This year brings with it changes: some eagerly welcomed, and some simply needed.

There will be several changes for me as I continue along this path of life.

1) Beginning this month, I will no longer be holding Thean Evening Prayer outside my home. This is a loss, as I have loved and learned a great deal from this monthly sacred circle of women. It is a gain of time and energy, both of which are increasingly precious to me. I invite those who have gathered with me for Thean Evening Prayer and any others who wish to develop their own regular, rhythmic prayer practice to pray with the Thean Psalter. This Psalter is written in a feminine voice with feminine pronouns and names for Thea in a feminist thealogical worldview, and is an enriching supplement to other faith traditions as well as a strong, illuminating, standalone form of prayer.

2) The Thea House Church liturgies, which have previously been private gatherings, will be open to all pilgrims with open hearts beginning this March. More details will be announced in the coming weeks.

3) I have found in the last year that I have failed to make adequate room in my life for two of my great joys: walking and writing. I resolve to set aside less vital pursuits to make room for these. To that end, I look forward this year to participating in my third half-marathon and finishing my second novel.

4) I imagine that each of us seeks to be more loving and less resentful. I cling sometimes to resentments and anger when I feel wronged or observe someone else being wronged, but I seek to keep those feelings close only long enough to learn from them and let them go in peace. The longer I journey along this road of mine, the more aware I become that my time is limited, and my desire to love abundantly and beautifully competes with the time I give over to festering anger. I seek to choose love and beauty, and to allow anger to grow into both of those rather than falling stagnant.

May 2018 be rich with joy, love, and hope for all Creation. ♥

Last night was a turning point for me: for the first time, I brought my ministry as a Thean priestess out of the privacy of my family's house church and into the public realm, leading Thean Evening Prayer at Pathways of Grace in Phoenix.

My vision for Thean Evening Prayer was simple: it would be an intimate gathering for those who identify as women to pray together to God in their own (female) voices using feminine images for God and imagining God in relationship to Creation through a feminine, feminist lens.

When I arrived, my dear husband helped me arrange the space the way I wanted it, and then he departed so I could pray before others arrived. At 5:00, the time when prayer was set to begin, I was the only person in the room. I continued to pray, and as I prayed, I was surprised by the awareness that I actually wasn't alone--I was in the company of thousands of generations of women, women who had come before me, who had refused to be silenced or disempowered by oppressors, women who had imagined themselves and their God the way they chose, women who had loved, created, mentored and empowered girls and women within their influence. All their efforts, all their willingness to stand up for themselves, all their willingness to make a difference when they were told to shrink and be quiet--all of that energy had culminated in this moment, this hour, in which I was able to embrace my public ministry as a spiritual leader, a Thean priestess, a woman who wouldn't settle for the oppression that would seek to rein me in.

I knew going into the night that several women who wanted to pray with me were out of town. I knew also that several women who had wanted to pray with me had something come up at the last minute. I prepared to pray with my cloud of witnesses. I waited. Then a familiar face arrived, a woman who had prayed with me at our former Episcopal parish in Tempe, a woman who was preparing to lead her own spiritual circle for women. We hugged, we talked for a few minutes, I showed her around the rooms of Pathways of Grace, and eventually we settled into our seats to pray. I sounded the singing bowl four times. We stood, and I intoned a invitatory that I had learned years ago at my Roman Catholic parish in Cleveland, the same parish that ignited my love for liturgy: Let my prayer arise like incense in your sight, the lifting of my hands a sign of trust in you, O God. She joined with me in singing, and we sang it several times, letting the words soak into the space and ourselves.

We prayed the psalms next--Psalm 141, from which the invitatory came, and then a series of other psalms. Between each psalm there was a pregnant, full silence. At one point, I held my breath in between verses to keep my voice from breaking and tears from falling. Next time--next time I will let them break and fall.

