A seminary education covers a broad spectrum of everything pertaining to the religious life, much of which is unquantifiable.  How does one measure love? wisdom? mercy? grace? good? evil?

We can talk about God, but how does one experience God?  How do we experience God when evil happens in our life or the lives of others?

There is much written and taught about prayer.  There are steps to follow and different styles to try, but the actual doing is up to the individual.  Each experience is unique, and no one knows how God will be revealed in any given moment.

But God was there.  God is here.  God will be forevermore.

That’s hard to teach.  It’s hard to learn.  That’s faith, right?

Sometimes there are no words, and the silence speaks volumes.  

These are the thoughts I had when I saw these photos, a tribute to Boston by Amanda Soule on the day of the bombings.

The orange-red of the curry powder makes a lovely, rich, autumnal yellow once the milk-water is added, and though the stirring seemed endless, I found myself momentarily entranced in the path of the meandering spoon, releasing the paste to form the smooth, golden sauce.  The sauce would thicken in its own time.  I couldn’t turn the heat up to high because we didn’t want it to boil.  I just had to be patient and wait.

My husband had stirred me a beverage while I stood at the stove.  The orange juice and schnapps nearly matched the sauce in the pan.  Time seemed to be very still as I stood there, enjoying the quiet luxury and noting our abundance.

In this time of year, when nature is quiet at the surface, I feel the busy-ness below the surface in my own being and mind, as I’m sure the earth feels it beneath the soil.  Things aren’t what they seem.  Only if we are truly aware can we know what might be to come.  Only if we are aware can we truly know what is happening right now.

The stirring of the sauce ended with the meal’s preparation complete, and the drink was consumed.  The stirring beneath the earth and within me continues, as does the expectation, the wonder, and the mystery.

When folks told me that Sewanee had fog, I really did not think anything unusual about it.  Seriously, though, I had never experienced the fog that I had only seen in movies, the kind like Scarlett O’Hara had nightmares about and the kind like in the movie The Others.  This kind of fog.

The day would have it that my morning would be packed with meeting-to-lunch-to-class, after a paper revision.  But my morning took a more leisurely pace or perhaps a still, quiet pace.  The pouring rain gave way to the mist and fog before I had to leave for my meeting.  Miscommunication upon missed communication later, I find myself returning to my desk, through the fog, to have some more solitary time.  Here I am.

The fog surrounds the plateau, to me becoming an outward sign of the mystery that surrounds us.  We study the history, the context, the methods, the meanings, and we are told throughout it all that we will never plumb the depths of God, the very Mystery we seek to explore.

Often people say they are in a fog or feel foggy.  When they say this, it is sometimes to express a sense of inability to comprehend or to find a way.  The fog is literally a cloud that seems to dull the senses and/or obstruct our view.  Walking to my car, I cast my eyes downward both to protect my glasses from the mist and to keep from straining my eyes in a way that made them hurt.  Driving on the roads, the lights meagerly attempted to alert others of the car’s presence.  I had to drive slowly, cautiously, because there are so many curves, and I do not yet know my way here.   A powerful force in nature just by its presence, the fog renders me vulnerable.

Maybe sometimes I just need to show up.  Of course I do not know even a glimpse of what I need to know.  Of course the way is revealed to me one step at a time.  In a place where there are many learning to be servants and leaders in God’s name, this fog can be a none too frequent reminder of our humanity and our humility and our need for God’s grace.

We give birth to so many things in our lives.  We create art.  We forge friendships.  We beget children.  These are no small things.

What I notice most about the most significant births is that they are born from a place of surrender.  My ego gives up, and I let what needs to be born come forth.  With each of my children, such is the nature of their birth.  In some of my better writing, the words seemed to form themselves.  My most sincere friendships found their own way to my heart and took root there.

This home, this school, this town we find ourselves in now, I imagine the same holds true.  In the stillness of the morning, I marvel at the sunlight falling down through the trees.  I wonder at the moisture, the thunderstorms, having come from a place not far away experiencing harsh drought.  (Believe me, I’m trying to send the rain back home!)  I am here for formation.  For a true birth to happen, I will have to let go.

That doesn’t mean I let go of all that was, of all who are a part of my life.  In as much as this is a community affair, this is mostly a time for me to grow, not away from who I am but more fully into who I am, who I am meant to be.  No one says a birth is easy, nor do I hear often that they’re beautiful affairs to observe (aside from those who hold the process near and dear to their hearts when a baby is being born). But I give thanks in advance for those who will serve as witnesses to my own birth, who will hold the space around me, love me unconditionally, and remind me that the ground is still there when I feel I’ve lost my way.

