On the Beach by Gary Heard

Today’s post is another written by Gary Heard, pastor of The Eighth Day – A baptist community on the edge of West Melbourne. It was first posted on Gary’s new blog Heard the Whispers which he writes with his wife Ev Heard. Gary and Ev have been part of the international core of Mustard Seed Associates for over many years.

It is reposted as part of the series Creating Sacred Spaces Do We Really Need Churches. 

The beach has never held much attraction for me as a place of recreation. Salt, sand, and seaweed clinging to my body has never seemed a relaxing way to spend an afternoon. Nor does the idea of heading down to an unprotected stretch of scorching sand on an already taxing day. I have occasionally been coaxed by my children to the coast where, sometimes in spite of myself, I find myself enjoying the water. But it has not taken a tsunami to warn me of the power and the perils of the ocean, knowing that below the surface lie powerful and hidden forces with the capacity to overwhelm.

Paradoxically, I love the beach as a place of contemplation. Sitting in a comfortable space (preferably away from the sand), I contemplate the intersection of two very different spheres of life interacting with one another as I watch the waves lapping the shore and retreating – an incessant rhythm with its own enchantment. I am drawn to contemplate another world below the surface – out of sight – one which I have occasionally explored with snorkel or scuba gear, but more regularly through the camera lens provided by Jacques Cousteau. In this contemplation, the beach is a border into another world, one in which there is an ill-defined partnership with those of us who live on the land.

The ocean is a vast expanse of life, operating by different rules and bringing different experiences. We have learnt some of the ways in which it feeds our own life above the surface, but much remains a mystery. We sail upon it, fly over it, swim in it, and sometimes dive through it, but we are never really part of it. It is much more mystery than knowledge, with forces at work visible only to the experienced eye, and then some more. I find my contemplation moving from the waves, with their indefatigable movement towards and retreat from the shore, to be a reminder of the love of God, never giving up on us, at times reaching further into our lives, at other times more distant. But as my thoughts move to the depths, I contemplate the life and secrets contained within. We have an uneasy relationship with the sea, never truly mastered, never fully appreciated.

It has intrigued me that Gospel stories record Jesus teaching the crowds while standing on a boat on the sea. Beyond the words of Jesus’ teaching, I wonder at the symbolism – Jesus upon the ocean, filled as it is with a richness of life partially revealed, yet largely unknown to us, and a power we barely appreciate. Learning to explore that mystery remains a daily challenge.

Check out the other posts in the series:

Creating Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches 

Every Garden Needs A Sacred Space

Reclaiming a Sacred Space – Cheasty Greenspace: A Place of Goodness and Grace by Mary De Jong

Creating a Sacred Space – Stir the Senses

A Garden of Inspiration – A Story of Leo Tolstoy

Symbols and Elements that Weave Together a Sacred Space

Why Being Spiritual may be More Important Than Being Religious by Rob Rynders

What is a Sacred Space?

Celtic Spirituality – What Is The Attraction?

In the Barren Places: Finding Sacred Space for the First Time – James Rempt

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

We are Raising the Roof.

Sacred Space – Listening to the Trees by Richard Dahlstrom

Sharing a Sacred Space by Daniel Simons

In the Back Yard by Gary Heard

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In the Back Yard by Gary Heard

This morning’s post is written by Gary Heard, pastor of The Eighth Day – A baptist community on the edge of West Melbourne. It was first posted on Gary’s new blog Heard the Whispers which he writes with his wife Ev Heard. Gary and Ev have been part of the international core of Mustard Seed Associates for over many years.

It is reposted this morning as part of the series Creating Sacred Spaces Do We Really Need Churches. 

The back yard in my own family home was a battleground where test matches, football finals, and basketball championships were won and lost. Being the youngest in the family, any win was difficult, often requiring perseverance against the odds. Alongside broken windows, damaged fence palings and a dented rubbish bin found one could also discover bruised egos, a heightened sense of injustice, and some heated battles over rules, interpretations and application, some of which were referred to a higher power (parents!)

