What
does the center represent?
No one says.
What
is the purpose of walking toward it?
No one says.
How
fast should you proceed?
No one says.
What
should you do if you overtake or confront somebody?
No one says.
How
long should you be at it….on it….in it?
No one says.
But
people have been walking the labyrinth for centuries. Did
they really start doing so in 4500 BC in Egypt or Ertruria
(now Central Italy)? Maybe. Was the first Christian labyrinth
built into the floor of the Church of Reparatus (Algeria)
in the fourth century? Maybe. Does the word “labyrinth”
come from the word “labrys,” the sacred double-headed axe
associated with the Minoan Palace of Knossos on the Mediterranean
island of Crete? Maybe. But whether the origins of the labyrinth
be pagan or mythic, do many great cathedrals in Europe have
them? Certainly.
My
only previous experience walking the labyrinth was in Adrian….at
the college….in the gym….on a canvas….rolled out on the
floor….with guys shooting basketballs at the other end of
the building. Needless to say, it was far from revelatory
or enlightening. I did it….but the labyrinth is more about
being than doing. And I finished it….although the labyrinth
is more about experiencing than completing. I envision a
group of middle school boys emerging from a labyrinth, arguing
about who finished first or who knocked over the most girls.
Suffice
it to say that, for me, Grace Cathedral’s labyrinth was
better. The climb to get there gave me the sense of a medieval
pilgrimage. Taking off my shoes (as was gently requested
by the sign) put me in touch with Moses….to whom God said:
“Take off your shoes, because the place on which you are
standing is holy ground.” Walking the carpeted pathway,
I listened to the organ. I listened to my breathing. And
I listened to the random (or not so random) lines from hymnal
and Bible that slid in and out of my head (or on and off
of my tongue)….and found myself giving thanks for a lifetime
of exposure to hymnal and Bible that readily brought such
phrases to mind and tongue. Somehow, in the middle of all
those sounds, was the voice of God.
I
allowed myself to become aware of the other individuals
(four in number) who were walking the labyrinth with me.
And although I knew them not, I knew that before we were
done walking, I would meet them all. The path would bring
us (unavoidably) face to face. Then what would I do? Would
I look at them? Would I look away from them? And when our
journeys required that we pass, would I step aside….would
they step aside….would we both step aside….and by what signal
would we know?
If,
as has been said, we are only six introductions away from
meeting anyone in the world, what happens when that person
is on my path and our meeting is unavoidable? One of the
four was a young fellow suffering from AIDS. Ours was not
the same story. But for one hour….for one morning….ours
was the same journey.
The
center, of course, was both the goal of my walking and the
object of my desiring. But when I got there, I couldn’t
stay there. Nor did I want to. If, on the pathway, you would
have shouted, “Bill, where are you headed?”, I would have
pointed to the center and said: “There.” But there was no
urge to take a shortcut to get there more quickly. And once
there, it was just as important to go away from the center….back
to the start….again, with no shortcuts. To whatever degree
the labyrinth is about “going home”….and many have suggested
it is….home is both ends (start and finish). Home is the
place you go back to. But home is also the place
you come back to.
I
have reached a point in my life where circling back interests
me as much as striding forward. I drive out of my way to
see places I once lived, worked, studied, played and worshiped.
And if I have not yet begun actively seeking people from
my past, I sense that the time is coming when I will. For
I take increasing delight when someone like Vinco Pogachar’s
daughter-in-law (who I met for five minutes, fifty years
ago) uses the internet to come looking for me.
Chris
Hall read what I wrote about her on the cover of Steeple
Notes and told me, out of the blue, of his desire to go
back to his hometown. Then Chris added: “I know it will
be all changed and I won’t find anybody familiar.” But it
really doesn’t matter whether he finds anybody familiar.
At least that’s what I told him. Because when I circle back
upon my life, the “somebody” I end up finding is me. Thomas
Wolfe is right when he says, “You can’t go home again,”
if what you want to do when you get there is live there.
But if the purpose of going is not living but understanding,
you pretty much have to go home again. Or so it seems.
Ultimately,
the purpose of all this walking around….through the pathways
on the floor, or through the pathways of your life….is not
self-enlightenment (good as that may be) so much as divine
discovery. Simply put, most of us are looking for God. Never
mind, for the moment, the Bible’s contention that God is
looking for us. That’s true. But the search is not God’s
alone. We are looking, too. Everywhere we go. In this town
and that one. In this house and that one. In this church
and that one. In this book and that one. Under this rock
and that one. Here, there. High, low. Hither, yon. Up, down.
And
you never know where, on the journey, God is going to turn
up. A Syrian general has leprosy. Tough guy. Tougher disease.
It’s eating him up, if you know what I mean. He tries all
the local cures….all the proper cures….all the professional
cures. Finally, a nameless servant girl….who his army has
captured in a previous raid into Israel (and who is now
working as a maid servant to his wife) says: “There is one
in my land who can help.” “A prophet,” she says. “Named
Elisha,” she says.
Which
is preposterous. But if you have ever been so sick that
nothing else has worked, you will go anywhere. An offshore
clinic in the Bahamas. An obscure prophet’s house in Israel.
But Naaman doesn’t go empty-handed. He gets a letter of
introduction from his king to Israel’s king. Doesn’t need
it. And he takes along a small fortune in silver, gold and
fine clothing. Doesn’t need it, either.
