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Leading from the Center, Spring 1999

I am pleased to introduce to you a brand new newsletter devoted to the discussion of spiritual leadership within the church: Leading from the Center.  The goal of Leading from the Center is to increase awareness of the priority of spiritual leadership across the church and to offer helpful, fresh thinking on the subject. It is our prayer that these pages will provide a meaningful resource for deepening the spiritual lives of our church leaders.

Dear Friends in Faith,

There is a passage of scripture in Luke’s Gospel that particularly challenges most Christians today. A mere five verses, it describes Jesus’ visit at the home of Martha and Mary (Luke 10:38-42). The story is simple enough. Mary chooses to sit and listen to Jesus. Martha, consumed by her many tasks, complains to Jesus that Mary has left her to do all the work by herself. Jesus points out to Martha that she is “worried and distracted by many things” and goes on to say “there is need of only one thing.” Perhaps just as significantly, Jesus affirms that the part Mary has chosen “will not be taken away from her.”

Christians have sometimes used this story to elevate contemplation over action, prayer over service. Yet Jesus himself “came to serve and not to be served.” It is not Martha’s service that elicits Jesus’ gentle chiding, but the way she is going about it. She is distracted, worried, fretting about how to get it all done. In her anxious state, she can’t let Mary be. The responsible elder sibling, Martha has no doubt drunk deeply of the expectations of women in her culture. I can just see her deciding on ten dishes to prepare in an hour’s time once her guests arrived! Her self-imposed drivenness is a remarkably apt commentary on our lives today. Indeed, I suspect Martha’s anxiety about accomplishing many tasks paints a suitable picture of our program-driven churches.

Jesus’ way of responding to Martha’s plea was surely not what she expected. She must have been confident that he would support her complaint at least for the sake of fairness, if not because Mary’s choice to sit at the feet of a rabbi and be taught was highly unconventional for a woman in her time. Instead, Jesus points Martha to her own preoccupied distraction and commends Mary’s choice. Those of us who strongly identify with Martha may be stung by Jesus’ unapologetic praise for Mary. Why, we wonder huffily, does Jesus prefer Mary’s “passivity” over Martha’s “active service”? Who’s going to get supper on the table if everyone is sitting around listening to Jesus? Such a response probably reveals how much our notions of service are unconsciously shaped by expectations of achievement, acceptance, and commendation.

There is a contrast in this story that points to a definitive priority in the Christian life. The contrast is not between contemplation and action or prayer and service, but between attention and distraction. After all, we may be attentive in the midst of active service or distracted in the midst of prayer. Yet attentiveness to God’s Word and will is the ground from which all fruitful service in God’s name grows. The resoundingly clear priority of the spiritual life is to listen first; then to obey what we hear. “Hear, O Israel, and obey” remains a clarion call to the church. Those of us in ecclesial leadership expect to spend our lives serving the church and the world in God’s name. Yet many of us seem too preoccupied to listen openly and expectantly to what God would have us do. Have we swallowed the lie that time needed to listen deeply to the Spirit is somehow wasted? How our cultural values seduce us!

What keeps us busy to distraction? What makes us anxious about what we offer? When we have much to prove, when there are many important programs, processes, and procedures to keep under control, it is hard to yield to a Spirit that “blows where it wills.” What is the “one thing needed”? In Luke 10 Jesus implies an answer by commending Mary’s choice. A few chapters later, I believe we find his direct response: Seek first God’s kingdom (Luke 12:31). Is it coincidence that these words conclude another passage in which Jesus speaks to our anxieties? The root of our anxiety is lack of trust in God’s loving care and providential guidance. How will we know to trust God’s provision unless we are willing to step out in faith? And how do we know when to step out in faith until we have heard God’s call to do so?

Only one thing: Seek God’s kingdom. But seeking the reign of God in the world means starting first with ourselves. Until God’s will holds sway in our own hearts and lives, we bear no living witness to the Good News of God’s transforming love. The gospel is not a general principle of goodness in the world. It is the concrete vision of God’s love realized in person; first and foremost in the person of Jesus Christ, then in those of his disciples who have proved willing to become like him in extraordinary love. They are called saints. Whether widely or little known, it is the lives of such persons that bear power to attract and transform others. It is not their own power. Their lives are simply so transparent to the Spirit that God’s love radiates through them.

This is the essence of spiritual leadership. These days we hear much about spiritual leaders and their importance to the church of the next millennium. Yet true spiritual leaders are of God’s own making. Depth of spiritual authenticity does not always come with theological education, ordination, election, or appointment to offices of leadership in the church. Spiritual authenticity is not a function of intelligence, eloquence, or creative energy, but rather of faith and faithfulness. It grows in us silently as we listen deeply to the Heart of our heart; as we wait patiently, searchingly, for nudges of the Spirit; as we act in humble obedience on the smallest leading of that Spirit. Spiritual integrity comes as the by-product of our own gradual process of sanctification. It cannot be forced or pretended. Desire for power over others will defeat it utterly. Need for others’ praise and good opinion will effectively impede it.

Those of us in positions of authority and leadership in the church have more responsibility to live our call with integrity. Like it or not, we are models within the company of the faithful. The Apostle Paul understood this when he told his converts to imitate him as he imitated Christ. But modeling faith does not mean we are expected to “go it alone.” If we try to live our call in splendidly heroic isolation, we consign ourselves to failure. We are meant to live as the Body of Christ in community. We need to find those smaller clusters of faithful persons with whom we can share our failings, victories, and struggles to be faithful. In such communities we can forgive, be forgiven, and test the validity of our perceived callings from God.

Yet each of us can only begin from within ourselves. It starts with listening in our prayer. That means we must stop speaking long enough to hear what God has to say to us. It is in cultivating silence and receptivity within that we prepare the soil of our heart to receive the seed of God’s Word. Yet we will not have courage to listen unless we truly believe that God loves us beyond every failure and imperfection. Nor will we persevere long unless we are in touch with our heart’s deep desire for God.

Let me suggest, then, that we go back to the beginning like young children learning a simple dance. We need not be embarrassed in returning often to the basics, for this is the nature of being human. Rest in God’s love as if it were the very food of your soul. In truth, it is. If you cannot feel or believe this love, pray for its assurance as if your life depended on it. In truth, it does. Allow your heart to reconnect with its deepest desire, your soul-deep desire for God. If you cannot find this desire, pray for its reality to emerge through all the lesser desires that weigh you down. God longs to bring the freshness of your spiritual heart back to the surface.

In lifting up the listening side of prayer and the healing embrace of God’s unwavering love, we are speaking of contemplation. This is no esoteric practice for the favored few, but a reception of grace native to the human soul — our spiritual birthright. We will yield our anxious control and listen deeply to the Spirit only when we know ourselves held secure in the heart of eternal love. Then we can risk hearing what love would say to us, where love would bid us go. Love will always carry us beyond ourselves. Those who have known themselves beloved of God have been great lovers of God. They turn the world upside-down. The world expects praise yet they prophesy; the world condemns and they forgive; the world inspires fear while they inspire hope; the world offers power but they simply love.

The passage we began with is embedded, significantly, between the parable of the Good Samaritan and Jesus teaching his disciples the Lord’s Prayer. It is as if the Gospel writer wanted his readers to understand that neighborly acts of mercy are rooted in hearing God’s Word. Such listening also leads us to pray for God’s kingdom with a free heart, and to a posture of simple dependence on God for both physical and spiritual needs. Mary’s choice connects the parable and the prayer.

Mary was in touch with her deep desire for God when she chose to sit and listen to Jesus. Perhaps she knew herself so surely loved and accepted by him that she could risk her sister’s wrath as well as the disciples’ raised eyebrows at a woman who dared to assume their accustomed role. To open ourselves fully to God is to risk everything for the sake of what is most important, the one thing. If we are willing to make this choice, the joy and freedom it brings “will not be taken from us.” Moreover, Christ himself will affirm us as he did Mary. If you suffer as I often do from faint-heartedness, this word is indeed a source of encouragement. May we absorb it deeply and fully, till our hearts brim full with the love we have been given!

Grace and joy be yours this Easter Season,

The work of pastoral ministry can often seem like an exercise in polarities. It can be energizing and exhausting . . . exciting and frustrating . . . challenging and redundant . . . life-giving and life-claiming.

Of course, none of this comes as much of a surprise to even the casual reader of the Gospels. Jesus himself was often pulled in more than one direction at the same time. People wanted his attention. Some wanted to learn from him, while others sought to catch him in a breach of orthodoxy that would do him in. He poured himself into his ministry, yet he still found regular times to turn aside for prayer, meditation, and quiet inner restoration. He cared for and ministered to the masses of humanity, yet he greatly valued special moments with close personal friends. He was driven by the passion of his calling, yet he seemed to understand the folly of trying to coerce people into his way of thinking.

I believe that it is in the management of our polarities that Christian well-being is most clearly defined. Christian leaders who are physically, emotionally, and spiritually healthy are probably persons who have learned to cope with the tugs and pulls from multiple directions that are so much a part of modern life.

This issue of Leading from the Center offers some thoughts on being whole in a fragmented world. Within these pages we seek to focus on paying attention to the places and moments in life that nurture our spirits and equip us to serve the needs of others. We ignore this part of our humanity to our peril. To do so is to run the risk of depleting the very source of all that we have to offer to the world.

Jane Vennard writes beautifully and movingly about the power of “praying with body and soul.” She leads us to experience prayer in a broad sense, closing with an invitation to experience this kind of prayer personally.

Tim Glover shares insights about the importance of being in touch with our physical bodies. How well or how poorly we do this will have a clear influence on our effectiveness in ministry.

George Donigian reviews the book Anchoring Your Well Being by renowned pastoral counselor and teacher Howard Clinebell. It was Howard’s leadership at the Pathways Conference in Santa Fe, NM, in September that provided the foundation for the focus of Leading from the Center for 2000. Those of us who shared that week with Howard will long remember the wealth of insight he offered, and the gracious spirit in which he did so.

As you read these pages it is my prayer that you ponder your own well-being as a Christian. John Wesley often asked his preachers, “How is it with your soul?” This is still a good question. It contains wholistic implications, and it can help us cope with the polarities in all our lives. 

How does the church fulfill its mission with the greatest possible effectiveness? Of course, there is no single answer. Through its multiple ministries, the church seeks to respond to the longings of the human heart in ways that deeply touch every part of the spirit with the consistent message of hope the gospel provides. Sometimes we do this with music, sometimes with the spoken word, sometimes in community, sometimes in quiet solitude. Sometimes it is accompanied by great joy and laughter. At other times it is borne on a river of tears. At times it happens as we serve others. It can also happen as we allow others to serve us. Sometimes we think we know what has created a spiritual climate in which the gospel takes root. At other times, it is pure mystery, and the only thing we can reasonably do is stand in wonder and awe.

Such is the nature of the spiritual journey we know as the Christian faith. It calls, challenges, cajoles, caresses, and creates us, not once, but over and over again. We find ourselves responding to all that is around us in ways that move us toward Gods love and possibility experienced through faith in Christ.

