Spiritual Observations from 14,000 Feet

If you take a summer drive through Eagle County, Colorado and look to the south, Mount of the Holy Cross -- with its 14,005-foot peak -- reveals itself in full splendor. The mountaintop is famous for large summer snowfields, one of which forms a distinctive cross. In the late 1800’s, William Henry Jackson published a picture of this so-called “Holy Cross,” subsequently drawing thousands in pilgrimage to this site.

When I first saw Mount of the Holy Cross thirty years ago, something about its beauty beckoned me to the summit, and recently I decided to give it a try. I invited a friend to join me and along the way made some observations about risk, guidance, nourishment and reward.

Observation #1: Staying Alive Includes The Risk of Failure.
William Carey, the famous British missionary, once said, “Attempt great things for God: Expect Great things from God.” There is something refreshing and good about applying ourselves to endeavors that require God’s help to succeed, endeavors which attempted with only our own strength are sure to fail. The thrill of such a daunting summit attempt lay in very real possibility of failure. Approaching endeavors beyond our own capacity, ventures which rely on God’s help to succeed, injects an important dose of vitality into our lives.

Scripture is full of examples. When God appeared to Moses, God said, “Go down to Egypt and free my people from slavery!” Moses responded, “I can’t do that. I stutter. I’m not good at speaking. Besides, I murdered someone down there.” Yet God’s call remained. When God said to Jeremiah, “Go speak a word of truth to power. Remind them they are to worship me alone.” Jeremiah said, “You sure you want me? I’m just a boy.” Again, God’s call remained. When God commanded Amos to speak a strong word of justice, Amos was understandably nervous. “But God, I’m just a tender of sycamore trees.” Still God’s call remained. Max Dupree once said, “Never insult a leader with an easy job.” And God never does. When we accept the call to something bigger than ourselves, we are released from the false sense of self-sufficiency, led into a spirit of humility and trust, and emerge with a fuller measure of life.

Observation #2: Travel with an Experienced Guide

After numerous mishaps and near disasters in my outdoor adventures, I finally subsumed my pride to common sense and hired a guide. The guide granted my friend Stephen and me all kinds of freedom to hike according to our desires -- stopping when needed, pausing for pictures, answering questions – and he inserted himself only when necessary to save us from harsh consequences born of inexperience.

His value was evident from the outset. The temperature was 25 degrees colder than anticipated, and at the trailhead he opened his well-stocked trunk, inviting us to grab any extra equipment we needed. He also insisted on walking sticks, unnecessary on a 6,000-foot ascent, but essential aids on a descent navigated by fatigued minds and legs. He also insisted on sunscreen which we didn’t need at 15 degrees in the dark of morning, but was essential to our health a few hours later when we stood under a cloudless sky at 14,000 feet.

Perhaps most importantly our guide provided an intimate knowledge of the landscape. Much of the terrain lacked distinction, making it easy to drift a few degrees left or right, such that over time we would have been significantly off course. On this particular hike, just a few hundred yards of drift led to dangerous cliffs from which many previous hikers had required rescue. Thankfully, our guide had solid points of reference, made small corrections along the way, and got us to our destination safely.

The same is true for the spiritual journey. Wise spiritual guides can keep us from drifting according to the landscape. They can set points of reference, offer a seasoned read on the terrain, and share knowledge of the contours of the hills and valleys because they’ve been there before. If we walk with a trusted guide, we can receive small correctives for the journey and avoid a potentially harrowing and expensive rescue.

Observation #3: Start Early Because Storms Come at Mid-Day

We hit the trail at 5:00 am, the launch time for all guided hikes, because storms start to brew at the summit around mid-day. Even the most inexperienced hiker knows the worst place to be during a lightning storm is at the summit, only halfway through your hike. Safe refuge is hard to find, wind blows strongest, rain pelts hardest, and navigating the way home can become very difficult if not downright unpleasant.
The same can be said for our lives: Illness, teenagers, mortality, addiction, marital strife all the threatening storms of life start flashing their lightning about mid-way through. The wisdom of a challenging hike holds true in the spiritual life as well. Our ability to endure storms is largely dependent on how far we’ve traveled, our comfort level on the trail, and our knowledge of safe hiding places along the way. If we want to end our journey well, we must start early, because storms come at mid-day.

