Michael Valliant | Michael Valliant

Northern Exposure; It’s the fling itself

On paper, my last semester at N.C. State was a failure. Ultimately it left me on the street, back in Maryland, getting in shape with designs of going into the Army and jumping out of planes. It got me back to running. Made me change my life’s direction. That is the good.

Not a lot of time was spent in classrooms. But I think I learned a lot that fall. The curriculum was organic, unstructured, self-guided. It included Jerry Garcia and David Grisman. It included chess and whiskey. It included Whitman and Emerson. It included Paul Newman and Robert Redford; Charlie Chaplan and Robert Downey Jr.; daily episodes of Northern Exposure re-runs; and deep discussions with a good friend, Lindsay Loflin, who was the only other English Literature (and in his case film) student that I knew well at a textiles and engineering school.

Northern Exposure is my favorite TV series of all time. It was made and aired within the parameters of prime time network television, before HBO changed the TV series rules forever (for the better) with shows such as The Wire, Sopranos, Game of Thrones, etc. Point being Northern Exposure had to play by the network rules. Let’s be honest, Maggie O’Connell (Janine Turner) could have been a fun character to have playing by HBO/Showtime standards.

For me, the series is full of life lessons, philosophy, humor, etc. It is a study on how life sometimes goes in directions you had no idea were coming, not directions you necessarily would want, but directions you need to get where you are going. Dr. Joel Fleischman (Rob Morrow) is a Jewish physician from NYC whose medical school at Columbia was financed by the state of Alaska. He is a city cat, but winds up in Cicely, Alaska, as part of a contract to repay/pay back the state for his education. It’s in the middle of nowhere, he hates it, is a salmon out of water, but starts to change. The place and people teach him, even when he doesn’t want them to or expect it. We get what we need, and what needs us.

Alaskan/Indian Ed Chigliak (Darren E. Burrows), film critic and aspiring director is a brilliantly conceived, quirky character. Adam Arkin’s “Adam,” the paranoid recluse who is a gourmet chef and wired into the inner-workings of global counter-intelligence is phenomenal. And Chris Stevens (John Corbett), radio DJ host of “Chris in the Morning” is perhaps my favorite character of all time, possibly in any media. Chris is an air waves philosopher, reading Walt Whitman to his listeners; sharing personal stories, groping life. The piano fling scene and speech (from season three) is one of the all-time great moments in television. To me that sums up art, philosophy, fun, being eccentric, being different, being alive.

They’ve since taken the video link to the scene down, but here is the text of Chris’s speech:

“I’ve been here now for some days, groping my way along, trying to realize my vision here. I started concentrating so hard on my vision that I lost sight. I’ve come to find out that it’s not the vision, it’s not the vision at all. It’s the groping. It’s the groping, it’s the yearning, it’s the moving forward. I was so fixated on that flying cow that when Ed told me Monty Python already painted that picture, I thought I was through. I had to let go of that cow so I could see all the other possibilities. Anyway, I want to thank Maurice for helping me to let go of that cow. Thank you Maurice for playing Apollo to my Dionysus in art’s Cartesian dialectic. And thanks to you, Ed, cause the truth shall set us free! And Maggie, thank you for sharing in the destruction of your house so that today we could have something to fling. I think Kierkegaard said it oh so well, “The self is only that which it’s in the process of becoming.” Art? Same thing. James Joyce had something to say about it too. “Welcome, Oh Life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge the smythe of my soul the uncreated conscious of my race.” We’re here today to fling something that bubbled up from the collective unconsciousness of our community. Ed, you about ready? The thing I learned folks, this is absolutely key: It’s not the thing you fling. It’s the fling itself. Let’s fling something, Cicely!”

I am at such a loss for words here. Philosophy, art, existentialism, Monty Python, breaking stuff, the collective unconscious, James Joyce, Kierkegaard, catharsis, groping: these are a few of my favorite things.