In this issue of Leading from the Center we are reminded of the ways in which the creative energies of human beings have the potential of appropriating the Christian message across the full range of emotional experience. In the midst of pain or comfort, fear or safety, anger or pleasure, joy or sorrow, we know that creative people have a way of expressing faith and using that faith to live lives of deep meaning.

The Reverend Karla M. Kincannon is a United Methodist pastor, artist, published author, and spiritual director. She was a valued member of the leadership team at the 1999 Pathways Conference in Santa Fe, NM. There in the beautiful surroundings of that unique setting she demonstrated to us the significant power of art to nourish spiritual health.

The Reverend Doug Cain is a United Methodist pastor who writes out of the depth of his own spiritual journey and from his years of experience in the pastorate. A participant in the Santa Fe conference, he understands the importance of holistic ministry that draws on all our resources and speaks to all our needs.

The Reverend Judith Bunyi, also a participant in the Santa Fe conference, reviews the book Stretch Out Your Hand: Exploring Healing Prayer by Norberg and Webber (Upper Room Books) as a further reminder of the importance of healing and wholeness.

The Reverend F. Lloyd Chester serves as assistant pastor at three local churches in the Dallas, TX, area. Recently he was appointed chaplain at Methodist Medical Center, Dallas. He has written for several journals and magazines and has been aired on National Public Radio. Here he writes on "Art and Wholeness in Church Life."

May these pages teach us that God's creative possibilities are still unfolding and that we may draw upon them for our own healing and wholeness.

Download Summer 2000 Leading from the Center in PDF

When I had the privilege of serving the church as district superintendent, the cabinet of which I was a part manifested itself in several interesting ways. Sometimes we were an all-business work group, attending to the administrative duties of the conference. Sometimes we were a visioning group, straining forward toward the call of God for our place and time. Sometimes we were a support group, caring for each other as we endeavored to do God’s work in our respective districts. Sometimes we were a program group, looking for innovative ways to accomplish the mission of the church in the world. At times we were an appointive body seeking divine guidance as pastors and churches were brought together. We always tried, with varying degrees of success, to be a group that listened for the voice of God in our midst.

The voice of God would come, as it always does, in some surprising ways. God could and did speak through the voice of the bishop or one of the district superintendents. But we found that, if we listened, God could also speak in other ways. Sometimes we heard the voice of God at a lunch break through the personality of a server. Sometimes God spoke through clergy and laity who challenged . . . or encouraged . . . or even frustrated us, but who often conveyed a divine word if we were willing to listen.

We learned, in our group process as a cabinet, that, if we would take the time and pay attention, the word of God had a way of being all around us. This was true even in the face of great difficulties or severe disagreements. God could and did speak amid crisis and celebration, and our big challenge was to be open and receptive.

In this edition of Leading from the Center we challenge you to listen for the voice of God in the groups of which you are a part. We encourage you to offer multiple group experiences in the churches, districts, conferences, and other settings where you have leadership responsibilities. Where is God speaking today? Are we making ourselves available in ways that will offer the most likely possibility of hearing a word from God? What can we do to enable group ministry to have the kind of spiritual impact that we hope?

In this fall edition, Judith Bunyi shares her insights from experience in the small group ministry of the church. Kevin Witt writes about listening for God from the perspective of camping and youth ministry. George Donigian reviews Keeping in Touch by Carol Krau.

It is our prayer that these articles will encourage you to find your own unique places where the voice of God is heard in your life.

My youngest brother, Steve, dropped out of medical school in the mid-’70s because he chose not to become an impersonal plumber for human beings with anxieties, families, and a need to be heard. If he had known Dr. Hunter “Patch” Adams, he might have stayed the course with a vision of an alternative way of practicing medicine and being human.

Patch Adams is a comically fertile story that teases us to look at our own lives and ask who we most identify with in the film: Patch, the innovative and passionate protagonist of vision; or the medical school dean, the antagonist of institutional steel and rigidity. Of course, you may identify with the nurses who are bewildered and bemused by the antics of a first-year medical student masquerading as a third-year student in a meat-packer’s white coat. Or, you may side with the patients who are teased into laughter and hope by a man dancing with bedpans for hat and shoes.

Throughout the story, Patch pursues a medical degree on his own terms. He values the knowledge he can gain but consistently looks beyond that, to the people who are suffering and not seen by the medical establishment. For me, the narrative thread surfaces in the mental hospital where Hunter Adams is a patient in the opening scenes of the film.

There he comes by the nickname “Patch” by fixing the leaking paper cup of Arthur, a brilliant scientist and fellow-patient. Arthur holds up four fingers and asks Patch how many fingers he sees. The “mad” Arthur challenges Patch to look beyond the problem: “Look at me . . . see what no one else sees. See what everyone else refuses to see.”

Patch’s antagonist, Dean Walcott, embodies the ponderous medical establishment, unswervingly condemning and resisting innovation and vision. Patch asks an angry dean, “What is wrong with getting involved in the patient’s life?” The dean replies, “Patients don’t need a friend; they need a doctor.” Later, Patch passionately declares, “If you doctor the disease, you lose. When you treat a person, you will always win, no matter what the outcome.”

Two serious risks go with watching this film. First, you can get lost in the sanguinity of it all. So much laughter and happiness is addictive; who wants it to end? Robin Williams treats viewers to an optimistic and comic tour de force. It is, after all, a Hollywood “feel-good” version of a true story. Your congregation is anything but Hollywood. Second, you could come away from the film enamored with whimsy and iconoclasm. Whatever you imagine, you are not being called to be an “in your face” Don Quixote taking on the church. (Or are you?) Prophets have their own rewards!

Most of us are called to be pastors and local church leaders, so I prefer to recall the not-yet-doctor, Patch, singing “Blue Skies” to Bill who is dying of cancer. Or, in an earlier scene, I see him dressed up in an angel costume and taunting a very angry (and anxious?) Bill to join in a litany of all the ways to name death, until Bill’s hostility is cracked and a relationship begins in laughter.

The film does invite spiritual leaders to revisit what we consider to be the essence and focus of leadership. (By the way, I choose to use the word leadership because all baptized persons have the vocation of ministry; some of the baptized are elected or ordained to various forms of leadership.)

How do persons called to spiritual leadership find themselves numbed and blinded with church protocol and programs at the expense of people seeking compassion, hope, and joy? How do we leaders look beyond the problems to see what others refuse to see? How do we listen deeply . . . to God and to the dynamic and living tradition?

In the Patch Adams story, what I find compelling is the courage and persistence of a man who consistently takes off the institutional blinders and sees the full context. In our churches, who is listening and watching to attend to what is beyond the problems (how will we raise the budget, how can we regain our reputation in the community, how can we get more members, how can we be like that other church)? Patch does not pretend that the suffering of patients is not real; he just refuses to limit his vision to what the church (that is, hospital) says is appropriate. Patch seems to find a way to be whole and alive through learning in relationship to others. He is a listener. And the partnership formed seems, by a very real grace, to move toward wholeness and hope and joy and a very different future.

The witness of scripture is not only to a God who speaks; it is a consistent record of folk who are learning to listen and who help others learn to listen. Moses, Ruth, Eli, all the prophets, Jesus, Paul, and a number of women whom the compilers “didn’t see” all sought to listen to and to invite others to attend to the Word of God. For example, 1 Samuel 3 contains such a story. Eli listens to the young boy Samuel until he really hears what is going on. Eli does not “speak” to Samuel so much as point him to the Holy One who is speaking. He points him to listen beyond the familiar voice to the One who is speaking and guides him to make his response.

The work of spiritual leaders is to attend to the center; to listen beyond the problems that seem to be shouting: “Do something! Get up and do what you’ve always done!” Spiritual leaders are more than managers for the “old” ways and rutted voices. Spiritual directors do not covet the attention or approval of their charges. They point them to God because they are, by experience, confident that God is there, calling and guiding.

One final musing: Could it be that we tend to see the local church and the larger structures of the church as resistant to our taking the time to listen to the Spirit and attend to the coming reign of God? Perhaps we see the bishop or the district superintendent as Dean Walcott, when in reality those persons are waiting for us to dive into God and to move beyond mere professional behaviors. Maybe we stare at the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee as if they are standing between us and truly visionary leadership, and we fail to recognize in them people who are hanging on until a passionate and centered leader evokes paradox’s laughter and we gasp for the Spirit.

Rent the video. Watch it with some others. See what you see.

“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb. . . . They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain, for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of God as the waters cover the sea” (Isaiah 11:6, 9).

As I write, I am watching wild turkeys in the ravine behind our house. It is sunset, and each turkey is selecting a roosting place for the night. One by one they fly into the branches of the oak trees, often landing almost on top of each other. Then begins the agitated fluttering, nudging, shoving until one gives up and flaps off sadly.

This happens to be one of those times when I feel pushed by professional expectations and pulled by a longing to curl up on the floor, gaze at God, and let the world run itself for a change. With God’s divine and humorous synchronicity, my issue of Leading from the Center arrived today, and I settled down to read Marjorie Thompson’s article. This article happens to focus on the Mary and Martha story (Luke 10:38-42). Of course! What else could it be! So here I sit with Marjorie, the wild turkeys, and Mary and Martha for company. And at the moment my internal polarities (usually so exciting) have turned into polarizations that are trying to shove each other off my “inner branch.”

Martha and Mary —the Bethany sisters making a home together, welcoming Jesus under their roof so often as beloved guest —working, laughing, praying, weeping together, probably admiring each other’s gifts, but now pulled apart in conflict and guilt-trips. One can just picture it: Mary concentrating on Jesus, but likely distracted by the sounds from the kitchen and her own daring as she breaks with traditional expectations; Martha (covered with flour? waving a soup ladle?) bursting through the door demanding that Jesus take sides! This is both sadder and funnier than those other siblings, so many generations earlier, in conflict right from their conception: Esau, hairy stalwart hunter in the wilds; Jacob, smooth-skinned tent-dweller. “The children struggled together within her. . . . behold, there were twins in her womb” (Gen. 25:22, 24). I have these struggling twins within me too, but at the moment the polarization of Mary and Martha is my problem.

Yes, Martha, you are the part of me “distracted by many things,” berating her “lazy” sister sitting on the living room floor. Yes, Mary, you are me, too, wanting to slam the kitchen door on all my expectations and obligations, yet all too aware of Martha’s loud protests.

But listen, Thompson remarks pointedly to both of you: “After all, we may be attentive in the midst of active service, or distracted in the midst of prayer.” She reminds us of the significant placing of this story between the Good Samaritan parable and the teaching of the Lord’s Prayer, linking the action of compassionate service to that of contemplative prayer. Attentiveness to God’s sustaining presence is the connection, whether we are engaged with inner or outer action.

As I reflect on this significant linking, I see creative implications not only for Mary’s choice but also for Martha’s. Nothing is wrong with Martha in her kitchen if she remains aware that Jesus is in her house, that this fact has powerful implications, and that there is more than one way of loving and serving that Presence. Brother Lawrence, as cook in his monastic order over 300 years ago, shares his experience: “The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer, and in the noise and clatter of my kitchen . . . I possess God in as great tranquillity as if I were upon my knees at the Blessed Sacrament.”* This was his special gift, but I can’t picture him judging or scolding others who did need solitary time on their knees.

