Framing Holiness

Remembering Robert

2010-12-12T19:56:00.000-08:00

Today would have been the 21st birthday of Robert Yin, a dear friend of Christine and Sara's -- and our whole family for that matter -- who died tragically back in May following a pole vaulting accident. I had the privilege of speaking at his memorial service and these were my remarks:

As sad as it was, there was something quite fitting about the manner in which Robert died. For in life, as in death, Robert soared. A talented student, athlete, musician, and a wonderful friend to so many, he knew how to live in only one gear – high – and if there wasn’t anything happening, Robert was the one to stir things up. Whether it was painting his face for a pep rally, or hiding behind a couch in my family room to startle me, or screaming his patented “Yeaa Boi,” Robert brought energy and a little bit of fun – no a lot of fun – into every situation he was part of.

Robert never just showed up – he always made an entrance. He would run up and give bear hugs or launch himself into you in the hallway at school, roll on our living room floor like he was James Bond on a mission, or ring the doorbell, run away, and jump out of the bushes to scare a good friend – or in the case of Jonathan Loewe, his mom.

Robert was loud – not in an obnoxious way, but in a way that you always knew he was around. He had several different, telltale laughs – a quick, machine gun-like laugh, a loud evil laugh, and an “I’m-laughing-so-hard-I can’t-breathe-I’m-crying” kind of laugh. He shouted to people who were only several feet away, could burst into a song at the drop of a hat, and was just, well, sort of loud.

Robert moved through life with the impish grin of someone who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. And while he had the capacity to be goofy – and I mean really goofy, with no fear or qualms whatsoever about embarrassing himself – he also had a side of him that could be very serious whether it was preparing for a race, practicing his viola for a recital, or cramming for an exam. Consequently, because of these two complementary sides of his personality, in all of his pictures you either see him grinning/laughing/smiling broadly or conversely, with an intensity etched across his face.

Robert had the capacity to make everyone feel like they were his friends – because they were, we were. If you knew him for two weeks or five years, if you were the friend he had come over to visit with or the little sister – or the mom, or the dad -- he would take time to talk with you, to ask you about your day, to listen when you needed someone to be there. I was really touched to read his Facebook wall and discover just how many people had an experience of Robert just hanging out and listening to them. Robert liked to flirt and was a little girl ADD and the number of former girlfriends – do you all want to stand? – or girlfriend wanna-bes in this sanctuary today confirm this. He just made everyone feel special with his charm.

Last week was Pentecost, the day in the church when we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit. In my sermon I talked about Robert and the rough emotional week we had all just been through in coming to terms with his loss. But mostly I talked about the way that Robert lived intoxicated by God’s Spirit, and he knew that it was not something only to be sung about or talked about in this church that he loved and came to nearly every Sunday. No, this Spirit was something to be breathed in deeply only so you could breathe it back out into the world and share grace and love and compassion. That was what Robert did and it was this infectious, life-filled, overflowing spirit that we all loved and tasted and are better for having it blow through our lives. And so as we offer your life back to God, Robert, we say: “Soar, Robert, soar.”

Post-Sabbath & Playoffs

2010-11-03T20:17:00.000-07:00

Though it feels good to be back at work, I have a confession to make: already I was sort of looking to play hooky from next Wednesday night’s Church Council meeting. Now I’m not one to casually shirk my duties. Nor did I really want to make Jenny cover for me again after she has provided such capable leadership to the congregation in my absence. But you see, I was really hoping to be at the Maryland State High School 4A Field Hockey semifinal back in Reisterstown, our old stomping grounds. Alas, after a 1-0 overtime loss an hour ago, looks like I’m going to have to be a dutiful pastor and show up for our meeting night after all.

In terms of sheer volume, I have taken more pictures of Wootton High School field hockey games during my Sabbath Leave than anything else – conservatively over 3500. As the unofficial team photographer, I’ve had the privilege of an up-close sideline view of this tight-knit (they call themselves “the cult” and hang out together all the time), senior-led group of girls who have excelled tremendously and they have provided me more joy and excitement than any other subject matter I’ve put my camera to. They finished 9-3 in the regular season, won several games in dramatic fashion either in overtime or by scoring in the waning minutes, tied for first in their division, made it to the regional finals and were only minutes and inches away from moving on to the next level. Along the way, Sara (who is the starting goalie), with considerable help from her stellar defense, racked up 7 shutouts and tonight she played one of her best games ever, making save after spectacular save – all but one, the game-winning shot which was a really solid strike. She came off the field with tears in her eyes but her head held high because she knew she had given her all and kept her team in the game to the very end.

