Isaiah 2:2-5; 3 John 1:2-4
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
August 14, 2022
“I could feel each person’s prana as we passed,” Nancy said. It was late afternoon on the first day of the Nature Getaway Retreat at Ghost Ranch. Eleven of us were gathered in a circle of comfy chairs, grateful to be out of the sun, reflecting on our afternoon.
We had gathered a few hours before in the same circle in the library lounge. Laurie, our leader, had introduced the labyrinth, explaining how it is different from a maze; there are no dead ends. The path always leads to the center, although the journey is circuitous. Sometimes you think you have almost arrived, she said, but the next turn leads you away. If you trust the process and keep walking, she promised, you ultimately end up in the center. Lynn talked about the power of connecting with a spiritual practice with roots far older than Christianity; Sharon explained how the labyrinth developed as a Christian practice in the Middle Ages, a symbolic pilgrimage to Jerusalem when a physical one wasn’t safe.
We set off down a dusty road toward the labyrinth. I chatted with a few of my new friends. Jackie told us about the Zen garden she had created in her backyard. Jim talked about his church in Tucson and the journeys they take into the desert to leave water for migrants fleeing violence. The conversation was fascinating, but as we approached the labyrinth, we fell silent.
It was stunning. Stunning to look up and see the glorious colors of the cliffs around us. Stunning to realize the care that went into creating this labyrinth. Volunteers had used rock and bones, shells and sand so that it blended into the landscape, human creativity in harmony with God’s creation.
Faye, a horse-lover and former police officer from a small town in Tennessee, stepped boldly into the labyrinth, her determination to face this journey head-on evident. Beverly, a high school principal burned out from the pandemic, sat down to watch, unsure whether moving into the center might take more energy than she had. Nancy, a nurse practitioner who teaches yoga in her Methodist church, followed Faye. Jackie, a physical therapist, began walking—not following the circuitous route laid out in stone but completing the outside circle, stepping over the stones to move to the next one in, transforming the labyrinth into a spiral. Denise, a recently retired executive who was joyfully letting go of her need to achieve, wandered off to watch a chipmunk. I waited a few minutes and stepped into the labyrinth. I consciously let go of my expectation of having a profound spiritual event. Just enjoy, I told myself.
I looked up at the cliffs and the sky. I smiled at Faye who was coming out of the center while I was coming in and laughed at our awkward dance as we moved out of each other’s way. When Jim ended up walking beside me before our paths diverged, I treasured the moment of companionship. When I wondered why Jackie kept stepping over the rocks instead of following the path set out by ancient tradition, I let myself be curious instead of judgmental. Maybe, I thought, she needed not to allow her journey to be constrained by barriers someone else had created. When I got to the center, I sat down on one of the rocks and enjoyed the silent presence of Lynn and Nancy, curious what the center meant for each of them. I made my way through twists and turns back out into everyday life—no profound insight, just renewed appreciation for God’s creation and these human creatures.
Before long, we headed back to the library. As we walked away from the labyrinth, the silence lifted and we began to talk—about Denise’s new chipmunk friend, about the beauty around us, about labyrinths and Zen gardens and more.
We settled back into the library lounge, and Laurie invited us to share our experience. That’s when Nancy made her comment. “I could feel each person’s prana as we passed.” “Prana,” Faye asked. “What’s that?” “It’s Sanskrit,” Nancy replied, “sometimes translated as breath.” She continued, “But that doesn’t capture the full meaning. “It’s more like life-force. That’s what I felt as I passed each of you in the labyrinth—your life force connected with mine. Added to mine.”
We often portray the life of faith as a journey—a walk. Isaiah envisions a global journey to a holy mountain: all the people of the world walking in the light of God. The author of 3rd John celebrates how the people of that community were walking in the truth. Central to our faith is the Exodus, a collection of former slaves who become a people as they walk through the desert for forty years. And one of our beloved Easter stories happens on the road to Emmaus, as two disciples discover the risen Christ walking beside them. When new friends join our church, I often use the language of journey to describe membership: a choice to walk together on this journey of life and faith.
