Volume 25, No. 2-Summer, 2001
Table of Contents
The Movement in My Heart
by Carole A. Crumley
The Richness of the Present Moment
by Nancy Eggert
The Eagle Cries for Me
by Gerald May
Raising Holy Sparks - Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Dance
by Ann Kline
Contemplative Living
by Don MacDougall
Nothing Separate
by Patricia Gibler Clark
The Frequent Reminders
by Rose Mary Dougherty
The Movement in My Heart
by Carole A. Crumley
"God is at work enlarging the boundaries of my heart." -Howard Thurman, Meditations of the Heart
There is a movement in my heart that I am noticing, a subtle yet continuous movement that I can only describe as a softness, an expansion, a stretching, perhaps even a gentle disarming. When I try to trace the origins of this movement, its seems connected, in large part, to the Civil Rights Pilgrimage to Alabama that I joined in early March of this year.
The journey began in Washington, D.C. Our first stop was Birmingham. We visited and prayed in the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church where four little girls died in 1963 on a Sunday morning when their church was bombed. Across the street from the church is the Kelly Ingram Park where hundreds of other children were attacked by police dogs, blasted by the water from fire hoses, then arrested and jailed for attempting to peacefully demonstrate. We walked in silence through the park, stopping by the sculptures that depict the terrifying events of that day.
We continued to Montgomery and the Rosa Parks Museum. Here the story of the civil rights movement in Montgomery is brilliantly displayed in tableau form. The first one depicts Mrs. Parks' quiet refusal to move to the back of the bus and her arrest. The subsequent historic boycott of the bus transit system led to the dismantling of segregated seating on public transportation in that city.
Another tableau in the museum depicts Martin Luther King, Jr. sitting at his kitchen table in a soul-searching midnight conversation with God. A picture of Gandhi hangs on the wall, a cup of coffee rests on the table, Dr. King's head is buried in his hands. He spoke often of this moment of not knowing. He and his family had been threatened many times. Now he had a new baby daughter to protect. King also knew that his own ego needs might be blinding him. Should he continue his leadership in the movement or give it up? In this midnight hour of contemplation, he was wanting only what God wanted.
Finally, our pilgrim community went to Selma where we worshipped at the Brown Chapel AME Church and joined in the re-enactment of the 1965 Voting Rights March across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. By then we were a motley crew of several hundred folks. At the crest of the bridge, we stopped for prayers, then walked in silent memory where years before others had been beaten and gassed.
Before the pilgrimage, these sites and events were already large in my imagination from images deeply imprinted during the years of the civil rights movement. Being there, the ground itself felt sacred. This was where blood was shed but also where hope and love endured and overcame. Hearing the first-hand accounts from those who participated in the events, singing the songs that empowered the community gave me a sense of the soulforce of the movement and the sacredness of that time.
The words of freedom songs became my prayers: "Ain't gonna let nobody turn me around," "Woke up this morning with my mind stayed on freedom," "Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on." I understood the power of spiritual community that holds on, keeps its eyes and its mind "stayed on" the one thing necessary and, when convinced that its vision is God-given, won't let nobody/no thing turn it around.
It was hard to be present to it all: to the people, the violence, hatred and acts of intimidation by some; the fear, silence and passivity of others; the courage, faith, and heroism of many. This is the way we and the world are. The Civil Rights Pilgrimage showed me the human community in all its sinfulness and all its glory.
It was hard to be present to myself. I am a child of the South and know firsthand the entrenched racism that the Movement challenged. I also know the desire to hold on to a way of life and to live in the past. I was full of conflicting feelings, both attracted by the miraculous work of the Spirit through people and events and repelled by the danger involved in being part of a movement that gives birth to the new.
It was hard being present to God on this journey, especially in the places of fear, anger and pain. How often I want to be with God in just the sweet places and shut down or turn away from the hard places of life. The pilgrimage called for a willingness to see and touch the worst, and to trust God's presence even there.
Back home, this practice is the same--when reading about world events, working in the office, praying for the sick, or being with friends who have lost loved ones, we are called to a willingness to live caringly in the broken now, to touch the suffering with a merciful softness. When I am able to do this, I know the freedom that comes from such clear-eyed awareness, freedom to face what is there, to turn it over to God in prayer, then the freedom to act in whatever way I may be called and empowered.
The memory of this pilgrimage lingers, inviting me to notice the movement going on in my heart and to wonder: is there some calling taking shape that will eventually show itself, something related to Shalem's pilgrimages and programs? Or is this movement solely for me, an invitation to repent, forgive and give thanks?