A couple years ago, I scarfed up the whole series of Northern Exposure on DVD. I put it on this morning at 4-ish a.m., with a cup of coffee and began the series again from the pilot episode. There is so much there. It inspires me, makes me laugh, makes me think. And though it is a TV show about a place that doesn’t really exist, it rekindles my urge to go stand in Alaska, to hike there, to trail run there, to stay in a cabin, to drink beer in a tavern, to imbibe the spirit of the place.

It’s the groping. It’s the fling itself. Let’s fling something!

Originally written and published on Dec. 18, 2014, on The 4-1-Run.

Dreams and Song

2019 is a blank page with a big box of Crayola crayons spread out around it. I dig the above photo that Caroline Phillips took on one of the last days of December, on assignment for Shore Monthly Magazine. It’s sunrise, with friends doing something we love, up and outside early that let us catch a crisp, clear morning to laugh, skate, and reconnect.

2019 is a year I don’t have a clue about in many ways. And part of that not knowing is that the past four-plus years have been foundation building.

Life has a way of pulling the rug out from under us when we get comfortable. I like to think that happens because we are getting comfortable in a way that is keeping us from where we need to be; where we could be going; what we could be doing. But that perspective likely only comes with some distance when we’re looking back.

When we get displaced, we try to get our footing–spiritually, mentally, and physically. We try to put our pieces back together in a meaningful way. We look for that place where we can breathe deeply and be ourselves. We look for somewhere we can build, and re-build our lives.

Over the past four years, I’ve lived in three different places and I’m in the first house where it feels like home, where the girls and I can be for a while, put some roots down and figure out where life goes as Anna gets closer to graduating high school and Ava finishes middle school.

The thing about building a foundation or putting down roots (choose your metaphor) is that that’s the beginning work, the base. For that to amount to anything, you’ve got to build something awesome, grow or bloom into something that no one else can–that’s what each of us has in us. And that’s what 2019 feels like it’s calling for–personally, professionally, physically, creatively–it’s time to stretch, to grow, to build, to do something more; something cool, fun, inspiring. The stuff the God puts each of us here to do.

Field guides, existing colors in the box of Crayolas that we get to color our lives with, to help show us what is possible, what’s been drawn, and what we can do.

Writing about Jorge Luis Borges, introducing Borges’ book, “Dreamtigers,” Miguel Enguidanos talks about dreams and song. That it is our capacity to dream and sing that “makes the world bearable, habitable; they make the dark places bright… Dreams and song. About the whole and the parts. About the universe and about each of its separate creatures.” And that “in spite of incompetence, stumblings, and disillusionment,” that our dreams, played out in the song we choose to sing with our lives can connect and resonate with others.

I guess that’s my hope for 2019. To feel our dreams and find and sing our song in new, surprising, inspiring, and wonder-filled ways. And in doing so, to help others do the same with theirs.

Via Contemplative Monk and Mystic Prayers

“I knew every raindrop by its name”

The unexpected voices stay in our heads. They speak lines, phrases, words, pictures that we didn’t see coming, but that we can’t forget. Denis Johnson planted a stop sign in my soul with, “I knew every raindrop by its name,” as I tried to get to know his heroin-addicted narrator in “Jesus’ Son,” a book of short stories, which has been called one of the best written in the last 50 years.

Johnson’s voice, his writing, was born from his experience with addiction. He was worried at first that sobriety would affect his creativity. But the distance, clear-headedness, and productivity of being clean let him more fully access his past and own his voice in a way only he could. My copy of “Jesus’ Son” (named from Lou Reed’s “Velvet Underground” lyric in the song “Heroin,”) is full of underlinings where Johnson knocked me off-guard, off-balance.

