Wayside Pulpit

Spirituality of the Night

I saw the paper delivery person this morning. She has always been hidden under the blanket of dawn. Down the road she came in a black and dusty Tahoe with three young children strapped inside. I looked at her face as she spun around the cul-de-sac and I saw the weariness that comes from working hard.

Those of us who live the dayshift have very little appreciation or even knowledge of the night shift. As we sleep, they work. They stock; they deliver; they monitor; they drive. The activity of the night makes the day possible.

How do we develop a spirituality that gives primacy to the night? The night is usually seen as a spiritual sickness that darkens the soul, and is something to be passed through so one can reach daylight.

Yet what if the night is where spiritual deepness can be claimed? Perhaps the darkness can embrace us in grace. This is a grace that allows us to take stock of our lives, delivers what needs to be delivered, monitors our progress, and drives us forward. In this case then, the miracle of Genesis is not the first day, but the first night.

Sight for New Eyes

On the rapid transit train this morning I noticed a weld between two metal handrails. It was beautifully executed--all the ovals of the weld near matching in size and texture. I appreciated the beauty of it because of a basic welding course I took years ago. If I had not taken the course, the skill of the rapid transit welder would have been lost on me.

How much beauty in life do we miss simply because we do not know it is there?

I think the spiritual life suffers from a similar story. We believe we know the spiritual--each us, of course, setting our own terms of the definition. When we see the spiritual, we know it as such, but how much do we wrongly cast aside as spiritually irrelevant?

How do we see what is hidden? Though it seems a bit circular, I think the answer is in religion itself. A belief system that opens up possibility, rather than making life more narrow teaches us to see more than we expect.

All the religions of the world have this aspect of openness, though it is not taught as much as certainity, definition, and structure. An unknown spiritual world is available to each of us for the knowing, we only need the willingness to see it.

To Run and To Jog

I stand at the window looking at the rain obliterating the parking lot below. It is a running morning, and I have planned to cover four miles before 9:00 am. I momentary hesitate and think of all the other ways I might exercise that do not involve getting wet and cold. Then the thought comes, "Are you a runner or a jogger?" I've asked myself this question for years at the bottom of steep hills, during blizzards, sub-zero temperatures, and at the almost-end of long runs. I really want to be a runner, and the vast majority of the time I own up to the title and put the next shoe forward. 

Today is no different, and I find myself running through the downpour. I begin to consider throughout the rainy run that the difference of running to jogging is a bit like spiritual to religious.  The nuance between both pairs is so small you just might miss it if you blink.  Equally, you cannot watch me jog/run down the sidewalk and decide which I am doing.  Only I know if I am running or jogging.

For me, to jog is to exercise without intentionality. It is a movement because I said I would, or always have, or someone told me this is the way it should be done. To run is to live into the challenge of existence and to move forward regardless of its folly. Spirituality is a late December run in Fairbanks, Alaska. Religion is staying home and watching the rain hit the window.

I slip in and out of both—runner and jogger. I think the slippage is part of any faithfully lived life. The spiritual nips at our heels and propels us forward, while religion binds us to what has always been. Granted, it is warm inside; the bread and wine can make all of us sleepy. Even so, more picnics in the rain are what each of us really need.

Wild Open Spaces

Why are states with the wide open spaces the most conservative? I know that I am generalizing here, but the question, at least on a spiritual level, begs to be considered. Could it be that the wild open spaces of the Central US, Texas, the deserts of Arizona, the Central Valley of California, and parts of Alaska, all bring about a spiritual need for boundaries, concrete answers, reduced ambiguity? 

Do the confines of cities--bodies and buildings all mashed together--bring about a spiritual thirst for the wide open. A thirst somewhat quenched by values of inclusivity, social relativism, and the desire to see the other as self. 

Does our fear of, as well as our desire for wide open spaces influence our spiritual perspectives? If it does then the God of Texas is not the God of San Francisco. Just as the Jesus of Kansas is not the Jesus of Boston. Perhaps we should consider that Christianity is created as much by land, as it is by text.