Church and Me: Called to Wa(o)nder
There is a chapel on the Isle of Iona in Scotland that has no roof, three walls even. It is called the nunnery. A church without walls or a roof. I wonder what that might look like here in Colorado Springs.
Lately I have been spending time on Sunday mornings a little differently than I used to. Since 1997, almost every Sunday I have attended church. The beloved church that I attend is open, creative, loving and alive, and yet, I am called away from the large stone building in the center of downtown Colorado Springs. I no longer wake up on Sunday morning and find my body dressing for church. It feels strange when things change.
On most Sundays these days I have been getting to know myself more deeply. I have been practicing yoga; not just the Warrior 1 and 2 or the headstands and twists and turns. I am now reading the yoga sutras, practicing how to fill my body with breath, and chanting in Sanskrit. At the same time, I am reading Acts of the Apostles and the stories of Peter and John, the place where the mystical meets the physical. And I was recently sent a meditation bench made out of a 100 year old elm tree. I sit on it in my front room in the direct path of the sunlight. What I am hearing in this deep study of myself is that I am called to wander, and this call certainly begins to make me wonder.
Around noon on some of these Sundays, I find myself pulling on my fluffy boots and heading out into the cold. Then I just walk. My heart is in direct communication with my feet. Wherever my feet take me, I go. Last week I started walking downtown, right past my church while it was in the middle of its Sunday service. A loneliness surrounded my heart as I passed by. I continued to walk down Tejon Street and felt my feet turning into Acacia Park. Slight apprehension crept into me. I didn't really want to go that way. I heard that people use this site to deal drugs. It feels dead in that place. I saw groups of young people, and those who were homeless in the center of the park, surrounding the fountain. I decided to follow my heart and my feet and headed into the park. I wanted to veer left when I approached the teens. Their eyes were covered with long hair, piercings went through their lips, and tattoos were drawn even on some of their faces. They were all huddled together, protecting each other maybe. I felt a little scared and I wasn't sure why. I tried to turn my body to the left and I heard from within, "Go straight in, Jenny. And don't look down. Meet their eyes. Smile and breathe. I am calling you to spread the light that you know deep within you. Go."
I began to deepen my breath and turn towards what scares me, as benign as it was. Difference can be scary. How will we understand each other? What if they yell at me or think I am weird? What if I get hurt in some way? After looking down for a breath or two, I lifted my gaze to meet their eyes. I smiled, even said hello, and they simply smiled back. "How ya doin?", they asked. No big deal. Nothing to be scared of. Grace often rises in the unexpected and the simple passages in life. Acacia Park was my church that day.
Another Sunday I sat next to a guy at a local diner counter who was terribly hung over. His skin was puffy and he almost threw up the bacon he had just eaten. He had to send his meal away. He shared with me that he knows he shouldn't drink that much but he does anyway. He drank for ten hours the day before. I get it. I have been there. Through my vulnerability I am called into deeper relationship with what Celt George Macleod calls, the Life of all life. This church God is calling me feels really risky; it even kind of hurts.
The light longs to shine in the darkness, and in order to do that in the world, I now must wander. But as I share the light I feel within me with others, I also feel it grow in me. When I go into places that scare me, inside and out, the light shines on more of me. So it is not like I am wandering to "help" or "save" anyone. I am just as scared as everyone else. Wandering brings me close to God just like sitting on my elm tree bench. For me right now, church is just this: wandering and wondering. It is uncomfortable and strange, but I know the Life of all life is in it. How could it not be?
Hi Jenny, it's me again. I cried when I read your blog about Wandering. So beautiful---I have been blessed with your sharing your Sunday experiences. Your light shines in magnificent ways warming the souls of those you meet and greet. Love you...Ann
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