He died of liver cancer in 2017. The New York Times obituary gave Johnson his own take on his faith:

Mr. Johnson thought of himself as a Christian writer who wonders about the existence of God in a troubled world.
“I have a feeling God finds us pretty funny,” he told New York magazine. “But that’s all the speaking I should do for God–he doesn’t go around talking about me.”
Richard Sandomir, New York Times

I’ve been thinking about and trying to read distinctive, original voices lately, gravitating toward short stories. Johnson is one of the first people I thought of. Another is Barry Hannah. Hannah begins his landmark book “Airships” like this:

“When I am run down and flocked around by the world, I go down to Farte Cove off the Yazoo River and take my beer to the end of the pier where the old liars are still snapping and wheezing at one another.”
Barry Hannah, “Water Liars”

In an appreciation of his writing, author Richard Ford says that Hannah, “recasts the world in the way obviously great writing does… Barry’s voice was the one many of us hear when we speak candidly to ourselves–subversive, inventive, unpredictable, funnier than we can be in public.”

Recasting the world. That’s what great writing should do for us. Help us see differently or think differently about something, or maybe see something we haven’t seen. Fantastic stories, well told.

I’ve had Tom Robbins lines and phrases typed into my subconscious for 20-plus years now. He can take something as mundane as mockingbirds and cast a slanted light on them:

“Mockingbirds are the true artists of the bird kingdom. Which is to say, although they are born with a song of their own, an innate riff that happens to be one of the most versatile of all the ornithological expressions, mockingbirds aren’t content to merely play the hand that is dealt them. Like all artists, they are out to rearrange reality. Innovative, willful, daring, not bound by the rules to which others may blindly adhere, the mockingbird collects snatches of birdsong from this tree and that field, appropriates them, places them in new and unexpected contexts, recreates the world from the world.”
Tom Robbins, “Skinny Legs and All”

But for all our disparate voices, it is not enough to recreate the world from the world, but to try to add some meaning, some connection, something universal within the personal.

Stories connect us in ways that nothing else does. Jesus told stories so he could be sure we would remember them, re-tell them, and talk about them. Hemingway and Twain are household names because we connect with Huck Finn and the Old Man and the Sea. And when Johnson’s narrator says he knew every raindrop by its name, I am transported back to being a kid, looking up into summer rain with my arms stretched out to the sides, trying to count raindrops and see if one looks different from another.

The Tree Which Moves Us

William Blake’s writing and artwork inspired my first tattoo, 21 years ago. This morning he reminded me to see God in all things. And it turns out today (Nov. 28) is also Blake’s birthday.

Reading him in a British romanticism class at Washington College changed the way I thought about writing. This morning, drinking coffee and reading, a letter Blake wrote to a patron-turned-critic popped up:

“I see everything I paint in this world, but everybody does not see alike. To the eye of a miser a guinea is far more beautiful than the sun, and a bag worn with the use of money has more beautiful proportions than a vine filled with grapes. The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way… But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.”

I didn’t set out to read Blake this morning, the letter was in a chapter of Eknath Easwaran’s commentary on the Beatitudes. I came across the same letter again, referenced by Maria Popova’s Brainpickings, pointing out his birthday. I like it when God makes it obvious that you are supposed to read and think about something today.

Walking around Tuckahoe State Park on Sunday, I kept taking pictures because the sun was setting and bouncing light beautifully off the trees and the water. We live in a place where we can be frequently reminded to stop and look at amazing things. If we make time. It’s all around us: yellow ginkgo leaves covering the ground, Great Blue Herons in flight, seldom seen birds at the feeder outside the window.

Blake’s point is that we don’t all look at things the same way. For someone looking to clear land and build a house, or someone who is late to work, a tree might be just something in the way or background scenery. For others, it can be the tree which moves us to tears; overwhelms us with gratitude and wonder at being out in nature.

After quoting Blake, Easwaran goes on to quote Thomas a Kempis, saying:

“If your heart were sincere and upright, every creature would be unto you a looking-glass of life and a book of holy doctrine.” The pure in spirit, who see God, see him here and now: in his handiwork, his hidden purpose, the wry humor of his creation.

Every creature a book of holy doctrine. Wow. It comes back to being able to look, being able to see things that way, see each other that way. We determine how and what we see in the world. Seeing the tree which moves us, seeing God’s handiwork in nature and people in our lives, is the reminder I take today.