At the conclusion of the psalms, we moved to the homily. I explained that in the Christian (and particularly Benedictine) tradition, Saturday night evening prayer was a big event, because it was the vigil for Sunday, the most important day of the Christian week. Saturday evening prayer was therefore when a homily was given, at least in communities that prayed together the liturgy of the hours every day. I noted that the homily would traditionally be given by the presider in top-down fashion, the presider imparting (his) reflections as seeds to be planted in the hearts of those around (him). Then I explained that in the case of Thean Evening Prayer, the homily was open to every person present, because a key Thean belief is that every (woman) has deep wisdom to share. So we shared the homily based on phrases from the psalms that had particularly resonated with us. Our homily was a mutual conversation in which we listened to one another and sounded/heard our own voices, recognizing that Thea's voice resounded through each of us.

I don't know how much time passed--time felt as though it was suspended, but I know from the content of the conversation that it must have taken a while. When the homily had reached an end, I turned to the next portion of evening prayer: the anointing. A bottle of oil stood on the little altar before us. I removed the glass stopper and poured a small portion of it into a glass bowl, inviting my praying partner to partake of it. I spoke of olive oil as an ancient healing balm, but I also spoke of it as the stuff with which royalty, priests, and prophets were anointed. To partake of scented oil is a sign not only of healing, but of empowerment and authority, specifically the power and authority to speak and act as one deems fit and wise. I said that it was particularly poignant to anoint the parts of ourselves for which we seek wise power and authority: the eyes, the ears, the mouth, the nose, the hands, the heart. My prayer partner and I dipped our fingers in the oil and rubbed the rose and clove scents into our skin, and then prayed Psalm 45 from the Thean Psalter, which included verses like, "You, a woman, are among the wise ones; grace flows from your lips," "Your leadership shall endure, for you love goodness and reject unkindness," and "Thea anoints you with the oil of gladness."

Thus empowered, we prayed together for those all around us, and lifted up personal prayers of our own. Then we stood and prayed a modified version of the Lord's Prayer called "Our Mother," written by Miriam Therese Winter of herchurch in San Francisco. We concluded with a collect prayer and this blessing:

May Thea bless us with courage,
guide us with her unrelenting love,
and empower us to answer her sacred call. Amen.

Our time together was not over--we stood, moved to the other side of the room, and talked over a small spread of food and bubbly water I had brought to share. We talked about our experiences, our faith, our friends, our leadership, our children, and our lives. We talked and talked until suddenly it was nearly 7:00--between the two of us and the cloud of witnesses that surrounded us, we had spent the two hours for which I had reserved the space.

I feel full: full of gratitude, full of joy, full of wisdom, full of holy power. This gathering was and wasn't about me. It was about me as a woman who has been on a journey all her life to arrive at the moment of taking up her life's vocation. It was about every woman who has ever done the same or sought to do the same. It was about every young girl who is figuring out who she wants to be, and it is about countless generations of women still to come who will change and lead this world for the better, overcoming oppressions and embracing who they see in the mirror as living icons of the Holy One.

Ten months ago today, I wrote a post detailing my frustrations with the characterization of God in Psalm 106. I rediscovered that post just now after transforming that very psalm. This is what Thea looks like to me. ♥

Psalm 106
 
We give thanks to you, O Thea,
   for your love for your Creatures is unending.
 
When we were enslaved we did not consider your marvelous works,
nor remember the abundance of your love;
   we defied you, believing not even you could help us.
 
But you set us free,
   making your power known.
 
You rebuked the sea, and it dried up,
   and you led us through the deep as through a desert.
 
You delivered us from the hand of those who hated us
   and empowered us to escape from those who would have held us captive.
 
But we soon forgot your deeds
   and did not take time to discern your wisdom for ourselves.
 
A craving seized us in the wilderness,
   and we put you to the test in the desert.
 
We envied Miriam in the camp,
   Miriam, your chosen one.
 
We forgot you, O Thea,
   you who had liberated us.
 