The Richness of the Present Moment
by Nancy Eggert
"Most of the time, we are lost in the past or carried away by the future. When we are mindful, deeply in touch with the present moment, our understanding of what is going on deepens, and we begin to be filled with acceptance, joy, peace, and love." -Thich Nhat Hanh, The Long Road Turns to Joy
It is a gorgeous spring Sunday afternoon-calm, dry and sunny. No deadlines to meet. No projects to complete. The towpath, sandwiched between the Potomac River and the C&O Canal, is flat, straight, and endless. You can't get lost-just lost in thought! Perfect for rambling away the day. Perfect for escaping the office.
But my mind drifts back to the office. We have been working on a planning event-or better yet, a corporate discernment process. I have yet to see the prospect of planning raised in any organization without an accompanying wave of fear, resistance, and anxiety. I know that authentic planning must be deeply in touch with the present moment, but planning somehow confronts us with the awesome and terrifying unknown of the future. Planning is not about predicting the future or controlling it. Neither is it a once-and-for-all decision about where we are going. Maybe getting together for a weekend of planning is like taking a snapshot of who we are, where we are at the present moment. Together we gaze expectantly into the depths to discern our next steps. Next week, next month, next year, the picture will change; something new may be revealed, and we can respond accordingly. Can we be open to the future without trying to predict or control it?
My attention is captured by the kayakers challenging the rapids of Mather Gorge, far below the towpath. Eons of rushing water have scoured the river bed, carving the soft stone below Great Falls into a narrow trench of roiling adventure before stretching out to become the broad Potomac of our nation's capital. A huddle of Sunday walkers draws my attention to a fat, toothy beaver sunning himself across the canal. Perhaps he is looking for a site for a new home-a typical Washington weekend pastime! There is no wind, but the surface of the canal has just enough variation to provide a hypnotic array of fun-house mirrors with shifting reflections of the newly-dressed trees, resplendent in the bright, fresh green of spring. Tiny fish swarm just below the surface; a second wave of wildflowers is already emerging in the forest.
No, a snapshot is not quite the metaphor for a planning weekend. A photo is too static. We are on the moving edge of the present moment-like a weather front, an ever-shifting dynamic of temperature, barometric pressure, humidity, and wind. The past, present and future are alive in this moment. The eons of rushing waters kiss the promise of the minnows' frenzy. The ancient oaks gently touch the carpet of evanescent wild-flowers. This moving edge, this dance of the universe is all we have. There is no pause, no break in time to capture the moment and imprison it. Past, present and future meet here, in the expansive arms of the Lord of Creation. We ride the wave, we dance the dance.
Drink deeply, for there is no other moment. The dance of life-hand in hand with the One who loves us. Thy will be done. We create together, sensitive to our Beloved's movements, responding in love and trust. The dance of the present moment. There are no missteps. Nothing can take us from His/Her arms. Getting it right is of no consequence. There will always be a next step in the dance, a step taken together in hope. Now that's not so scary after all. Who could resist such an invitation-to acceptance, joy, peace, and love?
The Eagle Cries for Me
by Gerald May
It is the third day of my week-long solitude retreat in the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico. I am sitting on the deck outside a small cabin and I am well into the silence. Gentle majesty surrounds me, high mesas east and west and limitless vistas of desert where the canyon opens in the south.
As I so often do when it is totally unnecessary, I am trying to meditate. Why, when everything around me is perfect and I am immersed in the moment, do I still think I must do something to be contemplative? Just-being never comes except as a gift. Left to my own devices, I will always be trying to do something-even if what I am trying to do is nothing.
I am trying to do nothing as the morning sunlight flows down the side of the western mesa. I sit cross-legged on a Navajo rug, back straight, breathing in the high desert air that is like wakefulness itself. My eyes are slightly open, looking south into the endless desert. A soft silent prayer arises, "I am yours." There is stillness all around, but I know I'm trying too hard, working at something, holding something somewhere. I try to relax everything, surrender myself completely, but even that is a kind of striving.
Then I hear the eagle's call. I do not recognize it at first, but it is a cry that pierces me once, twice, a third time, going directly into my heart, into the very center of my longing. It is as if that center of me had suddenly shrieked out of itself, crying into the empty mountain air, echoing back and forth between the high mesa walls. My head turns to the sound and there I see two slowly moving forms above the mesa, black against the utterly clean blue sky, high above the great red-white rocks and windblown pinon trees.