Observation #4: Hydrate or Die

When hiking at altitude, dehydration can sneak up on anyone, with devastating effect. Physical weakness, diminished cognitive ability, and even altitude sickness are more likely when a hiker is dehydrated. At altitude, hydration is more discipline than desire. Successful climbers drink before thirst and eat before hunger. On our climb, we carried as much water as possible (120 milliliters each), carefully measured our intake and stopped to compensate if we ever fell behind.

The parallels to the spiritual life are obvious. In the Gospel of John, Jesus says,

"But whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst." Jn. 6:35

Ministry leaves little appetite for personal spiritual hydration. We pray for others, study for presentation, and worship as a form of work, but that does little to hydrate our own spirits with living water. If we're not careful, we get behind, start to feel weak and experience diminished cognitive and emotional ability. Dehydration of our spirits quickly leads to a loop of spiritual/emotional doom from which it's very difficult to escape. Experienced hikers know you have to drink before being thirsty, to hydrate as practice instead of feel.

Observation #5 Stop and Enjoy the View

On the way up the mountain, Stephen and I were so invigorated by the challenge we fixed our sites on the summit and set out quickly. Our stated goal was simply to summit, but a secondary goal was to finish in less than seven hours, a feat accomplished by an elite few. We ascended at pace, took short breaks, and snacked as we walked. At the summit we celebrated briefly, ate lunch, took a few pictures, pulled out our walking sticks and headed down.

Nearly half way down, serious fatigue began to set in. Knees ached, calves burned, and Advil lost nearly all its magic. Our guide saw the staggering and again offered valuable input. “I need to pull over for a minute and change socks,’ he said. “I’m getting some blisters.”

We gladly obliged his need and sat down on a rock. He took his sweet time, slowly unlacing his boots, air drying his feet and scrounging around in his pack for a fresh pair of socks. “Look up at that mountain.” he said. “Can you believe you did that?” We glanced up at the gleaming summit and enjoyed a moment of accomplishment.

“Don’t you want to change your socks too?”

Come to think of it, we did. We sat a bit longer, changed, and got re-oriented to the remaining portion of the journey. We moved much more slowly now, down the mountain, out of the sun, into the wooded portion, and after only forty-five minutes came upon a stream. Once again our guide said, “I need some water. In fact, why don’t we all fill up?” Off came the packs, out came the water filtration system, and we sat by the stream as the fresh water supply slowly filtered into our packs.

Re-loaded, we trudged on even more slowly, and on the final leg climbed through a switchback to a clearing. “This is the last full view of the mountain,” our guide said. “Let’s just enjoy it for a while.” We stood in silence, admiring the majesty of creation.

When we are young and ambitious, it’s difficult to slow down and enjoy the journey. But, without proper pacing, we become fatigued, start aching, and begin to trip and fall, sometimes in a disastrous fashion. When we stop to appreciate the view, take in the beauty along the way, and pace ourselves appropriately, we not only enjoy the journey but invest in a more successful completion.

Growing Beyond Boundaries

One of the joyful surprises of aging is learning to relax into new forms of spirituality. It’s small consolation for knees that ache and hips in perpetual lockdown but the inward ease of spirituality in the second half of life calls to mind the “fountains of living water” Jesus describes. I’m not sure how it happens, maybe through the same processes that turn hair gray and injuries permanent, but after years of seeing a world of scarcity where only the strong survive, I find suddenly an intensified beauty to the journey, a delicacy to life, and a sacredness in sharing it with others.

We don’t start the journey that way. When initially making our way -- be it in faith, career, or relationship -- we mark our boundaries, establish evaluative measures, and carefully circumscribe everything about us. Earlier in my life I cared deeply about things like membership numbers, race times, and savings account balances. These days, my focus has subtly shifted toward quality conversation, experiences shared with loved ones, and the joy of a growing faith. This shift must be what Ken Wilber meant when suggesting that the spiritual journey always begins elitist and ends egalitarian.

The problem is that the boundaries needed to sustain the constructs of life’s first half often ignore the spiritual needs of the second half. At some point – especially in the realm of faith – we become less interested in whether something is practical, revenue generating or efficient and long for something to touch our souls, to feed our spirits, and allow spacious room to breathe.