We grumbled in our tents
   and would not listen to your voice.
 
Then we were overtaken by the hand of our enemy
   and those who hated us ruled over us.
 
Our enemies oppressed us,
   and we were humbled under their hand.
 
Time after time you delivered us from our enslavement,
   but we forgot your love and sank into traps of our own making.
 
Nevertheless, you saw our distress
   when we voiced our lamentation.
 
You remembered your love, even when we forgot it,
   and lifted us up once more.
 
Blessed be you, O Thea, author of Creation,
   and may the blessing of your love ever be upon us!

This is a psalm that originally spoke of the stubborn hearts and repeated rebelling of God's people, despite God's goodness and generosity. In the original psalm, God grew angry and finally allowed the people to die off to see if it would make any difference with them.

I believe my rendering of this psalm speaks to a Thean worldview, one in which we as Creatures still rebel and in which God still resists that rebellion, but in which rebellion, resistance, and resolution are imagined in a very different way.

Psalm 78
 
Hear my teaching, my sisters,
   incline your ears to the words of my mouth.
 
I will open my mouth in a parable;
   I will declare the mysteries of ancient times.
 
That which we have heard and known,
and what our foremothers have told us,
   we will not hide from their children.
 
We will recount to generations to come
   the liberating deeds and loving power of Thea.
 
She established wisdom,
   which she gave us to teach our children;
 
That the generations to come might know,
and the children yet unborn;
   that they in their turn might tell it to their children;
 
So that they might discover their divine identity
   and live as icons of her in the world.
 
She worked marvels in the sight of our foremothers,
   in the land where they were once slaves.
 
She split open the sea and let them pass through;
   she made the waters stand up like walls.
 
She led them with a cloud by day,
   and all the night through with a glow of fire.
 
She split the hard rocks in the wilderness
   and gave them drink as from the great deep.
 
She brought streams out of the cliff,
   and the waters gushed out like rivers.
 
And she said to them, “This!
   This is what I want you to do for your fellow Creatures!”
 
But they strayed from the path she had given them,
   rebelling in the desert against her.
 
They tested her in their hearts,
   demanding food for their craving.
 
They railed against her and said,
   “Can you set a table in the wilderness?
 
True, she struck the rock, the waters gushed out, and the gullies overflowed;
   but are you able to give bread
   or to provide meat for her creatures?”
 
When Thea heard this,
   a fire ignited in her heart,
 
For they had no faith in Thea;
   how could they possibly have faith in themselves?
 
So she commanded the clouds above
   and opened the doors of heaven.
 
She rained down manna upon them to eat
   and gave them grain from heaven.
 
So mortals ate the bread of angels;
   she provided for them food enough.
 
She caused the east wind to blow in the heavens
   and led out the south wind by her might.
 
She rained down flesh upon them like dust
   and winged birds like the sand of the sea.
 
She let it fall in the midst of their camp
   and round about their dwellings.
 
So they are and were well filled,
   for she gave them what they craved.
 
But they did not believe in her promise,
   that her power to work miracles was also their power.
 
They remained steadfast in their stubbornness
   and had no faith in her wonderful works.
 
Then Thea woke as though from sleep,
   like a warrior refreshed with wine.
 
She set her eyes on her Creatures,
   whom she had always loved;
 
And she whispered in their hearts once more,
   that they might recognize their true calling, their deepest yearning,
   and become her miracle-working hands and feet and heart in the world.

I am nearly finished with the revisions of my psalter. Praying with it gives me chills, wonder, and hope. ♥

Psalm 24
 
Creation is Thea and all that is in it,
   the universe and all who dwell therein.
 
For it is she who splashes as the seas
   and is firm as earth alongside the great rivers.
 
“Who can descend the valley of Thea?
   and who can stand in her holy place?
 
“Those who have a pure heart,
   who have not pledged themselves to falsehood,
   nor sworn by what is a fraud.
 