It has been so much fun as her dad to see her grow in confidence, emerge as a leader and become such an important part of her team – moreso than any other team she has played on in all her years of competitive sports. She worked hard to raise the level of her game, putting in extra hours with her coach after practice and I couldn’t be prouder of her grit, determination, and performance. I am really going to miss this team, but what a season they had. When they dress up for their banquet this coming Sunday, I hope the disappointment of tonight gives way to a sense of satisfaction about how much they were able to accomplish. I better get to work on that slide show – I have a ton of pictures to wade through, one last time – truly a bittersweet labor of love.

Sacred Sand Between My Toes

2010-10-21T09:39:00.000-07:00

Most of my travel on my Sabbath Leave was front-loaded for the month of August so that I’d be around for all the big events at the start of Sara’s senior year – field hockey games, homecoming float-building, college apps, and the like. But I’ve still managed to squeeze in some local photography and one and two day excursions to a handful of selected spots. Earlier this week I got to travel back to the Jersey Shore – not the one of the current TV reality show but the one of my childhood. For twenty years, I vacationed with my family in North Wildwood and it still holds a ton of wonderful family memories. Nearby is Ocean City, NJ, not far from where I was born (Somers Point) so an overnight trip to these two personally significant beach towns seemed in order.

The North Wildwood of my youth was a magical place. We rented the upstairs of a modest house at 315 E. 12th Street whose amenities included a large deck, a refreshing outdoor shower, and proximity to the Catholic school right across the street. After playing all day long on the spacious beach which was literally a block long from the bulkhead to the ocean – pinky, whiffle ball, horseshoes, body-surfing, soccer – my brother and I would head over to school before and after dinner to continue our never-ending games on the basketball court and baseball field. Every morning meant glazed donuts from the Terminal Bakery at 17th & Central (to this day it is THE bakery that I measure all others against) and evenings included miniature golf at Diehl’s or trips to the boardwalk to blow the quarters and dimes we had been saving all year long for this family pilgrimage.

Sunday afternoon was truly a step back into my past. As I expected, a lot had changed in the intervening years: “our” house had been razed and replaced by a beautiful new dwelling twice as large; gone was the Dolphin restaurant, our annual first-day-of-vacation dinner choice; the amusements and shops had morphed along the boardwalk, too, though enough was the same to make it feel familiar – Douglass Fudge, Sportland Pier, and Mack & Manco’s Pizza had all survived the decades. The beach was still huge and it was fun to be back getting that sand between my toes. I headed down to Cape May for some sunset pictures, fully intending to spend the night back in Wildwood, but more and more I felt drawn to visit the other beach I wanted - no needed – to see. So I booked a room at an Econo Lodge a little farther north up Route 9 and got up early the next morning to watch the sunrise on the 9th Street beach in Ocean City.

This stretch of sand was chosen quite intentionally, too, but for very different reasons. It was here in the summer of 1994 that my father had drowned while successfully rescuing two young girls from the water after the lifeguards had gone off duty. I had come to pay tribute to his life and to remember his sacrifice. It was, as you might imagine, a bittersweet time, but not as full of the sadness and tears that I had anticipated. Instead, I found myself just simply lingering on that beach all day long, moving from boardwalk to water’s edge to my (reclaimed from someone’s trash pile) beach chair and back again. I took pictures of the rock jetty over which they had pulled my father's body in their efforts to revive him, the signs which warned of dangerous rip currents in the area, the hotel a block away where my parents had come to stay on that fateful mini-vacation.

In a deeply reflective and life-giving way, I spent the day with my dad on that beach, the man who had coached me in little league, worked his whole professional life for one company, come to all my games in high school, taught Sunday School at our church, modeled respect and openness to everyone, got down on the floor to play with his grandkids, the man who loved and helped us to love the beach, too. The gift of warm memory and mystical presence was way better than the cotton candy or pizza I ate or the book I was reading or the pictures I took. I miss you, dad.

