Sacred Spaces – Groves and Springs
March 15, 2009
Rev. Susan Gilbert Zencka
Frame Memorial Presbyterian Church
Text: Mark 6:30-44
Many of you know that my brother is a cowboy – he and my sister-in-law own a horse ranch in Arizona, not too far from Prescott, north of Phoenix. His ranch is in the high desert – too high for the Saguaro cactus that we think of when we think of the desert southwest. A few years ago, my brother and I were riding near his place, and as usually, we were riding through scrubby bushes that were not much more than 3-4 feet high. There was nothing taller as far as we could see, until we came upon a tree, about 15-20 feet tall, green and full. I asked Jon about it, and his quick reply was that there must be a spring there.
In our region, we haven’t thought of water as scarce, although if we don’t start thinking of water as limited, we will someday have to think of it as scarce. But sitting amongst rivers locally, and between two of the Great Lakes regionally, we aren’t accustomed to looking for springs. In the desert, springs sustain life. And particularly generous springs can nourish groves of trees…think oasis, places of shade and refreshment, where weary travelers can be restored.
As Margaret Silf points out in her book Sacred Spaces: Stations on a Celtic Way, we may not know much about desert travel, but we do know about periods of dryness. She compares the groves to our own circles of friends and community – those people in whose shelter we can find refreshment and nourishment. Silf reminds us that the Celtic tradition was aware that the world has both visible and non-visible dimensions, and for the Celtic Christians, the dimension that is not visible is just as real as what we see. For the Celts, the world is woven through with the sacred, and everyday encounters and habits can bear holiness into our lives. So the Celts might offer thanks while stirring the morning oatmeal – thanking God for the gift of the oats, for the sun that warmed them, the rain that watered them, and the fire over which they are cooked.
The Celts speak of “thin places” – those sacred spaces where whatever divides the two dimensions seems to thin so that people have a sense of transcendance, and during Lent we’ve been discussing some of the places that have, in the Celtic tradition, often become sacred space, and we’ve reflected on how these sacred spaces might connect to our own lives.
We’ve thought about hilltops, those points in our lives from where we can gain new perspective, new energy toward the future, as the disciples did during the Transfiguration. We’ve considered the Celtic infinite knot, in which all the strands are actually part of one cord, just as we are all part of one world, in which we are connected to one another, to God, and to nature. We remembered how Jesus experienced his own connections to God’s people, and we reflected on communion as a reminder of that connectedness that not only binds us to one another, but to all of life. We’ve looked at wells, and remembered that in order to satisfy our deepest thirsts, we sometimes need to enter the unknown, just as a bucket descends out of sight to the water in a well. We remembered the woman at the well who found in entering a conversation with the stranger, Jesus, that God was not excluding her and her people from the community of God’s love, but had indeed been welcoming her all along.
Today we consider springs and groves, and remember that although there are important experiences that come, like water from a well, from hard work and entering the unknown, there are also experiences of surprising abundance, that come into our lives with the blessing and delight that comes when finding a spring in the desert. The spring just bubbles up, unlike the well, for which one has to dig…or at a minimum, haul the water up from the depths. The spring provides water without our effort – it is pure gift. And, as I said a minute ago, around those springs that are particularly nourishing, there can be gathered groves of trees and that in her book, Margaret Silf suggests that a parallel to these groves in our lives might be the circles of friends and family in whose shelter we can find both gentle solace like the shade of a tree, and lively, bubbling refreshment such as we might find in a spring. Think of your own circles of friends, your own gathered family, your church family. Think of the times when the journey through a week left you particularly weary, or parched, or even battered by the obstacles along the way. Remember how coming home allowed you to fully relax, to really rest. Or remember when you gathered with friends and found the conversation bubbling up effortlessly, so refreshing as you laughed together. Sometimes when you gather with members of your church family, you can find yourself gathering strength from the shared presence. Think of the particular gifts that your friends have, and how your friendships are enriched by the give and take, and by each person’s generosity with their own uniqueness.
We’ve spoken of our connections to the world, and to other people and God – as we think of groves and springs, we aren’t so much thinking about our connections to all of life, but our relationships with particular people or communities that are life-giving to us.