Can our inner (and communal) Marthas continue their work in peaceful awareness of the Presence, releasing the inner (and communal) Marys to their needs, choices, and special gifts?

Can our Marys claim boldly, without guilt, their vocation for solitary contemplation . . . and simultaneously be appreciative and prayerfully aware of Martha’s apostolic service? (According to ancient tradition, when the sisters and Lazarus fled Jerusalem after the crucifixion, Mary founded a contemplative order while Martha became a missionary to the heathen and a tamer of dragons!)

I begin to believe this is possible, not just in theory but in daily life, as my inner opposites (this includes you, too, Esau and Jacob!) encounter the living Jesus Christ within my house not as guest but as host and heart. When that empowering Presence heals, releases, values, and embraces each separate gift and power within me, then my jostling inner “Legion” becomes a family of mutual honoring, and my Bethany house, at least, becomes a home.

Meditation: My body and spirit are God’s temple, and all its parts are created to serve the whole in love. I breathe God’s sustaining breath of life, gently, fully, and claim the living Christ as the radiant center, bringing into communion all my needs, powers, and gifts. Amen.

* Brother Lawrence, Practice of the Presence of God. Conclusion of the Fourth Conversation. 1667.

An ordained United Church of Christ minister, Flora Slosson Wuellner has written numerous books on Christian spirituality, including Feed My Shepherds: Spiritual Healing and Renewal (Upper Room Books) for those in Christian leadership.

The first two issues of Leading from the Center featured articles by the Rev. Marjorie Thompson (Spring 1999) and the Rev. Gerald Richardson (Summer 1999) that focused on the importance of spiritually centering ourselves in God by listening and being attentive to God’s heart, will, and voice. If we expect to live in faith and to be faithful to our calling as Christian disciples and spiritual leaders, we must be connected to the Source of life. As the branches are nourished by the vine, so we draw from the life-giving, life-sustaining power of the Risen Christ.

The challenge for us, however, is not only modeling this kind of centering and connectedness as individuals, but also living it out within the context of community. How can I say I love God, when I can’t love my colleague sitting at the opposite end of the theological table? How can I enjoy Christ’s forgiving grace, when I haven’t forgiven my own sister or brother? How can I bask in the warmth and power of the Holy Spirit, when I’m not willing to serve and empower others? It is in community that the beliefs and values we hold are tested and brought into sharper focus. It is within our corporate life that others are able to gauge whether or not we “walk the talk.” Our corporate life includes not only the times when we gather for worship, prayer, Bible study, or mission, but also the times when we meet to accomplish other tasks.

The Apostle Paul’s letters to the churches in Rome, Corinth, and Ephesus, although written to different audiences with differing needs, all included an appeal to regard themselves as the body of Christ. Christ is the head and the believers are members or parts of the same body. God designed our life to be lived in community, in relationships. In Romans 12:4-5, Paul says, “For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another” (NRSV).

Again, in First Corinthians 12:12, 27 he says, “For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ.... Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (NRSV).

For spiritual leaders, what then is the value of being a part of a smaller community of faith? For the Christian disciple, how can the body of Christ be a source of strength and support for the journey? How can a small group of believers help someone enter and live in the presence of the Holy?

Jesus himself modeled a life lived in community, not as a ‘lone ranger.’ He spent time in communion with God. He also spent time in the company of other people: the crowd, the religious leaders, the outcasts, the children, the infirm, and most important, the band of twelve. Among these twelve, he modeled and taught what it meant to love God and love neighbor. Within this group was yet a smaller circle of friends, whom he expected to share his vision as well as his personal grief and agony.

One touching example of what a small circle of concerned friends can do was demonstrated by those who brought the paralytic to Jesus for healing (Mark 2:1-12). The paralytic, rendered immobile by his infirmity, could not walk on his own. He did not have even a makeshift wagon or cart to enable him to move around without having to beg for assistance. He was totally dependent on others to take him where he needed to go—for how long, we do not know.

However, there are several things we do know. First, the men who carried the paralytic knew he needed healing. Second, the men knew and believed that Jesus, the Healer, could help their friend. Third, knowing what the problem was and who could provide the solution, the men acted to provide the bridge between the two. No obstacle was insurmountable; nothing could keep them from bringing their paralyzed friend before the presence of Jesus. That small group of men, who gripped the four corners of the mat on which the paralytic lay, tried to inch their way in through the crowd. When that didn’t work, they climbed the roof, dug through it, and lowered their friend’s bed in front of Jesus. When Jesus saw the faith of those determined folk, he forgave the sick man and healed him.

What a moving testament to the care and support we share through a loving community! There is no better place to demonstrate our unity with one another and with Christ than in the company of the faithful. Within the context of Christian community, we are able to love and pray for one another, and bear one another’s burden. We not only listen to God, but to one another. Thus, we are able to share our joys and pain, our victories and struggles, our peaks and valleys.The friends of the paralytic knew his need. They listened; they paid attention; they shared his desire for healing and wholeness. But it did not stop there.

The friends’ desire for the paralyzed man to walk again moved them to do something about his condition. Their compassion propelled them to action. They wanted him to be able to stand up and jump and run; to climb the hills, walk the dusty roads, and swim the rivers, just like they did. They were persistent. They never gave up until their friend could get near the One from whom the healing waters flowed. They removed all barriers until, at last, their sick friend could feel the balm of Gilead soothe his wounded spirit. That’s what the members of the body of Christ do for one another, for we are not meant to travel alone. As we trek through life, there will be times of weariness and wilderness, and the support of fellow sojourners will be a welcome oasis. Even spiritual leaders are not immune to periods of drought and scarcity. We sometimes exhaust our spiritual reserves. It is during those times that, like Moses, we need our Aarons and Hurs to lift our arms (Exodus 17:12).

How sad it is when we convince ourselves that individualism is the way to go; that we don’t need others to accompany us as we strive to quench our soul’s yearning for God;.that spiritual leadership is only for the fit and able; that opening ourselves to receive the gift of the presence of others signals weakness; that holding ourselves accountable to one another can only result in betrayal; that letting our friends hold the corners of our bed to usher us into the presence of the Great Healer is admission of incapacity at its worst.

If we claim to be who we are, the body of Christ, then our communal life and how we relate with one another in love, as well as our growing, personal relationship with God, will be equally important. The Gospel story teaches us that the paralytic’s friends knew exactly where to go and whom to ask for help. We are not told whether any of them had been healed by Jesus. However, they believed and had the faith that Jesus was the one who could perform the miracle that would restore their friend’s health. They centered their faith in Jesus. From that central core, they reached out to their friend and brought him to the Great Teacher for healing.

Out of our individual centering in Christ freely flow love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, self-control, humility, and gentleness, all of which infuse every part of the body and result in unity of faith, hope, and spirit. This is not, however, instantaneous. It is a process, a movement toward sanctification. By struggling together, bearing with one another in love, listening, treating each other with honor and respect regardless of color, age, gender, skill, spiritual maturity, theological position, or other labels we may happen to wear, we move from individualism to indivisibility, from fragmentation to wholeness.

There is merit in seeking out the company of the faithful. In smaller communities or groups, we are able to give and receive the support and encouragement needed in our spiritual pilgrimage. Holding each other accountable, while honoring confidentiality, stretches us to grow in the practice of spiritual disciplines and the experience of God’s grace. Seeking and discerning God’s will as we order our life together—in vision, mission, or ministry—helps us recognize, share, and celebrate the gifts God has bestowed on each person around the circle. And in exercising these gifts, not out of competition or pride, but in cooperation and humility, we build up the body of Christ. In turn, we are able to lead a life worthy of our calling.

As I lead retreats, pastors tell me, "I'm here because I can't worship when I lead worship." I affirm their need for retreat, yet the comment makes me sad. Can you imagine Aaron the priest or Miriam the prophet saying that? Or Peter on the Day of Pentecost? Or an Eastern Orthodox priest today?

Laypersons who get really involved often fall prey to the same spiritual "dis-ease," with comments such as, "It seems like doing church work is getting in the way of God." How can we still tout the priesthood of all believers as so essential? Can we no longer be priests to one another?

This common attitude belies a gnawing duplicity: How can we who plan and lead worship (lay or clergy) invite others into "the holy of holies" if we are not standing on holy ground ourselves? And if spiritual leaders cannot sense the Presence in worship, which exists for the very purpose of experiencing God, then how less likely when we go about the mundane administration of church programs?

Ministry itself is getting in the way of representing Christ in the world. It is a desperate call to restore the soul of the church. When I speak of soul, I am lifting up three positive qualities related to serious needs of the church:

Integrity. The phrase "selling your soul" conveys a sense of expediency: "I owe my soul to the company store." We illustrate this crisis in integrity when we lead worship but do not worship or talk love while disparaging others. The soul of ministry together is about practicing what we teach (see Matthew 23:3). It is about spiritual integrity: Can we embody our being in Christ through our doing in the world?

Passion. "To put your heart and soul into it" means to do something with passion. Seekers and leaders confess that church is often boring, lacking energy, like salt that has lost its taste. It is lukewarm — neither cold nor hot. In words reminiscent of Kierkegaard, this age will die, not from sin, but from a lack of passion. But passion also means suffering. To discover the passion of Christ in church structures will be painful, as old wineskins burst on the way to restoring the integrity and joy of soul.

Wholeness. "'Tis all in peeces, all cohaerence gone," wrote John Donne (Anatomy of the World, 1611). Ministry in an overspecialized world gets complicated. The soul of ministry is about healing personal and social fragmentation, finding simplicity in complexity. It is about defragmenting, as when my computer reunifies scattered information. As W.E.B. DuBois describes in The Souls of Black Folk, soul involves a totality of life's suffering and joy. Soul is a synonym for life: Nefesh in Hebrew conveys one's whole being. The Lord is the shepherd who restores my soul (see Psalm 23:1-2).

God's call today is for the believing community to represent these three qualities: the integrity, passion, and wholeness of Christ in the world. It is a call for this incredible fragile community by its own presence to embody its mission: to become a powerful serving force even while experiencing turbulent changes in personal and corporate life. Can the church be the "still point in the turning world," embodying change and tradition?

When the Apostle Paul looked at one of the most promising churches he helped plant, he saw enthusiastic faith, insight, worship, and music; but he also saw fragmentation, confusion — too much of a good thing. He tried to make sense of it, listing church members' various gifts and strengths. He reflected on the needs and weaknesses. In the middle of all this confusion Paul inserted the famous hymn to love, the "more excellent way" to restore the soul of community:

If I speak in the tongues of mortals
and of angels, but do not have love,
I am a noisy gong or a clanging
cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all
knowledge, and if I have all faith, so
as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.
      1 Cor. 13:1-2, NRSV

John, exiled on Patmos, wrote to a different kind of church, one that was discouraged and tired. John affirmed its strengths, its faithfulness, its toil, its patient endurance. Then he added, "But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first" (Rev. 2:4, NRSV).

