From the LA Metropolitan Lounge: Another Liminal Space
—Graffiti on a Metro underpass, “where attention goes, energy flows.”
—On the back of a T-shirt, “Don’t trip over what’s behind you.”
—On the Santa Monica Pier, a couple pauses in front of us to take a picture, “Sorry to get in the way—it’s his first time to see the ocean. We came all the way from Oklahoma for him to see this.” His smile is ear-to-ear.
—Me, thinking to myself on the beach as we neared the water, “Ha! that guy walking around in the waves in his tennis shoes and socks is so dumb.” Me, in my shoes and socks, a minute later, “Crap. I misjudged the size and speed of that wave.”
—Most expensive fuel prices seen: >$6 per gallon.
—A tour guide outside the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, “The magnificent cathedral you see before you was made with 151 million pounds of stone…” (…as if this is what makes a church.)
When talking with engaged couples about their wedding day plans, I always say, “Something will go wrong. It always does. But because we know something will go wrong, we’re ready for it when it happens.”
The same can be said for sabbaticals, it seems.
We’ve been planning this trip for over a year, starting when I got affirmation from the church board to begin a grant writing process to cover sabbatical expenses. In the spring of 2022, when much still seemed uncertain and the pandemic was more than lingering, though seemingly past its ‘worst-by’ date, I sat in my office with a purple legal pad and started to brainstorm ideas for three months off.
What would make my heart sing? This question served as the basic prompt from the grant-giving organization. Travel, certainly, was an obvious answer. Rest seemed wise, though secondary to travel. I finally settled on a long train journey, a nod to my love of trains, stopping in locations that spoke to what shaped me as a younger person. Plus, we had to include Justin’s formational journey as well, assuming he would be along for the ride.
Leaving Madison, we boarded our first train, the (unfortunately-named) “Empire Builder,” and after a short layover in Portland, we headed south on the “Coast Starlight” to Klamath Falls, Oregon, where we arrived (early!) after 54 hours of travel. Our first destination: the Oregon Extension, where Justin had spent a semester of college, studying philosophy and religion while living in an old logging camp with 20-odd other students from various universities and a handful of live-in professors. We arrived at midday and after unpacking, we took a tour of the grounds and buildings. We sat on the banks of the mill pond, visited the new chapel, and perused the gardens, meeting Cuma, a resident dog who would have played fetch all day, and Seton, one of the professors who joined the staff in the intervening years between Justin’s time and our return. The sun shone warmly in the moments it appeared from behind the clouds, and the occasional stray rain shower fell gently across our path.
We felt ourselves at home in our wood-fired cabin amongst the pines.
When Justin awoke the next morning, with brain fog and a fever, the magic seemed to pause. Here it was, the first thing to go wrong in our perfectly planned-out trip: a mystery illness. Justin rested on the couch, while I sat in the kitchen, waiting to see if the symptoms persisted. We tossed out some different ideas for what could be plaguing him: elevation sickness? brain-eating amoebas? covid? something else? …I had brought a box of covid tests along, so pulled a test kit out, gave Justin the cotton swab, and set the timer for 15 minutes. Less than 12 minutes later, I looked down at the test to see that damned second line.
Three years. We had avoided this for three years, and now, in the first week of our epic adventure that we’d been planning—dreaming about—for over a year, we stalled. As Justin took to the couch over the next few days, thankfully just nursing a mild case, I was surprisingly delivered into a forced solitude. I had wanted this first chapter to be restful, but this was extreme. To add insult to injury, our dogs (at home) were exhibiting separation anxiety and getting into a multitude of trouble in our absence. Our first time leaving them alone, together, was proving to be a challenge, and my forced solitude was punctuated by embarrassment and sadness at the impact on our dogsitter’s life.
And then I burnt popcorn, polluting the house’s air with one of the worst smells on the planet.
I was ready for something to go wrong at some point on our journey, but this seemed a bit excessive, in my humble opinion.
And, at the same time, it all felt manageable (in most moments; I did lose my shit at one point). Each morning, I woke with optimism, setting out to walk the labyrinth down the hill. I read four books in less than a week, something I haven’t done since who knows when. We ate well (minus some popcorn), enjoyed a cozy abode, took some gentle hikes, and laughed together. We cuddled the resident dogs of the OE and marveled at the migrating geese flying far above.