And of course, part of the reason such relationships are life-giving is that they are mutual – though one day we are receiving the blessing; there will be a moment when our words are as refreshing as a bubbling spring. There will be times when we provide the shelter and refreshment. Communities in which genuine mutual sharing occurs are places of abundance and generosity. Such communities are not places of “where’s mine?” but are instead oases of “Let me help you.” Let’s consider a day in which this kind of community occurred.
On a hillside, he gathered with his friends. They had been working hard, and now needed a little time to themselves to rest, so they went to a quiet place where they could be together. But all the people they had been helping figured out where they were going and got there first. And even though they were all bone-weary, when he saw the crowd gathered where he and his friends were going for rest, his heart went out to them and he found himself caring for them, for they seemed so lost and in need of genuine care. So he spoke to them, teaching them, helping them to understand all that God wanted for them. And as the day wore on, his friends reminded him that they were in a deserted place where there was no food available for such a crowd. They suggested that he send the people away so everyone could get back to town and buy some dinner. But he said that his friends should feed the crowd, and asked how much food they had. Five small loaves, they said, and two fish. So he had everyone sit down, and there were so many that they gathered in groups of 50 or 100. And then Jesus took the loaves and fishes, and he blessed them, and he broke the bread and then gave it to his friends to pass around, and then he shared the two fish with everyone. Everyone had plenty to eat, and after everyone was done, they gathered up 12 baskets of leftovers. There were 5,000 men there, and since in those days, they just counted the men, we can know that there were also women and children who wouldn’t have been counted, so the crowd was likely closer to 20,000. Imagine how the crowd laughed and chatted as they ate together – passing the bread and the fish from person to person, each one sharing food and conversation with his neighbor. Such a large crowd…and yet, there was enough! No one was sent away to fend for themselves; a wonderful meal was shared together.
Sometimes I think of our community in the church as being like the crowd in that place with Jesus. Some people come to rest, others to learn. Some come hungry. Sometimes even when you want to rest and soak up the community, it becomes your turn to feed others. And yet, at the end of the day, if everyone passes along what they have, there will be plenty for everyone. No one has to do all the teaching, or all the feeding, or all the listening, or all of anything if everyone just pitches in their share. But that won’t happen when people only come to church to receive and no one is willing to give, even the little energy they have. What if no one had shared? What if no one had been willing to give up the 5 loaves and 2 fishes?
It’s because of the people for whom church is much more than “Where’s mine?” that it becomes a nourishing, lively community, bubbling up with the gifts and unique contributions of a variety of people. And the same springs that nourish us in community feed us individually and draw us into community – this is why we can talk about “The Community of the Beloved” – not because we in this church, or any church, are the other people whom God loves. It is because we gather to find the spring and to be nourished in its waters. Like trees around a spring, we know that there is something that is not us that flows through us, and that the flow is life-giving.
Margaret Silf points out, in her “Groves and Springs” chapter that medieval cathedrals often had a “sanctuary door” that a fugitive could enter and be safe from arrest. “Three things were offered to such a person:
• A place of safety where he could sleep;
• Food to keep him alive;
• Time to reflect on what he was doing and what he would do in the future.”
Such a sanctuary often became a place of new beginnings, from which a fugitive could safely be allowed to leave the country.
In our tradition, the room in which we worship is called the sanctuary – this room, where we hear the Word of God, and gather with others to pray and share the meal that Jesus provides. Like the meal that Jesus provided to those in another quiet place, this meal starts with something small, but as we share it with one another, it becomes part of the sanctuary that is offered here, a place of safety where people can rest, reflect and be nourished.
Not only is this room holy ground where sanctuary is offered, but each of us can be as well. As we earlier considered our friends, and their particular gifts, let us now consider ourselves, and our own gifts. What are the ways in we ourselves can provide to another a place of safety, nourishment, and space to reflect? Can we provide safe spaces of deep listening where others can share safely? Are we able to be a safe space for others to be who they are, even the imperfect, in-progress people that each of us is? Silf suggests that finding common ground with others is one way of providing nourishment, and common ground is indeed nourishing, but I think providing deep acceptance to another where commonality doesn’t exist is truly offering sacred space.
And how about moving beyond the metaphysical and metaphorical to offering genuine nourishment? Jesus was on to something when he made a meal one of the two sacraments – breaking bread with another offers connection at a life-giving point. Jesus, in his ministry, broke bread with friends and others – he was willing to be part of other people’s real lives, and so should we.
