Thursday, 17 May 2018

O, Exquisite Risk!

On a dark night
inflamed by love-longing-
O, exquisite risk! -
Undetected, I slipped away,
My house, at last, grown still.

Secure in the darkness,
I climbed the secret ladder in disguise -
O, exquisite risk! -
Concealed by the darkness,
My house, at last, grown still.


These words are from 500 years ago from the pen of St John of the Cross. They are taken from the poem later titled, 'The Dark Night of the Soul'. Recently, I watched a recording of Mirabai Starr reading these words as part of her talk at the Spiritual Directors International Conference, firstly in the original Spanish followed by the English translation. After the sheer beauty of how she read it, Mirabai continued explaining that this is precisely to what we are called. 

Mirabai was sharing her vision of the new wave of spiritual leadership in the world. She described it as less hierarchical and more relational, inclusive, feminine, embodied and creative. According to Mirabai, this is not a new structure ready for us to step into, but a great unknown. The 'exquisite risk' is calling us to not know and to drop into this space of mystery. This place was described as an arid landscape where all are conceptual constructs come undone. It is an ambiguous space of radical unknowingness. 

In a world where some people are seeking black and white truths that emerge from more authoritarian leadership, I feel the challenge to fall into a more vulnerable space that is more disruptive and uncomfortable. This is a place of yearning and longing, where hearts can be broken and held in loving kindness. It is a place of unknowing and uncertainty. It is a space of exquisite risk, where my house, at last grows still.

Tuesday, 15 May 2018

Untangling from the role

Some of you may recall, while travelling to the UK a year and a half ago, I travelled with a question. "Who am I, if I am not a minister?" Since finishing my placement two weeks ago, this question has come back to me in unexpected ways. I anticipated the boundaries being a little blurred, as I would remain in the community rather than moving on to some place else. I knew I would have to be clear about what I would be willing to do and not do. But I didn't expect it to be such a catalyst for self reflection.

There have been small, perhaps insignificant 'loose ends' to deal with over the last couple of weeks. Requests for little pieces of information, or phone calls from people unaware I have moved on. All of this was to be expected, I guess, and would ease off after a few weeks. But there are other aspects more difficult to simply walk away from. In my last week, a lovely lady from one of my congregations deteriorated quite rapidly. I made a decision to continue to walk with this lady to the end and have continued to visit her. 

Much more difficult, however, has been my response to a horrific tragedy in our community this week. I don't want to comment on the situation itself. There are no words that could capture the sorrow and grief of the community, particularly those closer to the people involved. My email inbox, Facebook messages and texts have been full of people thinking of us from afar or co-ordinating support services close by. 

All my natural instincts would have me jumping in, attending meetings, organising responses and caring for people. Of course, it has also been easy for people to turn to me as I am still part of the community. This has raised many questions. What makes me want to jump in? Is it a need to be needed? Is it about being valued? Who am I in this community if I am not in the role of minister? How do I just be me in this community? How do I be within this situation without finding something to do?

These are questions that may have taken a few months to emerge otherwise, but the circumstances have forced me to take time to reflect now. The untangling from the role of minister is happening rapidly, a bit like a bandaid being ripped off. It feels a little like a stripping back to discover who I am under all the layers of what used to be my role. 



Wednesday, 2 May 2018

Autumn Leaves (and other endings)

Yesterday, I drove to Bunbury to attend a Quiet Day. About a month ago, I saw the day advertised and recall thinking how fortuitous it was to be on that particular date as I wrote it in permanent ink in my diary. Knowing myself a little too well, I was aware that if I did not do something like this soon after completing my placement, I would rush straight into the busyness I would create. Sure enough, yesterday morning, many other things seemed more appealing than driving to Bunbury.

It was an important day to reflect on this in between space in which I find myself. We were given the seasonal readings to ponder on, and it struck me that we are in that in between time, after Easter and before Pentecost. I then walked outside for a while and was captured by the autumn leaves on the ground. Creation is in that in between phase also, summer has ended and winter hasn't quite begun. I gathered some of what I found on the ground, tried to capture the colour in a mandala, and wrote these words.

Autumn Leaves

Crimson and amber
tongues of fire
layer the ground
like an earthy Pentecost.
Dry and crisp
spent and worn
from the journey
but here they lie
detached
from where they once
soaked in the sun.
Transformed in the falling
transfigured in the breeze.
Sweep them together
as one
let them be beds
where children 
play and fall.
Leave them to decay
and may the seeds
among them
find strength
to die
and find life.