When invited recently to conduct a wedding in a back yard, I was drawn to reflect upon the significance of such places in forming key aspects of our identity. Most back yards are ordinary places, littered with strategically placed and creatively recycled pieces of furniture, vegetable gardens, trees and plants with a unique ability to conceal a tennis or cricket ball, and knick-knacks collected from holiday spots or favourite nurseries. Although they are closed spaces, back yards are open to the sky, bringing a twin opportunity to ground ourselves in particular relationships and settings, but also to dream of what lies beyond: open to the infinite wonder which the sky represents.

In the back yard I learned about justice. Being the youngest sibling, I was often out-played or outweighed in the rough-and-tumble of backyard matches. I learned to deal with injustice, to rebound when I felt cheated or overwhelmed, developing skills to deal with taller, faster, stronger siblings. These skills impact me to this very day. I certainly knew how far to push, and when it was better to let things go, learning to use my own assets in creative ways when a direct one-on-one contest was too daunting.

But back yards are symbolic of a much richer heritage. In preparing for the wedding service, I reflected upon the ways in which it symbolised a love grounded in the realities of relationships, not only of husband and wife, but wider family and community, affirming that love is planted firmly among family and friends, and grows out of the reality of our daily lives. Back yards are places where ordinary experiences are made ever richer by shared love, recollected through the years in family gatherings. Stories are formed, told and retold in this place, becoming part of our identity. And some threatening drops of rain reminded us all that in the back yard we are also exposed to the elements, requiring us to relinquish some control and enjoy the exploration and randomness which nature – and relationships with family and friends – can often bring.

I recall reclining in the backyard pondering the skies and my place in the universe beneath the wonder of myriad stars so far from the earth, illuminating the skies. Looking into history – for the light I could see twinkling left its source many years before – I pondered perspective and the bigger questions of life. And in later years I would sit in the back yard with my beloved, sharing dreams and hopes together, pondering imponderables, and simply enjoying each other’s presence. These dreams could be apparently mundane: we can plant this, we can build that… the source of an intimacy built with roots in common dreams, shared values, a mutual spirituality.

Jesus’ parables often have their roots in ordinary places – weddings, gardens, roadsides – because they are the repository where our identity is formed, and our perspective on the greater questions of life are shaped. They are the places where God can be found.

Check out the other posts in the series:

Creating Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches 

Every Garden Needs A Sacred Space

Reclaiming a Sacred Space – Cheasty Greenspace: A Place of Goodness and Grace by Mary De Jong

Creating a Sacred Space – Stir the Senses

A Garden of Inspiration – A Story of Leo Tolstoy

Symbols and Elements that Weave Together a Sacred Space

Why Being Spiritual may be More Important Than Being Religious by Rob Rynders

What is a Sacred Space?

Celtic Spirituality – What Is The Attraction?

In the Barren Places: Finding Sacred Space for the First Time – James Rempt

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

We are Raising the Roof.

Sacred Space – Listening to the Trees by Richard Dahlstrom

Sharing a Sacred Space by Daniel Simons

U2: Where the Streets Have No Name

I was recently sent this link to the U2 song Where the Streets Have No Name as a contribution to the series . I was powerfully impacted by Bono’s quote, another powerful example of how a sacred space can be created in the most unexpected places, places in which God walks through the room.

“We can be in the middle of the worst gig in our lives, but when we go into that song, everything changes. The audience is on its feet, singing along with every word. It’s like God suddenly walks through the room. It’s the point where craft ends and spirit begins. How else do you explain it?” – Bono, Los Angeles Times 2004

What can I give back to God for the blessings he poured out on me
What can I give back to God for the blessings he poured out on me
I lift high the Cup of Salvation as a toast to our Father
To follow through on a promise I made to you from the heart

I want to run, I want to hide
I want to tear down the walls that hold me tonight
I want to reach out and touch the flame
Where the streets have no name
I want to feel sunlight on my face
I see the dust cloud disappear without a trace
I want to dance dance dance in the dirty rain

This video of Where the Streets Have no Name is a wonderful (and evidently illegal) clip of U2 performing on a rooftop.