Michele Singletary, a financial columnist for the Washington Post tells the story in her column today, titled “A Call to Share Our Abundance” of two friends, both age 66. One lost her business, a small bookstore. The other was doing financially okay, so when she learned that her friend was out of work, she offered to send her $40 every month. Not a loan, just a little sharing among friends. It won’t pay the mortgage, but it might give her an extra tank of gas in the car, or some fresh fruit in her groceries. She offered to send the $40 each month for two years, and she called it a “PIO”, or “pass-it-on offer”. As it happened, the friend found another job quickly, and doesn’t need the money, but the woman is still setting it aside, in case someone else needs it.
Little gifts mean a lot. Is ours a community where people would care for each other in this way?
One Great Hour of Sharing is the annual offering that allows us to reach out beyond our own community offering our financial gifts to help others through hunger relief, disaster assistance, and self-development grants, and I hope each member of this congregation will participate in the One Great Hour of Sharing offering on Palm Sunday.
But can we provide deep sharing to one another? That can be harder. The deacons have put up a bulletin board where you can sign up to be real help to someone who needs help – offering a meal, a ride or a visit – we have members who would be grateful to have someone stop by for a conversation. If you have time to be a friend to someone once in a while, please sign up. And how about taking time to share a meal with someone else, to be a place of oasis where someone can find sanctuary: deep listening, a meal, and a place to reflect? That is real communion, the kind of communion than leaks out the church doors when we become sacred space to one another. Last fall, I was having kind of a hard time for a few weeks as we began the empty nest phase of our life. Within a short time, two sons and a daughter-in-law moved from our house. And it was hard for me – and I was kind of surprised and embarrassed that it was so hard. And I was deeply touched by two of our members who didn’t yet know me all that well but asked how I was doing, and shared that they had found the beginnings of empty nest kind of challenging, and they shared their own experiences. They took the time to notice what had happened in my life, and created space for me to acknowledge to someone that it was harder than I had expected. They helped me to know that I wasn’t alone. They were surprising springs to me, providing refreshment and comfort along the journey.
These days, people may need a meal as much as a listening ear, but whether or not times are tough economically, community is always in season, and creating space for another in our own lives creates a little holiness for us as well. As we continue our journey through sacred spaces, let us become sacred space ourselves. Amen.
Frame Memorial Presbyterian Church
Text: Mark 6:30-44
Many of you know that my brother is a cowboy – he and my sister-in-law own a horse ranch in Arizona, not too far from Prescott, north of Phoenix. His ranch is in the high desert – too high for the Saguaro cactus that we think of when we think of the desert southwest. A few years ago, my brother and I were riding near his place, and as usually, we were riding through scrubby bushes that were not much more than 3-4 feet high. There was nothing taller as far as we could see, until we came upon a tree, about 15-20 feet tall, green and full. I asked Jon about it, and his quick reply was that there must be a spring there.
In our region, we haven’t thought of water as scarce, although if we don’t start thinking of water as limited, we will someday have to think of it as scarce. But sitting amongst rivers locally, and between two of the Great Lakes regionally, we aren’t accustomed to looking for springs. In the desert, springs sustain life. And particularly generous springs can nourish groves of trees…think oasis, places of shade and refreshment, where weary travelers can be restored.
As Margaret Silf points out in her book Sacred Spaces: Stations on a Celtic Way, we may not know much about desert travel, but we do know about periods of dryness. She compares the groves to our own circles of friends and community – those people in whose shelter we can find refreshment and nourishment. Silf reminds us that the Celtic tradition was aware that the world has both visible and non-visible dimensions, and for the Celtic Christians, the dimension that is not visible is just as real as what we see. For the Celts, the world is woven through with the sacred, and everyday encounters and habits can bear holiness into our lives. So the Celts might offer thanks while stirring the morning oatmeal – thanking God for the gift of the oats, for the sun that warmed them, the rain that watered them, and the fire over which they are cooked.
The Celts speak of “thin places” – those sacred spaces where whatever divides the two dimensions seems to thin so that people have a sense of transcendance, and during Lent we’ve been discussing some of the places that have, in the Celtic tradition, often become sacred space, and we’ve reflected on how these sacred spaces might connect to our own lives.
