A number of
years ago at my home church in San Diego, they built an outdoor labyrinth in
the back corner of the church property. I walked by it often. I knew it was
used for prayer, but I was always suspicious that it was syncretistic, melding
some sort of weird spirituality into Christian prayer. Why do we have a
labyrinth?
It was with
this same curiosity that I stood on the pebble mat on Monday and breathed deep,
holding a question in my mind like a fragile egg, trying to prepare myself for
the experience. I took a
step forward onto the giant octagonal canvas labyrinth
and I entered a different world. My question vanished and I found my feet
calmly making their way between the purple borders. I felt instantly calm and
aware, ready to receive whatever this experience held.
The first
turn took me toward the center, yet my path bent around its perimeter, flirting
with my desire for what awaited me there. My life is often like this. I touch
the edge of heaven, I get a glimpse of shalom, I hear a whisper of peace, but
my path bends around and turns away and I am still a long way off; I am only at
the beginning of my journey. At other points I thought I would arrive to the
center, only to turn back and away again.
I passed a
fellow walker and was reminded of friends who have drifted in and out of my
life. My heart tugged as I thought of their blessing in my story. Though it was
for a short time, I was encouraged to keep walking. Three years of seminary
suddenly seemed a short, fleeting moment in my journey. These people I am
walking with, my pastor, my friends in West Michigan, are like the ones I pass
on the labyrinth during a turn. I am reminded to cherish this moment as a gift
from God.
As I came
close to the center, I approached with great anticipation. What will I find
here? How will it feel? I stepped inside to a place of shelter. Two others sat
already and I found my place near them. I stood, resting and breathing, and my
heart slowed. The place of shelter turned into protection, a hiding place. I
became aware of my need for healing, aware of my smallness, aware that I am
wounded. I noticed the center of the center was empty and I found myself
longing for a table, the communion table. The center became a place of
hospitality, a house and a feast with friends coming in and out under silence
and grace.
The center
was also like a heart that had taken me in and was about pump me back out. Like
a child dropped off at school, I wanted to hang on and stay, but I knew it was
time to go. As I left the center, I felt fear of leaving. I imagined my
neighborhood in Grand Haven, and was aware that was the place I was being sent
out to. The walk out was much slower than the walk in, marked with multiple
pauses, not so much inspired by reflection, but by fear. Each time, I thought
back to the center and heard God’s voice echoing out from there, “You are
loved. You do not need a purse or sandals. Everything you need for the journey
I have already provided for you. I want you to go and just be the man I created
you to be! You are loved!”
I left the
labyrinth reaffirmed of God’s love for me and for the world.
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