Returning from war is never easy. 

Following WWII, there were some Japanese communities who had the insight to understand that many of their returning soldiers were not prepared or equipped to reenter their new world--whether that meant a civil or human society.  From their formative years through young adulthood, and in some cases into mid-life, these men had to be a "loyal soldier."  Now that the war was over, they needed a broader identity that would enable them to once again rejoin their communities as citizens. 

Inspired, these communities created a communal ritual whereby a soldier is publicly thanked and praised effusively for his service to the people.  After this is finished, an elder stands and announces with authority something to this effect: "The war is now over! The community needs you to let go of what has served you and served us well up to now.  The community needs you to return as a man, a citizen, and something beyond a soldier."

In his own work, Richard Rohr uses this story to talk about the need for each of us to "discharge our loyal soldier."

Which is all well and good until you realize how usefully your loyal soldier has served you.

I do know this: My loyal solider has served me well.  And whether male or female, we all know the feeling... 

It is the role where we feel needed (at times indispensable).

It is the role where we feel secure (certain of our responsibility).

It is the role where we feel important (even noticed).

And yes, at some point in our life, the loyal soldier may have been a "necessary" role.

But why now am I being asked to let it go?  To give it up?  To move beyond?  And what happen if I give this role up?   

Because Lord knows, when I do, my life may be completely unpredictable, opening the doors to everything I have kept at bay.

Honestly... I'm not sure if my heart is ready.

But here's the deal: I know that are time in my life when I've played roles which no longer serve me or the people who love me...

...because I associated the role with my identity

...because I have used the role to garner recognition and praise ("do you see me now?")

...because there comes a time when "the role" buries authentic passion or wholeness or delight or fullness of life.

...because the role can protect me from stopping to look at unsettling matters, and the invitation to change.

No, it is not easy. Because to discharge the loyal soldier is to move from a place of "certainty" to a place of "uncertainty." As in, I don't know what this will mean. Except that I honor the core of my self that is present to this moment.

This past week, in Tampa, Florida, I spent time with some friends from a couple of churches talking about paradigm change.  Paradigm, meaning the way we see or view or make our way through the world. In the context of change: What's next? Who are we? Who are we becoming? What is it that we are being called toward?

Which is heartening, until you realize how difficult it is to give that loyal soldier even a day off.

(Notice that it is not what we think or believe or affirm in whatever creed we may teach.  It is what we honor--or intend or practice.)

Discharging our loyal soldier is about changing the paradigm.  It is about changing what we honor.

So that's the sticky-wicket.  We are asked to move from a place of productivity or usefulness or resourcefulness or efficiency or reputation or even being a hero. We are asked to move to a place of openness and giving and learning and humility and soft-heartedness and receiving and most assuredly, unknowing.  The gift or recognition that in the giving up, in the moving from, we find a gentler soul.

My week found bookends in Manasota Key, Florida, where I began the week with old friends and returned Friday for a day in the water, giving no heed to pressing matters in my world or to a heart that chased resolution. I found a liturgical container made up of salt-water and friends and sun and wind and tides. And a letting go. Three firsts for me: swimming with two manatees near a grove of Mangrove; giddy watching dolphins surf in the wake of our boat; and sailing on a trimaran (on the Gulf of Mexico). Off to the west, the horizon, that line demarcating sky from sea, appears like a painting rendered with a fine brush, in an oil of indigo blue.  

We find by losing.  We hold fast

by letting go.  We become something

new by ceasing to be something old.

This seems to be close to the heart

of that mystery.  I know no more now

than I ever did about the far side of

death as the last letting-go of all,

but now I know that I do not need

to know, and that I do not need

to be afraid of not knowing.

God knows.  That is all that matters.

Frederick Buechner