To the buzzing "evangelical" church with too many bells and whistles, to the bored but faithful "mainline" church, the message is the same: "You have abandoned the soul of ministry. Look at your strengths, confess your weaknesses, and return to your first love."

(Adapted from The Soul of Tomorrow's Church by Kent Ira Groff, by permission of Upper Room Books, Nashville, Tennessee.)

Kent Ira Groff lives in Camp Hill, Pennsylvania, where he directs Oasis Ministries. Kent is an adjunct faculty member at Lancaster Theological Seminary. In addition to The Soul of Tomorrow's Church, he is the author of Journeymen (Upper Room Books), a book that deals with male spirituality.

Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me;
For I am gentle and humble of heart,
And you will find rest for your souls.
— Matthew 11:29

How often do you think of rest for your soul? Not just your body, weary from hours of sitting or physical labor; not just your mind, fatigued by ambiguity, decisions, and emotions. Your very soul — the inner core of your life force — needs rest. Heart-rest. Inward peace. Deep joy. Jesus knows this, and offers it to us: "Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

The essence of Sabbath is rest for the soul. It includes our bodies and minds, naturally, but if rest does reach the depth of soul it is merely vacation, not Sabbath. I need soul-rest: not just time off from work, but time out with God. In an increasingly "24/7" world where we are wired for unremitting availability to one another, we do well to recall that Jesus was not always available to people when he walked this earth. He disappeared at regular intervals, deepening his relationship with the One from whom he came. He practiced the spiritual imperative of Sabbath.

For Christians, Sabbath begins the week. Sunday is the first day, a crucial principle for us to grasp because spiritually speaking Sabbath is where our lived reality begins. It is the fresh start of all effort, the vital depth from which we draw strength, the eternal freshness at the root of all creativity. Therefore Sabbath is a primary experience of grace — the gift that enables our human journey day upon day, week after week.

In the Jewish tradition, this principle is visible in the daily cycle. Day begins at sundown, with the evening meal and preparations for sleep. Imagine starting your day by getting ready for bed. The first third of your day is spent in sleep, trusting that God is at work through the night without your conscious participation. Then you arise and join in God's labors with energy from rest and insight from dreams. Eugene Peterson describes the Hebrew rhythm of grace thus: "Grace is primary. We wake into a world we didn't make, into a salvation we didn't earn. Evening: God begins, without our help, his creative day. Morning: God calls us to enjoy and share and develop the work he initiated."

The early church understood that otium sanctum, holy leisure, lay at the core of human life. Holy leisure was sacred time in which the Spirit was permitted to convert the mind, sacred space for God in the midst of daily life. One author has noted "that the Latin word for work was negotium, or non-leisure. Work was thus secondary, defined as it related to leisure." Our utilitarian culture has reversed this, defining leisure as non-work.

Having lost all sense of the necessity of holy leisure, we have developed a rhythm of life in direct opposition to the Christian pattern. The secular rhythm begins with work and moves to vacation. It starts in a life mode driven by achievement and production and moves either to exhausted collapse or the mind-numbing escape of entertainment. By contrast, the sacred rhythm of life begins with Sabbath and moves to vocation. It begins by resting in the quiet depths of God's presence, promise, and power, and moves toward a grateful, energized response. What different rhythms these are!

True Sabbath is a radical choice in our culture as well as in most churches, which absorb and reflect cultural assumptions. Yet of all institutions, the church ought to have something different to say about the pace of life and the value of time. For to rest in God is implicitly to critique a culture of constant production; to trust in God is to undermine a culture obsessed by control; to enjoy God is to play the fool in a culture that takes itself so seriously. Sabbath values, like the kingdom they represent, turn our world on its head:

It is vain that you rise up early and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil,
for [God] gives sleep to his beloved.
— Psalm 127:2

There is an uncomfortably subversive character to Sabbath for those of us formed in a mindset of bringing in the kingdom through tireless personal effort. Sabbath is a command to put our faith and hope in God first, an invitation to live from a posture of loving trust. "A story is told of a man called George Singer, civic leader, involved in all sorts of good works, who felt himself about to get sick, and fuming against the prospect of lost time, fell asleep and dreamed he saw the Lord God Almighty pacing the floor of heaven, wringing his hands and saying, 'What shall I do? What shall I do? George Singer is about to get sick.'" Sabbath has something to do with letting go of illusions of indispensability and letting God be God.

Trust is the root of soul rest. Because God knows how much we need this rest, and how hard it is for us, Sabbath is a commandment. It is probably the commandment most frequently broken by church leaders, caught up as we are in the ceaseless demands and cares of ministry, often haunted by the conviction that we can never do enough for God. Do we imagine, then, that God is pleased by our exhaustion? That the fewer days off we take and the busier we are the more faithful servants we must be?

If we desire to be faithful to the Sabbath command, we will need to re-frame ingrained attitudes and choices. Here are some initial steps to take:

First, acknowledge how deeply shaped you are by worldly values and habits, and determine that you want to learn instead the way of Christ. This means giving yourself permission to create regular Sabbath time from the mass of activity/over-commitment that marks most of our lives.

Second, begin to free yourself from deeply embedded patterns of people-pleasing. Much of what we take on, without regard to our true gifts or God-given calling, is done to please others. When Dick Wills was pastor of a large church in Florida, he wrote, "The more I am aware of God's love for me, the less I live my life trying to please people." Invite the Spirit to help you absorb the profound reality of God's love for you, freeing you for a higher obedience than pleasing others.

Third, build some unstructured time into your weekly calendar — no meetings, appointments, projects, or assignments. Give yourself intentional "fallow time" for mind and heart, time to ponder, reflect, imagine, and listen to the Voice beyond your own. Such contemplative space is crucial for true vision and creativity.

Fourth, consider what manner of Sabbath you need. Respond to these 3 open-ended statements:

• I enjoy life most when …
• I am most at peace …
• I am most aware of God's presence …

Let your responses guide you to the kind of Sabbath time you most need at this point in your life. Then ask yourself what prevents you from taking it.

Finally, sort through your priorities, taking into account your family and friends. Decide what you need to let go of in order to make space for Sabbath time. What do you really need to do? What do you not need to do? What do you need not to do?

Beyond the work of reshaping ingrained attitudes and habits, we can make practical choices such as these:

• Keep one day a week as sacrosanct as possible. Use it for real refreshment, not for catching up on chores.
• Use time that is "given" to you (illness, waiting for an appointment) to turn your mind God-ward and pay attention to the gift of the moment.
• Give yourself a retreat of at least several days once a year. Plan it into your calendar well in advance and give your family, friends, and colleagues ample notice. Go someplace beautiful and restorative for your soul.
• Join a small covenanted group for your own spiritual nurture, perhaps an ecumenical group of church leaders or friends from beyond your ministry setting.
• Salt your days with Sabbath moments of relaxation and receptivity to grace, allowing the qualities of Sabbath delight and rest to irradiate your daily life.
• Begin your prayers with simple adoration and praise. Linger in this exquisite gift of holy relationship before moving into prayers of petition or intercession.

Nothing else nurtures the human soul with such depth; nothing carries us so simply to the heart of God; nothing so adequately waters our spiritual thirst, or empowers us to live faithfully in this world, as this one command: Keeping Sabbath. Keeping it holy. In this, we come to Jesus and find rest for our souls.

Marjorie J. Thompson is an ordained Presbyterian minister, spiritual director, retreat leader, and director of the Pathways Center for Christian Spirituality in Nashville, Tennessee. She is the author of two books, Family The Forming Center (Upper Room Books) and Soul Feast, along with articles for Weavings and other journals.

"Dance, then, wherever you may be; I am the Lord of the Dance," said he,
"And I'll lead you all,
Wherever you may be,
And I'll lead you all in the dance," said he.¹

There is an ancient and intriguing text in the early Christian tradition that reads, "[Whoever] does not dance does not know what happens."² Most of us would not naturally assume that dance has much to do with faith. Indeed, some of the more Puritanical branches of the church have considered dance a wile of the devil, as much to be shunned as liquor and promiscuity, and dangerously close to both.

There are few references in Scripture to dance, although we are given a daring glimpse of King David dancing naked in the streets after one victory, and we recall Miriam dancing in celebration of God's mighty defeat of the Egyptian army at the Red Sea. The psalms make reference to praising God "with tambourine and dance" (Psalms 149, 150). Then, of course, there is Herodias' daughter whose dance so pleased Herod that he finally conceded the head of John the Baptist (thus proving the seductive dangers of dance).

There are several prominent metaphors of God's relationship with us in the Bible: the true shepherd of the flock (Ezek. 34), the faithful husband of a wayward wife (Hos. 2), the owner of a vineyard gone wild (Isa. 5:1-7). Yet a single overarching theme is woven into these metaphors, succinctly expressed in Jeremiah's prophecy of a new covenant with Israel:

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, 'Know the Lord,' for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord. (Jer. 31:32-34a, emphasis added)

This passage says a great deal about who God is to us, for us, and with us. One way to plumb the richness of such a familiar passage is to look at its substance through a new lens. The lens I am proposing is to view God as our dominant dance partner. The image is not original to me, but its power is beginning to emerge with freshness in my imagination. I believe it can instruct us in our lives as Christians and in our role as church leaders.

Letting God Lead

At our recent Pathways-Weavings Retreat (October 2001, Nashville, Tennessee), author Wendy M. Wright suggested that contemplative awareness is like being the non-dominant partner in a dance. It is far from a passive role. To be the non-leading dance partner, she noted, requires tremendous alertness, responsiveness, and spontaneity. Reflecting on this image from my limited experience of paired dancing, I remembered that you must learn the feel of your leading partner, anticipating your response to every guiding movement. When dance partners have been together a long time, the non-dominant partner will yield gracefully to the slightest pressure of the leading partner, knowing just what is required to make the movement together smooth, purposeful, and beautiful.

Imagine living this way with God! Of course, most paired dancers learn specific steps to a dance and know them in advance of performance. The great adventure of dancing with God is that we don't know the movements in advance. We can't "learn" this dance before performance. We can only learn how to be a responsive dance partner and let the dance unfold as we perform it. It occurs to me that God does not determine precisely how the dance will unfold because this depends significantly on our free response. God adapts the guiding steps, improvising to accommodate our awkward and erratic partnership.

Like all improvisation, however, depth structures make possible the exercise of fluid creativity. God knows the deep structure — the ultimate purpose, direction, and form of the dance. It is exquisitely beautiful and endlessly varied, because it takes into account the uniqueness of each human being created in the divine image. God delights to dance with each of us in a different way through the days and years of our lives.

We, of course, add our own variations. Sometimes we stop dancing altogether and try to hide from our partner. Sometimes we refuse to dance, even when God is beckoning with marvelous inviting movements all around us. Often our steps are out of rhythm or off-balance as we stumble around like clumsy children. Then there is the "resistant partner" routine where we agree reluctantly to dance, but manage only tiny, tight steps and stiff resistance to the more adventurous, sweeping movements of the choreography.