That’s why Jesus found boundaries terribly uninteresting. They were too limiting, ultimately insufficient for the spiritual needs of God’s people. Instead, Jesus saw the larger whole, the both-and way of faith, and trusted in God’s goodness to work out the boundaries. So he said dangerous inclusionary things like, “My Father’s sun shines on the good and the bad, his rains fall on the just and the unjust.” Or, “Don’t pull out the weeds or you might pull out the wheat along with the harvest.”

Today we see a broad movement toward messy spirituality, boundary-less, undefined spirituality. This movement is manifesting itself largely as a rejection of ‘organized religion’ (whatever that is) and the Church that represents it. Some church leaders bemoan this movement, fight it at every turn, and even do things like embrace Latin liturgies and ancient creeds to plant a stake in the ground against it. I’m occasionally tempted to join the chorus that offers vigorous declarations demarcating our boundaries. How else can we be sure not to drown in a sea of competing ideologies? Besides, the sanctuary is the only realm where clergy still have a touch of control.

But I wonder if it would be wiser to listen to these spiritual but not religious, boundary-less anti-institutional people. I wonder if they’re rightly calling into question the focus of our faith and encouraging us to grow into more mature expressions of Christianity, faith that is less competition with those outside our tradition and more cooperation, less critique of those who think and act differently and more collaboration on our shared values, less attack on the perceived ‘other’ and more appreciation for the divine in us all. I wonder if the ‘spiritual but not religious’ movement isn’t a God-given catalyst to those of us affiliated with Christian faith to move beyond the boundaries of the first half of life that no longer serve us well and into the God-breathed beauty of the second half, even if we can’t control its outcome.

Time in the Second Half

Sitting in the eye doctor’s chair a couple of weeks ago, with my pupils duly dilated, the lights dimmed, nothing there to read but the eye chart, and the doctor, as always, busy with somebody else, I realized once again, how vital my time has become. It’s part personality. I’ve long tried to maximize my time, but that trait is facing a force multiplier now from children whose time at home is short, and the unfathomable reality of finding my way fully into mid-life. So it is that I am cherishing time, salvaging time, multi-tasking, looking for short cuts, time-savers, trying, in other words, to fill right up to the brim each and every remaining waking minute.

That’s probably what led me to Richard Rohr’s new book, Falling Upward, A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life. In it, he speaks of deconstructing “first half of life containers” in favor of more generative, open and loving constructs the second half. He quotes Albert Einstein who said, “No problem can be solved by the same consciousness that caused it in the first place” and suggests that the second half of life both forces and invites us to a more healthy and grace-filled world-view.

One way to read this passage in Luke is to see that this deconstruction/reconstruction happened to the disciples when they recognized the risen Christ. Their early containers of a politically motivated, power-based messiahship were deconstructed, and the resurrection invited them into a whole new construct for faith and life, one that sounded an awful lot like risk, trust, surrender, and gratitude, of living in a fashion that recognizes the sacredness of life, that sees life as more magical, less predictable, more autonomous, less controllable, more varied, less simple, more infinite, less knowable and more wonderfully troubling than they could have imagined before they had gone through the difficulty of the first half. The may not have liked it, but they embraced it, and reconstructed their lives based on this new understanding of faith. In fact, history suggests that all disciples were so compelled by the importance of the gospel that they gave their lives for it.

Deconstruction involves loss, which is not always our favorite topic. Growth requires change, another less-than-favorite notion. But this Easter I also had a wonderful reminder of its rewards. When I was a child, Easter was typically a bit of a disappointment. We weren’t Roman Catholic like most of our neighbors and didn’t get new suits, dresses, or ties. We typically got a Fanny Farmer chocolate bunny and some jelly beans, most of which my father ate after we went to bed. Easter, frankly, devolved into little more than a boring time with relatives with whom we shared little in common, a day I wished away as fast as possible.