We’ve thought about hilltops, those points in our lives from where we can gain new perspective, new energy toward the future, as the disciples did during the Transfiguration. We’ve considered the Celtic infinite knot, in which all the strands are actually part of one cord, just as we are all part of one world, in which we are connected to one another, to God, and to nature. We remembered how Jesus experienced his own connections to God’s people, and we reflected on communion as a reminder of that connectedness that not only binds us to one another, but to all of life. We’ve looked at wells, and remembered that in order to satisfy our deepest thirsts, we sometimes need to enter the unknown, just as a bucket descends out of sight to the water in a well. We remembered the woman at the well who found in entering a conversation with the stranger, Jesus, that God was not excluding her and her people from the community of God’s love, but had indeed been welcoming her all along.
Today we consider springs and groves, and remember that although there are important experiences that come, like water from a well, from hard work and entering the unknown, there are also experiences of surprising abundance, that come into our lives with the blessing and delight that comes when finding a spring in the desert. The spring just bubbles up, unlike the well, for which one has to dig…or at a minimum, haul the water up from the depths. The spring provides water without our effort – it is pure gift. And, as I said a minute ago, around those springs that are particularly nourishing, there can be gathered groves of trees and that in her book, Margaret Silf suggests that a parallel to these groves in our lives might be the circles of friends and family in whose shelter we can find both gentle solace like the shade of a tree, and lively, bubbling refreshment such as we might find in a spring. Think of your own circles of friends, your own gathered family, your church family. Think of the times when the journey through a week left you particularly weary, or parched, or even battered by the obstacles along the way. Remember how coming home allowed you to fully relax, to really rest. Or remember when you gathered with friends and found the conversation bubbling up effortlessly, so refreshing as you laughed together. Sometimes when you gather with members of your church family, you can find yourself gathering strength from the shared presence. Think of the particular gifts that your friends have, and how your friendships are enriched by the give and take, and by each person’s generosity with their own uniqueness.
We’ve spoken of our connections to the world, and to other people and God – as we think of groves and springs, we aren’t so much thinking about our connections to all of life, but our relationships with particular people or communities that are life-giving to us.
And of course, part of the reason such relationships are life-giving is that they are mutual – though one day we are receiving the blessing; there will be a moment when our words are as refreshing as a bubbling spring. There will be times when we provide the shelter and refreshment. Communities in which genuine mutual sharing occurs are places of abundance and generosity. Such communities are not places of “where’s mine?” but are instead oases of “Let me help you.” Let’s consider a day in which this kind of community occurred.
On a hillside, he gathered with his friends. They had been working hard, and now needed a little time to themselves to rest, so they went to a quiet place where they could be together. But all the people they had been helping figured out where they were going and got there first. And even though they were all bone-weary, when he saw the crowd gathered where he and his friends were going for rest, his heart went out to them and he found himself caring for them, for they seemed so lost and in need of genuine care. So he spoke to them, teaching them, helping them to understand all that God wanted for them. And as the day wore on, his friends reminded him that they were in a deserted place where there was no food available for such a crowd. They suggested that he send the people away so everyone could get back to town and buy some dinner. But he said that his friends should feed the crowd, and asked how much food they had. Five small loaves, they said, and two fish. So he had everyone sit down, and there were so many that they gathered in groups of 50 or 100. And then Jesus took the loaves and fishes, and he blessed them, and he broke the bread and then gave it to his friends to pass around, and then he shared the two fish with everyone. Everyone had plenty to eat, and after everyone was done, they gathered up 12 baskets of leftovers. There were 5,000 men there, and since in those days, they just counted the men, we can know that there were also women and children who wouldn’t have been counted, so the crowd was likely closer to 20,000. Imagine how the crowd laughed and chatted as they ate together – passing the bread and the fish from person to person, each one sharing food and conversation with his neighbor. Such a large crowd…and yet, there was enough! No one was sent away to fend for themselves; a wonderful meal was shared together.
Sometimes I think of our community in the church as being like the crowd in that place with Jesus. Some people come to rest, others to learn. Some come hungry. Sometimes even when you want to rest and soak up the community, it becomes your turn to feed others. And yet, at the end of the day, if everyone passes along what they have, there will be plenty for everyone. No one has to do all the teaching, or all the feeding, or all the listening, or all of anything if everyone just pitches in their share. But that won’t happen when people only come to church to receive and no one is willing to give, even the little energy they have. What if no one had shared? What if no one had been willing to give up the 5 loaves and 2 fishes?