It’s cool to have Blake surface while studying Luke’s Gospel and the Beatitudes. Jesus was calling for people to see and be in new and different ways than what was going on around them. In his art and writing, Blake saw in new ways, broke from tradition, and conveyed the prophetic and the wondrous. He opened my eyes to writing being able to break free from form and constraint.

Since it’s his birthday, let’s walk toward Blake a bit more. He illustrated religious texts; it’s moving quickly into Advent and Christmas; and we have groups who have studied Luke’s take on Jesus’ birth narrative where angels appear to the shepherds. So this struck me today: Blake drew and painted scenes for a John Milton poem, “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity.” Blake illustrates Milton’s words, which describe a scene we know better using Luke’s words:

And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.” (Luke 2:14)

Today, on Blake’s birthday, and every day, whether we need angels to point it out to us, or whether we can use our own eyes, maybe we can see the divine in the everyday, the tree which moves us.

Helped are those

I’ve got to get to know Alice Walker. I’ve never read “The Color Purple,” but I love and live by her character Shug Avery’s quote, “I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.” God gives us things to notice, to experience, to enjoy, to wonder about, but it’s up to us to see them.

We are up to chapter six in our study of Luke’s reporting of the Gospel at Christ Church Easton, which includes Luke’s version of the Beatitudes–Jesus’ sermon on the plain, which is slightly different than His sermon on the mount in Matthew’s Gospel. Most people have heard it–“Blessed are the poor, for yours is the kingdom of God, Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.” (Luke 6:20-21)–even if they don’t know it. But it’s fair to say that most people don’t give it much thought.

“Blessed” is a word that is overused and casually used, to the point that maybe it has lost its meaning in daily life, or at least it’s been watered down. As I was looking around this week for thoughts, commentary, and creative takes on the Beatitudes, Alice Walker popped up again. It was her same character, Shug Avery, but in the sequel to “The Color Purple,” the novel “The Temple of My Familiar.” In it, Shug gives her own version of the Beatitudes, but she replaces the word “blessed” with “helped.” And it changes so much (grabbing just a few):

“HELPED are those who are content to be themselves; they will never lack mystery in their lives and the joys of self-discovery will be constant.
HELPED are those who love the entire cosmos rather than their own tiny country, city, or farm, for to them will be shown the unbroken web of life and the meaning of infinity.
HELPED are those who live in quietness, knowing neither brand name nor fad; they shall live every day as if in eternity, and each moment shall be as full as it is long.
HELPED are those who create anything at all, for they shall relive the thrill of their own conception, and realize a partnership in the creation of the Universe that keeps them responsible and cheerful.
HELPED are those who love the earth, their mother, and who willingly suffer that she may not die; in their grief over her pain they will weep rivers of blood, and in their joy of her lively response to love, they will converse with the trees.
HELPED are those whose every act is a prayer for harmony in the Universe, for they are the restorers of balance to our planet. To them will be given the insight that every good act done anywhere in the cosmos welcomes the life of an animal or child.”

I love the way “helped,” changes the way we think about things; blessed is easy for us to think, oh, that’s nice, things will balance out eventually. Helped lets us know that we are helped by seeing things that way, or by being or acting a certain way. We can also look at it as helped by God for loving, living, acting, or seeing in a particular way. But it puts it on us to take action, to be in the world.

Eknath Easwaran was a fascinating, brilliant mystic who wrote about all kinds of religions, on meditation, prayer, and who has written a commentary on the Beatitudes called “Original Goodness.”

To begin his book, Easwaran quotes another mystic, Meister Eckhart:

“I have spoken at times of a light in the soul, a light that is uncreated and uncreatable… to the extent that we can deny ourselves and turn away from created things, we shall find our unity and blessing in that little spark in the soul, which neither space nor time touches.”

Easwaran goes on to outline four principles that Eckhart tried to get across:

“…there is a light in the soul that is uncreated and uncreatable… a divine core of personality that cannot be separated from God.
“This divine essence can be realized… it can and should be discovered, so that its presence becomes a reality in daily life.”
“This discovery is life’s real and highest goal. Our supreme purpose in life is not to make a fortune, nor to pursue pleasure, nor to write our names in history, but to discover this spark of the divine that is in our hearts.”
“When we realize this goal, we discover simultaneously that the divinity within ourselves is one and the same in all–all individuals, all creatures, all of life.”