God is a very patient leading partner and a consummate teacher, if we will be led and taught. The One who made us knows our deep ambivalence and anxiety, our grasping desire for dominance and our despairing passivity. The One who knows and loves us keeps drawing us out of our narrow rooms, our constricting categories. One of these categories says, "Dominance and passivity are polar opposites. If you are not dominant, you are passively dominated." God says, "Learn to be active without being dominant. Reorder your mind and heart so they are at ease with my reign." To be non-dominant and non-passive is an unfamiliar posture, a paradox transcending our norms. Yet living in this paradox allows God to be our God and us to be God's people. 

Learning to Be a Responsive Partner

Learning to dance with God in the lead requires three basic, active postures. It asks us to be:

1. Alert — This is a fundamental posture of receptivity to what is happening around and within us at more than one level. It is grounded in openness to the spiritual realities that permeate life and is often called contemplative awareness. The question it raises for us as Christians and as church leaders is, "How are we nourishing our ability to 'see God in all things and all things in God'³?" What kind of spiritual practice helps us most to see, hear, or sense God's movements in our lives?
2. Responsive — This is the most basic command of God in our covenant relationship: to obey what we hear, to respond to the message. It requires a willingness to agree with God's way, to align our deepest intentions and desires with God's reign, to "will God's will." The questions it raises for us as Christians and as church leaders are: "How are we cultivating a discerning and willing heart? What practices help us get the message, perceive the leading, discern the obedience of the moment?"
3. Free — This is a posture of unattached availability to go where God leads. We can be alert and receptive, desiring inwardly to do as God asks, only to discover that we haven't sufficient freedom in ourselves to respond as we would wish. Like Paul we lament, "I do not understand my own actions. . . . For I do not do the good I want . . ." (Rom. 7:15, 19). The freedom of our faith is grounded in radical trust in God's goodness, even (or especially) when we cannot see it. The practice it points to is that of detachment, the work of "letting go" all that impedes our responsiveness. The questions it raises go straight to the root of our disease: "How do we practice detachment in a highly addictive cultural value system? What practices will we choose to help us disengage from its ubiquitous tentacles of temptation?"

Since our freedom to respond to God is so often the sticking point, I'd like to begin here. This is the stuff of Lenten practice, which like all "seasonal" emphases merits year-round vigilance. It involves "clearing the clutter in the attic of our heart," sorting out what is of enduring value (therefore of God and for God), and what is simply a burden taking up space (that could better be given to God). It means getting our priorities straight. For example, we do not have to own what we admire. We can enjoy God's creation without possessing or destroying it. We can honor the grace in matter by appreciating one thing at a time, slowly. We are not obligated to take on more responsibilities than we can reasonably handle. God is not glorified by our exhaustion or impressed with our work overload, even when it is ostensibly for the sake of God's kingdom. In order to live freely, we need to understand and accept our spiritual poverty. Spiritual poverty is our true human condition — our complete dependence on God for life itself and for all that is truly good. We have no innate source of life or goodness in ourselves apart from Gods gift. We have little knowledge of what makes for real life, and our concept of the good is often distorted and misused. We can "do good" for the wrong reasons (to show off, or to get a tax deduction), and we can "do good badly" (good intentions coupled with ignorance and haste can be disastrous). Here is a tale that illustrates how initial impressions can deceive:

There's a great old Chinese tale about a farmer whose son captures a wonderful wild horse. The neighbor says, "Isn't that wonderful!" but the old man just says, "We shall see what comes of it." As the boy tries to tame the wild horse, he is thrown and breaks a leg. The neighbor laments, "Isn't that terrible!" but the old man just says, "We shall see what comes of it." The Emperor's men come to town and force all the young men, except the injured son, to go off and face death in the latest war. The neighbor rejoices, "Isn't it fortunate!" And the old man says, "We shall see what comes of it."⁴

The limitations in our ideas of life, goodness, and happiness ought to prompt us to wonder why we cling so tenaciously to what we think we know and desire. Perhaps God, as leading partner in the dance, is nudging us to break out of our little square fox-trot steps into a sensuously free tango. What agendas do we bring to the dance floor of life? Are we willing to relinquish them to the gracious movement of the Spirit? Can we learn to bring to the floor only our authentic desire for "God's active goodness in our lives" (a fine definition of grace⁵)? In releasing our agendas, we allow our plans and dreams to be reshaped according to God's much larger and finer dream. We leave room for grace to operate freely, unimpeded by our small, anxious designs. Our prayers become a realistic yearning and hope for divine goodness in tangled situations, while leaving the specific workings to God. The abundance of God's goodness can be counted on as absolutely trustworthy. But the form it takes in a given time or place belongs to God's sovereign freedom.

We began this section with freedom as a sticking point, but now discover that finding inner freedom requires a prior posture: trust. This brings us back to contemplative awareness. If we are not alert to all the evidences of God's reality and trustworthiness in our lives, we shall never arrive at Christian freedom. How do we come to know God as a trustworthy dance partner? How shall we freely follow the leading of the dominant dancer if we have only known dominance as power domination or demeaning subjugation?

Our inner senses need to be trained to perceive the great mystery that transcends yet infuses what we know of life in this world. Contemplation is "the art of seeing what is real," the practice of noticing the spiritual facts that undergird reality. Do we know that "we are held in incredibly tender hands?"⁶ Do we trust that "underneath are the everlasting arms" and we cannot drop beneath the secure hold of God's love? Are we in touch with Thomas Merton's deepest prayer assurance that at the core of the universe, and against all odds, is "mercy within mercy within mercy"? Contemplative awareness in relation to life as we experience it is a sure path to trust. What is your contemplative practice? What practices do you encourage other church leaders and followers to discover for themselves?

When we are alert to the Presence and free from self-absorption, we are in the best position to respond to God. Yet even here, the desire to respond is not identical to the clarity of knowing what obedience is called for in this moment. When the needed response is abundantly clear, there is no issue. Where there are several seemingly good alternatives or no immediate clarity between options, discernment is called for. Discernment is a gift that comes from prayer, careful observation, and reflective consideration. When it arrives, it generally comes with a certain clarity and assurance, not so much intellectually as intuitively. This is part of the "gift quality" of discernment. It is more noun than verb. We cannot simply go through a certain method or process and be guaranteed that true discernment will be the outcome. Yet a process can open us to become aware of the gift when it surfaces. What practice of discernment do you regularly use to help attune your spirit to the guiding touch of grace?

Living the Dance

What is it like to live as a non-dominant, non-passive partner of God? What might it be like to experience each day the spontaneous grace and vital movement of this cosmic, yet very personal, dance?

I am praying in the morning before I arise from bed, and suddenly my godfather's name and face come to mind. My leading dance partner has just signaled me to turn my attention in the direction of this 96-year-old man. As I make the turn, I can see his loneliness, and I feel a sharp twinge in my heart at the long hiatus of communication. My obedience will take the form of a note or phone call, not tomorrow but today. Perhaps in the process of writing or talking, a new nudge on the shoulder will guide me into the next step of the dance.

I am working at my office desk, attending to overdue matters and feeling pressed for time. My assistant comes in with word of a need for prayer concerning a colleague. It is not a critical issue, and my impatience rises up over the interrupted flow of my thoughts. Then I sense my dance partner looking at me in a peculiar way and I take a slow breath. As my attention turns to the prayer request and my assistant's face, I see that this is more important than clearing papers off my desk. I listen, converse, and later in the day take the concern into our Evening Prayer time before the close of the workday. The routine movements of my day have broken momentarily out of their tiny, well-defined steps and moved past the resistance of irritation into the spontaneous flow of God's grace. The next day my assistant thanks me for taking time to talk the matter through and confesses that it took a burden from her spirit that she had been carrying for some time. The way I dance my day can block or give grace to another's dance. We have, after all, the same leading partner.

My husband and I are in the throes of building a new home. We are complete novices and innocent of mechanical knowledge. We are running into trouble on the fireplace design, which threatens to engulf a third of the Great Room. It is late and we are tired. We have forgotten we even have a dance partner. But, as I crawl into bed, my partner gets my attention with a gentle prod from a book of devotional meditations. I leave this tangled skein of unresolved matters in God's hands, giving the whole project over in trust (as I find I must do at least every other day). The step in the dance now called for is sleep, resting in those everlasting arms. The next day the tangle of issues is resolved with no great effort on our part. Our leading partner knows the steps and is teaching us to trust them as they come. There are some leaps in this one!

These are small, unspectacular examples of learning to be the non-dominant, non-passive partner of God. In the dance of life, most of the movements will be like this. Rarely do we experience the heroic, grand gestures of visible transformation. There may be great leaps and twirls in dramatic stories of conversion or spectacular sacrifice, but most of us move through life in mundane and ordinary ways, with spurts of growth at irregular intervals. Yet for all its ordinariness, as we learn to move freely with God's leading, we come to know the extraordinary delight and beauty of this way of life.

The more fully we engage life as a responsive partner to the Spirit's leading, the more convincing will be our invitation to others to join the dance. For although each individual experiences it uniquely, we are all in a great circle dance with God. What would happen, I wonder, if the whole Body of Christ understood its role as non-dominant, non-passive partner? I suspect we would see contemplation and action woven in one fabric (as they are meant to be), and that the world would begin to catch glimpses of the kingdom of God alive in the church (as they are meant to be). God might even be able to say, "I have become their God, and they have become my people."

"And I'll lead you all, wherever you may be, And I'll lead you all in the dance, said he."⁷

The Rev. Marjorie Thompson, M.Div., is an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church USA and Director of the Pathway Center for Spiritual Leadership, Nashville, Tennessee. She has served as adjunct faculty for several seminaries and is committed to strengthening the spiritual life of church leaders through formational learning and training and by providing resources in spiritual development. Author of Family: The Forming Center, Soul Feast, and numerous articles, she helped shape Companions in Christ, a major new emphasis of The Upper Room, Nashville, Tennessee.

Endnotes

¹ Taken from "Lord of the Dance" by Sydney Carter. Copyright 1963 Stainer & Bell Ltd. Admin. by Hope Publishing Co. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

² A hymn attributed to Jesus and his disciples after the Last Supper, from the Apocryphal Acts of St. John (mid-2nd century). See Edgar Hennecke, New Testament Apocrypha 2 (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1965), p. 229.

³ Phrase is borrowed from Dame Julian of Norwich, a 14th-century English mystic.

⁴ Robert Corin Morris, Wrestling with Grace: A Spirituality for the Rough Edges of Life (Nashville: Upper Room Books, 2003). Chapter 14.

⁵ Definition offered by Robert Morris in a presentation at the Pathways-Weavings Retreat, Nashville, Tennessee, October 2001.

⁶ This felicitous phrase comes from one of Wendy Wright's presentations at the Pathways-Weavings Retreat.

⁷ Op. cit., "Lord of the Dance."

I will never forget an image in the movie The Miracle Worker. A young Helen Keller – deaf, blind, and speechless since early childhood – kneels by an old rusty pump as water pours over her open hand and the word, water, is finger-spelled onto her palm. In that moment, language becomes a truth for her. Imagine being alive in a world laced with sounds, words, and images, but dead to their life-giving power! Without language, Keller had stumbled through community while others moved about with relative ease. Most lamentable was that her undiscovered “voice” had always been within her, untapped and unrevealed. She did not find it until a loving teacher immersed her in a language of life.