He
gets to Elisha’s house and Elisha doesn’t even come out
to see him. Instead, Elisha sends word from behind closed
doors (via a messenger) to go dip seven times in the muddy
river at the end of the street. Well, he almost doesn’t
do it. Why? Because it sounds so ridiculously ordinary,
that’s why. I mean, he expects to see a holy man do holy
things….say holy words….make holy gestures.…offer holy incantations….dance
holy dances….maybe even sacrifice holy animals. What he
does not expect is to hear a virtual nobody tell him to
go down to the end of the block and jump in the river.
“River,”
he fumes, “I’ve got better rivers than this back in Damascus.
You call this a river? You call Elisha a healer?” But it
was (a river, I mean). And Elisha was (a healer, I mean).
You never know, do you….where it’s going to happen in you,
to you, for you. The cure, I mean. Or the Physician. Any
place can be a holy place (or a healing place) if you’ve
got your shoes off and your eyes open. God is not particular
about where God shows up.
Naaman
the Syrian had to walk across a foreign border (into a land
he plundered the last time he visited). While Scott Chrostek
just had to keep cruising the same circle. Scott is a son
of this congregation. Recently, of the University of Michigan.
Presently, of Hartford, Connecticut. More to the point,
the insurance business in Hartford, Connecticut. But Scott
says: “No matter where I went….no matter what I did….my
life kept circling back on a common theme. That theme being
God’s call to ministry.”
I
have been talking to Scott about this for four years. We
wrestle with it. Then he walks away from it. But he keeps
coming back to it. Or it keeps coming back to him. Scott’s
problem is that he’s so darn competent, he can do any job
easily. Unfortunately, none of them make him happy. I suppose
it’s easy to answer God’s call to ministry when you’re no
good at anything but ministry. But it’s harder when you
are good at a whole bunch of things (which might possibly
include ministry).
Well,
in the middle of all his comings and goings, something happened.
I don’t know who caught up with who….Scott with God, or
God with Scott. Sometimes it seemed like the game I played
as a third grader in gym class, where I’d run around the
circle and some other kid would chase me, and then the teacher
would shout “Reverse,” and the other kid would run around
the circle and I would chase him.
All
I know is that God and Scott finally caught up with each
other and had it out over this thing called ministry. Which
is why Scott is enrolled in Duke Divinity School and plans
to enter, come September. Better yet, he’s as comfortable
about his decision as I’ve ever seen him.
You
know what’s funny, though? I’ll tell you what’s funny. Forty-five
years ago, a lady whose name I didn’t know at the time….didn’t
know for years, really….gave a hefty scholarship to Albion
College specifically to enable my education. I worked a
lot of jobs during those four years. But without that anonymous
gift, no way could I have stayed there. And no way would
I have landed here.
You
know who she was? I’ll tell you who she was. Scott Chrostek’s
great-grandmother. That’s who she was.
Go
figure.
Notes: For her treatment of Naaman the Syrian, I am indebted to Barbara
Brown Taylor.
As
concerns my reference to the daughter-in-law of Vinco Pogachar,
the following reminiscence graced the cover of Steeple Notes
on the Sunday of my sermon.
Question:
What do the late Vinco (Vince) Pogachar and the carpeted
labyrinth in Grace Episcopal Cathedral, San Francisco, have
to do with each other? Likely, nothing. But perhaps, everything.
As
concerns Vinco Pogachar, he came from Slovenia, one of my
ancestral countries of origin. My maternal grandparents
sponsored him and his wife in their process of emigration.
But unlike my grandparents, the Pogachars settled in Canada,
eventually becoming prosperous fruit farmers along Lake
Ontario, partway between Niagara Falls and Toronto. As a
boy, I made a few visits to the farm, cultivating a love
for dark, sweet cherries while savoring the sweet tastes
of unrepentant ethnicity.
A
few years ago, returning from one of our occasional trips
to Boston to see Julie, Kris and I tried to find the farm.
But time had scarred something….either landscape or memory….meaning
that we were unsuccessful. Not that there would have been
anybody home. Vince has been long gone from the earth. And
what remains of his family has been long gone from the farm.
But
on August 20, 2000, I mentioned his name in a sermon. Don’t
ask me why. It would take too long to explain. But a day
or so ago, I heard from the woman who used to be his daughter-in-law.
She e-mailed me from Vancouver, British Columbia telling
me that someone in the family had entered the name “Vinco
Pogachar” in a search engine on the internet and up popped
my sermon. Now I am in the process of connecting with people
I never really knew, while reliving pieces of my past that
were slowly slipping from recall. Given the internet, I
suppose anybody can find almost anything….and make almost
any connection. Remind me to tell you someday about my wife’s
surprisingly successful search for relatives in the remote
sections of northern Norway (the Land the Midnight Sun).
I
am not sure how much conversation I will have with the far-flung
members of the Pogachar clan. But I may request more accurate
directions to the farm (or what used to be the farm), so
that a future effort at search and discovery will bear its
own brand of fruit. Perhaps it is my age, but I find myself
circling back these days….to places I have been and to people
I have known. Not that I have regrets about what I have
left behind. And not that I want to replicate prior pieces
of my journey. I don’t. But I am slowly coming to understand
that life is as circular as it is linear. Meaning that occasionally
one must “go home again.”