Sitting below the pines, our hearts were beginning to sing of the magic and the mayhem that comes with beauty and with life. We knew other things might yet go wrong, and we were here for it.
In the beginning, many moons ago, this hope, this Original Love, was formless and void, mingling with a sacred watery chaos.
After the beginning, but before labor really kicked in, it took time, perhaps millions of cycles of cosmic heating and cooling, of contractions and deep breathing, until the inevitable need to push arose, and the Word was coaxed and coached into a form you and I would recognize. A form that could be held and swaddled. A form that was called “Word” for a little while, until slowly we began to know them as “Jesus.”
The manuscript my sermon from 12/18/22 at Madison Mennonite was based on.The scripture readings for the day were John 1:1-5 and Psalm 126.
As may be evidenced by now, Justin and I have chosen to make a household without the permanent presence of human children. Perhaps that’s a choice we’ll talk about more fully at some point. But knowing this, and in her own wisdom and desire, my sister invited me to the births of her twin daughters, who are soon to turn 10. Though I’ve been present for other animal births, witnessing the birth of Sylvia and Cora was a singular experience in my life.
There in the hospital delivery room, after being induced and waiting and waiting for contractions to come…there finally came a point, several hours in, when the inevitability of birthing these two set in—when there was no biological choice but to push, guided through the process by Frances, the midwife.
And eventually, out they came: first Sylvia, or “Baby A” as she was known at the time, then Cora, “Baby B.” My mother, also present, was the first to hold Sylvia. I was the first to hold Cora, as my brother-in-law stayed by my sister, who rested for a bit before pushing out the placenta.
Hearing again the prologue from John 1 this season, and letting the midwife’s perspective filter into the text, I think of that delivery room that cold winter’s night, ten years ago. I think about the long, long wait of bringing an essence, a dream into a warm, pudgy, fleshy form.
In the beginning, many moons ago, this hope, this Original Love, was formless and void, mingling with a sacred watery chaos.
After the beginning, but before labor really kicked in, it took time, perhaps millions of cycles of cosmic heating and cooling, of contractions and deep breathing, until the inevitable need to push arose, and the Word was coaxed and coached into a form you and I would recognize. A form that could be held and swaddled. A form that was called “Word” for a little while, until slowly we began to know them as “Jesus.”
It would have required serious preparation, I imagine, this long gestation, punctuated by pain, the cosmos gasping for breath. Layered under John’s words, there is a Divine Struggle to bring an idea to birth, an effort to make real what was hoped for. A struggle willingly made by a mothering God. Without a doubt, there was in the beginning, a struggle, and the struggle was real. The struggle is still real.
Perhaps this phrase is a bit jarring in this moment… “The struggle is real” for many of us conjures up images like those that circulate on social media: one of my favorites — someone with a hair dryer in one hand and an iron with the bottom facing up in the other hand, a piece of pizza being reheated using the two devices… The struggle is real. “The struggle is real” is a phrase that encapsulates the ironic frustration of rather mundane inconveniences.
The struggle is real.
But the history of the sentiment tells another story.
“The struggle is real begins in hip-hop culture, where the struggle refers to the oppression… faced by black Americans… Use of this struggle dates to the” 1980 and 90s, “but it was likely influential rapper 2pac who popularized the phrase the struggle is real on his 2002 posthumous track, “Fame”. “(https://www.dictionary.com/e/slang/the-struggle-is-real/)
We are reminded that “the struggle” has disparate meanings for folx in our communities.
What Tupac names, and other persons of dominated groups have attested to, is that an imposed struggle can be a form of oppression. Racism, poverty, climate change, homelessness, transphobia—these obstacles that dehumanize or that strip the dignity of humans or of the earth are to, without a doubt, be resisted by all of us.
At the same time, we live in a society where the dominant culture tends to suggest that pain and struggle are unnecessary—problematic even. The ideal life is one without pain—at least pain that “I” don’t have to feel. This can be made possible, in large part, by outsourcing one’s hurt. In the process, though, one’s capacity for growth is stunted.
My hunch is that we’ve each experienced this in our own lives: times when we have wanted to avoid pain and so passed it onto others; or when others have done that to us. And of course, it is systemic in our society, too, a central tenet of patriarchal white supremacy.
