| Sanctuary |
“Sanctuary”
Luke 2:1-7
December 23, 2007
I would suggest this morning, that one of the reasons we continue to
meet together, week after week, is that in this place... with each other...
we find a sense of wholeness that permeates our being and in a way
glues our spirit together. This is our sanctuary... our refuge in the midst
of a world that would dis-member our very soul. We continue to meet in
order to re-member... in order to put our lives back together in the
presence of the sacred.
Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen is one of the early pioneers in the field of
psychiatry to integrate the mind, body, and spirituality into the healing of
life-threatening illnesses. Dr. Remen writes, in her book entitled Kitchen
Table Wisdom, “The places we are genuinely met and heard have great
importance to us. Being in them may remind us of our strength and our
value in ways that many other places do not.”
Remen then goes on to tell a story of a colleague, who is the head of the
department of family medicine at an East Coast Medical school. The
colleague had a patient, a “homeless woman whose possessions fit into
two shopping carts. Once a month she would bring these up the steep
hill to his clinic by lashing them alternately to the parking meters with a
belt. First she would tie one, then wheel the other to the next meter uphill,
tie it, go back for the first one, untie it, and wheel it to the meter above
the second until both she and the two carts were at the clinic’s front door.
The doctor saw her once a month on a Wednesday. Her speech was
sometimes rambling and her clothing was filthy and eccentric. This
deeply kind and respectful doctor was not troubled by this. With his usual
grave courtesy he welcomed her into his consulting room, listened to the
details of her difficult life, and did what he could to ease her burden.
After he had been seeing her for some time, he became aware that she
sometimes came to the hospital on days when he was not there. The
clinic nurses were puzzled by this at first, as she seemed to know in
some mysterious way that it was not her day to see the doctor. After
talking with her, they determined that she simply wanted to go to his
consulting room. Once there, she did not go in, but would stand on the
threshold and slowly and deliberately place her right foot inside the
empty room and then withdraw it again and again.
The places in which we are seen and heard are holy places. They
remind us of our value as human beings. They give us the strength to go
on. Eventually they may even help us to transform our pain into wisdom.”
Those places of holiness where we are seen and heard are known as a
sanctuary. A place of safety where we can breathe in a bit of peace. A
place where we can recover from the sometimes harsh encounters in
the world. A place, where we can halt the runaway thoughts that would
destroy us and replace them with a wholeness.
I read awhile back that there is a place in the bullring where the bull feels
safe. If he can reach this spot, he stops running and can gather his full
strength. He is no longer afraid. From the point of view of his opponent,
he becomes dangerous. This place in the ring is different for every bull. It
is the job of the matador to be aware of this to know where sanctuary
lies for each and every bull, to be sure that the bull does not occupy this
place of wholeness.
In bullfighting the safe place is called querencia. For humans, the
querencia can be experienced in many different ways. For some, it
might be a familiar place that is sought during times of crisis, it could be
in the woods or in a favorite chair. For others, it might be experienced in
closeness to another person or in an interior place of deep silence.
As strange as it may sound, one querencia that I have - one of my
places of sanctuary - is in a memory. A memory of a hayloft.
Just inside the wide sliding door, on the west end of our family’s barn,
(which was bigger than this church) and to the right, was the manger that
I was in charge of keeping filled. Beside it was a makeshift ladder
comprised of worn 2x4's that had temporarily been nailed to the wall 75
years before. Each worn-smooth-rung of that awkward ladder held a
story. Each time I placed hand after hand to climb up, the voices of my
ancestors would sing to me of strength.
Climbing those smooth, worn, voices of strength I would emerge through
the 3ft by 3ft opening at the top, into the special world of the hay loft. It
had become my private sanctuary, my sanctum sanctorum, after the
death of my oldest sister. It was there that I could lie on dusty wisps of
dried alfalfa and vision great visions for the future, or struggle with the
whys of life and death.
The floor of the loft was built of tongue and groove cedar planks. They
were polished like glass from the hay that had been pushed across it.
The east side was a precipice which dropped off to the feeding floor. It
was crowded in the winter with the sweating hulks of cattle, horse,
sheep, and pigs. To the west, was a small window that was a vantage
point to the very edge of the world some 5 miles away. Peals of laughter
rang from those heights in competition with the tears of pain and
frustration that sometimes pelted the backs of the animals. It was my
healing place. My sanctuary.
The sanctuary of my youth is no longer there. Falling apart it was
eventually torn down. I knew that it was a place where God heard and
saw me. And even though it is gone, I am still able to return there for
healing. In the imagination of my heart and the reality of my soul, every
bit of that sacred wood structure is still whole.
Perhaps that is why the story of Jesus being laid in a manger at the time
of his birth is such a comforting image for me. It reminds me of my place
of safety. The incarnation of God lying on dried grasses. Fodder for the
soul lying upon fodder for the animals.
I have no idea where your place of sanctuary might be. I have no idea if
you have even found that place yet. Hopefully… if not already, it can
become this church... this congregation.
Yet, even though I don’t know where your place of sanctuary might be... I
do know who your sanctuary can be. In the presence of God, through the
person of Jesus Christ, filled with the Holy Spirit, we are offered a place
of refuge. A chance for a breath of peace. An experience of holiness
where we can regain a sense of wholeness.
I invite you during this season of sacred celebration to explore the
possibilities of wholeness that God offers you. Hear the good news of
great joy. In the name of Jesus the Christ you forgiven. AMEN.