It wasn’t a part of my written to-do list as part of the move.  Maybe I didn’t want to put it in writing.  It does look a little odd.

Bury placenta.

There.  Written.  Done.

Yes, as we unpacked the fridge and freezer, I knew it had to be done.  I wasn’t going to move an organ across state lines.  I took a shovel and the almost six-year-old frozen placenta to the backyard.

Why I had waited so long, I’m not exactly sure.  I wanted to bury it where we were going to be for a long time, in our final home.  I wanted it to be special, sacred.

What I realized is that this home was the birthplace of our fourth child.  That makes it special and sacred.  Where I buried it was beneath a tree that I had chosen to let grow, knowing that it’s shade and fruit would be welcome.  I hoped, too, that maybe the nutrients would help see this young tree through the drought, through the seasons.

I also hope that nothing digs it up and carries it away.  If that does happen, I don’t want to know, and I’ll trust that some little beastie will savor every chewy, freezer burnt bite.

So I buried the placenta and returned to the house to box up possessions and memories after taking a sweeping glance over the crispy, sunburned lawn.  I could almost hear the laughter of the many children having played there, taste the sweat of all the hours we’ve put into gardens and maintenance, smell the smoke from the pizza oven.

This isn’t our final home, but it was a home, indeed.  Special.  Sacred.

Arriving many hours later with two laden vehicles at our new-to-us house, the memories remain to be made, but we’re making a start.  There was a rather large spider on the window sill, watching us carry every armful in.  After we were finished, it had apparently moved on to another resting space.

In this new place, we are joining a community that is already sacred, already special.  We are in good company.

Maybe not funny “ha-ha,” but funny nonetheless.

Since we are waiting for the majority of our belongings to catch up with us, we’ve been spending a good deal of time visiting the surrounding area and going out to eat.  With hubby away, I took the kids (all of them!) to Chattanooga for school supplies and some home necessities.  As a surprise I decided to take them to a movie.  (We all enjoyed Brave.)

I didn’t know two things:

1.  You pass through Georgia to get to Chattanooga from Sewanee.

2.  Chattanooga is on Eastern Time.

Fortunately, I have a smart phone by which I keep track of the time, and apparently it can also keep up with which time zone I’m in.  (Honestly, it didn’t seem like we were in Target for three hours!)  I noticed that our van was an hour behind, but I just figured it was a glitch and had missed an hour; maybe the battery had died at some point.  It wasn’t until we were driving back and saw the sign saying we were entering CST that I realized we had spent the afternoon in another zone.

Meh.  I was on kid-time, yet we were on time for the movie (thanks to the phone).  I was rather surprised at my not-knowing and how little difference it made for the day.

I’ll enjoy the summer time while it lasts.

A Sermon preached by Sara Milford at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas, for the Northwest Arkansas Women’s Community Correction Center Baptisms on July 29th, 2012.

The Scripture Texts for the Feast of the Transfiguration:

Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99; 2 Peter 1:13-21; Luke 9:28-36

 Open our hearts and still our minds, O God, that we might hear you in both word and silence.

We are blessed – those of us here in this place this afternoon.  Together, in a time intentionally set apart, we get to witness transfiguration.

Transfiguration, indeed, is “Christ’s appearance in radiant glory” to Peter, John, and James, as accounted in three of the Gospels.  More generally, it is “a complete change of form or appearance into a more beautiful or spiritual state,” “an exalting, glorifying, or spiritual change.”

Consider those moments when you have seen for yourself a transfiguration in those you love.  Have you beheld a bride and groom in a quiet moment after their marriage ceremony?  Have you seen the face of a mother or father as they gaze at a newly born child?  Think of the child who suddenly realizes they can ride a bike by themselves or a person of any age who realizes they can actually put letters together to make words as they read on their own. What about the women who complete their time at the correction center and walk through the doors to the other side?  Are they the same women who entered only months before?

Can we witness such moments and not be affected?

What is our responsibility, having seen such a gift?

Peter, John, and James just happened to be awake and saw the Transfiguration of Jesus while he was praying, when “his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.”  And then they see Moses and Elijah with him.  Moses, whom we heard earlier, whose face was ever shining, so long as it wasn’t veiled, because he had spoken with God.