This is what some call “dirty pain.” Resmaa Menakem, author of My Grandmother’s Hands, writes, “Dirty pain is the pain of avoidance, blame, and denial. When people respond from their most wounded parts, become cruel or violent, or physically or emotionally run away, they experience dirty pain.” It’s pain that gets stuck in the body and inhibits growth. It’s the kind that is transferred onto others, particularly those who are more vulnerable.
And, there is clean pain. Clean pain is the pain that mends and can build your capacity for growth and resilience. “It is the pain we experience when we don’t know what to do, when we are scared, and when we step forward into the unknown anyway, with honesty and vulnerability.” (Menakem)
Clean pain, though still painful, is natural. It’s grief we feel in transitions. It’s the soul-stretching sensation of being called out by a trusted friend. It’s the disappointment of failure, or the death of a dream. It’s the pain we experienced the minute our bodies left the womb and we felt the physical shock of emerging into bright light and cool air, so unlike our placentas.
As much as I hate to admit it, it seems like we actually need this kind of struggle in order to grow. This kind of struggle makes us more human, more compassionate, more loving, more just.
bell hooks, in a dialogue with Cornel West, spoke about the tension that we feel around letting clean pain be a part of our stories, of letting struggle shape us, “We also need to remember that there is a joy in struggle. Recently, I was speaking on a panel at a conference with another black woman from a privileged background. She mocked the notion of struggle. When she expressed, “I’m just tired of hearing about the importance of struggle; it doesn’t interest me,” the audience clapped. She saw struggle solely in negative terms, a perspective which led me to question whether she had ever taken part in any organized resistance movement. For if you have, you know there is joy in struggle…” (Hooks, Yearning, 1990)
hooks names something so vital for our experience of struggle, of pain—whether clean pain, dirty pain, or a mix of the two. And that is: the role of the community is to witness the struggle, to midwife one another through the contractions and labored breathing. The point is not to fix or erase the pain, but to validate the hurt, to offer an alternative perspective, and to help us keep pushing or resting—whatever our bodies are telling us we need.
In this last week before Christmas, as we cross over the solstice, we move through a holy time of transition, where the darkness, if we choose to enter it, can be a fertile, sacred space with potential for joy and growth. The midwife’s stanza for this week reminds us that to allow the Divine to be birthed in us is a sacrifice, as we offer our bodies to be broken open, like the ground receiving a seed. So, too, the psalmist sings of the tension of knowing God’s love and nurture, and yet struggling to make sense of the pain of exile and disorientation. There is a longing in Psalm 126 to make sense of the struggle, and to come out the other side knowing transformation.
These sacrifices—sacred struggle—make possible the birth of justice, of a love most profound, of the possibility of a solidarity that frees us, too. Like the wise MMC women shared two weeks ago, birthing work is messy work, what with the sweat and blood and urine and tears and all other kinds of bodily fluids.
Preparing the way to bring our dreams, our ideas, justice to life is work and at times it is incredibly painful. It takes time, perhaps millions of cycles of our souls heating and cooling, our bodies pushing and sweating, for the Word to be coaxed and coached into existence.
As we go this week, may we find safe places to be broken open may we be safe places for others who are in pain may we find courage to enter into the struggles that we face: in our bodies, in our relationships, in our grief, in our struggle to care may we know that we are struggling together, in solidarity and in hope that the Child of Peace— the Infant of Justice— is being born in us once more.
Thoughts of mortality come up at the most interesting of times, like today, when as a very serious part of my pastoral duties, I sat down for a moment to sort through the marker bin we use in our Children’s Nook.
Thoughts of mortality come up at the most interesting of times, like today, when as a very serious part of my pastoral duties, I sat down for a moment to sort through the marker bin we use in our Children’s Nook.
So, here it is: a simple piece of art I’m calling, “Mortality.”
—
A few weeks ago, in the hour prior to our All Saints’ & Souls’ service, we enjoyed an intergenerational faith formation gathering with a focus on our ancestors. The group was small, but thoughtfully engaged as we tossed around questions about the end of life, death, and the afterlife. We read together a beautiful book for the occasion: All Around Us by Xelena González, which I highly recommend for anyone aged about 7 and older.
About ten of us, aged 4 to 60+, sat around, crafting circular timelines of our lives and chatting. What makes a funeral or memorial service memorable? How do we want to be remembered? If we knew we were eating our last meal, what would we want to eat?
A few of us agreed that vareniki would absolutely make the menu. We disagreed, however, on what they should be filled with–potatoes and onions, or cottage cheese?