Luke 2:1-7
December 23, 2007
I would suggest this morning, that one of the reasons we continue to
meet together, week after week, is that in this place... with each other...
we find a sense of wholeness that permeates our being and in a way
glues our spirit together. This is our sanctuary... our refuge in the midst
of a world that would dis-member our very soul. We continue to meet in
order to re-member... in order to put our lives back together in the
presence of the sacred.
Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen is one of the early pioneers in the field of
psychiatry to integrate the mind, body, and spirituality into the healing of
life-threatening illnesses. Dr. Remen writes, in her book entitled Kitchen
Table Wisdom, “The places we are genuinely met and heard have great
importance to us. Being in them may remind us of our strength and our
value in ways that many other places do not.”
Remen then goes on to tell a story of a colleague, who is the head of the
department of family medicine at an East Coast Medical school. The
colleague had a patient, a “homeless woman whose possessions fit into
two shopping carts. Once a month she would bring these up the steep
hill to his clinic by lashing them alternately to the parking meters with a
belt. First she would tie one, then wheel the other to the next meter uphill,
tie it, go back for the first one, untie it, and wheel it to the meter above
the second until both she and the two carts were at the clinic’s front door.
The doctor saw her once a month on a Wednesday. Her speech was
sometimes rambling and her clothing was filthy and eccentric. This
deeply kind and respectful doctor was not troubled by this. With his usual
grave courtesy he welcomed her into his consulting room, listened to the
details of her difficult life, and did what he could to ease her burden.
After he had been seeing her for some time, he became aware that she
sometimes came to the hospital on days when he was not there. The
clinic nurses were puzzled by this at first, as she seemed to know in
some mysterious way that it was not her day to see the doctor. After
talking with her, they determined that she simply wanted to go to his
consulting room. Once there, she did not go in, but would stand on the
threshold and slowly and deliberately place her right foot inside the
empty room and then withdraw it again and again.
The places in which we are seen and heard are holy places. They
remind us of our value as human beings. They give us the strength to go
on. Eventually they may even help us to transform our pain into wisdom.”
Those places of holiness where we are seen and heard are known as a
sanctuary. A place of safety where we can breathe in a bit of peace. A
place where we can recover from the sometimes harsh encounters in
the world. A place, where we can halt the runaway thoughts that would
destroy us and replace them with a wholeness.
I read awhile back that there is a place in the bullring where the bull feels
safe. If he can reach this spot, he stops running and can gather his full
strength. He is no longer afraid. From the point of view of his opponent,
he becomes dangerous. This place in the ring is different for every bull. It
is the job of the matador to be aware of this to know where sanctuary
lies for each and every bull, to be sure that the bull does not occupy this
place of wholeness.
In bullfighting the safe place is called querencia. For humans, the
querencia can be experienced in many different ways. For some, it
might be a familiar place that is sought during times of crisis, it could be
in the woods or in a favorite chair. For others, it might be experienced in
closeness to another person or in an interior place of deep silence.
As strange as it may sound, one querencia that I have - one of my
places of sanctuary - is in a memory. A memory of a hayloft.
Just inside the wide sliding door, on the west end of our family’s barn,
(which was bigger than this church) and to the right, was the manger that
I was in charge of keeping filled. Beside it was a makeshift ladder
comprised of worn 2x4's that had temporarily been nailed to the wall 75
years before. Each worn-smooth-rung of that awkward ladder held a
story. Each time I placed hand after hand to climb up, the voices of my
ancestors would sing to me of strength.
Climbing those smooth, worn, voices of strength I would emerge through
the 3ft by 3ft opening at the top, into the special world of the hay loft. It
had become my private sanctuary, my sanctum sanctorum, after the
death of my oldest sister. It was there that I could lie on dusty wisps of
dried alfalfa and vision great visions for the future, or struggle with the
whys of life and death.
The floor of the loft was built of tongue and groove cedar planks. They
were polished like glass from the hay that had been pushed across it.
The east side was a precipice which dropped off to the feeding floor. It
was crowded in the winter with the sweating hulks of cattle, horse,
sheep, and pigs. To the west, was a small window that was a vantage
point to the very edge of the world some 5 miles away. Peals of laughter
rang from those heights in competition with the tears of pain and
frustration that sometimes pelted the backs of the animals. It was my
healing place. My sanctuary.
The sanctuary of my youth is no longer there. Falling apart it was
eventually torn down. I knew that it was a place where God heard and
saw me. And even though it is gone, I am still able to return there for
healing. In the imagination of my heart and the reality of my soul, every
bit of that sacred wood structure is still whole.
Perhaps that is why the story of Jesus being laid in a manger at the time
of his birth is such a comforting image for me. It reminds me of my place
of safety. The incarnation of God lying on dried grasses. Fodder for the
soul lying upon fodder for the animals.
I have no idea where your place of sanctuary might be. I have no idea if
you have even found that place yet. Hopefully… if not already, it can
become this church... this congregation.
Yet, even though I don’t know where your place of sanctuary might be... I
do know who your sanctuary can be. In the presence of God, through the
person of Jesus Christ, filled with the Holy Spirit, we are offered a place
of refuge. A chance for a breath of peace. An experience of holiness
where we can regain a sense of wholeness.
I invite you during this season of sacred celebration to explore the
possibilities of wholeness that God offers you. Hear the good news of
great joy. In the name of Jesus the Christ you forgiven. AMEN.
DeWitt United Methodist Church
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