They shall receive a blessing from Thea
   and a just reward from the Goddess whose body they are.”
 
Such is the generation of those who seek her,
   of those who seek your face, O Goddess of Creation.
 
Lift up your heads, O gates;
   lift them high, O everlasting doors;
   and the Queen of glory shall come in.
 
“Who is this Queen of glory?”
   “Thea, strong and mighty,
   Thea, mighty in battle.”
 
Lift up your heads, O gates;
lift them high, O everlasting doors;
   and the Queen of glory shall come in.
 
“Who is she, this Queen of glory?”
   “The Lady of Creation,
   she is the Queen of glory.”
 
 
Psalm 25
 
To you, O Thea, I lift up my flesh;
   my Goddess, I put my trust in you.
 
Let none who look to you be put to shame;
   let the treacherous be disappointed in their schemes.
 
Show me your ways, O Thea,
   and teach me your paths.
 
Lead me in your truth and teach me,
   for you are the Goddess, the breath of my flesh;
   in you I have trusted all day long.
 
Remember, O Thea, your compassion and love,
   for they are everlasting.
 
Remember not the wrongdoing of my youth and my transgressions;
   remember me according to your love
   and for the sake of your goodness, O Thea.
 
Gracious and upright is Thea;
   therefore she teaches her Creatures in her ways.
 
She guides the humble in doing right
   and teaches her way to the lowly.
 
All the paths of Thea are love and faithfulness;
   the Goddess shows her Creatures her ways.
 
Who are they who are in awe of Thea?
   she will teach them the way that they should choose.
 
Thea is a friend to those who are in awe of her
   and will show them her covenant.
 
My eyes are ever looking to Thea,
   for she shall pluck my feet out of the net.
 
Protect my life and deliver me;
   let me not be put to shame, for I have trusted in you.
 
Let integrity and uprightness preserve me,
   for my hope has been in you.
 
Deliver Creation, O Goddess,
   out of all her troubles.
 
 
Psalm 26
 
Give judgment for me, O Thea,
for I have lived with integrity;
   I have trusted in Thea and have not faltered.
 
Test me, O Thea, and try me;
   examine my heart and my mind.
 
For your love is before my eyes;
   I have walked faithfully with you.
 
I will wash my hands in innocence, O Thea,
   that I may go in procession round your altar,
 
Singing aloud a song of thanksgiving
   and recounting all your wonderful deeds.
 
Thea, I love the house in which you dwell
   and the place where your glory abides.
 
My foot stands on level ground;
   in the full assembly I will bless Thea.

This year, for the first time in eleven years, Passion Sunday (more commonly known as Palm Sunday) falls on the same day as the Spring Equinox, the first day of spring.

Palm Sunday was one of the Sundays I most looked forward to growing up, because it meant receiving a palm frond, singing hosannahs, and processing around the church--ritual at its finest. Now I find that Palm Sunday, Passion Sunday, is too distinctly Christian for me to celebrate it the way I once did. It heralds the arrival of Jesus in Jerusalem, where he will be put to death. This, according to Christian teaching, is the culmination of his three-year ministry, the reason for which he was born, by most Christian estimations. The cross is the primary symbol of Christians--there is no Christianity without Jesus's murderous death (and resurrection).

For me as a Thean, the death of Jesus, the Messiah, is no longer central to me. In fact, the existence of a savior of the world isn't central to me, either. Several other things assume central importance for me: the creation of the world (for isn't it amazing that there is something rather nothing?); the incarnation of Thea, which is the universe; the inherent goodness of all things; the communal command to be reconciled to one another; the radical breaking down of barriers through the sharing of table fellowship; and the ability of all beings to be transformed, whether from death to life or from poor of heart to rich of heart.