Imagine living in a world of precious, community-bearing language and not knowing it – not recognizing the rich resource available, not experiencing the gift of relationship embedded in the symbols and metaphors, nor being immersed in the imaginative, life-giving depths that a shared language can form. For me, this describes not only a scene from a movie from my childhood, but also my own experience with the language of public prayer, the language that I have discovered to be at the heart of my vocation.

As an ordained United Methodist pastor serving local congregations and beyond, public prayer constitutes much of my ministry. In fact, prayer is the language I am most often asked to speak as a pastor. I am expected to be proficient and practiced in speaking prayerfully. In small gatherings and large, at funerals and weddings, for Lent and Ordinary Time, local church pastors are responsible for speaking the language of prayer. Having spent most of my life in the church, I assumed that I would be familiar with the “mother tongue” of my community as I accepted a role as a leader. But on the first Sunday of my first appointment, I learned otherwise.

Standing at the lectern, microphone on, a hundred silent faces in the sanctuary turned my way, I arrived at my first pastoral assignment: Sunday worship. My primary task that morning was neither to preach nor to read Scripture, but was, instead, to lead God’s people in public prayer. Not just one prayer, not simply one single pastoral offering, but seven different prayers were to be woven through the fabric of that hour – invocation, silence, confession, intercession, pastoral, offertory, and Great Thanksgiving.

For all the years I had grown up in the church, for all the careful seminary training I had received up to that day, I realized that no official voice had taught me about public prayer. In the hundreds of hours I had spent in worship since childhood, prayer had not seemed prominent in the worship life of my home church when compared to the attention given to hymns, Scripture, and sermons. Suddenly I was faced with acknowledging that the prayer experiences in my community of faith were not memorable; they seemed thin. As I began to reflect on the role of prayer in my communal life, it struck me that much of the time prayer had been buried beneath other acts of worship that had been given more attention and space. What I could recall, and what I began to notice, was that too often prayers in worship were lethargic, unimaginative, and poorly spoken. Better described by Walter Brueggemann, “much public prayer in the church is careless and slovenly, and what passes for spontaneity is in fact lack of preparation.”

Add to that the fact that not one of my classes in seminary had required practice or consideration of the language of public prayer beyond “The Prayer of Great Thanksgiving,” “The Lord’s Prayer,” and a few other standards in the Book of Worship. So, in spite of having been born and baptized into the community of faith, confirmed and called into its ministry, trained and evaluated for its leadership, I was not prepared to lead a congregation in its “primary speech.” I was unsure about what words to use, how to put them together, and how to speak them aloud. My printed resources seemed sparse and flat. I had no class notes or textbooks to which to turn. I was at a loss.

At first I wondered if this was a problem of my ministry. Was I alone in my inadequacy? Had I just not paid attention in worship for all of those years? Had I slept through class? Was my lack of proficiency in the language of prayer an isolated case? As I began to ask around among my peers and members of my congregation, and to read about prayer, a troubling pattern began to emerge. Many voices confirmed out of their own experience what I was observing – that the language of public prayer is often buried, unrecognized, and listless in the context of worship: that too frequently prayer is experienced as lifeless, rote speech serving only as transition language to bridge “more important” elements of worship. Along the same lines, when I began to question and interview colleagues in ministry about their own training and preparation for leading public prayer, most of those interviewed reported that despite the fact that they are asked to pray far more often than to preach or teach, they had very little or no training in the practice of public prayer. Prayer has been left up to informal preparation and assumed proficiency, and for some of us, maybe most of us, this had led to careless, dull, and unimaginative prayers being prayed in our presence.

Yet voice after voice from the wisdom of our Christian tradition calls for a different level of attention to and practice of the language of public prayer for God’s people, and about the responsibility of the community to teach and the pastor to learn this language well. Author, poet, and teacher Brian Wren writes, “If I am right about the power of language, God-talk in worship is of the utmost importance, because it slants and shapes our conceptions of God from early childhood.” The great Harry Emerson Fosdick said, “Leading a congregation in public prayer is a work of art, demanding expert skill and painstaking preparation …This is a soul-searching task.” And, according to the beloved spiritual leader and priest Henri Nouwen, prayer plays a most central role in our work and communal life:

Prayer is the language of the Christian community … By prayer, community is created as well as expressed. Prayer is first of all the realization of God’s presence in the midst of God’s people, and, therefore, the realization of the community itself … Prayer as the language of the community is like our original tongue. Just as children learn to speak from their parents, brothers, sisters, and friends but still develop their own unique ways of expressing themselves, so also our individual prayer life develops by the care of the praying community.

So if the language of public prayer is to be reclaimed for the church as language of significance and communal transformation, how might we, who are called to lead prayer, go about such a reclamation so that our next generation of leaders are taught and our people formed in this language? If the life experience and formal training of many pastors have not exposed them to memorable, imaginative prayer; if they have no model of powerful, careful prayer to recall or to form them as effective public pray-ers, what must change in order that this “original tongue,” this “language of the community” might be learned again?

Out of my own experience, conversations, and reflections, three words rise to the surface, each representing a spiritual practice by which we might, collectively, “re-imagine our life in the presence of God,” which is, in my mind, a splendid description of the work of public prayer. Each required action. None evoke carelessness. All are memorable. These words are believe, behold, and bother.

First, we need to explore and articulate what we believe about prayer. We need to cultivate a theology and practice of prayer, both as leaders and congregations, so that our prayers are grounded and shaped by these beliefs. Formal and informal conversations about prayer should be taking place in the classroom, across the dinner table, in spiritual direction, and through denominational preparation. Who is this God who longs for the wholeness and faithfulness of creation? What do we believe about this God who calls, yearns for, and never abandons us? What words can we choose to describe, petition, thank, rail against, and confess to this God? Language is essential to the shaping of the collective imagination, to the power of shared experience, and the language we choose to help God’s people articulate their belief about and to God is a most sacred task. Unless we have taken time to explore deeply and express what we believe about prayer and the God with whom we pray, our prayers become formless and vague.

Second, we need to behold prayer. That is, as leaders of worship, we need to be deliberate about placing ourselves in the presence of public prayer that is evocative, well-prepared, and imaginatively spoken. As with any language, proficiency will be enhanced by immersion in a culture where it is well known and deeply valued. Our own formation in the practice of public prayer cannot be all about “head” work that is tested and honed through formal instruction, but must also be “heart” work through experience of prayer in the worship community. Our prayer imagination and practice will be inspired, refined, and molded by our attentiveness to and experience of prayer that is well-led. To be able to speak the language well, worship leaders ought to be as intentional about seeking out and hearing other pray-ers as is our practice of seeking out and hearing other preachers. Educational programs and denominational gatherings should be as particular about the variety and quality of public prayers offered as with the selection of distinctive, creative musical and preaching offerings. We must help each other behold and be in the presence of “awesomely uttered” public prayer so that God might attune our ears and voices to the ministry of prayer.

Finally, we must take time to bother with our prayers. The ministry of public prayer deserves more serious, careful, and faithful preparation. Public prayer must be reconfigured in the pastoral mind as more than words of transition between announcements, music, and Scripture. To bother with prayer means to take time in its preparation and practice, much like the time and preparation given to preaching. Whether our bothering results in handcrafted prayers or carefully chosen ones does not matter. What matters is the bothering: the time-taking, Scripture-pondering, people-imagining, world-holding preparation of our prayers. If the church bothered with public prayer, pastors might seek out prayer mentors like we do preaching mentors. Leaders with the gift of public prayer might be brought to official gatherings with as much respect and anticipation as well-known preachers, and their gift could be illuminated in our minds, worship, and resources, as is our practice with the gifts of renowned preachers.

Most importantly, though, it seems to me that if we bothered with our public prayers, God’s gathered people just might learn to pray differently. God’s people might begin to attend to and sense the subtleties and life-giving power of a prayer well spoken. If we as leaders would begin to pay more attention to the art and craft of prayer; to seek, open-handed, and behold, open-minded, teachers and guides who can immerse us in the practice of prayer “awesomely uttered,” then we will be better able to lead our congregations in the “primary speech” of God in ways that just might help us “re-imagine our life in the presence of God.” As I claimed before, this is much of what worship is about. And maybe, if we risked sharing what we believe about prayer and about the God with whom we pray, a few more of God’s children might come to trust that God is a present God, a listening God, and a God who yearns to be in communion with us – a communion that is embodied in the life-giving language of public prayer.

"I've always been in love with pines. The massive, reaching limbs, the silhouettes, the way they cradle the stars at night. The smell of fallen needles carpeting the earth. When I was very young, the big pines looked to me as if they grew by simply grabbing a hold of the sky and hauling themselves up out of the earth.

"Later I learned some simple things about life. I am still learning them. That pines . . . and dandelions and people . . . grow from where they are rooted. From the bottom up. From the inside out. That growth is slow. That grasping the air just means being toppled by the wind."
     — From Paddle Whispers, by Douglas Wood (Duluth, MN: Pfeifer-Hamilton Publishers, 1992), p. 143.
     Used with permission of the publisher.

I had just read these paragraphs to a group when it occurred to me that these pine trees are a good metaphor for those of us who want to lead from our spiritual center. We are reminded by the metaphor that we need to be deeply rooted in God, that such root growth takes time, and that grasping the air hauling ourselves out of the earth (trying to lead when we are not connected to God), means that the winds of life will topple us.

Following the metaphor, we can think of our rootedness in God as that main root that goes as deeply into the ground as possible. Trees also have secondary roots growing out from the main roots. For us, our secondary roots would be our United Methodist heritage. I was recently reminded of the creativity and commitment involved in these secondary roots of ours. I attended a Five-Day Academy for Spiritual Formation and heard Dr. Thomas Albin give five presentations on John and Charles Wesley and the early Methodists. I was impressed again at the way the early Methodists allowed God to lead them into creative ways to meet the needs of the people they served and into the development of structures that nurtured faith growth as deeply as people were willing to go. They wrestled with cultural issues and situations, saved souls, healed bodies, educated people, and raised up Christian leaders to continue to carry on Christ's work in their world.

So it seemed to make sense that in this issue of Leading from the Center, we would remember our secondary roots and look at the Wesleys and the early Methodists. From them, we can learn about leading from our rootedness in God, allowing the secondary roots to help feed the main root, that in all things the God we know in Jesus Christ might be glorified.

"Christian Formation and Mission in Early Methodism" is by Dr. Tom Albin, Dean of the Upper Room Chapel, here at the General Board of Discipleship. Before coming to the General Board of Discipleship, Tom taught at the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary and at the Boston University School of Theology.