The cry comes again through the air to me, more into my heart than my ears. I reach for my binoculars and focus on one of the birds. It is brown, not black, a burnished russet soaring, and the cry comes once more, wilder and emptier than anything I have ever known. It seems completely without emotion yet somehow made of pure yearning. How can something so free of feeling be so totally passionate? It is a cry of the absolute, a stark scream of truth, purely wild in the height, in the flight, in the all-consuming sky. I follow the bird's movement through the binoculars. It handles the thin air, the mountain breeze with utter flawlessness. There is neither mastery nor defeat, just the simple piercing perfection of utterly straight wings and clean air, and the sharp cry of being alive.
I want so desperately to cry that way myself, to shriek my being in the emptiness, to shout my longing, my nameless passion. I want my soul-sound to fly out against the mesa walls like the bird's cry, but it is unutterable, caught within the walls of my chest. Something distinctly human in me, something civilized, keeps my cry inside. Then the eagle cries again and I think-in the manner of thinking that is without thoughts really forming-that the great bird is crying for me. It knows nothing of me and yet it is crying in my stead because I cannot.
In this moment, the eagle's call is an intercession for me, a standing-in-my-place, an expression of my simple aliveness made possible in a freedom I cannot possess, in eagle freedom. I feel an earth-deep need for this eagle to cry out my soul for me, to sing my utmost prayer in the heights of emptiness. My prayer then becomes suddenly intimate and it is a prayer of gratitude for the eagle who sings my prayer.
Adapted from a 10-year old journal entry.
Raising Holy Sparks - Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Dance
by Ann Kline
"Finding true joy is the hardest of all spiritual tasks. If the only way to make yourself happy is by doing something silly, do it." -Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav
When I got the call (literally-on the phone) to do an all-day workshop for Shalem on Jewish Mysticism, my immediate reaction was "YES!" My next reaction was, "Are you crazy?" I didn't quite know whom I was addressing, Shalem, myself or God. We all knew that I wasn't a rabbi, a scholar, or even that knowledgeable a Jew. I felt an awesome sense of responsibility. What could I possibly give people-non-Jewish people-from my tradition that would be of value to them? Why, in God's name, had I said "YES!"?
I did know something of what I hoped to share. Jewish mystics talk about the brokenness of the world, the scattered pieces of divinity that lie hidden in all things. It is our task, they teach, to release those holy sparks from the husks that keep them separate and reunite them into the One. In this way, we heal the world (tikkun olam). But what does it take to raise those holy sparks? Who was I to pretend I knew anything about what the mystics taught? Could I even pronounce tikkun olam?
About this time, I attended a Shalem residency at Holy Trinity Monastery. It so happened that the residency took place during Purim, a Jewish holiday that commemorates how Queen Esther saved the Persian Jews from an evil decree of the King's minister, Hamen. It is a joyous holiday, where people wear masks and carry noisemakers into the synagogue to retell the dramatic story of how we were saved from mass slaughter. One thing led to another, and before you knew it the other Jewish participant in the program, along with several Christian co-conspirators, had arranged to celebrate Purim, right there in the library before magazine covers bearing the faces of watchful bishops and cardinals.
What did we care? We ate special triangular holiday cookies called hamentaschen, named for the hat worn by Hamen. (We were in a neighborhood with Jewish bakeries, and those cookies were sooo good.) We retold the story complete with shouting and clapping whenever someone said the evil name, Hamen. We (even the guys) danced like the heroines in the story, waving our scarves around us like veils. All appearances to the contrary, we did not get so drunk that we could no longer tell the difference between good and evil, another holiday custom (although we may have tried).
For this story, you have to know that I'm the kind of person who always sits in the corner when there's dancing, who yearns to be invited but when she is, reluctantly shakes her head "no." (Many people's feet are the better for it, believe me.) But I had gone to this residency with the prayerful intention that I would be generous, hold nothing back. There is a Buddhist teacher who suggests that we spend a day (or more) following every generous impulse we have, to condition ourselves to giving. I had determined to spend a week like that. This time, I didn't wait to be invited. I got up and danced.
I danced to give the other dancers support. I danced to give away my gratitude at the special week we had shared together at Holy Trinity. I danced to give praise to God-and praising God, the great Rabbis teach, is the best way to put things into proper perspective. I danced because, it so happens, I love to dance.