Learning a New Canon, Too

2010-10-12T09:36:00.000-07:00

One of the goals of my Sabbath Leave was to immerse myself more deeply in the history of photography and to learn more about the pivotal people and developments that have shaped the craft over the last 150 years. So in addition to all of my field work with camera in hand, both locally and abroad, I've been spending a lot of time in all of the area libraries (and Barnes & Noble stores) mining their photography sections for books and videos that tell the story of photography.

I've had a whole new world open up to me with some names that were familiar before (Ansel Adams, Dorothea Lange, Edward Weston, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Richard Avedon, Alfred Steiglitz) and many that are new to me altogether (Paul Strand, Yousef Karsh, Julia Margaret Cameron). I'm trying to absorb the meaning of famous phrases and phases (the Cartier-Bresson's "the decisive moment," Adams' "extracted" v. "abstract" images, the Pictorialism Movement that sought to transform photography into high art, etc.). It is all fascinating stuff and much like familiarizing myself with biblical texts and the interpretations of major theologians over the centuries, I feel like I am discovering a whole new canon of sacred, significant texts (and the accompanying images and image-making techniques). I know I have only scratched the surface and my connection with these icons of photography has both inspired me and rooted me in a living tradition that is much bigger than my solitary making of pictures with my camera.

Happily, I did get to do a little of that last week on the with a day and a half excursion to the Eastern Shore that began at with a very early morning at Sandy Point State Park to witness the sunrise and included stops at falling-down outbuildings, ready-for-harvest soybean fields, and watefront scenes in and around St. Michaels. Special thanks go out to the Kleinknecht's for a beautiful and welcoming place to lay my head for a night at their home just off the Miles River. Couldn't you just sit in those chairs forever?

New Rituals & Rhythms

2010-10-01T07:03:00.000-07:00

My Sabbath Leave has been a truly refreshing break in a nearly 25 year pattern of living. Most mornings, my daily ritual is to take our English Cocker, Buddy, for an early walk over to Panera’s where we hang out together at an outdoor table for about an hour, he with his cup of water and I with my morning paper and cinnamon chip scone. Were it not for the fact that I might be kicked out of the restaurant, I’d love to bring my camera with me and capture some of the "regulars" I see when I go in to order – the stately looking man with his blue blazer, medical journals and copy of the NY Times; the older Asian woman who sits quietly by the window most mornings and sometimes brings her grandson; the scores of professionals with laptops who use Panera’s as their personal office for meetings, email, spreadsheets and interviews. It is a happening place and for now, I get to count myself among the nearly-every-morning crowd.

I think I underestimated how freeing this “no Sunday job” thing was going to be for Holly (and me, for that matter). We’ve been able to go to our beach house two weeks in a row – something we have never done before. Last weekend’s visit included taking in the Kite Festival (really fun), a 25 mile bike ride (tiring fun) and SunFest, billed as the number one crafts festival on the East Coast (sort of tacky). We’ve had the chance to reconnect with friends from our first church whom we haven’t seen in a long time. And we’ve had the luxury of having to decide how we will spend our Saturdays and Sundays together. After a quarter of a century of not really having weekends to ourselves, I think we could get used to this new rhythm! But fear not – I still miss you and we’re coming back in a month.

A Sunday Treat

2010-09-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday, I got to do what so many of you take for granted: choose if and where I would go to church! It was really my first weekend in town since my Sabbath Leave began and with Holly running the Wilson Bridge Half Marathon (and me going down early to Alexandria to cheer her on), I decided to drop in on a couple of colleagues who serve churches in Washington, DC. One of the occupational hazards of being a pastor is that you don't often get to venture outside your own sanctuary to see what other churches are doing so I considered it a real treat. I heard two really good sermons and tried to worship openly without too critical an eye (another occupational hazard) though I have to confess that I found myself missing the music, the people, and the way we do worship at BUMC in both instances. It was a satisfying morning in many respects, one I hope to repeat at a few other venues before I return, but truth be told, I'd have rather heard Jenny preach -- we are so spoiled to have her!

