thinking of the many who have bent the knee in prayer, been sprinkled with the waters of baptism, received the body and blood of Christ in holy communion, joined in holy matrimony, and been dispatched to their final resting place from here gave me a feeling of continuity, of belonging, of a kinship that lies beyond blood or adoption or location.  It was a reminder of that love which binds us together as children of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer of all that is, and I felt a sense of thankfulness for this chance to rest, not only on this particular Sunday, but for the entire sabbatical that has refreshed my spirit, refueled my intellect, and re-energized my ministry. The rhythm of rest and labor, of labor and rest.  On this Labor Day, may we all have a renewed sense of how to hold those two things together in a way that is life-giving and holy.  Come to me, and I will give you rest, says Jesus.  And he surely will, if we but choose to respond.

The 4 "R's"

When I wrote up my request for this sabbatical, I mentioned three "R's" as part of its purpose or goal.  They were research, rest, and renewal.  Research as I took the opportunity to make use of the fantastic Wesley archives and other resources of the John Rylands Library in Manchester, rest as I took a break from the church and the demands of ministry, and renewal as I took time to feed my spirit and soul amidst some of the most beautiful places on God's green earth. And all of those things were of great importance over the course of nearly 11 weeks of traveling with Wesley around the UK, but it rapidly became clear that I had forgotten the most important "R" of them all, relationship.  

Relationship was and is at the very heart of my sabbatical and of life itself.  As I ventured forth in places as varied as London, Epworth, and Tarbert, whether on a train or tram or on foot, and no matter how sacred or secular the setting, I encountered sisters and brothers, other amazing and unique people created in the image of God.  I made new friends everywhere I went, got reacquainted with some old ones, and even had the chance to preach at St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Stornoway at the invitation of the Rev. Terry Taggart, a friend made on our last visit to the Outer Hebrides.

I made a wonderful discovery in my weeks of traveling as a stranger in a strange land. I found that the world is full of people who are kind and helpful to foreign visitors who may not look like them and certainly don't sound like them. I found that cities like London and Manchester are refusing to let fear or hatred or terrorism make them bitter.  Not surprisingly, a song by Manchester's Gallagher brothers of the band Oasis, "Don't Look Back in Anger" was one of the earworms that kept reverberating in my head as I pondered events in Charlottesville, Catalonia, and elsewhere.  I found that the more I traveled and the more I talked to different people, the more obvious it became that we have so much in common, no matter what our race or religion or country of origin happen to be.

And the risen Christ kept showing up in the middle of it all, even in people who claim not to believe in him as well as in those who do.   From the woman in the Bristol train station who shepherded me to the right bus to the man who carried my heavy luggage across Iona, from the home-cooked hospitality of the Worthingtons and Howards to the surprise birthday card and chocolates from people I met on the Oban-Castlebay ferry, there were moments of pure joy when nothing but sheer gratitude was an appropriate response. There were moments when silent tears of thankfulness were all I could offer in the face of such an overwhelming sense of God's presence. There were moments when I felt my heart would burst from the experience of so much inexpressible grace.

Please forgive me if today's musings are disjointed and incomplete. I'll continue musing on the continuing resonance of my travels with Wesley in this blog from time to time as it marinates in my heart and head, so stay tuned. The journey continues!

Between a rock and ... a violet?

It's been several days since I've posted an entry on the blog, partly because of majorly dodgy wi-fi availability and partly because I've been busy spending time with Scott after several weeks of being apart.  This picture was one he took today when we were walking on the vast sands of Uig in the northwest part of Lewis. You can see that it is yet another opening like so many others from this wonderful sabbatical that have captured my attention.  We peered into it, fascinated by this crevice caused by the action of water and wind over millions of years.  It's a pretty small space, not large enough for me to climb into (let alone climb out of), and to attempt to do so would be to illustrate perfectly the proverb about being between a rock and a hard place.  Rocks are known for being unyielding and not terribly comfortable, despite the legend that St Columba of Iona fame supposedly used one as a pillow, and they also are known for making pretty sturdy foundations and walls, which can be seen in various ancient buildings around the islands.