Instead of looking for palm fronds to hail a redeemer, I cut branches from one of our orange trees, gave one to each of my girls, and led them on a procession through the deck and the house, that we might bless the spaces we share together. Then I invited them, in honor of the coming of spring, to plant three kinds of seeds in the earth with me. Then I took them to their room, gathered them close to me, and talked with them about what Thea is like, and how we are all of Thea, and how greatly Thea loves us and wants us to love one another.

Singing hosannahs around the house on Palm Sunday has always been comfortable, but today it jars me. I am aware of how much work I have yet to do in developing my thealogy--not only my beliefs, but stories, songs, and rituals. Thean faith and liturgy may look a lot like Christian faith and liturgy, but they are not the same. I have spent a great deal of time focusing on their similarities, but now, more than ever, is the time to focus on the differences. The differences don't make Theanism better or worse than Christianity, but they do make a difference in how and what I teach my daughters about God and our place in the universe. The fact is, I don't want them to grow up thinking that they had to be saved by a God-man. I want them to know that their Goddess, their Thea, is as near as their own bodies, and that they are holy, and that they have all the power they need to effect tremendous change in the world. They don't need Jesus to be their hero; they can be their own heroes, because they are daughters of Thea. And they can do that by planting seeds, whether in the ground, in other's hearts, or in their own hearts. ♥

I have revised Psalm 10 to be a Thean psalm, and I find it speaks volumes to the current political situation in the United States.

Psalm 10
 
Why do you stand so far off, O Thea,
   and hide yourself in time of trouble?
 
The wicked arrogantly persecute the poor,
   but they are trapped in the schemes they have devised.
 
The wicked boast of their heart’s desire;
   the covetous curse and revile the poor.
 
The wicked are so proud that they care not for others;
   their only thought is, “Creation does not matter.”
 
Their ways are devious at all times;
your judgments are far above out of their sight;
   they defy all their enemies.
 
They say in their heart, “I shall not be shaken;
   no harm shall happen to me ever.”
 
Their mouth is full of cursing, deceit, and oppression;
    under their tongue are mischief and wrong.
 
They lurk in ambush in public squares
and in secret places they murder the innocent;
   they spy out the helpless.
 
They lie in wait, like a lion in a covert;
they lie in wait to seize upon the lowly;
   they seize the lowly and drag them away in their net.
 
The innocent are broken and humbled before them;
   the helpless fall before their power.
 
Rise up, O Thea;
   do not forget the afflicted.
 
Surely, you behold trouble and misery;
   you see it and take it into your own hand.
 
The helpless commit themselves to you,
   for you are the helper of orphans.
 
Break the power of the wicked and evil;
   search out their wickedness until you find none.
 
Thea will hear the desire of the humble;
   you will strengthen their heart and your ears shall hear;
 
To give justice to the orphan and oppressed,
   so that mere mortals may strike terror no more.

One of my goals in rewriting the psalter is to diminish the culture of vengeance that permeates it. In this spirit, I have rewritten Psalm 68.

Psalm 68
 
Let all Creatures be glad and rejoice before Goddess;
   let them also be merry and joyful.
 
Sing to Goddess, sing praises to her Name;
exalt her who rides upon the oceans;
   Thea is her Name, rejoice before her!
 
Mother of orphans, defender of widows,
   Goddess in her holy habitation!
 
Goddess gives the solitary a home
   and brings forth prisoners into freedom.
 
You sent a gracious rain, O Goddess, upon your inheritance;
   you refreshed the land when it was weary.
 
Your Creatures found their home in it;
   in your goodness, O Goddess, you have made provision for the poor.
 
Though you lingered among the sheepfolds,
   you shall be like a dove whose wings are covered with silver,
   whose feathers are like green gold.
 
You have gone up on high and led captivity captive;
you have received gifts even from all your Creatures,
   that the Lady Goddess might dwell among them.
 
Blessed be Thea day by day,
   the Goddess of our salvation, who bears our burdens.
 