At a gathering a few months ago with my family, my mom and I tentatively introduced the potato and onion variety to everyone, having grown up solely–and definitively–on the cottage cheese kind. We were appalled when at least one of my siblings declared their preference for the potato/onion ones.
I could hear my ancestors rolling over in their graves; and I wondered: how did they understand mortality? Were they afraid of death or welcome it with humility? What might they teach me still as I sit in my office, uncapping markers, making tick marks at a meditative pace, and waiting to see what shows up?
A call to worship, based on the NRSVUE version of Genesis 1:1-5.
One: When God began to create the heavens and the earth, Many: the earth was complete chaos, and darkness covered the face of the deep, One: at the same time, a rushing wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said,
Many: Let there be light. One: And there was light. The light and darkness were distinct, Many: And God called them good.
One: God named the light, Day Many: and the darkness, Night. One: There was evening and there was morning, the first day.
All: Swept in by the Breath of God, we gather in the goodness of this moment to worship the Creator.
Come, Holy One, Breathe in us your spirit-spark. Rest on us like a gentle wind. Transform our ways of being from muted grays to radiant rainbows, that we might find in you and in one another and in all creation the gifts of hope, healing, and liberation. Amen.
It’s been two months now since Maggie died following a sudden-to-us decline from cancer. Her death was a hard blow, partly due to our feelings about how the end “happened” but also simply because of how integral she was to our lives and household.
Portions of this post were previously shared in Madison Mennonite’s March 2022 newsletter.
Maggie, 2021
It’s been two months now since Maggie died following a sudden-to-us decline from cancer. Her death was a hard blow, partly due to our feelings about how the end “happened” but also simply because of how integral she was to our lives and household.
In recent years, I have found my attitudes and beliefs about other-than-human animals shifting and softening. Growing up, my pets were relegated to living outdoors–a part of the pack but clearly inferior as well. Other animals were either sources of food or simply “wild.” We had no sense of relation to any of them; they were Other, they were Lesser.
About the time that Justin and I welcomed our first dog, Darby, into our home, the movie Up was released. The film transformed our relationship with Darby (and other dogs since), largely due to the special collars the dogs wear in the movie. No longer was Darby’s inner monologue a hidden secret—all her actions were roughly (“ruff-ly”) translatable into English (or so we liked to think). This epiphany continued when Maggie joined our household; and if anything, it just kept blossoming. Some days, a quarter of the conversation between me and Justin would be based on what Maggie was “saying.” Like the movie, it was often hilarious (to us), and I do think it tuned us in more to Maggie’s sentience and personality.
Western Christianity historically has demoted animals and other living beings as a way of promoting the primacy of humans, based, in part, on anthropocentric interpretations of the creation stories in Genesis. Yet there are strands of Christianity that resist these interpretations, for which I am grateful, such as Christian Animism, which posits that the Spirit of God imbues all things with life and connection to the Divine.
Recently, I’ve been reading through A Native American Theology by Clara Sue Kidwell, Homer Noley, and George E. Tinker who argue that in many traditional indigenous theologies, animals, along with all living things (including water, rocks, mountains, etc.) are “persons” of equal inherent value. They write,
“In American Indian cultures human beings are not so privileged in the scheme of things; neither are humans considered external to the rest of the world and its functions…We do have particular responsibilities in the created realm, but then, so do all our other relatives in the created realm: from bears and squirrels to eagles and sparrows, trees, ants, rocks, and mountains. In fact, many elders in Indian communities are quick to add that of all the createds, of all our relations, we Two-Leggeds alone seem to be confused as to our responsibility toward the whole.” (Kidwell et al, 38-39.)
Maybe the idea that our pets and all creation do speak isn’t such a crazy proposition, after all. Perhaps humans like me have unnecessarily created a linguistic divide that does not exist naturally. Putting “translation” collars on our pets might just be the best thing to do to retrain us to hear them and their stories as we humans find our proper place in the circle of “all our relations.”
As we continue to grieve Maggie’s absence, I am also trying to open myself more to the “createds.” On walks, I have begun to practice envisioning a circle of warm, peaceful light surrounding me as I approach turkeys, squirrels, robins, and the like. I extend this non-threatening intention toward them as my attempt to build connection and honor their dignity.
