Service and Discernment

From the top of Dun-I, I could see the abbey and beyond it the grey Scottish sea. I breathed in the fog that had dampened my clothes and given the world a delightfully mystical quality. I exhaled and sent out a prayer of thanks for having found myself in such a place. Here I was working on the Scottish Isle of Iona as a volunteer children's worker at the Iona Community. For several years I had dreamt of going to work on the island, but the actual experience of living in an ecumenical community for three months proved to be more spirited and more life changing than I had any inkling for. I went to Scotland because I felt a tremendous pull to work with the issues of social justice, peace, and poverty. The Iona community was founded on taking up these matters, and I longed to work with others who also felt the corruption and brokenness of the world weighing on their hearts. Over the course of my stay, I met many ministers, seminarians, and lay people who had worked in Africa, or inner cities, or their hometowns with those who were suffering and repressed. Often at a meal I would find myself sitting across from an abbey guest with the most amazing story to tell of work done, setbacks endured, and prayers prayed. Somewhere in and among all these conversations and worship services for peace and justice the idea of one day studying theology myself softly crept up on me.

My experiences on Iona brought me into a world of religious inquiry coupled with open, creative spirituality. Conversations about how faith should inform our political and social lives kindled my spirit just as endless cups of tea warmed my hands. More than anything, I left Iona with a profound sense of community. I have often felt that I lacked a place in the world. I naively believed that I would never find a place where all were accepted and encouraged to do work informed by their faith and with all the strength God gave them. I was blessed to be proven wrong on a daily basis. This newfound sense of common purpose has given me freedom and confidence that up to then I lacked. It is with this sense of congenial resolve that I try to discern whether spending three years in seminary is part of my destiny.

In many ways I am surprised to find myself here. I have always insisted that I would never go to seminary. Somehow, though I often admired my minsters, I couldn't see myself standing in a pulpit every Sunday morning telling a congregation what that day's lectionary readings meant for their lives. Living in community this summer served to show me where I was lacking with helpful regularity. I have difficulty with listening to my own intuition while at the same time I fear having to confront others when it is necessary. Though I am ever embarking on quests for self discovery and improvement, I am not sure that I can muster up the qualities needed to lead a congregation. What I am sure of is that we live in a time of tremendous fear and upheaval. I live in a country that pays for expensive bombs and military equipment, while at the same time refusing to provide adequate services for the sick and needy among us. These sentiments were what inspired me in years past to pursue a career in Waldorf education. At Sunbridge College in New York, where I earned my MS Ed, I studied the spiritual philosophy of Rudolf Steiner and how it relates to the education of the whole human being: body, mind, and spirit. In becoming a teacher, I found a balm for the world's woes. By educating children in a way that respected them as spiritual human beings, I imagined I could find a sense of purpose and create a more just world. Nevertheless, this past September I found myself far from my classroom carrying little with me besides the feeling that my destiny lay somewhere outside of it.

"Buen Camino! Buen Camino!" I heard as several cyclists whizzed past me. "Buencamino," I replied with a wan smile and a voice too soft for them to hear. I gave my backpack a perfunctory adjustment and continued on my way; putting one foot in front of the other down a Spanish road headed to Santiago de Compostela. As I walked the 550 odd miles of the Camino pilgrimage this Fall, thoughts of the past and the future filled my mind and accompanied the even cadence of my sneakers' crunch, crunch on the gravel. I thought about St. Andrews Episcopal, my church in Denver, and how inspiring I found the growth and the activist nature of the congregation. I found myself telling a fellow pilgrim about being a volunteer at the St. Francis Center, and how meeting and speaking with homeless men face to face had fostered compassion and respect in me. I stopped in the evenings to practice centering prayer in dimly lit medieval churches, and wrap myself in the silent memory of prayers whispered for hundreds of years. The word "Camino" means "to make your way," and as I flew home I had a sense that I was still "making my way" towards something. I wasn't sure of much beyond a commitment to continuing to walk the path of peace and work towards empowering fellow travelers, who have been left by the wayside, to see Christ in themselves and each other. Even so, this is enough to compel me forward into a time of study out of which I hope to gain the insight to make my passions causes for which I can work. For whether one is on an island in Scotland, or in a classroom full of children, or walking across Spain, there is work to be done.