Imagine that night at the monastery, all of us dancing together, Christian and Jew and who knows what, in celebration of a Jewish holiday, in celebration of life, in celebration of the One who raises us all into unity. Nothing generates joy as much as sharing who we really are in God. When we share what we love, when we stop hiding and let loose our tender, foolish, funny, misguided, glorious hearts ... just think of the holy sparks! Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav teaches, "Always remember: Joy is not merely incidental to your spiritual quest. It is vital."
Our joy heals the world. Our willingness to give who we are and what we love without reservation raises us all. Buddha said, "Make of yourself a light." Nelson Mandela said, "We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us....[A]s we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence liberates others." Reb Nachman said, "Always wear a smile. The gift of life will then be yours to give."
So what does all this have to do with a workshop on Jewish mysticism at Shalem? Everything. This workshop is probably one of the silliest things I've ever done (if you saw me dance you'd know that's saying something). And I'm going to love it.
Ann is a mentor in Shalem's new extension program, Facilitating Group Spiritual Directon.
Contemplative Living
by Don MacDougall
As I went into a spiritual direction group with no idea of what I would talk about and uncertainty about whether I even had anything to talk about-a not unprecedented situation-there was a lengthy silence, and the other participants seemed not to have anything they wished to share. Then I felt the urge to simply speak, not of any particular issue or concern but of the contemplative journey I was on, of my desire to live in and from the deepest place I can in God in all I am and do, of my experience and understanding of spiritual practices as aids to that, and of the possibilities and difficulties I've experienced.
What I heard myself saying (and I am constantly reaching for new words to express this) was that my deepest desire was to be rooted and grounded in God and to have all-or ever more of-my actions and words and daily life flow naturally from that place of groundedness. That is what I hear Tilden Edwards speak of as "living the day from the heart" where "divine Spirit and human spirit live together," or what Linda Sussman speaks of as "the speech of the grail," the way of speaking which emerges from that place of groundedness and integration. It's what I think Jesus meant (and lived) when he spoke of "the kingdom (rule) of God," when all is integrated willingly into the desire and intention of God, and also is spoken of as "the sacrament of the present moment," or in Twelve Step Programs, as "giving oneself over to a higher power." Expressed in many different ways, it is what I was trying to speak of, what I yearn for- so elusive and in the end more of a "gift" anyway.
In the spiritual direction group, I heard myself speaking about the desire to live in and from "depth of being in God" and about my impatience with the superficial in myself, with the tendency at times to still respond to people and situations out of a desire to please, to be thought well of, or out of a fear of judgment. I went on to speak of the contemplative practices I use to assist with this desire, expressing my understanding that the practices (lectio divina, centering prayer, prayer with a word, etc.) are just skillful means toward that open possibility.
Yet my growing edges right now tend not to be around comprehension about what is needed but around the actual doing of it-around my opening and consenting to God's love and living in, with and through God in everyday life in a spirit that is accepting, trusting, respectful, waiting, focused and committed. I have no trouble realizing with my head, and from large chunks of my experience, that God loves us all unconditionally and is active in our lives, including mine. The trouble I have is allowing myself to live into that, to accept it into myself (or myself into it) more completely, to "accept the acceptance" as Douglas Steere says. Telling this story in the group helped me notice that I was holding out in this way. There are areas which I habitually and almost unconsciously leave out of prayer as being hopeless or "not yet" in the Augustinian sense, and I habitually try to "do it for myself" instead of letting God do it.
In the group and since, my sense is of a God who is gently encouraging me, urging me to openness, respectful, consistently holding up in front of me the area(s) needing inclusion and release, and subtly responsive to my prayer. Further, God as friend has taken on a new intensity for me, and I am noticing that the way God seems to work with me is side-by-side, urging, suggesting, asking but always respectful and interested in my own responses and seemingly open to going with what I suggest, much as a friend would be.
In the process of honest and urgent praying, a gentle suggestion or direction sometimes will emerge, which often is so subtle that I almost don't notice it, but when I do notice it, it turns out to be a pearl of great price! Recently, I was praying, "Help me to be open and accepting of your love and my love of myself, because I'm sure not getting very far with it on my own." I was hoping for some big dramatic change, as seems to happen for others when they write about such occasions, and I almost didn't notice a subtle, internal suggestion to "act as if": "act as if" you know I love you; "act as if" you accept the acceptance; "act as if" you are all right the way you are, and let's get on with it!
This has been feeding me and teach-ing me ever since. It goes to the very heart of contemplative living as I am seeking to practice it. When I now light a candle, for instance at meals or in prayer, I use it as a reminder to "act as if" I have accepted the acceptance and get on with it!