In contrast, this is a picture he took today of the beach being partially covered by the incoming tide of the Atlantic Ocean.  I assumed the sand was pretty compact and firm, and I confidently walked forward only to find myself sinking nearly ankle deep into soft, squishy sand -- and water. It wasn't a disaster, of course.  All I had to do was pick my feet up and carefully put them on more solid ground. But it was inconvenient and uncomfortable because I hate having wet socks and shoes, and I then had to deal with that yukky sensation of damp feet for a couple of hours.

Naturally, both of these experiences/pictures became grist for my theological mill.  The words from the hymn, "On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand" came to mind immediately, and I mused about the human tendency to take what looks like the path of least resistance, the easiest and least inconvenient route.  After all, wouldn't we all rather sashay through the beautiful white sand than shove our way through stone walls, even though we sometimes discover that the temptingly soft ground beneath our feet is giving way, forcing us to choose the more difficult path after all?  How then are we to go?

When I was in divinity school, I took a class on religion in American literature with Gayle Felton. We read, among other things, Tennessee Williams' play "Camino Real," and its triumphant cry, "The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks."  It's not easy to read or enjoy.  The themes of death and sterility and being walled off resound throughout the play, and not until the slow but sure work of the humble violet is accomplished do we see that the ultimate victory belongs to kindness and gentleness, not to stubbornness and stony-heartedness.  Love does in fact conquer all; the Light has come into the world, and the darkness has not overcome it.

In the uncertain days in which we live, when seeds of division are profligately sown and flames of hatred are stoked high, it can be difficult to believe that the violets have any power at all, let alone to break down the mountains.  The hardness of rocks is as nothing to that of the human heart when it remains untouched by love and compassion.  Seductively, the quagmire of sand and water beckon to us, appealing to our desire for the going to be easy, but for those of us who are called Christians, we are reminded that small is the gate and narrow the road that lead to salvation.  In other words, sometimes the going is going to be rough, and in those days and in those times, we cannot simply rely on our own strength but rather in the One who is himself the solid rock on which we stand, the one who will safely lead us through the shifting sand, difficult and lonely and dangerous though the way may be.

For the violets in the mountains have indeed broken the rocks!  Alleluia, Amen.

Spirit of Enniskillen

One of the joys of this sabbatical has been the people I have met along the way, many of whom come from backgrounds very different from mine.  While staying at the Catholic House of Prayer, I had the opportunity to get to know a nun living in a religious community in Enniskillen, Northern Ireland. She told me a story from the horrendous IRA bombing that took place there in November 1987 that illustrates the nature of forgiveness and the power of the cross to change people's lives and a nation's future.  The bomb was intended to kill soldiers as they marched in a Remembrance Day parade, but the timer malfunctioned, and the bomb detonated, killing 11 people, most of them elderly.  One of the dead was a young nurse named Marie Wilson.  She was standing with her father Gordon when the blast occurred, and as they lay covered with rubble in the aftermath, her concern was for him and his well-being.  In interviews, he movingly described these moments:

“She held my hand tightly and gripped me as hard as she could.  She said, ‘Daddy, I love you very much’.Those were her exact words to me and those were the last words I ever heard her say. But I bear no ill will. I bear no grudge.Dirty sort of talk is not going to bring her back to life. She was a great wee lassie. She loved her profession. She was a pet. She’s dead. She’s in heaven and we shall meet again. I will pray for these men tonight and every night.”

Gordon Wilson, a devout Methodist, chose the harder path of forgiveness, urging that there be no reprisals from the loyalists in response to the bombing, and he went on to become a voice for peace in the midst of "The Troubles," even being invited to join the Irish Senate.  This event and Gordon Wilson's courage and forgiveness of the perpetrators of the attack eventually led to a major shift in attitudes towards the violence that plagued the land, often called the Spirit of Enniskillen, and his quiet example of Christ-like love and forgiveness, bought at a terrible price, changed hearts and no doubt saved lives in the bloody struggles there.

I don't offer this as a feel-good story during a bleak and dark week in the United States but instead as a sign of hope that is not cheaply come by, not glibly spoken of, and not easily clung to.   One reporter who interviewed both Nelson Mandela and Gordon Wilson said that Mandela assured him that just as South Africa had lived through its national nightmare, so would Northern Ireland.  What God hath wrought in those two troubled places, surely the glory and love of the crucified Christ can also bring to fruition in our troubled nation and indeed in our broken world.  It takes great courage to forgive rather than seeking the destruction of someone who wrongs us, and there were those who refused to do business at Wilson's drapery shop as a result of his actions, but this one ordinary man's quiet refusal to hate even when it would have been the easiest thing in the world shines as a beacon of light in a world threatened by shadow.  I pray that you and I will have the courage to choose what is right rather than what is easy in the days that lie ahead.