From Jesus, to Eckhart, to Easwaran, to Shug/Walker, the idea is that we can know God directly, personally, that He dwells in each of us, and that we would do well to get in touch with this Holy Spirit inside us, which connects us to God; and in order to do so, we need to look past, to strip away so many of the worldly things that we hold up as more important.

Simple, right? Not so much. Jesus calls for a reversal, for us to change our priorities, our way of looking at and being in the world; how we look at and treat each other. That’s the goal, what we aim toward–feeling connected to God, feeling helped or blessed in all that we do. We may never get there (I’ll probably never get there), but that doesn’t mean we don’t pray, meditate, study Scripture, love each other, live it out, and try to get closer to God in our attempt.

We’ll leave it to Shug to say a thing or two more about the “helped:”

“HELPED are those who strive to give up their anger; their reward will be that in any confrontation their first thoughts will never be of violence or or war.
HELPED are those who forgive; their reward shall be forgiveness of every evil done to them. It will be in their power, therefore, to envision the new Earth.
HELPED are those who are shown the existence of the Creator’s magic in the Universe; they shall experience delight and astonishment without ceasing.
HELPED are those who love all the colors of all the human beings, as they love all the colors of the animals and plants; none of their children, nor any of their ancestors, nor any parts of themselves, shall be hidden from them.
HELPED are those who find the courage to do at least one small thing each day to help the existence of another–plant, animal, river, or human being.”

It started with Stan Lee

“Stan Lee and Dr. Seuss and Ray Bradbury. That’s where it begins and ends with me.” That’s how Josh Brolin, who plays both Thanos and Cable in the current Marvel movies, began his remembrance of Marvel legend, founder, and storyteller extraordinaire, Stan Lee. Lee died yesterday at the age of 95.

I heard the news from my cousin, who works at the Miami Herald newspaper, which is fitting, because he is the same cousin that introduced me to comic books; the same cousin who I would spend hours with at Alternate Worlds Comic Book Store in Cockeysville, pouring over Stan Lee’s creations. The comics I collected and couldn’t stop reading were Daredevil, the Avengers, the X-Men, Black Panther–all first created by Lee and artist Jack Kirby, and all current Marvel movie blockbusters.

My teenage daughters don’t read. And I’m not overly worried because I didn’t read growing up. Except for Marvel comic books, something that started when I was 10 and went obsessively on through middle school and into high school (though it wasn’t something you wanted people to know back then). And then graphic novels found their way back onto my reading list in my 40s, again the same Marvel titles being the mainstay.

Stan Lee lived every writer’s dream: to see his characters become household names, loved across generations, spur imaginations, and touch people’s lives. And the coolest thing is that it wasn’t about him, it was and is about the stories and the characters–he passed them on to subsequent writers who try to build on and expand his vision. Here is what those who continue Lee’s stories (three of Marvel’s top writers and an actor) had to say on Lee’s passing:

Stan Lee made the word, “Excelsior!” his sign off and tagline. It’s generally translated to mean, “ever upward,” “higher,” or striving. Chances are, if you hear it in today’s culture, it’s because of him.

Marvel does a nice job of giving the skeleton/chronology of Stan Lee’s career as a storyteller. It’s heartening to realize that Lee almost quit writing comics after 20 years and didn’t really breakthrough until he was 39.

When someone dies at 95 years old, having lived a life people dream about, it’s not tragic; it gives us a moment to remember and appreciate what they brought to our lives. For me, my love of stories, and my desire to read them, to consume them, look for them, think about the shape of them, the imagery of them, to get to know characters–started with Stan Lee. I remember paying $5 for Black Panther #4 in its clear, plastic bag and feeling like I had a small piece of a legacy in my hands. I would walk out of the store with hours of stoke and fuel for my imagination. And I smile now, when I pass on something to my nephew, who sits transfixed, shuts out the world around him, and dives into the Marvel universe.