I have no idea if this is “working,” but it is changing me, opening me more to the immanence of the Divine in and all around me. And I’d like to think that Maggie was my guide onto this path, patiently drawing me into a deeper awareness of the Sacred Mystery and Love.
In the winter edition of the Leader Magazine, an article titled “10 Trends for the Post-Pandemic Church” observed that the U.S. church—alongside society at large—is experiencing significant change.
The article, though it does not explicitly say so, seems to reflect trends of the mainstream church, and perhaps primarily white U.S. Christianity.
At the lived level, the church where I pastor, having reflected together on the article in a Christian Education session, agreed that some of the shifts resonate with what we are noticing in our local context. Meanwhile, other “new” trends appear similar to how we already operate. This mix was unsurprising; as an urban, mainstream-adjacent, highly educated, and predominantly white congregation, we regularly encounter the “edge” of the Church, while also being deeply committed to historic Anabaptist philosophies.
From a birds’ eye view of the trends, where their specificities begin to blur, broader trends emerge. The first is simply the trend of post-modernity, in which the church is finally and officially being asked—or forced—to address its real and present context in which the Church, broadly speaking, does not claim the central societal role of yesteryear.
One outgrowth of this is diminishing predictability with which a person or household offers their unwavering loyalty to a particular institution, which was a lingering vestige of modernity (and pre-modernity). We have noticed a diluting, if you will, of attention, commitment, and financial support across many aspects of our society as the make-up of personal and social identities complexifies and expands. The church is not immune to this trend, though the church, being fundamentally based on relationships, has up until the pandemic largely been protected from it.
Three of the article’s trends fall easily into this category. They are, with my paraphrase of their definitions:
“Attendance —> Engagement” — Broadening the understanding of membership beyond those who attend communal worship to include those who are involved in myriad ways across church life
“Adoption —> Fostering” — From a monogamous approach to membership to a more open relationship, where individual participation ebbs and flows, based on the individual’s needs and preferences
“Duty-driven giving —> Mission-driven giving” — Younger generations, especially, want to give out of a sense of connection and meaning, rather than an expectation or tradition
As attendance at communal worship gatherings diminishes (which research has shown is for a variety of reasons), the metrics and definitions of “who is a member” may also need to change. This is shown in the trends toward ‘Engagement’ and ‘Fostering’. In my role as Pastor, I can see the benefits of understanding who “we” are by taking a broader, more holistic, and flexible view of church membership. During the pandemic, in particular, this approach has been necessary for our congregation. Over the last two years, I have consistently seen that while many still attend our Sunday evening worship gatherings, others don’t…but do remain connected in other aspects of community life.
For example, in an effort to meet many needs brought about by the pandemic, we developed a worship routine where small, set groups gathered for worship (during our normal worship time) twice a month either in-person or online, based on households’ risk tolerances. The other two to three Sundays, we had “whole church” worship, where all were invited to gather (mostly via Zoom). Some members only attended the “whole church” gatherings; others only attended the small groups. (Many, it must be said, attended both.) But it begged the question: who are we? Ultimately, our response is: we are those who call Madison Mennonite home, in whatever form or fashion that takes.
There is also, I think, a distinct challenge to this trend: the ambiguity about the status of relationships. A certain percentage of congregants simply prefer the periphery, and again, for a variety of reasons. For those who flourish in stable, committed relationships, it is hard to feel connected to persons whose allegiance to the group feels non-committal. For those at the “center,” this can feel both personally and institutionally disappointing, at a minimum–or worse.
Meanwhile, several of the trends lean helpfully away from paternalistic, colonial, and patriarchal aspects of modernity and into trends brought about through feminism, womanism, and collectivism. Again, these are listed below with my paraphrases.*
“Competition—> Collaboration” — The benefit to multiple faith communities when resources are shared across organizations.
“Church Administrator —> Ministers of Communication” — (Finally) recognizing the incredible value of the often overlooked, behind-the-scenes efforts of those who keep us connected through communication.
“Traditional sermons —> Community testimony” — Noting the prevalence and availability of “better traditional sermons” via the web/podcasts (presumably, “better” than the average local pastor/preacher a church has called) and the communal benefit of hearing testimonies and stories from those in the local church.
“Pastor as leader, shepherd, and sage —> Pastor as spiritual friend, coach, cheerleader” — The pastoral role is perhaps trending more toward one who “accompanies and journeys with the congregation in self-discovery and spiritual discovery.”
