Canadian Silence

I spent this past weekend with three-hundred and fifty spiritual directors--women and men from many faith traditions who help folks navigate the life of the spirit.  We had all gathered in Toronto for the annual conference of Spiritual Directors International.

It was a well-organized event, with the usual mix of workshops and plenary sessions, keynote presentations and even a bit of music.  But what makes these gatherings relatively unique is the silence, for several times over the course of the gathering we were called into intentional times of silence, intentional times of making space for the Holy.

One of the workshop leaders distributed copies of a poem by May Sarton titled "Beyond Questions."  It is a lovely extended metaphor, drawing a comparison between a nesting bird and the practice of silence (or at least that's how I read it!)  Despite it's title, one stanza asks a powerful question:       
                                                           
                                                            Can I weave a nest for silence
                                                            Weave it of listening
                                                            Listening
                                                            Listening layer upon layer?

I bring many things home from my Canadian sojourn, many leanings, but perhaps the most important thing I carried back across the border is a reminder of the role silence can and does play in my work as a pastor, in my work as as a spiritual director, and beyond that, in my very life.

Enough said.

Shedding Blood: Thoughts on Good Friday

Last Friday after I left our midday Good Friday worship service I went to the local blood donation center and gave a pint.  It was just a coincidence of timing.  I am a regular donor, and it was time for my every other month donation.  But as I left the donation center, I couldn't help but think of the words I had spoken the night before at our Maundy Thursday communion service:  "This is my blood," Jesus told his disciples, "shed for you."

Now make no mistake, I don't have some sort of a messiah complex.  I realize it was my blood, not the blood of Christ that I left behind at the blood bank.  But still, in a strange sort of way, it was Christ's blood--after all, the church is called the body of Christ.

Bear with me, here, and let me play this out a bit.  What better way for us to mark the holiest days of the year than by giving of ourselves in such a potentially life-saving fashion?  That pint of A positive blood, may go to someone who is undergoing surgery, or chronically in need of transfusions, or something else altogether.  But whatever, it may indeed help save a life.

I'm not trying to be the hero of my own story here.  All I did was spend twenty minutes or so giving some blood.  I even go a free t-shirt out of it.  (Bright red, by the way.  It has a watermark of the flag, and it says, "All American Donor."  I guess that's what's meant by being a red-blooded American.)
But seriously--this is something I can do every Good Friday if I'm medically able to do so.  And it is something you can do as well. 

Don't know where to go?  Just click on www.redcrossblood.org and find a donation center near you!

In the name of Christ.  In service to unknown strangers.  How much more holy does it get than that!

Happy Easter!

Etta and Easter: A Tale of Resurrection

Often when I think about resurrection I remember Etta Simpson.  I met her several years ago when I took a group of teenagers and adults from my then congregation to Mound Bayou, Mississippi.  Mound Bayou was the first community founded in this nation by former slaves.  It's located in Bolivar County--one of the poorest counties in the nation.  We'd gone there work on helping restore and old run-down building that was going to be used by the local chapter of the National Council of Negro Women for an afterschool program and day-care center.

Etta Simpson was the President of the Council at the time.  Miss Simpson, as everyone called her, was a retired schoolteacher.  She walked with a cane.  She could have just rested on her laurels and enjoyed her pension, but instead she put in dozens of hours a week to help the children of Mound Bayou.

The old building was an absolute disaster, and we worked hard.  We carried off huge trailer loads of trash and broken furniture.  We ripped down ceilings and painted walls.  We scrubbed and cleaned.  We were pleased with what we has accomplished--but secretly, I wondered if our beginnings would ever get finished.

I should have known better!  For Etta Simpson was a woman of faith.  She knew the truth of resurrection!  And she was determined to see to it that that old building rose up from the rubble!

About nine months after we left Mound Bayou I received a package from there.  With a letter from Miss Simpson.  It seems that since we left, her own life had taken on a measure of uncertainty.

"Dear Pastor Danner," the letter began, "I hope that everything has been going well with you and your congregation and family.  The next week after you left my husband was diagnosed with lung cancer . . . ."  That would seem to be enough to stop most of us in our tracks.  But not Miss Simpson.  Her letter went on: ". . . but he is doing very well at this time.  I want you to know that we members of the National Council do not have enough words to express our gratefulness for the unforgettable gesture that you and our congregation did for us last summer.  It has taken quite a while for us to get the building in shape for use.  We have now completed the restrooms, the reading room, the fellowship hall and the kitchen . . . Give my love to all and may the Lord continue to bestow his wonderful blessing on you and your church family.  With love and thanksgiving, Etta T. Simpson."

I shall always remember Miss Simpson--and what better time to do so than at Easter?

Pondering Palm Sunday--Or At Least the Palms

We recently placed an order for palm fronds to use during worship on Palm Sunday.  I'm not sure why we order them.  It's like taking coals to Newcastle!  I mean, we live in Florida!  We could go outside and cut them for ourselves.  But we order them, and they get shipped to us from who knows where!  We do cut our own palm branches--the ones the children of the congregation will use to parade around the sanctuary at the beginning of worship.  But the fronds that we hand out to worshippers as they leave the service, those will have come from somewhere far away.

Ordering our palm fronds is a practice that predates my time here on Sanibel.  I think we use the same supplier that was used years ago before my arrival in 2010.  I didn't start the tradition--I'm just following in the footsteps of those who've gone before me.

Now in the overall scheme of things I'm not sure it makes much difference whether we get our palm fronds through the mail or out the back door.  But I think there is something here to be learned about the power of tradition, and the ease of habit.  How often do we inherit a way of thinking, a way of doing, a way of being, without giving it much thought?  How often do we simply do things the way they've always been done?  Tradition has its value--no question.  And habits can make life easier is good ways as well.  I'm glad I don't have to think twice about brushing my teeth or taking a shower.  But unquestioned, unchallenged, habits and traditions are often anachronistic, and sometimes even dangerous.

Maybe next year we'll cut our own palm fronds.