And these same stories, Stan Lee’s creations, having hit the big screen in ways we didn’t know could happen back then–cinematic storytelling has caught up to what was being done on the page–I now share with my daughters, who have seen all the movies, and suggested Marvel marathons without prompting–always looking for Lee’s comedic cameo in each film.

When I picked 13-year-old Ava up from school yesterday, I told her that an older famous person who she knows died. The first guess out of her mouth was, “Stan Lee??”

And last night we watched “The Avengers.” Tonight we’ll pick another. The stories keep going. But it started with Stan Lee. “Excelsior!” is how he lived.

Weekly Reader: Luke, Linus, Fred and Gary

I hear Linus Van Pelt’s voice in my head. We are two chapters into our study of Luke’s Gospel at Christ Church Easton and there is Linus.

“And there were in the same country, shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this [shall be] a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” – Luke 2:8-14

That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown. – LVP

That last line might not be in the Bible. But it applies. I still well up a bit anytime I watch the Charlie Brown Christmas special and the feckless search for the meaning of Christmas leads to Luke and Linus. And I will say, just two chapters into Luke, it is beyond cool to get a deeper sense of Luke’s good news and what he is doing as essentially a journalist, making sure we don’t miss the story of Jesus.

Yesterday morning, I opened up Frederick Buechner’s quote of the day and found my mind in an upward spiral thinking about this:

“Some moment happens in your life that you say yes to right up to the roots of your hair, that makes it worth having been born just to have happen. Laughing with somebody till the tears run down your cheeks. Waking up to the first snow. Being in bed with someone you love.

“Whether you thank God for such a moment or thank your lucky stars, it is a moment that is trying to open up your whole life. If you turn your back on such a moment and hurry along to business as usual, it may lose you the ball game. If you throw your arms around such a moment and bless it, it may save your soul.”

Buechner’s context with salvation, love, and gratitude is key, but that is the part that spoke to me.

This morning I returned to Gary Snyder’s “Mountains and Rivers Without End,” a book/meditation it took him 40 years to write, and which I never keep far from reach. I’m trying to read Snyder and Jim Harrison in the mornings with coffee, to stoke my sense of wonder and to remember to look at the world around me with eyes and a heart to take everything in. Snyder’s meditation goes throughout the world, history, into our minds and souls, and was begun looking at a scroll of a landscape.

I had a picture in my head this morning of Weekly Readers, a weekly newspaper/magazine we got in elementary school that told us what was going on the world that we might want to pay attention to.

The week is just starting, but I like the notion that this week, the things I am reading, that I want to pay attention to–Luke, Linus, Fred, and Gary–help keep my mind connected to God, nature, blessing everyday moments in our lives, creativity, incarnation, and love.

By the same spirit

There is freedom in getting away. There is friendship in breaking bread and eating together. There is awe in exploring Creation in the rolling hills in early fall. There is joy in worshiping together. There is peace in praying with and for each other. And when you bring close to 70 adults and youth together for a weekend away at The Claggett Center in Adamstown, Md., there is ever-present laughter waiting to bust loose.

This is the fourth consecutive season that Christ Church Easton has run The Alpha Course on Saturday evenings. Alpha is billed as an adventure to explore life, faith, and meaning. It’s also an opportunity to come together with like-minded people and build friendships. In the middle of the course is a weekend away, a chance to take a break from everyday life and create space and intention to shift your focus; a time to connect with each other and with God in Christ. God works in our lives and in our hearts through the Holy Spirit, and that’s what Alpha presents us with, a chance to better understand and personally connect with the Holy Spirit. That starts with making space:

“The greatest need in our time is to clear out the enormous mass of mental and emotional rubbish that clutters our mind.” – Thomas Merton

Stepping back from daily life to step more fully into it, centered and recharged. That’s the goal. It sounds high-minded, but it’s also frequently hilarious. Some of my deepest soul/belly laughs in recent years have come on these weekends. There is a lightness of being that emanates from everyone there.