On the Turning Away

This morning, like many of you, I awoke to the news of increased tension between the US and North Korea, to reports of neo-Nazis and other alt-right groups marching in Charlottesville, and to all kinds of stories of violence and unrest.  I awoke in a sunlit room with flowers swaying outside the window, a room where the sound of waves lapping at the shore and breezes flapping the curtains nearly lulls me back to sleep, and it was surreal, being in a place of such calm and beauty and yet knowing that even here, evil and violence and wickedness can and will exert their influence and disturb the peace.

As I pondered these things, I decided to play some music, and there in the playlist was one song from Pink Floyd, a song so melancholy and so full of yearning that it fit my mood perfectly.  Go to youtube.com and read the lyrics as you listen to the words that plead for a world in which there is no more turning away from the weak and the weary, a world where the daylight is indeed stirring, a world where, in my "churchy" language, the kingdom of God has come on earth.

The picture above was taken from the dim interior of St. Oran's Chapel, where shadow lay over everything within, yet just outside the heavy wooden door, the daylight streamed over everything in its path.  And I think of how we live on the threshold of those two realities, between the healing light which gives life and yields growth, and the darkness where resentments fester and unhealed wounds explode into bluster and shows of power.  And I think of how Jesus calls us not only to walk in the light, but to BE the light of the world that cannot be hidden.  And I think how hard it is to be those who aren't part of the turning away, to be those who truly mean it when we pray, "I am no longer my own but thine. Put me to what thou wilt; rank me with whom thou wilt.  Put me to doing; put me to suffering." Left to our own devices, we can't pray those words and mean it.  Left to our own devices, we will continue to choose to keep turning away.  But we aren't left to our own devices.  The Holy Spirit surrounds us and fills us and works within us to give us the courage to face evil and injustice wherever we find them, even when it is hard, uncomfortable, or dangerous. Because of that, we can dare to dream and to work for a world in which there is no more turning away.

On the turning away
From the pale and downtrodden
And the words they say
Which we won't understand
"Don't accept that what's happening
Is just a case of others' suffering
Or you'll find that you're joining in
The turning away"

It's a sin that somehow
Light is changing to shadow
And casting its shroud
Over all we have known
Unaware how the ranks have grown
Driven on by a heart of stone
We could find that we're all alone
In the dream of the proud

On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
Mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It's not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there'll be
No more turning away? ~ David Gilmour, Anthony Moore

Through Cloud and Sunshine

Last night at 9 pm, I made my way down to the Episcopal retreat center on Iona, known as the Bishop's House.  You never know who or how many people will show up for services; for the past few nights, there have been several monks, myself, and one or two others.  But last night, there were only four of us -- me and three monks.  I wondered what the hymn of the evening would be and how we would sound, but to my delight, it was "Abide With Me."  In that small but acoustically perfect worship space, our voices blended and harmonized, and there was a holy hush as the final notes died away.  As I walked towards my accommodations afterwards, I took a couple of pictures to symbolize the Holy Presence that is constantly there with us through cloud and sunshine, the Light of Light that shines through the gloom and points us to the skies.

At the close of day today, may you find a quiet moment to acknowledge God's constant love, perhaps by stopping to notice the quality of the light as darkness deepens in the sky above you or perhaps by regarding the photographs in this post. Either way, may you know yourself to be more than conqueror, even over death, through the One who constantly abides with you and me.

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see—
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour;
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s pow’r?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness;
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heav’n’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me. ~ Henry Francis Lyte

Gather Us In

                Light illuminating the darkness over the altar, Iona Abbey on Sunday, August 6, 2017
                "Gather Us In" was our communion hymn, and I invite you to meditate on its words.

                                                 

    Here in this place new light is streaming,
    Now is the darkness vanished away,
    See in this space our fears and our dreamings,
    Brought here to you in the light of this day.
    Gather us in - the lost and forsaken,
    Gather us in the blind and the lame;
    Call to us now, and we shall awaken,
    We shall arise at the sound of our name.