Read the entire lyrics here

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Check out the other posts in this series

Creating Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches 

Every Garden Needs A Sacred Space

Reclaiming a Sacred Space – Cheasty Greenspace: A Place of Goodness and Grace by Mary De Jong

Creating a Sacred Space – Stir the Senses

A Garden of Inspiration – A Story of Leo Tolstoy

Symbols and Elements that Weave Together a Sacred Space

Why Being Spiritual may be More Important Than Being Religious by Rob Rynders

What is a Sacred Space?

Celtic Spirituality – What Is The Attraction?

In the Barren Places: Finding Sacred Space for the First Time – James Rempt

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

We are Raising the Roof.

Sacred Space – Listening to the Trees by Richard Dahlstrom

Sharing a Sacred Space by Daniel Simons

Adam’s Windmill and the Welsh Revival by Dyfed Wyn Roberts

Memories that Create Sacred Space.

Adam’s Windmill and the Welsh Revival by Dyfed Wyn Roberts

Llynnon Mill – the only working mill on Anglesey today. Adam’s Mill would have looked similar to this one in 1904.

Today’s post in the series Creating a Sacred Space comes from Dyfed Wyn Roberts. Dyfed is a native of the island of Anglesey in north Wales, UK. I love the story of how God created a sacred space in a windmill – not something that any of us would have thought of.

Dyfed is a student of Welsh Revival history and has a PhD from the University of Wales on the effects of Charles Finney’s revivalism upon the Welsh Revival of 1859. He blogs regularly at http://www.dyfedwynroberts.org.uk and has recently published an eBook on the aftermath of the 1904-05 Revival in Wales. He works as a freelance writer and theologian and conducts some services. His wife Helen runs the village post office.

The thud created by John Williams’s head hitting the low beam was noticeable to many in the room. That he himself had failed to notice the beam was surely down to the enthusiasm of the moment, but if he had felt any pain Williams ignored it and continued to praise his Saviour until the end of the meeting. Revival was breaking out all over Wales and now it had reached the northern most part of the country. Rather than begin in a traditional chapel, however, in the town of Amlwch on the island of Anglesey, revival began in a low ceilinged windmill.

The Welsh Revival of 1904-1905 is considered by the evangelical/Pentecostal stream to be one of the major outpourings of the Holy Spirit upon the church. The events deeply affected the churches and chapels of Wales with tens of thousands of individuals either coming to faith for the first time or having their relationship with God stirred by a burning passion. Further afield the effects were also felt, with some claiming that the Azusa Street Revival in the US had been sparked by what had happened in Wales.

The story of how the revival began is well documented – in a young people’s prayer meeting in a Methodist Chapel in west Wales a young man called Evan Roberts was touched to his core by what he believed to be God’s hand upon him. From there in the autumn of 1904 he carried the flames of revival to his home church in Moriah Chapel, Loughor, and he became the revival’s main figure for the next 18 months. But the revival’s spread was not reliant on Roberts, for quite independently of him other localities the length and breadth of Wales began to experience the outpouring of the Holy Spirit.

The town of Amlwch is perched on the north east Anglesey coastline. Today it is a rather depressed, run-down place but at the turn of the twentieth century it still enjoyed the success of the little port nearby and the previous wealth that came from the Parys Mountain copper mine was also in evidence. Like most Welsh communities it had a number of large nonconformist chapels, the largest being Bethesda – known locally as y Capel Mawr (the large chapel) due to its seating capacity of some 800 people. Revival meetings with Evan Roberts in attendance would indeed be held here in early June 1905 – with tickets being sold to those who wanted to attend! But there is little doubt that the revival itself was already well under way before this time.

