I often feel the call to solitude, a time to escape the external clamoring of ministry -- incessant voices calling me to do this, to be that -- and to turn my attention to holy whispers, messages that speak a more sacred truth to my existence. So I was glad when Covenant granted me a three-month sabbatical for open space dedicated to personal growth and renewal.
The previous 10 years had been cluttered -- a family move, a new congregation, teenaged children (need I say more?) -- and I knew that simply unwinding wouldn't suffice. I needed physical separation, maybe even dislocation, to do the necessary spiritual and emotional work I needed to thrive. The great American Naturalist George S. Evans writes, "Whenever the light of civilization falls upon you with a blighting power....go to the wilderness....Dull business routine, the fierce positions of the market place, the perils of envious cities becomes but a memory....The wilderness will take hold of you. It will give you good red blood....you will soon behold all with a peaceful soul." So I went.
The desert country of Southern Utah beckoned, specifically Moab and Canyonlands. Both are aesthetically lean, both feature subtle landscapes of red rock and sparse vegetation. I landed in a remote campground and began my detox. Nights included reading on a simple wooden chair until sundown. Days alternated between epic canyon hikes and challenging mountain bike rides. Neither day nor night included committee meetings, budgets, personnel challenges or the siren call of email.
The transformation began almost immediately. On day one, I laced up my boots, loaded up several quarts of water, packed a mid-day meal, and set out on an 18-mile solo excursion. First came a twisting, descending two-mile rock path to the canyon floor and then a 14-mile loop around dried riverbed. There were a few signs of life, but not many; an occasional Juniper tree, jutting through the rock, a scavenged animal carcass, an occasional lizard. Certainly the most haunting sign of life was the buzzards circling overhead, clearly anticipating my demise. It felt like I had fallen into the valley of the shadow of death.
Something about immersing oneself in wilderness -- its unforgiving calculus, its proximity to death, its impersonal expanse -- serves to unveil the beauty of living. Hiking through that barren wilderness, many of the mismatched priorities, activities and expectations that drain my joy and exhaust my spirit, surfaced in clear relief. As I went deeper into the wilderness over the course of days, more substantive transformation began: my attachment to toxic relationships, false fears, and warped perspectives began to loosen. The urge to number my days -- to live every one of them with eyes wide open, to drink it all in, and be grateful -- became palpable. The last day in the wilderness served almost like a refining fire, resolutely burning away resident contaminants and restoring my soul to a purer state.
There is, in fact, something about the limits of life that makes it more precious, something about the awareness of life's end that makes living it more intentional, more meaningful, more urgent. It's what the prophet Isaiah understood when he said,
"And the wilderness and the dry land shall be glad.
The desert shall rejoice and blossom
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing."
Evans and Isaiah were right: The wilderness will take hold of you.....and soon you will rejoice with joy and singing.
That's why we'll spend Sunday mornings in Lent exploring various journeys into the wilderness. You can read about this week's journey here. We'll also celebrate communion and have great music at all services.
Come, and bring a friend.