This week also gave me the chance to check in on a couple of the girls that I used to coach in soccer for many years as their high school teams were playing one another on a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon (Washington International School v. Maret). As an added bonus since I was in the neighborhood, I got to wander the grounds of the National Cathedral and try to capture some of the majestic grandeur of that sacred place with my camera. What a privilege it is to have that beautiful structure almost in our backyard and how often we drive by on Massachusetts Avenue without stopping -- I was grateful to have the time to just soak it in for awhile before I had to head home.

BUMYF Reunion at Clemson

2010-09-15T05:42:00.000-07:00

You know you are in the South when you join in the Pledge of Allegiance, God Bless America, and the National Anthem AND a pastor offers an invocation before the kickoff of the football game (a rabbi had the honor the week before which threw people off a bit, I'm told). We were down at Clemson this past weekend and not only was it great seeing Christine and her three roommates very happily settled in their new condominium (why does my college daughter have a nicer kitchen than we do?), but also getting a chance to reconnect with some other BUMC youth group alums: Daniel Kirwan and Lauren Chacon (both freshmen) and Ashley Fansler (a junior, like Christine). I'm happy to report that they are all doing well. Lauren is in the marching band (billed as "The Band that Shakes the Southland" -- and they did), Daniel has joined Central Spirit (a pep club that supports all the sports teams), and Ashley is plugging away at her science courses to get into the Nursing Program.

On Sunday morning we got to make a return visit to Downtown Clemson Fellowship, the church that Christine has been attending pretty regularly now for the last 2 years (Pat & Karen: you'll be happy to know that Daniel came with us, too). It's an emergent style church (coffee, casual, band, weekly eucharist) that caters almost entirely to college students and it was quite moving to see so many young people tuned into the nearly two hour service which included an hour-long teaching sermon by the young, hip pastor -- not sure I could get away with that at BUMC, and not only because I'm no longer young and hip enough! They really do pray and worship every day in the South -- or at least on football weekends.

Good Thing I'm in a Zen Place

2010-09-09T06:28:00.000-07:00

Let me share with you some of the less glorious moments of my last week. On Thursday while chauffuering my instructor to the site of our afternoon photo excursion (Ernie's Barn, a three-story potpourri of antiques, treasures, and just plain junk), my convertible died. It gave a brief warning (as in, "that doesn't sound good") and then basically just came to a halt about seven miles from our destination. Fortunately, our T.A. was following close behind and was able to take our teacher to meet the rest of the class while I stayed back to deal with the car. I was pretty much out in the middle of nowhere and it was really hot (93 degrees -- fairly atypical Maine weather) so I took it as a good sign that there was a tow truck about 30 yards down the road who happened to be heading back to Rockport where I needed to go. It was not such a good sign, however, when I got a call the next morning from the Herrick's Auto Repair (on Rockville Street, of all places) informing me that my engine was, to borrow a theological term, beyond resurrection. The only solution was to replace it at a cost greater than the value of the car, so it stayed in Maine (on a side note, when they called the Chrysler dealer to find out about a replacement, and the response was, "Oh, that junk engine?" -- that's really not a good sign). So then on Tuesday morning of this week, I had to laugh at myself when I found my cell phone sitting among the load of sheets at the bottom of the washing machine (fortunately, unlike my car, I was due for an upgrade anyway). And then yesterday, I had the privilege of sitting in the dentist's chair for two hours as he completed my root canal and prepped my tooth for a crown -- how's that for a welcome home?

But life is still very good and I've learned over the years to not sweat too much the things that you can't control. Cars will break down, cell phones will occasionally go through the washer, and we all have to face the dentist some time. Whether incidents turn into disasters or just bumps in the road often has a lot more to do with our attitudes and reactions than the events themselves. I am choosing to be grateful for the gifts of each day (a timely tow, a chance to laugh at my own foolishness, novocaine) and to stay in my Zen Zone even if I'm no longer in Maine. So how was your week?