She is our Goddess, the Goddess of our salvation;
   Goddess is the Lady, by whom we escape death.
 
They see your procession, O Goddess,
   your procession into the sanctuary, my Goddess and my Queen.
 
The singers go before, musicians follow after,
   in the midst of maidens playing upon the hand-drums.
 
Bless Goddess in the gathering;
   bless Thea, you that are of the fountain of Creation.
 
Send forth your strength, O Goddess;
   establish, O Goddess, what you have wrought for us.
 
Queens shall bring gifts to you,
   for your temple’s sake.
 
Sing to Goddess, O queendoms of the earth;
   sing praises to Thea.
 
She rides in the heavens, the ancient heavens;
   she sends forth her voice, her mighty voice.
 
Ascribe power to Goddess;
   her majesty is through Creation;
   her strength is in the skies and the earth.
 
How wonderful is Goddess in her holy places!
   the Goddess of Creation giving strength and power to her Creatures!
   Blessed be Goddess!

In the BCP's prescribed psalms for today, God is depicted as a jealous and vengeful God. In Psalm 105, the Egyptians didn't listen to God's command to let the people of Israel go, so God unleashed plagues on them, including death upon their firstborns. Then, in Psalm 106, the people of Israel "intermingled with the heathen and learned their pagan ways," and thus "they were polluted by their actions and went whoring in their evil deeds." Consequently, "the wrath of the Lord was kindled against his (sic) people, and those who hated them ruled over them."

In other words, people didn't act in accordance with God's will, so God threw magnificent tantrums.

As I revise the Psalter into a Thean prayer book, I find I can't abide by this manner of characterizing God. When I imagine God, I imagine her acting like a compassionate, patient, wise, peaceful grown-up--not like a child or a cult leader.

I don't want a fickle God. I want a God who's bigger than that. I want a God who shows her might in her gentleness and care; I want a God who forgives without demanding punishment first. I want a God who gets righteously angry at oppression and enslavement--realities that any loving individual ought to be angry about--and at the same time, I want her primary motivation to be love for all her creatures, who are (in equal measure) her incarnation.

As I reweave the psalms for Thean use, justice for the poor and oppressed will appear, but I hope to eliminate tantrums--particularly death-dealing ones. My Goddess is a Goddess of life, and I want to convey that, one psalm at a time.

A few hours north of Sarnia, Ontario, there is a quiet place nestled in a forest. Built with rustic logs, smelling like pine pitch, and surrounded by acres of misty trees, this small building stands, institutional and peaceful; utilitarian and somehow unique. In its natural surroundings, staring at a painting of the Baby Jesus, I found God.

Prayer, for me, has been a way to get through everyday life. I pray for health. I pray to be a better person. I pray for my family, my friends. I pray for things I want, things I don’t deserve, things I’m desperate about, things I can’t deal with. It’s not a fancy prayer. It’s often a mantra, repeated over and over, sometimes under my breath, sometimes out loud, sometimes mouthed in public places, and sometimes earnestly in the dark. And I pray every night, without fail, before I can close my eyes and sleep. I have to touch base. I have to let Him know. I need You. Please help me.

In that church retreat, hidden in the woods, I learned how to pray for more than just myself. I unlocked the talent I had all along – the talent of being able to use my words to change the world for the better. And I never felt closer to God, or more powerful with Him through me than I did then – creating creeds, weaving poetry, sharing with everyone my own personal faith, placing my feet on the path to social justice. If you had asked me then, I would have told you that I didn’t think I would ever be able to part from my relationship with God.

How things change.

I was badly wounded by the Church when I was a teenager. Shy, uncertain, and angry, I was struggling with my own sexuality and my sense of being. Holding hands with God, or so I thought, I faced the people who, also holding hands with God, told me that I didn’t belong. That I would burn in hell. That I was a sinner, a deliberate sinner, one who was so full of pride and bravado and hubris and lies, that I would never be welcome unless I changed who I was at the core. I had grown up solid in my belief that God makes us in His perfect image, and never makes mistakes. Now, I wasn’t sure if I was wrong, or if they were, but my hurt overwhelmed my faith.