Don, a retired UCC pastor, is a member of Shalem's Facilitating Group Spiritual Direction Program. This article is taken from one of his program papers.
Nothing Separate
by Patricia Gibler Clark
"For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God." -Paul to the new Roman Church
Shalem has an abundance of resources available to support people's spiritual journeys. One of these resources is a scholarship fund. Not only do we use this fund to under-write our requests for scholarships, but also many people contribute money to the scholarship fund to support the spiritual deepening of others. However, just as nothing can separate us from the love of God, we need to make this fund more available-to let nothing separate you from the use of these funds as they can support your love of God.
If money separates you from participating in a Shalem program, I dare say your discernment could fall into three possible spending dilemmas:
- Wanting to spend your money on something else,
- Needing to spend your money on something else, or
- Having no money to spend.
Let's look at each place from the point of view of coming to a Shalem weekend retreat that costs about $250.
Wanting to spend your income on something else. (This version applies to me.) I want to come to a Shalem retreat and also want to spend $250 on airfare to visit the Grand Canyon. I see my options as separate, as not connected, as one or the other. Granted, choice can lead to wisdom; yet at times there is a sequence or flow to our creative spirit when one event feels right to follow another. But my mind says, "If I can afford to buy a plane ticket to the Grand Canyon, I shouldn't apply for a scholarship at Shalem. That's for folks who really need the money, or have none." Not necessarily so. Perhaps there are a number of expenses that hit you at once or a life event comes up that would be enhanced by retreat time. I invite you to look at the real invitation in the Shalem program and, if money separates you from saying yes to that invitation, turn to Shalem scholar-ships to support your program time.
Our culture does not honor the balance offered by a get-away spirit. We often satisfy our need for quiet with only the residue of our money and time rather than with the cream of our discretionary space for God. Especially those of us who have financial means-to support a nice house, college for our children and a vacation from time to time-can leave our time with God with no material support. A Shalem scholarship can be the ticket you need to find this space for balance and prayer. Quiet is a need, not a want, and I invite you to apply for the financial resources to support your quiet time with God.
Needing to spend your money on something else. There are the basics of food, water, shelter, and for some, these items take all our money. In the book Freeing the Human Spirit, Michael Spence talks about a person's needs as being what encourages a relationship with God. And there is Maslov's hierarchy of needs where finding the unique, fullest expression of our self is our highest human need. We are unable to judge these needs for each other. In any of these situations, a Shalem scholarship can make a difference in supporting one's relation-ship with God as that can be enhanced through a Shalem program. If you need to spend your money on your basic needs, perhaps Shalem's scholarship fund can support some of your higher needs. That's why it exists.
Probably $250 seems like a lot of money to anyone looking at how to fill their gas tank to get to work each day. Please know that scholarship money is available for help with a portion of all Shalem tuition amounts. We will work with you to make coming to a Shalem program work for you.
Having no money to spend. There is a time when Shalem is called to reach out to those for whom even a small amount is impossible to pay for spiritual support. I have a friend who is just getting by with disability insurance, other assistance and the kindness of strangers. It's an ongoing challenge for him to garnish the where-with-all for space just to be. And yet he lives with joy and a sense of freedom. He calls me about once a week to see how I'm doing and to support my freedom for God, and at times, it seems he operates with a much deeper appreciation of God's grace. There's a barrier, though, when it comes to giving him money for a Shalem program. Shalem usually asks for our scholarship recipients to pay a small portion of the tuition. Would my friend apply for a scholarship having no part of the tuition to pay, knowing we usually ask for something?
I have brought this question up with our finance and program people and found out that a small fund exists, from two special donors, to support the residual portion of tuition beyond Shalem's traditional scholarship allowance. So money from the scholarship fund can be supplemented from this special donor fund. No person will be turned away from a Shalem program for financial reasons. There is a trust that resources will be there to support everyone's journey with God-just as we trust that all our Shalem budget needs will be met with sources of support. You yourself may be a person who would like to support the scholarship fund with a donation to match this commitment. I invite you to contribute to the Shalem scholarship fund as you are able.
Clergy Scholarships. Shalem also has received donations to support the spiritual deepening of clergy for participation in Shalem's programs. These scholarships can be applied toward our new Clergy Spiritual Life and Leadership Program as well as other Shalem extension programs, retreats, quiet days, workshops or groups. Please share the news!