We have also included two book reviews. The first is Praying in the Wesleyan Spirit: 52 Prayers for Today by Paul W. Chilcote, based on John Wesley's fifty-two standard sermons. It is reviewed by the Rev. Willie Foreman, Associate General Secretary for the General Board of Discipleship. An elder in the California-Pacific Annual Conference, he has served as a district superintendent and has pastored several churches. The second book review examines The Poor and the People Called Methodists, edited by Richard P. Heitzenrater. In his review of it, the Rev. Dr. Laurel Burton calls it a "must read." Senior Pastor of Gobin Memorial United Methodist Church, Green Castle, Indiana, Dr. Burton is an elder in the South Indiana Conference.

My prayer for this issue of Leading from the Center is that it may help our roots grow even more deeply into God.

Listening to God
Susan W. N. Ruach, Ed.D.

In a meeting I once talked about the importance of listening to
God. One of my colleagues at the table said that he shied away from such and found it scary. I was amazed. But knowing him to be a fine person and respected colleague, I inquired further. In essence, he said that he was suspicious of folks who said that God had told them to do one thing or another and had been burned by some who used such language to manipulate others.

Click here to download this article and the Winter 2005 issue of Leading from the Center.

In a continuing education event many years ago now, Roy Oswald of the Alban Institute taught us two body prayers -- movements one could use to pray without words. I was both fascinated and dumbstruck with this idea that bodies could pray. This idea especially caught my attention at the time
because I had just begun to think about the relationship of my body to my spirit and to my mind after ignoring my body as much as possible for years.

I shall never forget sitting alone in a darkened nursing home lobby one night, tears streaming down my face as I wailed at God. My 87-year-old father was dying in a room not far away. I had prayed that he might have an easy death. Yet his dying struggles did not seem to me to be easy. I stayed until my fears were spent, and gradually a sense of peace came over me in spite of not having the “answer” to my sense that God had not answered my prayer. Then I went back to Dad's room and to the incredible privilege of being with him when he died. I'm not sure when the understanding came — hours or days later — that lettin go is harder for some people than for others. There is a gift both in the ability to hold on as well as in the capacity to let go.

At one time or another, all of us will face serious illness and possibly death, either our own or of someone we love. We can either let the experience undo us or we can struggle with it as Jacob did with the angel until we wrest a blessing from it.

Click here to read this article and the Summer 2005 issue of Leading from the Center in pdf format.

We know that anything we do repeatedly shapes who we are. In the spiritual life, we call such intentional repetitive practices disciplines. But what about the things around us that we see repeatedly? Does our environment shape us? Does the geography that we live in shape our spiritual lives? Did the rolling hills of southern Indiana that I grew up in shape my soul differently from that of someone who grew up in the open spaces of eastern Montana or even of southern Illinois? And what about urban spaces — tall buildings and bus fumes, parks with statues and pleasant streets, dark alleyways and dingy houses, subways and spaghetti-like highway exchanges?

And what about those "special places" where God's presence was especially near? In your life, is there such a place (or places) — maybe a campground, a church sanctuary, a mountain view, a cityscape, a beach, or a simple clearing in the woods? One such holy place for me is the Boundary Waters Canoe Area of northern Minnesota. An incredibly beautiful area of lakes, trees, boulders, sky views, and portages, it always invites me to praise and prayer and to a different level of closeness to God than does my everyday life. Its features have embedded themselves into my soul. Is there any place that works this way for you?

In this issue of Leading from the Center, we look at the connections of geography and spirituality. Just how do these influences work, and how can we be more attentive to them? The lead article is an interview with Dr. Belden Lane, Hotfelder Distinguished Professor of Humanities at St. Louis University, whose Ph.D. is in historical theology. He has long explored the connections between geography and spirituality professionally and personally in articles as well as in two books, Landscapes of the Sacred: Geography and Narrative in American Spirituality (Expanded Second Edition) and The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality. In the interview he reflected on questions I asked about how geography affects our spirits and how that can help us in our ministries.

Then there are two book reviews. Landscapes of the Sacred is reviewed by the Rev. George Donigian, and Landscapes of the Soul is reviewed by the Rev. Jeanette Cooper-Dicks.

There is also some bad news for Leading from the Center readers who like receiving their issues in print. Due to budget cuts, Leading from the Center will no longer be published as a printed newsletter for the foreseeable future. The editorial committee and I are hoping to publish Leading from the Center on the web as a way of continuing to make it available. And so our landscape for Leading from the Center changes. As you reflect on your own shaping by geography and place, may you grow closer to God.

 Dr. Belden C. Lane is the Hotfelder Distinguished Professor of Humanities at St. Louis University. His Ph.D. is in historical theology. He has long explored the connections between geography and spirituality professionally and personally in articles as well as in two books, Landscapes of the Sacred: Geography and Narrative in American Spirituality (Expanded Second Edition) and The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality.

Susan Ruach: How did you first become aware of the connections between spirituality and geography in your own life and ministry?

Belden Lane: My own name is a place, interestingly enough. My identity as a person has always been bound to geography. My full name is Belden Curnow Lane, and the first two names are from a great-grandfather I never knew. He was from Cornwall in Southwest England near Lands End. The name "Belden" means "over the beautiful green hill" and "Curnow" is Gaelic for "Cornwall." So in some way, I am a green hill in Cornwall. It's a curiosity to me that one has a way of growing into one's name. Even though I didn't make a trip through the Cornish landscape looking for a hill I could call my own until fifteen years ago, there has been a sense all my life of being drawn to a place I had not yet seen. Furthermore, I've taught at a Jesuit University for more than 25 years, and the Ignatian Exercises have had a keen impact on me. Ignatius encourages people to work through biblical stories in their spiritual growth, urging them to put themselves physically and geographically into the tale. This involves attending to a "reconstruction of place" and using the five senses to make the story as vivid and interactive as possible. Geography is the principal means by which we put ourselves into any story, I think. It's what gives texture, color, and specificity to the imagination.

Then I've always loved maps as well — maps of places I've been, of places I've dreamed of going, even ancient maps with griffins and dragons on the edges indicating the unexplored entities beyond, maps of imaginary places that symbolize states of growth we haven't achieved. There is something about place, about movement from one site to another, that is profoundly symbolic of the spiritual life and of my own particular journey.

Ruach: How has your work helped you with your own spiritual journey?

Lane: The Talmud says one teaches best what one most needs to learn. You explore where you need to grow. My books dealing with place and spirituality are very self-disclosing, especially The Solace of Fierce Landscapes. In dealing with the symbolic significance of desert and mountain terrain in Christian history and thinking through my own experience of desert spirituality, it allowed me to come to terms with the death of my mother who had died recently from cancer with Alzheimer's and with my father who had committed suicide when I was 13 years old. Reflecting on the role of the desert in the spiritual life let me work through the empty places in my own life, recognizing how God has encountered me again and again in the places where it seemed everything fell apart.

Ruach: What, for you, is critical in your understanding of the relationship between spirituality and geography?

Lane: I think the two things belong together because of the incarnation. Christ coming among us in flesh and blood at a specific locale in first-century Judea roots the eternal message of Christianity in a context. Christian experience must always be contextual. The Bible itself has to be read with map in hand because God's revelation doesn't just come out the blue. It occurs in Jerusalem, Shechem, Bethel, Galilee — concrete places where people live and where God meets them in their place. That's why Christianity continually resists a dualism that separates spirit from matter. Spirituality and geography have to be joined. Take conversion experiences in the church's history, for example. They're invariably place-specific. You think of Paul on the Damascus Road; Augustine in the garden in Milan where he hears children playing, saying "Take and read"; Luther on the toilet at Wittenburg Monastery; Thomas Merton on the corner of 4th Street and Walnut in downtown Louisville. When each of them experiences a profound insight in the life of faith, they remember it in connection with the place where it happened. We've not given that the attention it deserves. In the past we've concentrated almost exclusively on time and history in biblical and theological studies. Only in the last generation have we begun to turn to geography and place and to recognize the profound importance of that as well.

Ruach: If you were equipping church leaders, what would you especially want them to know about spirituality and geography, and how might you advise them to use these insights to help others?

Lane: I'd urge professionals working in the church to help people reflect on their places and their experience of God in those places. In the spiritual exercises of Ignatius Loyola, praying your dossier is an initial step in that process, thinking prayerfully back through your life. How has God moved with you through the wilderness of your own experience, like the children of Israel coming out of Egypt? How would you plot that on a map? Helping people think of their lives as a pilgrimage is profoundly helpful and important. Often it is enhanced by our going on retreat so as to reflect on our spiritual lives and be aware of the particular places that feed us. Jose Ortega y Gasset, the Spanish philosopher, once said "Tell me the landscape in which you live and I'll tell you who you are." I think he also could have said, "Tell me the place to which you are drawn, and I'll tell you who you are becoming." We need to be sensitive to the kinds of places to which we may feel drawn — desert places, mountain places, city places. In the unique topography of the place that attracts us, God may have something extraordinary to teach us. All these are ways of being sensitive to the role of place in the spiritual life and how leaders in the church can help people develop in those ways.

Ruach: In our United Methodist episcopal system, clergy are appointed to churches in geographies they might not choose. What might we want to consider in adjusting to new and unfamiliar geography?

Lane: It creates difficulties, I know, for pastors in the United Methodist tradition who are sent one place and then in a few short years may be reassigned elsewhere. Moreover, as clergy we've generally been trained in an urban setting in seminary, yet may find ourselves in our first parish in a rural setting somewhere. My first church was in western New York state in a town of 900 people. I learned to love it, but it took some work. Being present to any place takes work. I ran across a wonderful story in rural Wisconsin several years back. A Methodist minister by the name of D. O. Van Slyke lived in the little town of Galesville in the southwest part of the state, not far from the Mississippi River. His ministry had not been a success. He felt isolated, disenchanted with his parish. The people didn't like him any better, nearly driving him out of town. But as he attended to the place where he lived, he was smitten by the beauty of the Wisconsin landscape. As he read Genesis 1 and 2, hoping to find meaning in his life, he noticed that there were four rivers in the original paradise — one large river with three smaller ones flowing into it. Looking around him, he suddenly realized that the Black, the Trempealeau, and the La Crosse Rivers all flowed into the Mississippi not far from his own town of Galesville. He knew that the region had for a long time produced fine apples. And he'd talked with Native Americans who said that there had been a lot of snakes there in the past. So he put this all together and concluded that Galesville, Wisconsin, was the original site of the Garden of Eden. If you go there today, the Chamber of Commerce hands out copies of the sermon he published on this topic in the 1880s. It is a farming community, and every box of produce that comes out of Galesville is still stamped with the words "Galesville, WS — the Garden of Eden." What I suggest from this is that all of us long to see ourselves as living at the axis mundi, the center of the earth, the point of convergence, nestled in the palm of God's hand. The question is how we discover the place where we already find ourselves and how we recognize it as one of God's means of initiating continued growth in our lives.

Ruach: What might this mean for a pastor who grew up in hill country and was now assigned to flat farm country or vice versa?