It’s because of the people for whom church is much more than “Where’s mine?” that it becomes a nourishing, lively community, bubbling up with the gifts and unique contributions of a variety of people. And the same springs that nourish us in community feed us individually and draw us into community – this is why we can talk about “The Community of the Beloved” – not because we in this church, or any church, are the other people whom God loves. It is because we gather to find the spring and to be nourished in its waters. Like trees around a spring, we know that there is something that is not us that flows through us, and that the flow is life-giving.
Margaret Silf points out, in her “Groves and Springs” chapter that medieval cathedrals often had a “sanctuary door” that a fugitive could enter and be safe from arrest. “Three things were offered to such a person:
• A place of safety where he could sleep;
• Food to keep him alive;
• Time to reflect on what he was doing and what he would do in the future.”
Such a sanctuary often became a place of new beginnings, from which a fugitive could safely be allowed to leave the country.
In our tradition, the room in which we worship is called the sanctuary – this room, where we hear the Word of God, and gather with others to pray and share the meal that Jesus provides. Like the meal that Jesus provided to those in another quiet place, this meal starts with something small, but as we share it with one another, it becomes part of the sanctuary that is offered here, a place of safety where people can rest, reflect and be nourished.
Not only is this room holy ground where sanctuary is offered, but each of us can be as well. As we earlier considered our friends, and their particular gifts, let us now consider ourselves, and our own gifts. What are the ways in we ourselves can provide to another a place of safety, nourishment, and space to reflect? Can we provide safe spaces of deep listening where others can share safely? Are we able to be a safe space for others to be who they are, even the imperfect, in-progress people that each of us is? Silf suggests that finding common ground with others is one way of providing nourishment, and common ground is indeed nourishing, but I think providing deep acceptance to another where commonality doesn’t exist is truly offering sacred space.
And how about moving beyond the metaphysical and metaphorical to offering genuine nourishment? Jesus was on to something when he made a meal one of the two sacraments – breaking bread with another offers connection at a life-giving point. Jesus, in his ministry, broke bread with friends and others – he was willing to be part of other people’s real lives, and so should we.
Michele Singletary, a financial columnist for the Washington Post tells the story in her column today, titled “A Call to Share Our Abundance” of two friends, both age 66. One lost her business, a small bookstore. The other was doing financially okay, so when she learned that her friend was out of work, she offered to send her $40 every month. Not a loan, just a little sharing among friends. It won’t pay the mortgage, but it might give her an extra tank of gas in the car, or some fresh fruit in her groceries. She offered to send the $40 each month for two years, and she called it a “PIO”, or “pass-it-on offer”. As it happened, the friend found another job quickly, and doesn’t need the money, but the woman is still setting it aside, in case someone else needs it.
Little gifts mean a lot. Is ours a community where people would care for each other in this way?
One Great Hour of Sharing is the annual offering that allows us to reach out beyond our own community offering our financial gifts to help others through hunger relief, disaster assistance, and self-development grants, and I hope each member of this congregation will participate in the One Great Hour of Sharing offering on Palm Sunday.
But can we provide deep sharing to one another? That can be harder. The deacons have put up a bulletin board where you can sign up to be real help to someone who needs help – offering a meal, a ride or a visit – we have members who would be grateful to have someone stop by for a conversation. If you have time to be a friend to someone once in a while, please sign up. And how about taking time to share a meal with someone else, to be a place of oasis where someone can find sanctuary: deep listening, a meal, and a place to reflect? That is real communion, the kind of communion than leaks out the church doors when we become sacred space to one another. Last fall, I was having kind of a hard time for a few weeks as we began the empty nest phase of our life. Within a short time, two sons and a daughter-in-law moved from our house. And it was hard for me – and I was kind of surprised and embarrassed that it was so hard. And I was deeply touched by two of our members who didn’t yet know me all that well but asked how I was doing, and shared that they had found the beginnings of empty nest kind of challenging, and they shared their own experiences. They took the time to notice what had happened in my life, and created space for me to acknowledge to someone that it was harder than I had expected. They helped me to know that I wasn’t alone. They were surprising springs to me, providing refreshment and comfort along the journey.
These days, people may need a meal as much as a listening ear, but whether or not times are tough economically, community is always in season, and creating space for another in our own lives creates a little holiness for us as well. As we continue our journey through sacred spaces, let us become sacred space ourselves. Amen.