“Stratified age-based ministry —> Intergenerational ministry” — A trend brought about by decreasing Sunday attendance.
In most of these trends, there is a visible attempt to reduce the historic “power of the elite” — power attained through education or financial resources—and to balance it with the “power of the people.” This perhaps is most blatant in the shift in a pastor’s role** and sermon shifts.
The trends toward (1) collaboration and (2) the public (e.g., worship) and invisible (e.g., administration) ministry of lay members and non-clergy staff together emphasize the “one Body, many members” metaphor of the Apostle Paul, as well as the “priesthood of all believers” in 1 Peter. In a church like mine, these do not feel like new trends; rather, as Anabaptists, there has long been the theological conviction that all have spiritual gifts, and all have access to the Spirit’s wisdom.
The thing I think we have yet to grapple with—and here, “we” is your average Mennonite Church USA community—is the paternalistic and colonial nature of our age-based ministries, specifically those ministries geared toward children. Where some churches are turning to “intergenerational ministry” out of necessity, I have been suspicious of Sunday School and the like for some time. It does not reflect our theology of being a church of voluntary believers, nor does it account for the connection with God/Sacred Mystery/Divine that–I believe–we are naturally born with. Age-specific ministries for children, much like the mission schools for Indigenous peoples of the last centuries, reflect a well-intentioned (usually) but colonizing approach to our children’s spirits.
Is there a role for religious education in the church?
Is there a role for religious education in the church? Possibly, but I don’t think it looks like Sunday School. Living life intergenerationally, on the other hand, reflects how societies have evolved for millennia; children are a part of a community’s traditions, rituals, and ceremonies and often learn from observation or feeling safe to ask questions out of their curiosity. There is more to be said on this. For now, it simply falls in the post-modern sub-category of “rejecting patriarchy.”
Regardless, the church is being drawn into change and transformation. As a member of my church put it after our discussion on the article, “Perhaps the Spirit is rubbing his/her/its hands in glee, recognizing an opening for renewed and re-imagined life as Jesus followers in our time and place.”
I pray it be so.
*The two additional trends from the article that I do not mention are “Program-focused ministry—>Relationship-focused ministry” and “Listening to the voice from on high—>Listening to the still, small voice.” Both could easily fall within the second broad trend listed above, but were eliminated from discussion due to space.
**I find this trend to be strongly influenced by the rise of individualization, a subtrend of post-modernity. A pastor as “leader, shepherd, sage” is a pastor for a community; a pastor as a “spiritual friend, coach, cheerleader” is much more individualistic and seems more attentive to a parishioner’s personal journey of “self-discovery.” My personal approach to pastoring is that both are necessary and both require a high self-awareness of pastoral power.
And so it goes: The pup and I ended up leaving a half-day early for our Christmas sojourn to the east. In a journey mirroring the Wise Ones’ trip from the East, Maggie and I found the inn under garishly bright blue lights, its sign advertising a low rate surely impossible to sustain life.
The halls reek of cigarette and pot smoke. Maggie is so anxious she paces our room, alert to every door opening and shutting and every footfall outside our door. The door to my room barely closes; each time I go in and out, I have to lift up, using my whole body weight to get the heavy door to open on its hinges. The floor is littered with an assortment of debris, and there is a used bath towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Atop the bed is a blanket so threadbare that I will later sleep under my coat. Just outside, vehicles on the interstate race by, pilgrims seeking a different inn for this night.
And yet it is Christmas Eve.
Settling into my room, I take a homemade muffin made for this journey and bite into it: this is the body of Life. And I open my water bottle, pour some of the fresh coolness into Maggie’s dish and then some into my mouth: this is the cup of Love.
It could not be more real than this—the strange alone-ness of this night, in a place far from home, with smells and sounds that are foreign to my body.
I retrieve a little candle and matches from my bag, ready to welcome the Christ-child into this holy night.
The Ignatian Imagination Prayer is a sensory, engaging spiritual practice that encourages one’s imagination to run free with the Spirit through scripture. Teresa A. Blythe writes in her book, 50 Ways to Pray, that the intent of this practice is “to imagine that you are physically present” in a particular scripture, “and to allow that scene to become a prayer for you.” (p 100)
Especially for passages that we know (or think we know) well, this spiritual exercise invites us to look, listen, and feel again. To be open to an awareness of words and emotions we hadn’t noticed before. To let the scripture speak to us in our present experience.