“At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.” – Jean Houston

That kind of laughter, the kind that floats from the soul out to others and out into the universe. The kind of laughter that when shared, connects people, binds them together.

There is something to the setting at Claggett, the chance to hike through the woods, or walk a labyrinth, or skateboard paved trails, that puts the adventure card on the table.

“Every day God invites us on the same kind of adventure. It’s not a trip where He sends us a rigid itinerary, He simply invites us. God asks what it is He’s made us to love, what it is that captures our attention, what feeds that indescribable need of our souls to experience the richness of the world He made. And then, leaning over us, He whispers, ‘Let’s go do that together.'” -Bob Goff

That is part of what the weekend is about. Finding our own way, our own passion, making the most out of our lives by connecting, or re-connecting to our particular passions and gifts, despite what the world may say. “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind,” Paul writes in his letter to the Romans. Renewing our minds and hearts.

But a funny thing happens, as we try to do that individually, as we follow our own hearts and passions: we realize we are connected to those around us.

“There are different kinds of gifts, but the same spirit distributes them. There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord. There are different kinds of working, but in all of them and in everyone it is the same God at work.” – 1 Corinthians, 4-6.

We are all of the same spirit. We are united by the love of God and through the Holy Spirit, a gift Christ left to all of us. The gift of time away together is the chance to realize that, to feel and see it in a community of people, who through worship, prayer, breaking bread, laughter, tears, shared experience, grace and the Holy Spirit, become the body of Christ, for a time.

Getting Connected: The Feast of St. Francis

St. Francis was not in the movie “Stripes.” He’s not that (“my friends call me psycho”/lighten up) Francis. I think the first time I connected Francis of Assisi to words was the prayer that is attributed to him:

“Lord, make us instruments of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let us sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is discord, union;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.”

And I thought, I want what that guy has. I want to get to that place. It is not an easy road. And then I realized that St. Francis is the guy who is always pictured with animals, connected to nature, known as a hippy in some circles, patron saint of the environment. So more good stuff.

And as I’ve come to find writers and thinkers who resonate, open doors, help me name things, or get out of my own way, one of those folks is Richard Rohr, who is a Franciscan friar/monk.

Today (Oct. 4) is the “Feast of St. Francis,” which has given me a bunch to think on. Rohr’s book “Eager to Love,” outlines “the alternative way of Francis of Assisi.” In his preface, Rohr says:

“We are each loved by God in a particular and incomparable way, as in the case of a bride and bridegroom.” Francis and Clare knew that the love God has for each soul is unique and made to order… Divine intimacy is always and precisely particular and made to order–and thus ‘intimate.'”

If you dig into his life and teachings, Francis (1182-1286) is a fascinating friar. Son of a wealthy merchant who lived it up, was captured, got sick, had dreams and visions and transformed his life. He lived a life most of us couldn’t handle or live up to. He embraced and marveled in all of God’s creation. Again from Rohr:

“In Franciscan mysticism, there is no distinction between sacred and profane. All of the world is sacred… you can pray always and everything that happens is potentially sacred if you allow it to be. Our job as humans is to make admiration of others and adoration of God fully conscious and deliberate.”

All the world is sacred, pray always, everything that happens to you is a chance to find meaning and grace. Francis is often depicted in nature, praying with and spending time with animals. I think artist Sue Betanzos, who creates whimsical paintings of St. Francis, and whose painting is the featured image at the top of this post (used with the artist’s permission), gets his connection to nature.

On this Feast of St. Francis, I want to make it a point to study him more, his life, writing, and teachings. One of the things he seems to get is the idea that we are all connected to everything–God, each other, nature/creation, it’s all rolled into one. As Rohr puts it:

“The great irony of faith is that authentic God experience does indeed make you know that you are quite special, favorite, and chosen–but you realize others are too! That is the giveaway that your experience is authentic, although it may take a while to get there. You are indeed hurting–and others are too. Your only greatness is that you share the common greatness of the whole communion of saints. Your membership in the communion of sinners is a burden you can now carry patiently because others are also carrying it with you. You are finally inside what Thomas Merton calls ‘the general dance.’ You no longer need to be personally correct as much as you need to be connected.”