    We are the young our lives are a myst'ry
    We are the old who yearn for your face,
    We have been sung throughout all of hist'ry,
    Called to be light to the whole human race.
    Gather us in the rich and the haughty,
    Gather us in the proud and the strong;
    Give us a heart so meek and so lowly,
    Give us the courage to enter the song.

    Here will will take the wine and the water,
    Here we will take the bread of new birth,
    Here you shall call your sons and your daughters,
    Call us anew to be salt for the earth.
    Give us to drink the wine of compassion,
    Give us to eat the bread that is you;
    Nourish us well, and teach us to fashion lives that are holy
    And hearts that are true.

    Not in the dark of buildings confining,
    Not in some heaven, light-years away,
    But here in this place the new light is shining,
    Now is the Kingdom, now is the day.  
    Gather us in and hold us forever,
    Gather us in and make us your own;
    Gather us in - all peoples together,
    Fire of love in our flesh and our bone.  ~ Marty Haugen


Iona Abbey was built centuries ago as a place of Roman Catholic worship, but over those centuries, it suffered from slow decay, partly as a casualty of the religious battles between Protestants and Catholics and partly as a result of the harsh winds and rain that frequently batter this tiny holy island, until it was barely more than scenic ruins. Restored in the late twentieth century, largely due to the tireless efforts of the Rev. George MacLeod, it has now for many years served as a place of ecumenical worship, open to Christians of all denominations and none.

The Iona Community founded by MacLeod is an international affiliation of people who are committed to the gospel of Jesus Christ with a special emphasis on peace and justice and firm dedication to active, non-violent resistance to all forms of oppression wherever they are found in the world.  As a result, worship in the Abbey is quite different from what you might expect, as it is both liturgical AND informal, both sacramental AND free-wheeling, combining elements of high and low church worship in diverse ways that are unfamiliar and sometimes uncomfortable - which is partly the point of the gospel as it unsettles us and points us to a kingdom whose values are not yet mirrored in this world.

The hymn "Gather Us In" is one I first encountered several years ago in the supplement to our United Methodist Hymnal called The Faith We Sing.  Word and melody combine to make this a powerful vision of that kingdom for which we work and pray to come here on earth as in heaven.   It is an affirmation of the welcoming God whose love calls and yearns for ALL of us to be gathered in this place where new light is indeed streaming, where new birth is occurring just beyond those open windows and doors.  It represents our yearning to respond to the divine invitation extended to ALL, a song of the earthly communion which is a foretaste of the heavenly banquet to come.  It is the cry of our hearts when we meet around Christ's table to share wine and bread, nourished and fed as we are sent forth to be salt for the earth as the Church, the Body of Christ, gathered and then scattered as we experience the fire of God's love in our very flesh and bone.

If you are not familiar with this hymn, go to youtube.com and have a listen.  Read the words and meditate on actually being gathered in with all people in the common bond of Christ's redeeming love, a family reunion that includes those who don't look like you, speak the same language as you, vote like you, or seemingly have anything in common with you.  What might it mean to embrace that demand of the gospel even when it's uncomfortable and risky?   Lost and forsaken, broken and wounded, young and old, rich and poor, proud and haughty, meek and lowly -- may we all be one in the One who poured out his very life to gather us in.  In a world filled with violence and division and hatred, let us be filled with the Spirit's consuming fire in our flesh and bone.  Let us open our arms wide just as Christ did on the cross, and let us be God's love poured out not only for us but for ALL people.  Gather us in, O Lord, and let us be light of your light, fire of your fire, love of your love!

                                                   crucifix in St. Oran's Chapel, Iona

What is it about Iona?

As Christians, we believe that God made the heavens and the earth, and that God is in fact still in the business of creating and re-creating, and we believe that God stood back after that initial birthing of all that is, took a look at everything and smiled with satisfaction, saying, "That's good stuff I did there!"

If we truly do believe that, then it follows that everything in all creation has value and meaning and is special in the eyes of the One who creates, redeems and sustains it all, and therefore all ground is holy ground for there is no place we can be where God is not.  If that is so, if one can encounter God at any time, in any place, in any circumstance, why is it that people have for centuries flocked to this particular tiny island off the coast of yet another island that is off the coast of Scotland?  What is it about Iona?