On the outskirts of the town there is a small community called Pentre Felin (the Village of the Mill) with its own Calvinistic Methodist chapel, Capel Llaethdy. Early in 1904 the members had decided they needed a new and larger school room for the many activities they had in their church. In order to complete this task the original chapel had also to be demolished – thus ensuring that a new chapel as well as a new schoolroom was built. While this building work was being undertaken the members held their weekly services in the loft of the local windmill – Melin Adda (Adam’s Mill). These small windmills (as pictured above) were a very common feature on Anglesey at the time – a necessary power source to ground flour in a county rich with grain-growing land.

The small loft was full of people during these meetings – though there are no actual numbers available. On the third Sunday in November 1904 – with news of revival in other parts of Wales in the air – the congregation was larger than usual, with more people turning up late. Among the late arrivals was a minister, Rev H. Williams. Having sensed a different atmosphere, he stood in the middle of the congregation and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘My goodness me it is like Pentecost here’. Many began to pray out loud and others began to weep uncontrollably.  Among them was John Williams who hit his head on a low beam as he stood to pray. Naturally the room was not designed for a large crowd and certainly not for a church meeting, but for the people of Pentre Felin that Sunday morning it became the closest place to heaven.

My own assessment of the Welsh Revival is that it was a missed opportunity. However many individual lives were changed it also offered the prospect of reforming the church. Revival meetings were noted for the young people who took part, women also, and the far more democratic aspect of the whole congregation involved rather than just the minister from the pulpit. All of this was a break from the rather staid and safe nature of chapel meetings before the revival. Unfortunately, once the revival fires had died down the church returned to its normal state and the opportunity for reform was lost.

Maybe what happened in Adam’s Mill in November 1904 was another aspect of that potential for change. God was not confined to the grand chapels of Welsh nonconformity. He could break through into people’s lives wherever they were – even in a working windmill.

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Check out the other posts in this series

Creating Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches 

Every Garden Needs A Sacred Space

Reclaiming a Sacred Space – Cheasty Greenspace: A Place of Goodness and Grace by Mary De Jong

Creating a Sacred Space – Stir the Senses

A Garden of Inspiration – A Story of Leo Tolstoy

Symbols and Elements that Weave Together a Sacred Space

Why Being Spiritual may be More Important Than Being Religious by Rob Rynders

What is a Sacred Space?

Celtic Spirituality – What Is The Attraction?

In the Barren Places: Finding Sacred Space for the First Time – James Rempt

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

We are Raising the Roof.

Sacred Space – Listening to the Trees by Richard Dahlstrom

Sharing a Sacred Space by Daniel Simons

Adam’s Windmill and the Welsh Revival by Dyfed Wyn Roberts

Memories that Create Sacred Space.

Memories that Create Sacred Space.

This afternoon Tom and I head to Australia to celebrate my mother’s 90th birthday. I have never looked forward to a trip with so much excitement and anticipation. Part of my excitement has been fueled by the memories book I have compiled for her. I know she will be delighted, but what has surprised me is my own reaction. I have loved sharing with my friends, even posted the shutterfly link on Facebook.

Mum’s family boat

Mum – early family photo

The photos go right back to mother’s childhood.

Myself with brothers Nick, Rod and Greg

Mum and Dad with myself and brothers Nick and Rod

They embrace my own childhood.

Aroney family wedding

And they include photos of all my brothers and their families.

Myself age 9

And of course there is my signature photo on Facebook

So why has it been important for me to share? Partly I think because this is a part of my past that few people know much about. It is 30 years since I lived in Australia. Most of my friends have never met my family. Yet they are an important part of who I am. Without them I am not whole. They draw me close to my family, to the friends with whom I share and to the God who has created all of us.

Family memories are important for all of us. They shape our lives and they shape our faith. And they created a sacred space that is as precious as any other place in which we meet with God. Like any sacred space, they should not be kept to ourselves. Memories of our family and upbringing are important to share – even the painful ones – for it is often in this sharing that we find the wholeness God desires for us.