This practice can be used by individuals or in a group. To use it on your own, simply read slowly through the passage and the questions, taking the time you want to enter into each portion. Allow about twenty minutes to go through the following scripture. Jot down your experience in a journal, if you like, and any insights that dwelling in the word brought you.
For use in a group, read through the passage and questions, allowing more time than you think might be necessary. (As one who has received guided meditation before, I often feel rushed in my imaginings!) You may want to invite shared reflection at the end. A pdf version of this reflection is available here.
Prayer of preparation
Spirit of New Life, I/we ask for grace: that all my/our intentions, my/our actions, and my/our imaginings will be used for the service and praise of the Divine. Amen.
Ignatian Imagination Prayer
Within a few days [of the angel Gabriel’s visit to her], Mary set out and hurried to the hill country to a town of Judah, where she entered Zechariah’s house and greeted Elizabeth.
Take a moment to imagine yourself in this scene, not necessarily taking on the character of Mary or Elizabeth (or Zechariah). Simply be an observer for now.
What do you notice about Mary as she hurries down the roads of Judah? Does her face tell you anything about how she’s feeling?
What time of year is it in in Judah? What do you smell?
What does Zechariah and Elizabeth’s house look like? As Mary nears the house, when does she call out to Elizabeth? What does she say? Where is Elizabeth when she hears Mary call her name?
As soon as Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit.
In your mind’s eye, notice how Mary and Elizabeth meet face-to-face.
What does it look like as the Holy Spirit settles on Elizabeth? Is there a visible change, or do you feel a shift in your surroundings?
Imagine Mary notices you, and calls out to you, too, to join their delighted embrace. Does anything move in you—does your heart beat quicker or your stomach do little flip flops? Stay there, in the scene, as a full participant in the story.
In a loud voice, Elizabeth exclaimed, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb! But why am I so favored, that the mother of the Messiah should come to me? The moment your greeting reached my ears, the child in my womb leaped for joy. Blessed is she who believed that what our God said to her would be accomplished.”
What is the energy like in the room as Elizabeth shouts this blessing? After her long journey, how does Mary react to Elizabeth’s words? Does anyone or anything else in the area also join the scene, drawn in by Elizabeth’s excitement?
Do you eagerly join in the blessing, or do you hold back?
Mary said: “My soul proclaims your greatness, O God, and my spirit rejoices in you, my Savior. For you have looked with favor upon your lowly servant, and from this day forward all generations will call me blessed. For you, the Almighty, have done great things for me and holy is your Name.
What does Mary’s song sound like? Is it in a major key or minor key; a rapid tempo or meandering pace? Does she start out tentatively or boldly? How is she moving her body?
Do you feel an impulse to sing or sway along? What is Elizabeth doing?
You have shown strength with your arm; you have scattered the proud in their conceit; you have deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowly to high places. You have filled the hungry with good things, while you have sent the rich away empty.
What emotions cross Mary’s face as she describes God’s actions? Are there hints of rage, hope, frustration, or joy? How does the tune and volume of her singing shift in these stanzas?
As you hear her revolutionary words, sung there in your presence, do you feel nervous…or comforted?
You have come to the aid of Israel your servant, mindful of your mercy— the promise you made to our ancestors— to Sarah and Abraham and their descendants forever.”
As Mary’s song ends, survey the scene again. Look all around you. What do you notice? Has anything changed between Mary’s arrival and now?
Notice your body in the scene—emotions, sensations, tension.
What do Elizabeth and Mary do following this greeting, blessing, and song?
Let your full imagination run free now. Allow the scene to change in any way you feel inspired. Linger and interact with the characters there. What are you doing? Do you go off to tell someone about your experience? How do you describe what happened?
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Either in a journal or in a group discussion, take time to reflect on the experience. What does it mean to make ready for the birth of the Divine within us? Consider how Mary and Elizabeth prepared.
What does this mean to you? What part of the story helps you lean into a welcoming spirit? What part of the story disturbs you most? What insight does this imaginative exercise provide?
Close by offering a prayer of thanksgiving to God or pray a version of the Prayer Jesus Taught.
Scripture from The Inclusive Bible translation.
Image: Everett, Trey. Blessed Is She, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57818 [retrieved December 20, 2021]. Original source: www.treyeverettcreates.com.
