The Geography of Grace

I remember once, long ago, I was at a church council retreat.  It was so long ago that I was not running the retreat -- I was one of the lay leadership attending the retreat.  We were out at a cabin in the woods somewhere, and our opening, ice-breaker activity, designed to help us share our stories and get to know each other better, was to take big pieces of paper and draw our spiritual journey.

As you might imagine, most of us turned the paper horizontally, and drew -- well -- a road.  Everyone drew a road of some sort or another, with a beginning and an end, and markers along the way for events of spiritual significance.

And then there was me.  For some reason (don't ask me why) I turned my paper vertically, and drew three scenes:  on the bottom, I drew a picture of the desert, representing the Arizona desert that I had grown to love, even though I had not grown up there.  In the middle, I drew the lakes of my Minnesota home, lakes that I had swum in, walked around, and picnicked at my whole life.  On the top I drew mountains, the mountains I had encountered while I had lived and worked as a missionary in Japan.

Three actual places (although my crayon drawings did not do them justice), but also metaphors for the all the places I had gone in my life, from church camp (mountains) to painful relationship endings (deserts).

When I think of Psalm 23, I don't only think of the shepherd and the sheep, even though the Psalm begins, "The Lord is my shepherd."  I also think of the geography of the psalm, all of the places where the shepherd leads the sheep:  green pastures, still waters, paths of righteousness.  Even the valley of the shadow of death.  Something about the geography makes me think, not just about the shepherd and the sheep, but the geography -- the geography of the journey.

It's hard not to think about this, actually.  I made the journey from Minnesota to Texas last year.  The geography is different here, in both subtle and profound ways.  There are forests and fields of bluebonnets and poisonous snakes; Houston gives "urban sprawl" a whole new meaning.

Then there is the journey to this new calling, being a pastor to this church called "Grace".  We just got done with a council retreat.  The process we used was called a "Roadmap", and we dreamed and made plans and put markers down on our pathway.  What do we value?  Where do we want to be this time next year?  How are we going to get there?  We asked and answered questions together.

On this particular journey, I keep thinking that I am supposed to be the leader.  This is true.  I have a responsibility on this journey.  But it is not always what I suppose it to be.  I think that my job, as the leader, is to ensure success, to crack the whip, to make sure everyone does what they are supposed to do.

But there's the beginning of the Psalm again, reminding me of the truth:

The Lord is our shepherd.  We shall not want.

On this journey, my job is to remind us all that the Lord is our shepherd, and that we shall not want.  Whatever we do, whatever our goals are, whatever our mission is, whatever terrain we travel.

My job is to remind us all that he leads us along the paths of righteousness, which are the paths of trust, the paths of grace.  He leads us along paths that are not easy, but are, even so, grace-filled.

Even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death (and we will), even though we will stumble (and we will), even though we will fail, (and we will):

The Lord is our shepherd.

Mine,  too.

My Hermitage

Our new senior pastor had an idea for after Easter this year:  what if our staff took a getaway to a retreat center together?  After the busy season, we needed time away, to recharge, to rest, to pray.  He even had a place in mind, a favorite of his:  Pacem in Terris, just a few miles north of the Twin Cities.

He was very excited about it.  It sounded beautiful, and restful.

I confess that I had mixed feelings.

On the one hand, having time for rest and silence amid the beauty of nature sounded wonderful.  I wasn't even that concerned about the lack of telephones.  A day without wireless devices sounded like a good after-Lent fast to me.

On the other hand, where I live, the beginning of April it can still be rather cold.  The hermitages are primitive:  no bathrooms.  There's an outhouse very close to each hermitage, but that's it.  I'll be honest, I wasn't wild about that.

Our senior pastor assured us that the main lodge was well-equipped, with even showers and all of the amenities.  And that was true.  It was also a little hike from the lodge to your hermitage.  Also, the main lodge is closed between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m.

The hermitage staff was gracious and inviting.  The idea is to be alone with God:  no noise.  No books, except the Bible, either, they cautioned.  Not that anyone was going to check, but books can be another kind of noise.  Judge for yourself, they said.

The evening meal is shared, and delicious.  But for other meals, there is  basket of simple food brought to your hermitage door:  fruit, bread, a muffin, cheese.  Each small room is well equipped:  a gas lamp, a gas burner and tea kettle, means to light them.  There are a couple of candles, soap, a few gallons of water, a wash basin and towels.  A rocking chair faces the window.  The lake is still pretty quiet early in April.

Before he left, my host told me he would pray for me.

Then it was quiet.  No footsteps.  No creaks.  Not even the sound of water.  I understood the idea of no bathrooms.

That evening I lit the gas lamp and read the Bible, prayed and wrote in my journal.  It got dark early, and I wrote a lot.  I read the Psalms of Ascent and the resurrection story from John 20, holding my flashlight, seeing just a few words at a time with its small round light.  Suddenly, my flashlight went out.  I discovered that the hermitage was equipped with another.

I was determined to use as little as possible during my stay at the hermitage.  For some reason, I didn't want to use anything.  I would get up and go to the lodge as soon as it was open.  If I didn't use anything, I wouldn't have to clean anything.  That was my plan.

In the morning, though, I ended up using the cold outhouse, anyway.  Afterwards I heated up water, both for tea and for the washbasin, so that I could wash my face and hands.  I sat in the rocking chair and listened to the silence, eating fruit and bread.  I walked.  I changed my clothes.  I wrote some more.  I swept the floor and shook the rugs and made the bed, in preparation for the next hermit.  Something about these simple actions calmed me as much as prayer.

The retreat was not quite 24 hours, and I was back on the road again.  I had no great revelations about God, or about myself.  But here is what I remember:  washing my face with water I had heated myself. The small circles of light on a page, illuminating just a few words at a time. The noise of the pen scratching on the page.  The window and the beauty of the still barren landscape.  Fragments of possible poetry, a small image to return home with:

Thomas, sitting around a fire with Peter and Bartholomew, telling stories about Jesus, remembering his hands with ragged scars, and how he saved them, once.