Pointing with Your Heart

2010-09-02T15:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve now spent the last three days immersed in a world of images, F-stops, and overwhelming creativity and what an absolute treat it has been. After a two day drive which included passing the convoy of motorcycles and emergency vehicles bringing the piece of 9/11 history down to Arlington firefighters, a very long, horn-laced wait to get over the GW Bridge in New York, an early morning stop in Mystic Seaport, CT, and a leisurely exploration of some of the beach towns along the Rhode Island coast, I finally arrived in Rockport which is home to the Maine Media Workshops. I’ve discovered in short measure that this is and has been pretty sacred and influential turf for many artists and photographers over the last forty years, the kind of place that people return to again and again, looking to renew their creative vision, strengthen their skills, and be taught by some of the best photographers in the world.

The class I’m taking is called Zen & the Art of Photography and just to give you a feel for what we are doing, our first assignment was to remove our memory cards from our cameras and then go out to make fifty images. The point was to force us to focus more intently on the moment of seeing than the product or results of our snapping the shutter. Fortunately, the exercise progressed to allow us to return to three of the spots that had inspired us and to make actual pictures, and then finally in the third phase, we chose one location to make two or three thoughtful exposures.

Our instructor is Douglas Beasley (www.douglasbeasley.com) a very accomplished, humble, and light-hearted (in so many senses of that word) man, who works almost entirely in black and white with time-honored instruments: a 4 X 5 format Polaroid camera where prints are made from the gooey negatives, a square-framed Haselblatt, or occasionally the more conventional DSLR for his commercial shoots. Yesterday’s sessions included sharing some of the work that we had brought with us and I was both a little overwhelmed (as in, “What am I doing in the company of such extraordinarily talented photographers?”) and so appreciative of the creativity and vision of my peers.

Every day in addition to writing and photography exercises, Doug shares with us some thoughtful quotes and I loved this one: “It doesn’t matter where you point the camera; what matters is where you point your heart.” This is very soulful image making, indeed, and I’m loving and being stretched by it every minute.

Drive By Shootings

2010-08-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

I have to say that in spite of the amazing scenery and uncharacteristically fabulous weather on the southwest coast of Ireland – the Ring of Kerry, the Dingle Peninsula, Killarney National Park, the Cliffs of Moher – I enjoyed my photography a lot less than I did in Scotland, even in some of the so-called “less scenic” places. In large part, it had to do with the pace. We had such a full itinerary and so many things to see that I’m not sure that I saw anything with real depth or clear vision. I’m finding that for photography to really be a meditative way of prayer for me, it must be unhurried. Occasionally you can glimpse the holy on the fly, but more often, I think the sacred is more fully experienced in the lingering, in the savoring, in the waiting for the scene to present itself instead of slapping a frame on whatever is in front of you at the moment. Far too many of my pictures felt like drive by shootings (pun intended) even when we were out of the car.

I would have loved to have had the luxury of two weeks in Ireland, not so I could see more but so I could see more slowly. What I wouldn’t give for a full two hours to explore the rocky climb we took at the end of the Dingle Peninsula, or the really exquisite views we had along the Ring of Kerry. If I could have just lingered in three or four of our stops – not all of them -- I would have felt so much more centered. Now mind you, I’m not complaining. Our week in Ireland was full and rich in every way: we visited universities and small towns, magnificent churches and breathtaking coasts, took in theater and history, kissed the Blarney Stone and toured the Guinness plant. Maybe I’ll just have to let this be a reverse process this time around – perhaps the savoring, lingering, joyful appreciation will come in the post-picture-making, in the cataloging and sorting, the sifting and reflecting. I have a lot of holy editing to do.

Failte!

2010-08-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

Traveling in Ireland, I’ve come to believe that some stereotypes are are just plain true – and that's not necessarily a bad thing. We had heard that the Irish were warm and welcoming folk and every day we have witnessed this firsthand in our interactions. It began with Sam who met me in the courtyard of St. Columba’s Church in Kells and proceeded to take me on a personalized tour in his car for an hour which included running to the town square to see if a large cross had been repaired (my original query), taking me above the town to the tower built as a folly in the 1800s for the elite to watch the hunt and races (which afforded an incredible view of 7 counties!) and then finally a tour of his farm that had been in his family for five generations. He even brought me into his kitchen to introduce this stray American he had picked up in the town to his wife and offered me a glass of Irish whiskey which I reluctantly accepted (so as to not offend) only after dousing it with water and 7-Up to make it a little more palatable for my non-drinker tastebuds. The next day it was Ann, the desk attendant that we unfortunately awoke at her home at 10:45 p.m. when we arrived in Killarney well past their closing at 6:00 p.m. She graciously got dressed, came and joked with us as she rather cheerily let us in to our apartment. The next morning we met Dermot O’Sullivan, the founder of O’Sullivan Cycling, who regaled us with biking tips, street humor, and colorful language. And that’s not to mention the singing waiter who buddied up next to me at the pub or the dog show prize winner who stopped and chatted with us for about twenty minutes in the parking garage or the man that helped me to get on the internet here. At every turn, we have found the people of Ireland to be exceptionally inviting, genuine and charming. If churches could be equally so, there would be far fewer empty pews.