Lane: It's good to know what type of person you are geographically (or topographically). I'm an ocean and desert person, for example. I grew up in Florida and have always loved water I can't see across. Similarly, the wild expanse of desert terrain is just as captivating for me. It's interesting in the history of Christian spirituality that ocean and desert images are often intertwined. Yet I've had to learn in the last 25 years to love the mystery of rivers here in the American Midwest. It is curious that sometimes you are able to choose places where you would love to go, and at other times you are taken to places you had never expected to go. That's why it is tremendously important to find rituals of entry for fully "dwelling" in the places in which we find ourselves. How do we become present to the places where we are? That is an important spiritual question. How do we slow down so as to be attentive? How do we give ourselves to silence and solitude in the place? How do we learn its stories? The stories of a place are what make it sacred. It's like a loose thread in a sweater; you begin to pull at the story and all the meanings of the place begin to unravel and reveal themselves. In short, it is nothing less than a spiritual exercise to be present to the place where we find ourselves. "Being there" may be our most important spiritual discipline. I hope that helps.

Ruach: It does indeed. I really like the idea of rituals of entry. You talk about the landscape being a point of luminal reality, of God breaking into the world. How do you see that working?

Lane: Well, there are two words for "place" in the Greek language. Topos is the term Aristotle preferred in speaking of place as a mere location, an inert container having no particular influence on the things or people within it. Topographical maps, for instance, help us locate our position with a neutral, scientific accuracy. On the other hand, Plato's favorite word for place was chora, a term suggesting that certain sites carry their own vitality and presence. This involves a more personal, almost mystical understanding of a place as inviting those within it to a choreographed dance of gathered meaning. If you experience a place as topos, it's like walking into a McDonald's restaurant. Having been to one, you've been to them all. But if you experience a place as chora, it becomes a location that invites you to dance with it, to be present in an extraordinary way. Perhaps, for example, a couple might have proposed marriage to each other in a McDonald's restaurant. If that were the case, then suddenly the topos would have become chora — a site of great significance for them. Hence, the perennial question in our lives is how we perceive the ordinary place — the topos that seems so totally insignificant — as becoming a chora, the place of God's unique presence in our lives. Once again I'd say it takes certain rituals of entry for this to happen, particularly the ritual act of storytelling. It's through articulating the stories that have made a place powerful and important to us that we are able to enter it most fully.

Ruach: Is there something about particular sacred landscapes that help us stop in the Presence more easily than in a group of people or in a worship service?

Lane: In a sense, you are raising a question about the unique power of certain places to invite us to the holy. Mircea Eliade, professor of the History of Religions, emphasized this notion in his teaching at the University of Chicago. From his study of pre-modern cultures he suggested that sacred places compel us by a mystical power, as if they exercised an ontological force of their own. I think of the small adobe church in the village of Chimayo in northern New Mexico, for example, a place often described as the Lourdes of America. It is a healing place, widely known for its "sacred dirt." In the back of the sacristy on the side of the church, visiting pilgrims can reach down through a hole in the concrete floor to pull out a small handful of sand. They can take it home to anoint someone who is ill, praying over them for healing. It is a fascinating place, regarded as a healing site by Native Americans even before the Spanish came. Some would describe it as a location having intrinsic powers of its own, where God touches people in a vivid way. I'd want to caution, however, that our reading of any landscape or place is inescapably conditioned by all the cultural meanings we bring to it. Sacred places are those that have been intimately wrapped with multiple stories through the years. These often are conflicting narratives that lay claim to the site in different ways. Native American stories, Roman Catholic stories, New Age stories are all a part of the phenomenon of Chimayo, for instance. Places are inescapably cultural constructions. Yet at the same time they remain more than our interpretations of them. Honoring the integrity of place requires our keeping this tension alive.

Ruach: In addition to the Landscapes of the Sacred, what other resources would you recommend to our readers who are pastors, district superintendents, and bishops if they would like to pursue this subject more deeply?

Lane: Cultural geographer Yi-Fu Tuan at the University of Wisconsin has written a book called Topophilia. It explores this idea of the love of place that is endemic to the human spirit. Eliade's now-dated, but still useful, discussion of sacred space can be found in his The Sacred and the Profane. Edward Linenthal and David Chidester edited a fine book a few years ago on American Sacred Space. They come at the subject from a cultural studies approach, identifying sacred places as contested sites fought over by differing communities of discourse. In a more poetic vein, one thinks of Kathleen Norris' beautiful book, Dakota, A Spiritual Geography. It grows out of her love of the northern Plains, living in South Dakota as a Presbyterian who is also an oblate at a nearby Benedictine Monastery.

Ruach: Thank you so much. There has been much wisdom in what you have said, and I think it will be helpful to our readers.

When I think about language and spirituality, two issues come to mind. The first is how to talk about Mystery in our very human and limited language. How do you capture the thoughts, feelings, impressions from an encounter with God, a vision of Christ, a time of being touched by the Holy? It’s not easy or sometimes even possible. We grasp at words that may vaguely capture the sense we are after. But then there is no guarantee that the words we choose will communicate to another person.

While it is sometimes hard enough in our own personal lives to speak of the awe and mystery of God, we are the ones who are charged with, called to the responsibility of speaking publicly about and to God. We are called to pray aloud in worship. When I was beginning to deepen my own spiritual life, I began to meditate and practice contemplative prayer. After a while I found that praying pastoral prayers became much more difficult. It seemed odd to me at the time that praying more privately made me less able to pray aloud, but another pastor whose spirituality I deeply respected said that he’d had the same experience

Language is such a blessing because it enables us to communicate at all. And we certainly need to communicate the love of God, the gift of Christ and some of what is going on in our own souls. At the same time communicating some ideas and experiences can be very difficult, not only to others but sometimes even inside ourselves. At those times we fall back on the promise in Romans 8:26 that “the Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” (NRSV)

I do have to wonder if the Spirit hasn’t “sighed”, or “groaned” (as another translation puts it), in the other sense of those words, at some of the pastoral prayers I’ve prayed. If so it probably wasn’t the prayers where I struggled to find the words, but where I approached the time of the pastoral prayer unprepared to lift up the concerns of the community.

In this issue of Leading from the Center, we explore language and spirituality. The main article looks at prayer in worship and our responsibility as pastors to speak the language of prayer. The author is Dr. Pamela Hawkins, who is an Elder in the Tennessee Conference and on staff at Pulpit & Pew at The Duke Center for Excellence in Ministry. The book reviewed is Sacred Speech: A Practical Guide for Keeping Spirit in Your Speech by Donna Schaper. The reviewer is Rev. Taylor Burton-Edwards, Director of Worship Resources with the Center for Worship Resourcing of the General Board of Discipleship, and an Elder in the North Indiana Conference.

In a worship service one time, I was nearly struck dumb by a phrase as we sang number 120, “Your Love, O God”. At the beginning of the fourth verse are the words, “O judge us, Lord, and in your judgment free us...” A new light dawned. All of a sudden I understood the judgment of God in an entirely different way. Ah, the power of words to move us along on the journey. May your words increasingly open up new pathways to God for yourself and others, even in those time when you struggle to express the wonderful mystery of God.

The inner ear is the locus of physical balance in human beings. Most people know instantly when they are losing their balance and do what is needed to right themselves. They reach out and grab something or sit down. Children play with their sense of balance when they spin around and around until they get dizzy and fall down laughing at the strange feeling.

These days I've been wondering about the locus of spiritual balance in our lives. Wouldn't it be great to have the same kind of instant feedback of being spiritually out of balance from a "spiritual inner ear" that we get from our physical inner ear? What might such a spiritual inner ear be? My calendar? My yearning for God? My disciplines falling by the wayside? Weariness?

Who among us has not struggled to find or maintain balance amid the demands of ministry, family life, personal time, time for God. Lately I've heard story after story of pastors who get out of balance. The signs are often dramatic — physical collapse of self or of a spouse, depression, feeling overwhelmed, improper and inappropriate behavior. Were there earlier signs of slipping out of balance that were missed? Is paying attention a part of the balance equation?

Fortunately I've also heard stories of pastors who, after discovering they were out of balance, paid attention to their state, exercised discipline, rested, or did whatever it took to regain balance. But balance is not "one-size-fits-all." What is a good balance for one person might be far from it for another. So the issue is always: Is my life balanced? Is your life balanced? What would need to change for your life or mine to get back into balance? And whom could I ask to hold me accountable for getting back into balance.

I have come to believe that leading a balanced life is necessary for one to have a faithful witness to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Because of this belief and because balance seems to be an issue for many pastors, spiritual balance is the theme for this issue of Leading from the Center. The main article by Bishop Rueben P. Job suggests some of the forces that mediate against balance and proposes a process to establish or reestablish balance in one's life. Kent Millard reviews The Spiritual Leader's Guide to Self-Care by Melander and Eppley. Daniel Ling reviews Heart Whispers, a book by Elizabeth Canham on applying Benedictine tenets to everyday life.

My prayer is that this issue of Leading from the Center will invite you to look again at the balance in your own life and make any tweaks or changes that would help you move toward greater wholeness in Jesus Christ.

Sometimes when I am out leading groups, I ask, "Do you think God was serious about the third commandment — 'Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy'?" I find it fascinating that I can think in my mind that God is certainly serious about that commandment while at the same time forgetting to observe it. But then we all know that guilt is not the best motivator in the world.

A friend and colleague who is now deceased told me when I was young in the ministry, "You know, Susan, I've found that I can get as much done in six days with a day off as I can in seven with no day off." I have thought of that so many times, and when I have practiced it, I have always proved him right. Of course, sadly, I have not always practiced it.

Sabbath is an opportunity to remember that God is in charge, not us. It helps us assess our level of trust in God. Do we trust God more than we trust our own energy and ability?

For me now, Sabbath needs to have these elements:

1. Attending to one's relationship with God (worship is a good possibility here, or prayer) and wasting some time with God
2. Taking sensual delight in the good gifts of creation through the sense God has given us (a fire in the fireplace, a flower, the green of grass, the smile of a loved one, a favorite food)
3. Enjoying family and/or friends and spending time with them
4. Doing things that feed one's own soul
5. Silence in some form or another
6. Rest (a nap, sitting reading a book, gazing at the earlier mentioned fire, etc.)

Recently I had a bout of the stomach flu — the 24-hour kind for which the main symptoms don't last long, but that takes several days to regain one's normal level of energy. Coming right from the flu, I headed out on a work trip to two places. Exhausted from travel and the flu but with much to do to prepare for a retreat I was leading the next week, I found myself on the plane going home on Saturday night. So the conversation began in my head about how I would spend Sunday after church. One side of me was arguing for working on the retreat while the other side was arguing that I was supposed to take Sabbath, and not only was I supposed to take it, I needed it.

Do you ever have those conversations in your head? Or maybe for you it isn't so much about Sabbath on Sunday as taking a day off or not, or about how you will spend your day off. What helps and encourages you actually to take Sabbath? Do you have anyone who holds you accountable for taking one day a week as Sabbath?

In this issue of Leading from the Center, Marjorie Thompson has written a fine and inviting article reminding us of the importance of Sabbath and of what it does for our life as well as our faith. She asks the question of why it is so hard for us to take Sabbath and then provides "guilt-free" (at least it was for me) encouragement to take up the practice again.

Oh, and by the way, I did take Sabbath that Sunday, and I suspect that the retreat was better because I did.

Prayers for you along the way in your own struggles.

Susan