My Ghost Ranch labyrinth experience gives me a fresh way to envision this journey. The journey of faith is not a straight line. It sometimes feels as though we are going in circles, but in truth each circuit is a little different, inviting us to new insights and deeper truths. Like a labyrinth, our journeys lead us inward and outward, backward and forward, challenging us to trust that we are moving into the center.
The labyrinth offers a powerful image for the journey of grief and healing. Remember when books about grief used to describe five stages, as though we move through each stage in order until we are done? It’s not like that. We move back and forth, in and out, circling back again to re-experience sadness we thought we were done with, anger we hoped was gone, growth we didn’t know was possible. The labyrinth, with its circuitous path that ultimately leads us to the center and back out again, invites us to trust that healing is happening even when we feel we are going backwards.
Similarly, the labyrinth offers a way to make sense of societal progress—or the seeming lack thereof. We work so hard to build a just and loving world, and we struggle when it seems our efforts have backfired. It is so hard to trust that when we feel we are going in circles we are learning something we need to know, building new alliances, laying the groundwork for new possibilities.
How have you experienced the circuitous journey of healing from grief? When have you struggled to feel your efforts to make a difference are going anywhere? What does it mean for you to trust the path really does lead to the center?
The life of faith does not go in a straight line. Neither, though, is it an endless random wandering. Labyrinths remind us that we are not on our own; there is wisdom and community to guide us on this journey. Labyrinths draw upon the creativity of those who have gone before: the Ghost Ranch design is based on the labyrinth constructed at Chartres Cathedral in 1205 CE; our own labyrinth, beside the sanctuary, is an adaptation of an equally ancient design. Some of you may remember creating our labyrinth. It was a communal effort, led by a friend who helped us map out the design. We brought rocks from special places in our lives, blessed them in worship, and placed them on the design. In the years since, we have added more pine needles, weeded, and rearranged misplaced rocks. Recently, Joe noticed that someone had smoothed out the holes created by the weeds he had pulled. We have no idea who did it.
On our own, without guidance, we often go round and round in circles, digging ourselves into ruts we can’t seem to get out of. We need the ancient wisdom of our faith; we need the creative and consistent efforts of community to construct and care for paths that lead us to the center. Even when, like my friend Jackie, we need to step over the rocks and walk a different journey, we are still shaped by the wisdom and care represented by those rocks. Even when, like Denise, we need to wander away and watch a chipmunk, we as invited deeper by the presence of the labyrinth. Our Sunday morning worship shares some of the qualities of the labyrinth—drawing upon ancient traditions, shaped by the cares and gifts of our community, calling us out of our ruts into gratitude, new perspective, and courage to act.
How have the traditions and creativity and care of this church community guided you on your journey through life? When have you needed to step over the stones, to redefine our faith to make it your own?
My Ghost Ranch experience invites me to think more deeply about what it means to walk together on this journey. On a labyrinth, you cannot walk side-by-side for the entire time; the paths are too narrow. Instead, you walk in harmony, sometimes finding yourself side-by-side on adjacent circuits, sometimes having to make way for another person to pass by, sometimes slowing down or speeding up to accommodate another pilgrim’s pace.
This way we walk a labyrinth together reflects a reality of human life. Each of our journeys is different, for each of us is shaped by our unique experiences, gifts, griefs, and dreams. We can never walk in someone else’s shoes. We can never fully understand each other. We can share our stories. We can listen deeply. We can discover profound points of connection. We can offer love and grace. We can celebrate the mystery of each person’s uniqueness. We can revel in those moments when we get to walk side-by-side, and when the paths diverse, we can send each other off with the assurance that we are loved. We can enjoy the well-intentioned awkwardness of the dance when we find ourselves face-to-face with someone walking the same path in a different direction. We can be strengthened by the prana—the life force, the spirit—of each person we encounter on the journey. We can wonder at the holy paradox that we are each so different and we are so deeply connected to each other.
Who has walked beside you for a circuit of your journey? How have you been strengthened by the life-force of this community?
The journey of faith is not a race. Thank God. The community of faith is not a marching band, walking in lockstep down a wide, straight avenue. Thank God. The journey of faith is a labyrinth—created with wisdom and care, guiding us in circuits that lead us deeper into truth and healing and hope, inviting us to celebrate our unique stories and our holy connection. Let us walk this journey in harmony, with grace and gratitude and joy. Amen.