I went back at 18, denying who I was. I joined a church of beauty and majesty, of tradition as old as time, and restrictions worse than any other church I’d ever been to. Was it punishment for the supposed sin of who I thought I was? To this day, I can’t answer that. All I know is that everywhere I turned, I found leaders, church members, even the Bible itself, it seemed, telling me that the person I am would never be good enough for God.

So I left. And I tried to forget.

I’m a rational person, most of the time. I also hold grudges, long after I should. And the hurt faded into twinges and then roared back to life in explosive, fiery anger. I wanted to hurt the Church the way it had hurt me. I wanted to hurt God. I wanted to burn in hell the way they said, just so that I could be myself without pretense, so I could live in sin without consequence and guilt.

And inside, I cried out for the God I knew in that quiet forest retreat. I begged Him to help me. I pushed Him away with both hands while simultaneously crying for Him in the night. And to His credit, He hasn’t let me go, though most days, I continue to angrily push and push and push, as hard as I can. He has forgiven me and continues to forgive me, despite all of my anger and moral failings, despite my hurt and my pride. He has quietly proven over and over that He thinks I am good enough for Him.

Knowing this, I suspect that one day, I will heal completely from my scars and from my open, bleeding wounds, the way that even the biggest wounds do heal. The scars will always hurt a little, but they won’t always be open and raw, ready to bleed again at another article about Christians saying “God hates fags”, or someone telling me that you can’t be Christian and gay.

But here’s the thing about healing. When you forgive someone, you don’t do it for them – not really. They benefit from it. They may think that you are doing them a favour. And maybe, part of healing is to acknowledge that you acted wrongly, too, even if at the time, you don’t think you did. Maybe part of it is to be like God, and not push away your fellow human, even if that fellow human has done cutting, horrible things to your psyche and to your sense of self.

The thing about healing is that forgiveness is mostly for you. It’s to reach out with your own humanity and be the bigger person. It doesn’t mean you forget, and it doesn’t mean that you have to draw that person back into your heart. What it does mean is that where the rushing, raging rivers have broken the bridge of faith, forgiveness helps to place new planks, to tie the knots back into the ropes. Where the bridge has rotted in places, forgiveness places brand new materials to make your bridge stronger than ever before. Where the bridge is shaky, forgiveness helps to steady it so that when you walk across it and try to meet God on the other side, it’s not so hard and scary to cross it.

Because when it comes to healing, it might take awhile. It might take a long time to rebuild your bridge. And I’m not saying that someone isn’t going to come along and say cutting things that will throw it into disrepair. I’ve rebuilt my bridge many times now . . . and I’ve begged God to help me find the strength to do it again.

Your bridge isn’t just to God. Your bridge is to your fellow humans, as well. The ones that put up walls to keep others out – your bridge goes to their door and invites them to come and meet you in the middle. The ones that tell you you’re not welcome – your bridge goes to them and tells them that they are welcome to come and belong with you. And the ones that meet you with hatred – your bridge shows them that the easier path is love.

Because maybe the place you’re all trying to reach is that little church retreat in the woods, with the whispering leaves and the distant rush of the many creeks. Maybe the path you all want to walk is the shady wide dirt path with the dappled sunlight through the trees, that wide and welcoming path that has benches to rest on and clear pools to drink from. Maybe the paths we choose are inevitably the harder ones because the stony paths teach you what smooth footing feels like, and we have to learn, in order to grow.

Maybe the pain and the blood are something we all experience, even when we’re the ones wielding the swords that hurt.  And maybe when it comes to healing, you find it in the silence and the dark, the pleas and the desperation, the fact that when you couldn’t walk anymore, He carried you – and carries you still.