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Check out the other posts in this series:

Creating Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches 

Every Garden Needs A Sacred Space

Reclaiming a Sacred Space – Cheasty Greenspace: A Place of Goodness and Grace by Mary De Jong

Creating a Sacred Space – Stir the Senses

A Garden of Inspiration – A Story of Leo Tolstoy

Symbols and Elements that Weave Together a Sacred Space

Why Being Spiritual may be More Important Than Being Religious by Rob Rynders

What is a Sacred Space?

Celtic Spirituality – What Is The Attraction?

In the Barren Places: Finding Sacred Space for the First Time – James Rempt

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

We are Raising the Roof.

Sacred Space – Listening to the Trees by Richard Dahlstrom

Sharing a Sacred Space by Daniel Simons

Sharing a Sacred Space by Daniel Simons

Today’s post in the series Creating Sacred Space Do We Need Churches?  is contributed by The. Rev. Daniel Simons, Priest and Director of Liturgy, Hospitality, and Pilgrimage for Trinity Wall Street. He can be contacted at dsimons@trinitywallstreet.org.

Trinity Wall Street via http://www.trinitywallstreet.org/

We worship in the architectural decisions of those who came before.

One of the great heritages that a church passes on is its buildings. Yet how we inherit the worship space of a particular time, make it our own, and hand it on to others is a delicate question. If we are mere preservationists then worship can be frozen, becoming itself an object of worship, which is idolatry and the death of lively spirituality. On the other hand, if we forget that we are just a tick of the clock’s hand in time and rebuild to suit the fad of the moment, we can mangle the coherence of a particular age’s architectural voice or leave behind a dated legacy that can’t speak beyond its generation (many churches are still cleaning up liturgical spaces designed in the ’50s and ’60s).

Trinity Wall Street is not exempt from these considerations. Our church (meaning the people of God) is housed in two spectacular edifices: Trinity Church, the third building on the site and now dwarfed by the elegant old skyscrapers of early Manhattan, but for many years the tallest building on the island; and St. Paul’s Chapel, a city treasure that is New York’s oldest public building in continuous use.

One of the tributes to the architects who designed Trinity and St. Paul’s Chapel is that the buildings have needed so little redesign over the centuries. Every time we put St. Paul’s to another use the founders would have never considered, we discover what perfectly designed proportions we’re working with. We have had dinners, concerts, dances, and classes there, and after 9/11 it was a clinic and a kitchen and a dormitory. And then, of course, we have worshipped in so many different styles there, and it all works harmoniously because those who built it were listening deeply to the poetry of the space.

But that doesn’t mean we haven’t radically changed those spaces. Somewhere along the line at St. Paul’s, the pew boxes that had kept people warm in winter became charming but impractical, and all but two, including George Washington’s, were removed. And then, about six years ago, the pews were removed entirely. Having experienced the capacity of the chapel to be something much more than a church, Trinity’s leadership listened deeply to the need of the moment and decided that the bones of the building could withstand, and even incorporate, that radical decision. In the years since, that choice has proved itself to be a good one, and once-skeptics now comment on what a new range the chapel has.

I’m not making a case for removing pews; I’m making a case for listening deeply both to a building’s heritage and its call to mission in the moment. There are often ways of having both. This year we are beginning to consider a master plan to renew the interior of Trinity Church. Much of it is the boring but important stuff: heating/cooling/sound/light. Some of it goes into that deeper stewardship of prayer: shall we make some of the pews moveable so that we increase the flexible use of the space? How does the altar area relate to the people, and is there a one-sizefits- all solution, or do we want flexibility there too? How do we make the rear of the church more welcoming to visitors—more porous to the outside world while maintaining its coherence and integrity?

As the architects work on these questions, we are all wrestling with this tension: any change we make affects those who come after us. In the same way that our architects gave us such good bones to work with in these buildings, our work has to be thoughtful and careful enough to be appreciated by our spiritual descendants, who will have different concerns from ours that we cannot yet see.

Tradition is the process of handing on the past to the future. In that process we inevitably leave our own mark. In every age the call is faithfulness to the Gospel as we hear it, the call to follow Jesus in our own time.