God is there.

Peter wants to make dwellings to honor the place. “Not knowing what he said”?  Wasn’t what he saw a good, amazing thing?  Doesn’t Peter want to glorify and exalt the Lord, marking this holy place?

Then the booming voice from the clouds.  “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”  Now Jesus was alone, and they were silent.

They saw Moses and Elijah with a radiant, dazzling Jesus, and they told no one.  Silence.

You women know a thing or two about silence.  I think we all know that even when words aren’t spoken, volumes can be revealed.

It doesn’t say Jesus told his disciples to be quiet.  But hearing the voice of God telling them to listen to Jesus, you bet they did.  They knew what they had seen.  Perhaps the Light of Jesus, the Christ Light, shone brighter for them than ever before, and as they listened to Jesus, it transcended all words.  They listened in silence.

From Second Peter, we’re told “to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.”

“…be attentive to this…”  “This” meaning, I believe, that Christ is God’s son, God’s beloved, as the Spirit proclaimed upon his baptism.

The Light of Christ, the Love of God is real and true.  Hold onto this until you have it in your own heart . . . until you realize it’s been there all the time.

There’s a quote attributed to St. Ignatius:

A thick and shapeless tree-trunk would never believe

that it could become a statue, admired as a miracle of sculpture,

and would never submit itself to the chisel of the sculptor,

who sees by her genius what she can make of it.

We are all children of God.  In our baptism, we, too, are transfigured.  We take the opportunity to wash away the barriers the block our Light so we can be who God created us to be.  As a prayerbook I have concludes St. Ignatius’ quote, we can “ask for the grace to let (ourselves) be shaped by (our) loving Creator.”  I am God’s beloved child.  You are God’s beloved child.

Witnessing moments of God’s revelation in ourselves and in others, we are affected.  If you’ve ever seen the glory of God in any circumstance, you cannot un-know it.  We can forget.  We can turn away.  We can re-build those barriers.  But it doesn’t change the fact of what is, the evidence of God’s great beauty and love — even in the midst of hatred and fear.
What’s our responsibility?  I asked earlier.  Be awake.  Peter, John, and James only saw Jesus because they were awake, but they were tired.  They could have been asleep, but they weren’t.  What do we miss when we let our minds wander and our attention wane?  Who do we miss?  Where have we missed seeing Jesus in our lives.  Be awake.

And listen.  Obviously they weren’t silent forever, or we wouldn’t have this story.  We need the story, though, because we weren’t there.  As they were listening to the living Christ, we, too, need to listen for the Living Christ, often described as that still, small voice.  Probably a lot like the voice, the pull, the desire, that brings you today to your own transfiguration.

There are very few people

who realize what God would make of them

if they abandoned themselves into his hands,

and let themselves be formed by his grace.

Again, St. Ignatius.

A prayer:  “I ask for the grace to trust myself totally to God’s love.”

And may you know how brilliantly you shine.

A Sermon preached by Sara Milford at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas, on July 22nd, 2012.

The Scripture Texts for Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 11, Year B are:

2 Samuel 7:1-14a; Psalm 89:20-37; Ephesians 2:11-22; Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

When they had crossed over, they came to land at Gennesaret and moored the boat. When they got out of the boat, people at once recognized him, and rushed about that whole region and began to bring the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was. And wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.

There’s a blog my husband saw a few years ago, which has since gained in popularity, thanks in large part to wonderful little lists, guides, how-to’s, and incredible dedication on the part of the author.  A former journalist and a father of six, Leo Babatua writes about simplifying life and living well.  Striving to live fully into his blog’s name, Zen Habits, he chronicles his journey into right living through the creation of healthy habits.

One of his posts, right between “The Best Procrastination Tip Ever” and “Toss Productivity Out,” is “Improve Every Moment.”  The problem statement, essentially, is what if you can’t slow down?  What if you can’t escape the busy-ness of your life?

His tiny guide:

• Be more present, so life doesn’t rush past you without you noticing.
• Enjoy every activity you do more, so life is better all the time.
• Feel more relaxed, so every day is as good as a vacation.
• Be ready to handle anything that comes your way.

He elaborates a bit more, saying basically that, like children, we need to live more in relaxed mode.  In relaxed mode, we sense and feel more and get out of our thinking heads to remind our brain what it’s like to feel.  Maybe one by one we can release those muscles that are so used to being constricted.  Soften the jaw.  Roll back and drop the shoulders.  Breathe to our bellies.  Smile.

