Psalm 139:1-14; John 7:37-38
“Look!” I called back to Dawn, my biking partner. “Now that is a real labyrinth!” What prompted my enthusiasm, besides the novelty of a lavender labyrinth along a bike path in Hungary, was that I had been fooled by a labyrinth only a few days before.
Fran, Dawn and her spouse Cami and I were walking through Budapest when we saw a sign advertising a labyrinth. “Let’s go see it,” I said. “I’d love to walk a labyrinth in such an old city.” I explained that walking a labyrinth is an ancient spiritual practice–a metaphorical journey to center of one’s own being, to the center of God. I thought about the labyrinth on our own campus, made of rocks and pine needles, and the famous labyrinth, built at Chartres Cathedral in Paris in the 13th century. Might there be an equally historic one in Budapest?
We walked down the alleyway, around the corner to another sign, which pointed down a flight of stone steps. Wow, I thought, an underground labyrinth? How cool is that?
I found the English language brochure, describing the site. This, I learned, was not an expression of an ancient spiritual practice; it was a manifestation of our ancient human practice of imprisoning people who threaten us. The brochure described the maze-like dungeon in which Vlad the Impaler, who became memorialized as Count Dracula, was imprisoned. Not what I was hoping for.
So when I saw a labyrinth made of lavender a few days later, I was thrilled. The labyrinth appeared as though out of nowhere, seemingly created for cyclists looking for a meditative break from our journeys. It was a really hot day, though, so we didn’t stop.
A few days later, our biking route took us back along that same path. The day was cooler. “Do you mind if I walk the labyrinth? It won’t take long.”
I parked my bike, said a silent prayer for enlightenment, and stepped onto the path. I turned a corner and came upon a sign with a question–in English, Hungarian and German–about the origin of the word lavender. There were two answers to choose from. Interesting, I thought, though it seemed like a distraction from the journey to the center of my being. I walked on, turned another corner and hit a dead end.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “there are not supposed to be any dead ends in a labyrinth.” I backtracked and looked more closely at the sign with the question. I realized that each of the two possible answers had an arrow. If you choose answer A, the arrow directs you to keep going forward, to what I now know is a dead end. If you choose answer B, turn left and you are on the road to success.
I was miffed. This isn’t a labyrinth, I thought; it’s a maze. Even worse, it is a maze with a quiz, a maze that seems to suggest that the path to the center, to peace and wholeness, is all about getting the right answers.
I stepped over the rows of lavender plants, out of the labyrinth and got on my bike, hoping our finicky Garmin GPS would not lead us to still more dead ends.
Later that afternoon, over gelato, I railed to our unsuspecting friends about this maze that dares to call itself a labyrinth.
“It’s a whole different theology. The point of a labyrinth is that there are no dead ends on our spiritual journeys. There may be twists and turns, and at times it may feel we are moving away from the center instead of closer. Every step on the journey, though, is part of our spiritual growth.”
Our friends listened patiently. Someone commented, “You know, sometimes we do take the wrong turn and reach a dead end.” I had to concede her point. Still, I thought, you shouldn’t call it a labyrinth when it’s a maze with a quiz.
These next day we packed up and headed back to Budapest. We met Gabor, our guide, for a tour of Budapest.
Gabor took us to a museum called The House of Terror. It is located in the building where the Nazi’s set up their headquarters during the Second World War, with dungeon-like cells in the basement. When the Soviets came in, first as liberators and then as occupiers, they took over the building. They used it for the same purposes–terror as a means of social control, brutal torture inflicted on people who challenged their power.
Gabor led us through the museum. In each room he paused to tell stories of how his family suffered and survived two totalitarian regimes. He talked about the ways both regimes recruited people to spy on their neighbors, so you never knew whom you could trust. He described the resilience of survivors, and also the 60,000 Hungarian Jews killed by the Nazis and the Arrow Cross, their Hungarian collaborators. It was heart-breaking and overwhelming.
We went to lunch from there, an outdoor cafe on a old street in Budapest. In spite of the beauty around us, a heaviness hung over us. As we waited for our food, our friend Cami felt her phone vibrate–a news alert from back home. Nine people killed in a mass shooting in Dayton, Ohio. The alert also included updates on the number of people killed in El Paso earlier in the day.
Suddenly the heaviness we felt was not just about the painful history of totalitarianism and terror in Hungary. It was about what has been happening in our own nation: the resurgence of hate, the terror evoked by mass shootings, intentional state-sponsored efforts to terrify immigrant communities. It was about the pain of our human history and our human present.
Later that day, I found myself thinking back to those two Hungarian labyrinths I had been so quick to dismiss. Both of them, I began to see, offer truths about our spiritual journeys.
The first labyrinth, the underground maze of dungeons, offers a powerful reminder of our human brokenness, our persistent capacity to treat one another with inhumanity. The lesson echoes in the prison cells and instruments of torture we had just seen in the House of Terror; it echoes in the horrifying conditions in which asylum seekers are being held in our own nation.
The dungeon labyrinth reminds me that the journey to the center of our beings is not all about sweetness and light. When we slow down enough to journey inward, we face our own human brokenness. We feel the pain that comes with compassion for our neighbors who are suffering. We struggle with our own complicity, with the ways we have ignored injustice, with the times we have let fear silence us. We confront our own capacity for cruelty, for hate, for indifference.
If that confrontation does not scare us off, if we continue our journey toward the center of our being, we the promise is that we will come to a deeper experience of the Psalmist’s insight. God knows all of who we are–our brokenness, our complicity, our fear, our yearning to make a difference. God does not abandon us. God walks with us as we face the complexity of who we are. God keeps guiding us toward the center, toward the discovery that, even with all our flaws, living water pours from our hearts, water enough to share with our world.
We don’t stay there, basking in the glory of that river. Instead, God leads us back out of the labyrinth, back to this troubled, thirsty world, and challenges us to use our gifts in the service of healing.
Then there is the labyrinth made of lavender. It too points to truths about our spiritual journeys. Sometimes–as individuals, as communities, as nations and as a species–we make bad choices. We go down paths that lead to dead ends–paths that damage our fragile earth, paths that cause pain, that short-circuit our potential, that lead to emptiness and despair. When we hit a dead-end, we are tempted to plow our way through, but that only leads to more dead ends. All we can do is turn around, try to make amends, and find a new path. The journey is not about getting the right answer at every signpost; it’s about acknowledging where we have gone wrong, taking responsibility and making changes.
A few days later, back home and back at work, I wandered up to the labyrinth beside our sanctuary. It doesn’t lead down stairs to a dungeon. There are no signs with trivia questions along the path, and there are no dead ends. It is a labyrinth that is true to the ancient Christian tradition: a circuitous journey that ultimately leads you to the center.
Next time I walk it, I will bring with me insights from these two Hungarian labyrinths. I will dare to face the shadow side of my own humanity and receive the gift of God’s love for all of who I am. I will acknowledge the dead ends and the wrong choices in my life, and I will try to turn around and fix what I can, relying on God’s forgiveness. I will keep going, daring to trust in the promise that out of my own heart will flow rivers of living water, enough to quench my thirst, enough to offer the world.
Whether or not you are inclined to go out and walk our labyrinth, I invite you to reflect on your own journey to the center of your being. What can help you find courage to confront the painful realities of our world and your life? What are the wrong turns you have taken, and what does it mean for you to change direction? Can you accept the promise of forgiveness, the assurance that God’s love is with you on the entire journey, and the challenge to offer your gift of living water to the world?
May we dare to walk this spiritual journey to the center of our beings. May we find courage and forgiveness along the way. May we drink deep from the living water, and may we share it joyously with our world. Amen.