Sidebar: Our mark in some ages calls for great reform, in some ages holding steady, and sometimes we are even called to leave the building entirely. Look at your building—what does it say about the community that built it? How has it shaped you and how have you shaped it? How does it help or hinder you in living out the Gospel now? What do you think God is calling your community to do or be in this next chapter of mission, and how will that be reflected and enhanced by what you do with your building?

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Check out the other posts in this series:

Creating Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches 

Every Garden Needs A Sacred Space

Reclaiming a Sacred Space – Cheasty Greenspace: A Place of Goodness and Grace by Mary De Jong

Creating a Sacred Space – Stir the Senses

A Garden of Inspiration – A Story of Leo Tolstoy

Symbols and Elements that Weave Together a Sacred Space

Why Being Spiritual may be More Important Than Being Religious by Rob Rynders

What is a Sacred Space?

Celtic Spirituality – What Is The Attraction?

In the Barren Places: Finding Sacred Space for the First Time – James Rempt

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

We are Raising the Roof.

Sacred Space – Listening to the Trees by Richard Dahlstrom

 

 

Sacred Space – Listening to the Trees by Richard Dahlstrom

Today’s post in the series Creating Sacred Space Do We Need Churches? comes from Richard Dahlstrom. Richard is the author of “The Colors of Hope: Becoming People of Mercy, Justice, and Intimacy”.  You can look for him in the forest, where he’ll be listening for God’s voice amidst the trees.  If you can’t find him there, you can find him at www.richarddahlstrom.com

Listen to the trees

Jesus warned us that the Bible could get us into trouble.  He told the religious experts of his day that the searched the scripture, thinking that in them they’d find eternal life.  And yet, he goes on to say, they were unwilling to come to him that they might actually find life.  It’s as if the profound and life altering possibilities of intimacy with our creator had been reduced to a formula.  Take 15 minutes of morning; add a chapter of Bible reading; toss in a dash of prayer and presto!  Spiritual Maturity to go!

 

These formulaic criteria for spiritual maturity are always, always, getting us into trouble.  In a hyper-educated society like ours, there are lots of people who confuse the amassing of knowledge with spiritual maturity.  For them, Christ is found careful lexical studies of Greek words, long sermons, note taking, and Bible memorization.  The complaint of Jesus, articulated in the previous paragraph, exposes the reality that I can do all of this stuff and still not know Christ.  Instead, my so called knowledge runs the risk of filling me with pride and arrogance.

The problem isn’t the Bible.  The problem is our invalidation of other powerful forms of revelation, in particular creation.  One can’t read Psalm 19, or Psalm 104, or Romans 1, or Genesis 2 and 3 without recognizing that the entire cosmos is one endless sermon.  The heavens are preaching, from the rising of the sun, to the flinging of the stars through the nighttime sky, to the rising again.  That endless hydration cycle and the seasons preach of God’s provision; the bright green of new life each spring of Jehovah’s character as the source of all life; the mountains as places where the glory of heaven touches earth and we’re transformed.

For too long evangelicals have bought into the false dualism that exalts mind over body; heaven over the earth; and text of the book over the text of creation.  God’s in all of it!  We who breathe the air of false dualism daily, throughout our sterile concrete cultures, absolutely must find ways to listen to God once again in a context where the text of the book and the text of creation can intermingle.

That’s why, 17 years ago, my wife and I did away with our chemically supported lawn, and planted a forest in backyard – cedar, fir, hemlock, and redwood.  It’s grown into a sacred grove, a canopy of green that shelters life for birds and squirrels and provides a rich soil for other flora on the forest floor.  That’s where I sit most mornings, with a cup of coffee, and a Bible, to meet with Jesus.  The intermingling of Bible and creation has become, for me, the context in which God speaks to me most clearly, most profoundly.  I’m reminded of God’s faithfulness to, and love of, all creation every morning.  Various elements speak to me, such as new saplings, or fresh green sprigs, rain or wind or sun sneaking through the trees.  God’s alive in it all, shouting.  The book text interprets creation – the creation text interprets book.  Indeed, my backyard is a sanctuary, opening my eyes and ears to God’s revelation and preparing me for each new day.