For practice Leo suggests being aware of our physical body, the present environment, at any given moment and doing so as often as we can.  Most of us are blessed, after all, with five senses.  We can feel the temperature of the air and feel the support of the pew; smell the old wood of this place; hear the creak of the floor or the breath on the exhale.  Hopefully, we see the light showing through the beautiful stained glass.  Perhaps you can taste your morning coffee on your tongue.

But how easily we get distracted from life as it is and get caught up in that whirlwind of busy-ness.  We find a groove and stick with it, maybe a comfortable routine, something that doesn’t rock the boat too much but fills every moment of our days and nights.  We will work ourselves to the bone.  It may even be with good, worthwhile work, or work that we have to do, but we forget our whole person.  Eventually, no matter what we’re doing (or not doing), we find that our system isn’t sustainable.  What seemed to work isn’t working any longer.  Something’s wrong.  Something needs to change.

Jesus knew all this.  I don’t recall anyone ever telling Jesus how to improve every moment, that he needed to be present, enjoy the moment, relax, and be prepared to handle anything that crossed his path.  No one had to tell Jesus to embody mindfulness and compassion — that’s just who he was, who he is.

From today’s Gospel, I imagine the disciples, like young children after being rounded up, greedy for attention and approval from the teacher they most adore, recounting to Jesus all the good work they’ve been doing.  Imagine the thrill of their work, the endorphins that were coursing through their bodies as it is with any of us who are in the zone, doing what we love.  They have been fueled by their passion, living into the miracles brought about by their faith.  They’re on a roll and ready for more.  I imagine Jesus smiling knowingly, patiently (for wouldn’t he already know all they’ve done?), admiring his chosen.  They have done good work.  But they have more to learn.

“Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”

Following their great teacher, they go along to this deserted place that may likely have been a vacant place between two settlements, someplace not terribly accessible, particularly by foot, so they go by boat.  But there were many who saw them and recognized them and rushed to get to where they were going first – by land, on foot.  The crowd is willing to risk the journey to get even a glimpse of this teacher, to get a chance to be taught.  I wonder if the disciples saw the crowd, too.  I wonder if the disciples tried to persuade Jesus to change destinations, saying something more along the lines of, “Jesus, they know who we are.  They know You.  We’re not going to get any rest.  Let’s go somewhere else.”  The excited children from before now realize their lack of sleep and their hunger.  Settling into their bodies, pulling the focus inward, they now have their sight set on rest, food, and time alone, with Jesus, of course.

When they get to shore, Jesus has compassion on the people, these lost sheep.  Without missing a beat, he teaches them, taking them into his fold.  They were hungry for the nourishment He provided.  Now, I don’t know about the disciples, but I do know how my children behave when they are tired, when they’re hungry and just done.  If I say we’re going somewhere to do something, that had better be what we do.  If I stop to visit with someone, there is no end of exasperated sighs and eye-rolling.  You’d think I was torturing them intentionally.

But that’s not it.  As a mother, I want to set an example for my children to stop and to pause when needed.  Every moment we have a choice to make, I’m always telling them. We can indeed improve every moment.  More often than we realize, we’re given a choice to make a difference in someone’s lives, including our own.

I figure Jesus exemplifies love in action.  He sees a crowd in need, sheep in need of a shepherd.  Jesus’ innate goodness may make it seem like he had no other choice than to teach to those willing to hear, but Jesus was man.  Jesus chose to speak to those with open ears and open hearts.  They listened.  They were fed.  All were fully present.

Except maybe the disciples, who were there, likely sighing deeply with their growling stomachs, muttering to one another.  I picture the teens rolling their eyes and groaning under obviously dire circumstances, thinking of themselves, spiraling into diverse tangents that took them out of the moment, away from the full-bodied mystery before them.  Not in the present.  Not enjoying the moment.  Not relaxed, and definitely not prepared for what’s to come.  (But that story’s saved for later.)

We get in today’s reading the bookends of the miracle of a great feeding.  We hear that after Jesus teaches a crowd, they cross over to meet yet another crowd.  The crowds kept coming.  Wherever Jesus went, they followed, hoping that they might, like the hemorrhaging woman, “touch even the fringe of his cloak.”  It says that “all who touched it were healed.”  We remember that Jesus felt the power drain from him when the one woman touched his garment.  But this multitude of people keep coming and coming, and Jesus keeps healing.