I commented in Iona that I felt like I had ventured there as a Hospites Mundi (“Guest of the World”) and our stay in Ireland has only reinforced that for me. Everywhere you turn, you see the sign Failte which is Gaelic for “Welcome.” It's clear that this is far more than a way of marketing the quaint towns and villages that dot the landscape; it is a way of life for so many of the good-hearted people who have laid out the Failte mat for us so generously. I do, however, want to dispel one stereotype about the Irish and their love of drinking: there is not a pub on every corner – more often there are two or three (for real). Cheers!

Trading Altars

2010-08-16T02:01:00.000-07:00

I found myself smiling inwardly and outwardly as I made my way around the Old Course in the shadow of the Royal and Ancient Club on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in St. Andrews. The constant grin was motivated by two feelings: 1) I was on golf’s most hallowed ground, the site of the most recent British Open earlier this summer and also official “keeper of the game” at the R & A. It just reeked with tradition and here I was on a tour walking across the famous 18th hole footbridge; and 2) The irony was not lost on me that in many ways, I had just swapped one altar for another, having traveled from the holy island of Iona just the day before. It all depends on who/what you’re going to worship...

Early Saturday evening I crossed the Forth River, skirted around Edinburgh and headed south to the Scottish Borders. The scenery was fantastic and the light glowing as I drove past miles of idyllic countryside only to experience the inner photographer’s frustration of nowhere to pull off on these narrow roads to capture the moments. The next morning I unexpectedly encountered a group of young rugby players in training who caught my attention (and lens) and provided a delightful prelude to the first of the Border Abbeys I was to visit in Melrose. Sort of the local version of MSI.

Melrose Abbey captivated me as I learned the story of this besieged monastery and church whose roots go back to St. Cuthbert in the late 6th century with the remaining structures (and composite layers)dating to 1136. For several centuries, the Cistercians, an offshoot of the Benedictine Order, were a flourishing community here and at its peak, Melrose Abbey housed hundreds of monks and double the number of lay members who worked the fields, carved the stones, and prayed alongside them. Originally begun as a reform movement (the Benedictines had gotten too liberal and lax for their tastes), they ironically became victims of their own success. Through the generosity (and nueroses -- what better way to insure your salvation than to endow a side chapel?) of many powerful and influential benefactors, the order acquired a great deal of wealth (a practice they had earlier critiqued) and this proved to be part of their downfall. Melrose, Dryburgh, and Kelso I visited the other two later in the day) were also done in by English/Scottish border skirmishes and the fervor of kings and religious leaders taking on the “corrupt” symbols of “fallen” Roman Catholicism, and the result was a lot of beautiful, though badly damaged, restored, burned again, restored, crumbling buildings.

I was particularly moved by one of the descriptions of the monasteries as “factories of prayer.” The rhythm of their days had the monks praying the hours beginning at two o’clock in the morning (Nocturns) and closing with bedtime prayer at 7:30 pm (Compline). While I greatly admire the devotion and can appreciate the powerful role the monastic movement had in preserving and developing Christianity, not to mention the example of daily devotion to God, I always find myself wrestling with a form of spirituality that is so cloistered from the rest of the world both literally and figuratively. I need my faith to be rooted in the broader community, integrated into the flow of “ordinary” life, expressed in everyday encounters with family, friends, and neighbors. And quite frankly, that’s the model I see in Jesus – to retreat for a time for silence, prayer, and renewal, but not a lifetime. That, and I really like to sleep in past two in the morning.