May all of us find or create sacred spaces where the creation text and the book text can kiss.  It’s there we’ll find hope.  It’s there we’ll find transformation.  It’s there we’ll find Christ.

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Check out the other posts in this series:

Creating Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches 

Every Garden Needs A Sacred Space

Reclaiming a Sacred Space – Cheasty Greenspace: A Place of Goodness and Grace by Mary De Jong

Creating a Sacred Space – Stir the Senses

A Garden of Inspiration – A Story of Leo Tolstoy

Symbols and Elements that Weave Together a Sacred Space

Why Being Spiritual may be More Important Than Being Religious by Rob Rynders

What is a Sacred Space?

Celtic Spirituality – What Is The Attraction?

In the Barren Places: Finding Sacred Space for the First Time – James Rempt

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

We are Raising the Roof.

 

Sacred Buildings by Lynne Baab

This morning’s post in the series Creating Sacred Space Do We Need Churches? is written by Lynne M Baab. Lynne is the author of numerous books on Christian spiritual practices, including Sabbath Keeping, Fasting, and Joy Together: Spiritual Practices for Your Congregation. She teaches pastoral theology in New Zealand. Her website has numerous articles she’s written about spiritual practices, as well as information about her books.

When I started this series I asked people to write about how they connected to God outside of church, but I have been reminded by many of the comments of the importance of connecting inside church buildings too. Lynne’s article is another good reminder of this.

The first time I set foot in a Benedictine monastery, I knew many, many people had prayed over many, many years in that place. It was St. Gertrude’s Monastery in Cottonwood, Idaho, and all the spaces felt sacred. I kept coming back every year until we moved away from that part of the world. In my visits there, my own prayers felt like part of a chain that spanned many years.

Around the same time as my first visit to the monastery, I discovered two sacred places in Seattle, the city where I lived. Places where I could pray easily. Places where I sensed the presence of God.

St. Mark’s Cathedral, the Episcopal cathedral in Seattle, has a heavy hugeness to it. Its solidity speaks to me of God’s safety and stability, and the enormous empty space inside of it tells me God is so much bigger than I can grasp.

The Chapel of St. Ignatius at Seattle University is small and quirky, with odd curves and angles. Its colored glass windows come in a variety of sizes and shapes. The baptismal font near the entrance is very large, and the water rises exactly to the height of the font, giving a smooth still surface much like the pool of water outside the door of the chapter. The stillness of the water in the font and the odd shapes of the building and the windows speak to me of God’s peace coupled with the challenge of God’s unpredictable call to us.

Fifteen years ago, around the time of my first visit to the monastery, I was a newly ordained associate pastor in a Presbyterian congregation in Seattle, and I knew I needed reflection time in order to hear God’s guidance for ministry. In addition to the yearly trips to the monastery, I booked out one Wednesday afternoon each month for thinking, praying and planning. On those Wednesdays I parked my car a few blocks from Seattle University, and I walked a circular loop that took me to both St. Mark’s Cathedral and the Chapel of St. Ignatius. I brought my journal, and I sat in each of the two worship spaces journaling for a while. I tried to sink into the space and listen for what God had for me in each of the two very different places of worship.

Walking between the two worship places got me out into the fresh air. I always enjoyed the urban walk along sidewalks, businesses, parked cars and busy streets. As anyone who engages in urban walking knows, small but beautiful signs of God’s creation peek out everywhere. A baby in a stroller, a flowering bush, a pocket park with interesting landscaping, a window box with petunias. My Wednesday afternoon combination of fresh air with signs of God’s creation, plus architectural spaces that speak of God’s character, fed my soul in profound ways.

Two years after I began that monthly practice, I had a knee injury that prohibited me from walking very much, so I had to find new ways to reflect and meet God. I’ll never forget those spaces that spoke to me of God’s character, spaces where I heard God’s voice of love, felt the companionship of Jesus, and sensed the Holy Spirit’s guidance for ministry.