Maybe when it comes to healing, it becomes the easier path to take – broken bridge, and all.

If you've never had the experience of participating in a spiritual discernment committee, I invite you to consider it.

After my fifth (and final) meeting with my discernment committee for priesthood yesterday evening, my committee confirmed that they heard my call to priesthood. And that's not even the extraordinary part.

The extraordinary part is that, as I prayed yesterday before my meeting, I prayed for total surrender to God's will, and for the faithfulness not to run if that will was something my ego didn't like. My total surrender granted me total, deep, quieting peace.

The extraordinary part is that, having let go of my attachment to the outcome of my discernment process, I happened to read (during evening prayer) the story in Matthew about the disciples who wanted to know why they couldn't heal the sick on their own when Jesus so easily could. Jesus told them it was because they lacked faith, and that if they had faith even the size of a mustard seed, mountains would move for them. And I realized at that moment that my mustard seed faith was what had moved the mountain of my ego in order to make a straight path for Spirit to enter and dwell deep within my heart.

The extraordinary part is that, despite having a clear sense of call when I walked into the process, my sense of call widened and deepened and became more rooted as the dialogue went on.

The extraordinary part is that, especially in the final two meetings, as I listened to the challenging questions of my committee members, I perceived Spirit doing the asking. And as I offered my vulnerable, open-hearted answers, I perceived Spirit speaking through me. (It's fair to say that I've never experienced God's voice speaking to me so powerfully as I have in my discernment committee meetings, and for a Benedictine who hears God speaking to her through liturgy and scripture and encounters with others all the time, that's saying a lot.)

The extraordinary part is that, despite my Enneagram-three-personality-type's desire to manage a situation in such a way that the outcome is "positive," I was required to relinquish my ability to do that in order to speak plainly and truthfully. I was painfully aware that my deep honesty could at any moment result in the humiliation of my ego, and I spoke anyway. In that total risk of my ego, I realized it was not my ego that spoke, but Spirit.

When I walked out of my meeting last night, I had no idea what my committee members had heard. I didn't know what they would say. My three-ish ability to anticipate the outcome of the process failed me spectacularly. And I perceived in my failure the possibility of God's success--success in finding a way to make use of the quirky instrument that I am.

My committee is passing me on to the next steps of the discernment process, steps that will be challenging in their own ways. What my committee heard may not be confirmed by the next folks I encounter in the discernment process. But what happens next is not my concern.

The most important piece to emerge for me from this discernment process is the profound recognition that my heart--my whole heart--belongs to the one I call God. Whatever comes, I know that I will be faithful to the path God has prepared for me. I won't turn away. This is God's gig, and I am God's beautiful, imperfect instrument.

What song(s) will God choose to play through me for the uplifting, healing, and reconciling of her creation?

We're halfway to Pentecost, the feast of God's Spirit. In the West the color of the Spirit is red, just as the color of Jesus as Lord is red. In the East, however, the color of the Spirit is green, marking the Spirit's greening, creative, birthing work.

As I struggle through the labor of giving birth to the vocation that's been gestating in me all my life, I am in need of a skillful, experienced midwife. I find myself wondering if I'm fit for the mothering I'm preparing to engage in. Will I have the energy to do it? How will I maintain balance so I don't fall apart? Is this sort of mothering my true call? What if that which I birth is nothing like what I expected?

I have a whole team of midwives to help me through this process, but their skill and encouragement doesn't make my birthing easier. It hurts. It's one of the most difficult things I've ever done. And there is the horrifying-because-it-seems-so-selfish possibility that I will disappointed with what emerges from me. I am conscious of wanting things to go a certain way, and aware that they may not, and aware that that's out of my hands. The Spirit has something in store for me beyond my imagining, and my job is to let my expectations roll off me so I can focus on laboring it into the world.

The above image is from Matthew Fox's Illuminations of Hildegard of Bingen. It's called "Sin - Drying Up."