Where does Jesus rest?

It strikes me that this story isn’t about Jesus resting.  We don’t get the bit today about Jesus going to the mountain to pray.  He told the disciples to come away and rest awhile; he didn’t say he would.  Maybe the disciples had it in their head that if they were going to rest, surely Jesus would be taking time off, too, but when does the Son of God clock in and clock out?  He was just telling the disciples to rest.  Maybe it would have prevented their grumblings if he had more explicitly said, “Y’all just sit back and let me do the work now,” like any mother who’s ready to take over in the kitchen from the inefficient children trying to help.

We just don’t have the stamina to do all the work alone.  Even the disciples in God’s presence, though they were empowered to perform miracles, could not use compassion alone as fuel.  They were probably a little too much of this world, a little too much tied down in their own minds.

What if,  instead of being so preoccupied in our busy lives and daily struggles, we were aware enough not only to feel the physical environment but also sense and perceive the needs around us?  Feeling this, relaxed, we could have awareness and presence.  We may very well find joy and great energy in such moments, maybe even a bit of fun.  If we are living into the Good News of Christ, we know the right thing to do in the moment because we love one another — above all else.

When we can’t escape the busy-ness, we are shown that we can have mindfulness and compassion.  And when we can’t do that — because we will fail — we are to know that God can.   Jesus didn’t try to escape the crowds that sought him out.  For the disciples, and for us, Jesus is showing the way.  When it’s time to work, we will work – and hopefully with awareness.  When it’s time to rest, there will be rest.  When there are those who are in need, they will be cared for.  All this through the Love of God.

Amen.    

A little perspective goes a long way.  As odd as it sounds, my stresses tend to come from my blessings, my abundance.  Even my seeming lack of financial resources isn’t all that bad; most everything gets paid most of the time and on time.  It’s the excesses we can’t afford, and excess by nature is something we don’t need.  I get stressed because I’m trying too hard to control everything.  That just cannot happen, and I certainly can’t do everything on my own.

It takes one event to set in motion a trajectory downhill.  That spiral that will go as deep as we let it or as deep as it can pull us.  Some may call it natural selection.  Some call it fate.  It is true that darkness is ever-present.  What makes some of us more keenly aware of the light in our lives and some more susceptible to the pull of darkness?  Can it also be the same for positive events, that when good things start happening, they just keep coming?

I don’t mean to oversimplify this.  Life is not either good or bad.  Mostly, it’s gray, and, despite the over-use of the phrase, it is what it is.  I am convinced that our perspective, how we choose to encounter everything along our way, and our choices going forward make all the difference.  I’m also convinced that we cannot do it alone.  If your faith is enough, bless you.  If you’re like most of us, you need community.

As part of a community I love dearly, I’m willing to change my plans for lunch and visit a friend in need.  I let go of my expectations and live into something greater.  We make magic happen every day and can rejoice in the light.  When the darkness comes, we can know we are not alone and that we don’t have to be afraid.

That’s a beautiful thing.

If ever I thought that gumption traps were only for those things that I loathed to do . . . I may have been on to something.

For a moment I thought my current state of discombobulation resulted from a procrastination of that which I am thoroughly excited about and looking forward to.  Alas, getting to the end involves some steps in between, little steps that must be made like outlines and timelines and trips to the store.  Then there’s also the messy phases (where the lack of knowledge is discovered or the dust is revealed) before everything is neatly packed and ready for the next phase.

I am holding on and find myself in another trap.

Not all traps are unpleasant, mind you, just as not all ruts are mucky.  There’s something to be said for comfortable routines, predictable leisure, familiar surroundings.  Then Change comes along, perhaps accompanied by Opportunity, and suddenly nothing is as it “should” be.  Heaven forbid we try to straighten everything while the very foundation continues to shake.  Again, there’s that rumble in my gut.

Even my subconscious knows growth is happening.  At my core, I know it to be good.  There just seems to be another layer to be cracked, even if it’s just a little membrane to split open, before the genuine excitement and sheer enthusiasm can kick in, before the roots grow deep and the branches flower.

Of course, it may not happen soon.  There may be much to hold the layer firm.  Eventually, though, it will.  I’m not one to hold back for long.  Nature will have its way.

So, be still, my beating heart.  Sigh deeply.  Smile.  Let the work begin.  There never was a trap, just a choice to be made.