With Sad (but oh-so-full) Hearts

2010-08-13T14:42:00.000-07:00

After an Agape Feast and a late night game of Flip (a card game I taught to my new international group of friends), we woke earlier than usual for our last meal together, packed up, and headed to the Abbey for a Service of Leavetaking. It was a collection of heart-full and heart-sad pilgrims who gathered there, quietly trying to soak in the signifigance and holiness of this place one more time. As it has been all week, the liturgy was simmple, poetic, and steeped in the images of creation. We sang a beautiful Psalm (just one of several new songs I am hoping to bring back to BUMC) and pronounced a mutual blessing upon one another: those who were staying (staff & volunteers) and those who were leaving. In between we reminded ourselves that as sacred a place as Iona is, there is no ground that is not holy, no space where God's presence does not dwell. En masse, we walked down the hill, waved and hugged our goodbyes, and then boarded the ferry to Mull, the start of very long but peaceful and scenic day of travel.

A couple of years ago at a Men's Group meeting, Jeff Diamond talked about his desire to perhaps one day go on pilgrimage together. I am hoping to return to Iona at some point and over the course of the week, it has crossed my mind more than once that there may be others from BUMC who would want to join in. Are there?

Perigrinatio in Iona

2010-08-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

What an incredible setting in which to begin my Sabbath Leave! I had expected Iona to be a special place; what I had underestimated was just how mystically beautiful it would be at nearly every turn and how centering the rhythm of morning and evening prayer would feel. I have definitely come to the right place to focus on photography and prayer as opportunities for both abound. I'm blessed to be among a truly international community on this sacred island with fellow pilgrims from Australia, England, Zambia, New Zealand, Holland, Canada, and the U.S. We have been drinking plenty of tea, went on an excursion to the neighboring island of Staffa, had a communal ceileidh last night (think “Scottish square dance”), and today I got to play 9 holes on an authentic Scottish Golf Course (complete with cows and sheep serving as greenskeepers/obstacles).

One of the books that I’ve been reading here describes the unique Celtic understanding of perigrinatio or pilgrimage as not only an external journey to a holy place but more importantly, a concurrent journey inward, as well. In the Celtic tradition, pilgrims would set off as hospites mundi (“guests of the world”) with an open heart toward God, people they’d encounter, and the gift of experiences along the way. I am grateful to be on my perigrinatio as a guest of the Iona Community and with your love and prayers. As hard as it was to leave VBS before it was over (I really mean that!), this has proven to be life-giving and holy ground for me, too.

To the End of the World (and Back)

2010-08-03T12:22:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the generosity and support of my congregation (Bethesda UMC) and a grant from the Louisville Institute, I begin my 3-month Sabbath Leave this coming Thursday, August 5th. Buoyed by the wonderful chaos and energy of 300 kids at Vacation Bible School, I’ll fly to Glasgow, Scotland, take a train to Oban, board a ferry to the Island of Mull, ride a transport bus to the other side of the island and then board yet another ferry to the Island of Iona. (Finally) there, I’ll spend a week as a pilgrim at the Iona Community, an intentional, ecumenical Christian community, where I will immerse myself in the rhythms of prayer, work, the arts, dialog, and self-reflection. It's sort of like spiritual whiplash, I know, but I can't wait.

My travels will then take me eastward to and around Edinburgh, including a photographic tour of the Border Abbeys. From there, I fly to Dublin where I will meet up with Holly and some good friends for some biking and photography along the southwest coast of Ireland. We'll soak in the sights around the Ring of Kerry, Cork, the Dingle Peninsula, and Killarney National Park. After returning to Maryland, I then head up to Rockport, Maine to be part of a workshop at the Maine Media Institute (Zen & the Art of Photography).

What I hope to do with my time away over these next three months (most of the last two of which will be spent in and around Rockville) is to explore with greater depth and intention photography as a way of prayer. For some time now, I have found that I pray best when I have a camera in my hand. Not only does the practice of photography inform my understanding of what prayer is through its inherent disciplines of waiting, stillness, attention, and fresh vision, but at an even more fundamental level, photography has become a way for me to pray. So here begins my journey of Framing Holiness.