But this Easter, on the spur of the moment, my sister called to say she was nearby and, after some coaxing, agreed to come to spend the evening with us, bringing her eldest daughter with her. We didn’t do much … went for a walk, sat on the porch, shared a meal and some family stories. But beneath the surface something far more profound was happening, as I realized my understanding of Easter had experienced the deconstruction and reconstruction Rohr describes. Instead of wanting something sweet or trying to get my head around a dubious bunny or -- worse yet -- wishing the day away while with relatives with whom I had little in common, I had the opportunity to celebrate Easter with someone I used to celebrate it with for 18 years but had not done so in more than 30. It brought deep joy, a treasured time of suddenly, and even a bit miraculously, becoming family once again; a listening and sharing time; a remembering and envisioning time; time sitting all together round a table, breaking bread together, laughing about old stories, making some new ones, and glimpsing faces almost lost to distant memory.

As I awoke Easter morning, it occurred to me that my sister and I did exactly what we used to do 40 years ago, only this time with a totally reconstructed understanding of faith and life, with a second half quality of time. It was nothing less than a sublime gift, one which I’ll long treasure.

I firmly believe it’s the kind of time we are all looking for, looking forward to, in our heart of hearts. And it’s based on our resurrection belief that God is always at work, always making a way, always showing up when we least expect it, and inviting us to embrace the life that really is life.

Beautiful, Real and Universal

Bruce Cockburn, of all people, changed my spiritual imagination. It happened in a concert hall in New York City in the mid-80s, when Cockburn joined a drummer, a bassist, and a (I’m not making this up) very attractive blonde who played the conch shell, to offer a three-hour artistic feast. His music was ineffable, a sophisticated blend of rock, folk and religion expressed through original poetry. I can still quote the lyrics of his first song:

All the diamonds in this world
That mean anything to me
Are conjured up by wind and sunlight
Sparkling on the sea.

I ran aground in a harbor town
Lost the taste for being free.
Thank God he sent some gull-chase ship
To carry me to sea.

Two thousand years and half a world away.
Dying trees will still grow greener when we pray.
Ship comes shining like a crystal swan in a sky of suns,
Ship comes shining.

Silver scales flash bright and fade
In reeds among the shore.
Like a pearl in a sea of liquid jade
His ship comes shining.

Like a crystal swan
In a sky of suns
His ship comes shining
His ship comes shining.

With no explicit reference to faith, Cockburn captured my spiritual sensibilities better than any ‘Christian’ artist I had encountered.

In recent years, artists who reference spiritual truths obliquely have become quite popular . Not long after the 9/11 attacks, Bruce Springsteen offered nothing less than a testimony to hope and redemption with his single, “My City of Ruins,” which became a best-seller:

There is a blood red circle
On the cold dark ground
And the rain is falling down
The church door's thrown open
I can hear the organ's song
But the congregation's gone
My city of ruins
My city of ruins

Now the sweet bells of mercy
Drift through the evening trees
Young men on the corner
Like scattered leaves,
The boarded up windows,
The empty streets
While my brother's down on his knees
My city of ruins
My city of ruins

Come on, rise up! Come on, rise up!
Come on, rise up! Come on, rise up!
Come on, rise up! Come on, rise up!

It was exactly what our nation needed.

Now a British folk/rock band is taking the baton. I first heard Mumford and Sons live in Asheville, N.C., (where I was the youngest person on the floor, thank you) and upon leaving said to my 19 year old daughter, “I promise you one of them was raised in a minister’s family.” At first she doubted, then she Googled, and afterward she stared at her father wondering how he could know.

How could we not know? With lyrics such as “It’s not the long walk home that will change this heart, but the welcome I receive from a re-start.” Hadn’t she been raised on the parable of the prodigal son? Or these from “Thistle and Weeds,”

Spare me your judgments and spare me your dreams
Cause recently mine have been tearing my seams
I sit alone in this winter clarity which clouds my mind
Alone in the wind and the rain you left me
It's getting dark darling, too dark to see
And I'm on my knees, and your faith in shreds, it seems.

But I will hold on
I will hold on hope.

What’s more biblical than that?

Still, some wonder whether these references are specific enough, Christian enough, and even pressure the artists to clarify their particular convictions. When asked if his band was "Christian," Marcus Mumford responded rather helpfully: “I think faith is something beautiful, and something real, and something universal, or it can be.”

Yes it can, especially if we’ll let the artists lead us.