This wee isle has captured the imagination and stirred the souls of countless pilgrims who travel here at some expense and inconvenience, partly because of its rugged beauty, yes, but the world is filled with vistas as lovely or even perhaps lovelier than here.  Perhaps for some,  because it's almost expected that a Christian visiting Scotland will check off coming to Iona as part of a bucket list, and for others, well, it's just another stop as they hop and skip along the islands of the Hebrides.

But for people like the composer Felix Mendelssohn, and the fiery minister George MacLeod, and Celtic monk Adomnan, this is sacred ground that is somehow different from any place else on earth.   If the traveler stops and stays on the island for a few days and develops a rhythm of being a part of the endless sky and the restless sea and the craggy rocks and the relentless wind, she or he is in a position of being mindful of not only the majesty and power of the Spirit but of the challenging yet comforting presence of Christ.  Whether worshiping in the Abbey, staring meditatively at the outdoor Celtic crosses, reading the words of pilgrims in whose footsteps one follows, or simply stopping to let the peace of the place soak in,  for those with eyes to see and hears to hear it is clear that the boundary between the ordinary world and the world to come is porous and thin indeed.

I hope that you will make a space in the busyness of your life where you can stop and simply be in the "loneliest loneliness."  You might try a little exercise using Psalm 46: 10:  "Be still and know that I am God."  Sit quietly and repeat those words 3 times and then pause to let them sink in.  Then repeat, again 3 times -- "Be still and know that I am."  Pause.  Then  3 times, "Be still and know."  Pause.  3 times, "Be still."  Pause. And then finally, simply repeat, "Be."

Recurring themes

This morning, this is the view outside my window.  It promises to be a sunny, cool day on Iona, so I plan to do some serious walking.  Of course, even though the forecast says it will be a day filled with sunshine, I still need to be prepared for the rain which into every life must fall! (To be taken literally as well as figuratively.)

I mentioned in a previous post that I have found myself taking lots of pictures of portals of various kinds:  windows, doors, gates, etc.  I have also been struck by the recurrence of certain words or phrases that I have read or heard as I've been traveling around.  Last night, I attended the communion service at the Bishop's House, the Episcopal retreat center.  The presiding priest, Joyce, asked me to read the Old Testament lesson, Exodus 34: 29-35, where Moses had to wear a veil when he spoke with the people of Israel because his face was shining because he had been speaking with God.  The gospel lesson from Matthew was about the treasure hidden in a field and the pearl of great price, and Joyce asked us to consider whether (1) our faces are shining because we spend time in the presence of God and (2) whether the gospel is the greatest treasure in our lives, reflected in how we live and interact with others.

As we moved through the service, I was struck by the following portion of the eucharistic liturgy that prays that we may be kindled with the fire of God's love and renewed for service in God's kingdom, which is a nice way to sum up a sabbatical:



There it is again -- images of warmed hearts, kindled by the fire of the love of the God who first loved us, and the notion of renewal, re-creation, re-birth for service in the kingdom.  The same metaphor in the prayer from Elizabeth of Schonau shared in a previous post, the same metaphor which which Charles and John Wesley expressed their experiences of the presence of the Holy Spirit.

We all, not just those of us on formal sabbatical, have to ensure that we deliberately make time to spend in the presence of God, sitting together face to face the way one sits and has tea with a friend. We all, not just the "professional" religious folks, have to regularly receive the sacrament of holy communion which feeds our souls, renews the life of Christ within us, and energizes us for service in the kingdom.  And we all have to pray and seek with great expectation the rekindling of the fire of God's love within us, not just in that quiet space in which we sit and meditate but out there in the beautiful yet broken world that lies beyond that invitingly open window.

What great adventure lies before you and me today as we go out there to mingle with strangers and friends, all created in God's image as we set out with our faces shining with the reflected glory of God and with hearts strangely kindled by the fire of LOVE?

O consuming fire, O Spirit of love

Yesterday, the weather started off with fits and starts of rain and sun which yielded the lovely rainbow in this picture which I took on the first leg of my journey to the harbor town of Tobermory on the Isle of Mull.  If you look on a map, you'll see that Mull is beside Iona, but you will also see that Tobermory is way up on the northern side of the island, so it takes a good bit of planning to get the right combination of ferry and bus service to get you there and back.  Fortunately, I had planned my schedule out well in advance, checked it twice, and headed out in plenty of time to catch the ferry from Iona to Fionnphort.  There I snagged the second seat from the front on the bus and settled down to stare dreamily out the window at the Hielan coos (Highland cattle).