"People with Financial Needs are Encouraged to Apply." If scholarship money is available for support of your journey, what separates you from saying "yes" to this source of abundance? I encourage you to pray about this when you receive Shalem's fall program guide this summer. I invite you to put the Shalem scholarship fund onto your list of spiritual resources and to apply for assistance out of prayer. Your love of God and the movement of your heart toward God is worthy of great support.
The Frequent Reminders
by Rose Mary Dougherty
Some months ago I was feeling stymied in my efforts to begin a writing project that should have been completed weeks before, according to my calculations. Each time I blocked out time for it, something else appeared to usurp my attention. When I did have the time I didn't have the energy or creativity I wanted to bring to it. I didn't see how I would begin the work, let alone complete it.
Then I remembered a woman, an AME pastor, who had been in a class I had taught. I had come to the last gathering of that class with laryngitis that had been lingering for weeks. I could hardly speak. After we had ended our closing silence and shared prayer, she said she would like to pray. She began praying for me in a way no one had ever prayed for me. I could feel it down to my toes. She prayed, in essence, that God would restore my voice so that I could proclaim God's glory. The next morning I woke up in full voice.
This was the woman who came to mind as I dealt with my frustration. I called her, thanked her for her previous prayer and described a little of what I was going through now. Then I timidly mumbled something like, "If I come to your mind would you pray for me in whatever way is right for you to do that?" She responded, "I will pray but we will pray now." The gist of her prayer was, "God, this is your daughter and she needs frequent reminders that this is about You; it is not about her. It is about Your glory, not her glory. It is Your work, not her work. Give her frequent reminders of this. Let her see clearly what You are giving her to do and give her the common sense to let go of everything else."
Her prayer touched into something in my soul, probably my own prayer. It called me back home to myself, to a gentleness of being. I entered the writing in that spirit, with a deep trust undergirding my efforts. I could watch what showed up to claim my attention and see a little more clearly what was mine to do in the moment. I had the sense that I was joining something in progress rather than making it happen.
Somewhere in the middle of this project I received an invitation to be part of the Congressional Civil Rights Pilgrimage to Alabama. I'm embarrassed to say that it took me some time to respond affirmatively. I wasn't sure that participating in the pilgrimage would be a responsible use of my time, especially with the project and other work hanging over my head. I also wasn't sure I could re-arrange my schedule. Quite unexpectedly, in the midst of my rational decisioning, I sensed an interior rightness about going. It was as though I was hearing, "Rose Mary, this is about Me, about you and Me. Go." My "all-important" schedule was easily rearranged. I went.
Early in the pilgrimage, John Lewis invited us to listen throughout the pilgrimage to what our souls were saying to us and to honor that. Consistently my soul was speaking gratitude and humility. I found it easy to sing the glory freedom songs even in the midst of the suffering and injustice being recalled. Perhaps it was the people telling the stories that made this so: civil rights leaders like Lewis, Bernard LaFayette, Betty Mae Fikes, Fred Shuttlesworth, and Bob Zellner. They told their stories with passion but not drama, in self-effacing ways that took us beyond themselves, ultimately to God. They shared their faith with us, their fears and doubts and their underlying assurance that this was God's work and that God would be with them in it as each did his/her part. They confessed their failures. They sang their gratitude. They cited examples that reminded us that the struggle was not yet over. They challenged us to find our place in the story, to listen to our souls in daily life so we might know our place.
I realize now that what remains with me from the civil rights pilgrimage, what convicts me, is the sense that I was walking among the living communion of saints, people who had learned early on to give themselves to God's glory through the work they were drawn to do. In a sense, the pilgrimage and these people have become one of living reminders my friend had asked of God for me. The memory of our time together invites me to live wide-eyed and attentively in each moment so I might see what life is presenting and hear what my being calls me to do.
I continue to look for my place in the struggle. I do get glimpses of it sometimes. Nothing grandiose shows itself, just little things. In my watching and my listening, I've begun to realize that anytime I acknowledge my own freedom and act from it, I am participating in the struggle for freedom for all; any time I am willing to be available to Love for another, I am mediating love for our world. I don't need to see the big picture; I don't need to do it all. I only need to claim my part with integrity. What is important is not the "what" of my doing but the faithfulness of my being from which the doing flows.
I am grateful for the pilgrimage, and I know that I need many ongoing reminders that my life is about God. I need frequent reminders that the unique ways through which I am called to participate in the struggle for freedom or any other endeavor are a participation in God's love for me and for our world. When some Herculean image of myself tends to lay heavy burdens on me, I need to go back in spirit to Alabama or stop and listen to my soul's prayer, "God, this is your daughter...She needs frequent reminders..."