That’s one reason we’ll hear from Marcus Mumford in our contemporary service on Easter Sunday, because on Easter we proclaim something beautiful, something real and something universal.

I've been largely heartened by the personal responses I've received to this morning's article in the Charlotte Observer. Though any mention of guns typically evokes vigorous debate, I'm thankful for a congregation and a context in which we can seriously consider the implications of Christian faith for public life. It is Presbyterianism at its very best.

I'm also grateful to John Cleghorn, former member of Covenant now Pastor at Caldwell, for initiating this dialogue, and especially for transcending the argument of Second Amendment rights, that tired cul-de-sac where all good ideas circle to their death. We worked hard to capture the strength of our tradition, claim our specific faith for an important issue facing public life, and speak an honest word.

With gratitude and humility,

Bob

Weekend Update

Perhaps you saw the article on happiness in the New York Times  this week that claimed money actually does bring happiness, at least in certain circumstances. It seems that some degree of financial flexibility brings options, and the pursuit of some options -- education, entrepreneurship and health -- actually contributes to personal happiness. 

Years ago, Dan Gilbert, a professor of psychology at Harvard, collaborated with other scholars to do a definitive study on happiness, the decision-making processes and thought rubrics that shape our sense of well-being. Perhaps the most helpful observation was that we are mostly wrong when it comes to decisions regarding what will make us happy: a new car, new kitchen, new clothes, will not make us nearly as happy, nor for as long, as we expect.

Gilbert has a wonderful phrase for this gap between what we predict and what we ultimately experience: "impact bias.” Gilbert and his colleagues think that if we were more keenly aware of our "impact bias," we would invest our resources more purposefully in endeavors that really produce happiness. "We might, for instance, take more time being with friends than more time making money."

 He also suggests the mistaken choices about what will make us happy are best understood as  “miswanting.”

This week's sermon will explore biblical notions of satisfaction, fullness and life. We'll look at how Jesus cleverly presented his understanding of the "life that is really life" in contrast to the "mis-wanting" and "impact bias" of his day (John 2:1-11). Topics in the sermon will range from parties, wine, bacchanalia, pornography (yes, you read that right) and self-giving. 

I invite you to come, learn and be challenged to embrace the life that is really life.

A Love Affair

I love literature so intensely that taking time to read can feel akin to engaging in an illicit affair. I sneak around at night, cover my tracks and falsify receipts from Barnes and Noble. I confess to having numerous affairs over the years: John Steinbeck, Leif Enger, Wallace Stegner, as well as a few less memorable dalliances.

One relationship has been particularly hot and cold. When I first picked up Barbara Kingsolver’s “The Poisonwood Bible,” I must not have been in the mood and put it down after 30 pages. Two years later, I flirted with her again and found her deeply alluring. As I turned the pages, I laughed and cried, thoroughly lost in her world. Her memoir “Animal, Vegetable, Mineral” was also compelling, though by that time our relationship had matured a bit, and I found parts of her world a touch less attractive. I’ve not yet read “Flight Behavior,” but am not getting great reviews from friends who have.

Like any intense relationship, a few snapshots remain fixed in my memory. I’ll never forget her ruminations over the loss of a baby to tragedy:

“Don't try to make life a mathematics problem with yourself in the center and everything coming out equal. When you are good, bad things can still happen. And if you are bad, you can still be lucky.”

Her insight into incident is superseded only by her understanding of life’s longer arc. Again, in Poisonwood Bible she writes,

“Listen. To live is to be marked. To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story, and that is the only celebration we mortals really know. In perfect stillness, frankly, I've only found sorrow.”

Even though I love Barbara Kingsolver, I can’t imagine living with her over the long haul. Therefore, I’ve chosen just one picture of her to keep in my office. I lay it inconspicuously by my computer so others won’t notice, but it captures just the right balance of gravity, simplicity and insight:

“Here’s what I’ve decided: the very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof. What I want is so simple I almost can’t say it: elementary kindness. Enough to eat, enough to go around. The possibility that kids might one day grow up to be neither the destroyers nor the destroyed. That’s about it. Right now I’m living in that hope, running down its hallways and touching the walls on both sides. I can’t tell you how good it feels.”