However, the guy in the seat in front of me had different ideas.  He made some small talk about the weather, which I answered, and then launched into telling and showing me his exact itinerary for the next two days, describing his mother's descent into dementia and the inconvenience this made for him, and then rambling about his grandiose plans for making big money back on Iona.  He was obviously suffering from some mental health issues and felt the need to vent, and he didn't pick up on the polite cues that one gives to tell someone that you'd rather not talk.

This went on for about 30 minutes while the rest of the bus was -- I kid you not -- dead silent.  I could feel the weight of everyone's annoyance at him and the equal weight of their desire not to get involved.  When I at last succumbed to blissful sleep for all of 3 or 4 minutes, he woke me up to ask me if I was taking the ferry to Oban, which I was truthfully able to answer in the negative.  At Craigure, he was first off the bus, and as everyone filed past me to depart, many smiled at me and even murmured something about how polite I had been with him.

Which was nonsense.  Sure, I was verbally kind, nodded and said "yes" and "uh-huh" and so forth at intervals in his story, but in my head, I was shouting, "I'm trying to look out the window and think sweetly meditative thoughts about God and Jesus and stuff, and here you are making me be all pastoral and patient!"

Which is kind of the point.  After all, I am a pastor, but even beyond that, simply as a Christian, is it not my duty (and yours) to listen to those who feel themselves to be unheard, to offer a moment or two of genuine care to someone so clearly broken, to be as Christ himself to them?  On my walk from my friend's home to the ferry that morning, I had kept rhythm with my footsteps by praying this prayer from Elizabeth of Schonau:

O consuming fire, O Spirit of love, descend into the depth of our hearts and there transform us until we are fire of your fire, love of your love, and Christ himself is formed within us.  Amen.

As I listened to this lonely, confused man, those words kept echoing in my head and heart, and even in the midst of my impatience at his interruption of my reverie, I felt the Spirit nudging me to be fire of fire and love of love, to let Christ be formed within me, the Christ who tenderly and patiently loved that man just as much as me or anyone else on that bus, the Christ who tenderly and patiently attends to my complaints and grumblings, the Christ who lived and loved and died and rose and loves us all to hell and back.

So I ask you to pray for healing grace for the un-named stranger on the bus, for his brokenness and the illness and grief and guilt of his family surrounding their reactions to his mother's sickness.  Pray for the Spirit to descend into their hearts and transform their sorrow and uncertainty into calm and acceptance.  And pray for me and for you yourselves to be so consumed with the fire of God's love that we are all transformed into the image and likeness of Christ himself.  Amen.   

Portals, doorways, gates, and windows

Yesterday, when it was somewhere between drizzling and sprinkling, I ducked into the sacristy of the ruins of the Nunnery because it still has a small portion of roof.  Then the sun peeked out, and I started taking pictures.  Interestingly, most of them were of ancient doorways, arched windows, and gates -- portals between one place and another, points where what is gives way to what is to come.

I happened to take this wonderful shot of water, sky, medieval stone, and light.  It made me think of restoration, of new life, of Jesus standing before the tomb of Lazarus, saying, "Lazarus, come forth!" It made me think of fleshly, original, physical birth, the way in which we all enter this world through the portal of our mother's very body.  It also made me think of the new birth into the life of Christ, which is movement and progress and growth in holiness as the Spirit prods and woos and pushes us forward through doors into new situations.  Just as a baby cannot stay in the womb, we cannot stay in one place in our spiritual lives.  We have to leave the dark, warm, familiar safety for whatever lies ahead.   We have to be vulnerable to change, to the unfamiliar, to the uncomfortable, to the new.

There is uncertainty in moving out, even with the Spirit's help, but just as this picture suggests, there is something beautiful and light and spacious out there waiting for us in the unknown.  I invite you to sit with this picture and let it guide your prayer as you ponder where God is leading you, your family, your church, your community, your nation, your world.  Ask for the eyes to see what that might look like and the courage to take that first step forward into the light.