 

A Tree My Most Sacred Space by Ryan Harrison

Today’s post in the series Creating a Sacred Space Do We Really Need Churches comes from Ryan Harrison. Ryan is from Denver, Colorado. When she’s not at her day job, she spends her time creating: writing and designing, or trying to build a community of love in her little corner of Denver. She always thinks about keeping a blog, but doesn’t currently have one.

Oak Trees England

A tree, my most sacred space…

When I first began my relationship with God, I was instantly thrown into turmoil in my relationship with my family. I still lived at home, and they exercised harsh restrictions in my life in order to keep me from walking on my new path. In fact, in one particular attempt to deter me, they took me out of Colorado for an entire summer, to prevent me from going to a certain church.

What they didn’t expect, what I didn’t expect, was the way that God met me in the pine groves of the Pacific Northwest. The trees towered over me, catching sun rays and bouncing them off their green needles and letting shadows twinkle across their trunks. They were playfully declaring the glory of the Lord. I saw God in those groves, catching glimpses of His promise to His people: to trade their ashes for beauty, to raise them up like oaks of righteousness. As I watched the sun snag on the pine needles, my heart was consoled: me, a living promise of roots that dug deep for water, deep for the nourishment that would grow me up into a towering tree, a sign of His faithfulness.

Six months later, I’d run deep into the forests of Switzerland, running to a clearing where I’d collapse, the trees covering me, standing at my side and my back as though God’s army of angels was there in those very leaves, in those swaying branches that covered me in a blanket of peace. I had left home and gone to Switzerland, not being able to stand what my family did to me anymore. Almost as soon as I stepped off the train that took me to my Swiss village, my family severed ties, in a way full of finality, sending me into a season of despair and tears. And so I’d go into my forest, and I’d wait on God to show me something. He had met me in the forest once before and I trusted Him to do it again. Without fail, I’d wait and the sun would dance into the clearing and dry the tears from my face, and I would rest in the promise that the waves wouldn’t drown me, they wouldn’t sweep me away. God would rescue–no, He was rescuing me. He was pouring love into my dying roots, reviving me.

More than a decade later my friend had to bury her brother, and her long time best friend, just shy of 40 years old. And as I sought to comfort her, I could see one thing as I prayed: my friend in a clearing with an army of trees at her back, holding her steady, keeping her on her feet in the moments when the grief was too strong and it threatened to crush her. And those trees? Her community, the people who committed to pursue a holy God and be raised up in His righteousness so that we could pour that healing balm that came from God alone on her wounded heart.

Her brother’s ashes are buried at the foot of a kingly tree, one that climbs high into the heavens, birds perching on the branches so tall you can’t see their shapes but faintly hear them, the rain falling through and becoming mist by the time it lands on you. What beauty and hope there is in that picture for me.

Trees are my sacred space, my cathedral where I meet with God. When I sit at the trunk of a tree, or run my hand over the gnarled knots in a tree in my neighborhood that has pushed itself up through the sidewalk, I know God’s closeness. Whether in the pine groves near Seattle, the forests in Switzerland, or the olive groves in Spain, I find a sense of home, my true home. When the aspens quake in the late summer with the autumn breeze moving in, their grace and strength remind me of my journey with God and nudge me to remember: anchor my soul in Him and He will help me stand tall.

I love walking through the doors of my church building, the worship echoing along the walls and the warmth of the chatter of loved ones rushing at me. I need that quirky old building to remind me that my job helping build the Kingdom is as sacred as anything else, joining God’s people to raise up the cause of the orphan and the widow. The building reminds me that my soul does not have only an inward journey, but also an outward one. But what my soul longs for most, is that secret place where I meet God, my most sacred of all sacred spaces, the forest. I need the stained glass of the glinting sunshine and the dew. I need the hushed whispers of the leaves and the wind. I need the intricate kaleidoscope of the bark and the sap. But most of all, I need the promise of the tender blossom returning in the spring after a sleepy winter, its scent drifting on the promise of His redeeming love.