We don’t need to be correct, we need to be connected. And what St. Francis got, what Rohr gets, what Christ was making known to us, among so many other things, is that we are all connected, to God, each other, the Universe/Creation. Now we just need to start acting like it, both for the joy, the wonder, and the stewardship that is entrusted to us.

St. Francis connects all the dots in his “Canticle of Brother Sun,” quoted in part below the stained glass:

Praised be you, my Lord, with all your creatures,
especially by Brother Sun,
who is the day through whom you give us light.
He is beautiful and radiant with great splendor,
of You Most High, he bears the likeness.

Praised be You, My Lord through Sister Moon and the stars,
In the heavens you have made them bright, precious and fair.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
And fair and stormy, all weather’s moods,
by which You cherish all that You have made.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water,
So useful, humble, precious and pure.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
through whom You light the night and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.

Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister,
Mother Earth
who sustains and governs us,
producing varied fruits with coloured flowers and herbs.

And you may ask yourself…how did I get here?

We all reach a point in our lives when we look around and wonder how we got here. Maybe not all of us, but I definitely do. A friend recently described present life as feeling like, “I accidentally got dropped into this weird world.”

David Byrne gets it.

And you may find yourself
living in a shotgun shack.
And you may find yourself
In another part of the world.
And you may find yourself
behind the wheel of a large automobile.
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house,
with a beautiful wife.
And you may ask yourself, well
how did I get here?

Sometimes I get the sense that part of that not knowing where we are is because we’ve forgotten we’re on a journey. We live life like it’s the same, day in and day out, then we look around not knowing where we stopped paying attention.

We were recently talking about faith–what is faith? How can you have faith? And when we talk about it in that way, when we frame the questions like that, what people often mean is faith as belief: how do I believe in something? Faith is much bigger than belief, in the same way a mountain is much bigger than simply dirt and rock and a journey is more than crossing the street.

There’s plenty I don’t agree with theologian Marcus Borg about. But there is also a lot about what he has to say that excites me and gives me hope for what faith is and where it can lead. Borg, in a posthumously released book, “Days of Awe and Wonder,” asks what would happen if we look beyond our notion of faith as believing, and try to see Christian life as a journey:

“To be on a journey is to be in movement… A journey is a process that involves our feet as well as our minds and our heads. A journey involves following a path or a way. To be on a journey is not to be wandering aimlessly, though there are many times when it feels like that; people have gone on this journey before us, and there is a trail, a path, a way that we are called to. The journey image suggests that the Christian life is more like following a path than believing with our minds.”

If we allow that our life is a journey, it makes sense that the view is going to change along the way. And maybe if we walked looking through that lens, we’d key into when changes are taking place.

Borg digs back and looks at ancient meanings of the word faith as used in Scripture. He unpacks three: 1) Faith as trust (the opposite of which is anxiety), 2) Faith as fidelity (to our relationship with God), and 3) “Faith as a way of seeing the whole, the whole of that which we live and move and have our being.”

And he points out the different ways we can see the whole, the universe, in which we live and move and have our being: we can see it as hostile towards us, indifferent towards us, or we can “see the whole as gracious, nourishing, and supportive of life, to see it as that which has brought us into existence and continues to nourish us.” Let’s lean into the last option, gracious, nourishing, supportive.

And here’s a part I fully dig:

“Faith is thus about setting out on a journey in a posture of trust, seeking to be faithful to the relationship we are called into. We are invited to make that journey, that journey of faith, in which we learn to trust our relationship to God, learn to be faithful to that relationship, and learn to see it in a new way. We will be led in that journey into an ever more wondrous and compassionate understanding of our lives with God.”

If we look beyond faith as being as simple as belief, and we see it as trusting God, setting out on a journey to learn how to be in relationship with Him and with each other, and building that relationship over a continuing journey into more wonder, more compassion, more understanding; that’s a journey, an adventure I want to wake up to, dig into, and live into every day.