After I left the seminary, I walked away from the Catholic Church. By 1996 it was quite obvious to me that there was no place at the table for me. Additionally, there was no way my partner, who had grown up Baptist, and then spent some time with the AOG church, could ever be happy in catholicism. At that time, he was living just 1 block from the local MCC congregation. I had, in my last semester in the seminary, discovered the MCC denomination. It seemed the obvious fit for both of us.
At first I was a bit dubious; I was still operating under some “catholic baggage”, namely whether I would admit it consciously, there was still part of me that bought in to the “one true church” bullshit espoused by that church. And so, as I entered the MCC I kept thinking at a not so subconscious level that they were just playing church. But, as time went by I began to more and more embrace the theology of the MCC. In time I became more and more involved, finally stepping in to leadership positions by 2000.
Then, in 2007, things changed. I’ve tried exploring just what it was that impacted me so much, but have never really come up with a satisfactory reason. In any event, the result was that by November of ’07 I’d pulled back from any leadership role. And, in February 2008, I withdrew completely from the church for a while. It was a short term hiatus; I began attending regularly again in May. But my attendance can best be described as indifferent. I came to church, sat in the pews… okay, chairs. I went through the motions (still do, for the most part) then went home. My passion for MCC, or church in general, just did not return. Indeed, my passion for God just hasn’t returned.
It was because of this that I signed up for a class at church, feeling it was time to get involved again… involved in anything. The class is called CLM… Creating a Life that Matters. We’ve had two classes so far. The first class was comprised mostly of “housekeeping” stuff – the rules we all agree to conduct ourselves by – and getting to know one another.
The second class has to do with “Bring Many Names”. And there’s homework! And it is THAT homework that has me writing this today. The remainder of this blog post will be my homework assignment. The assignment is to write a journal entry on the topic:
“Write about the first time you had an experience of the Sacred”
June of 1961 is shrouded in the mists of time for me. I was a mere three years old. But there is an experience from that year that has stuck with me, clear as the moon this morning. In that month, my mom and dad took my two older brothers on a vacation to the Black Hills of South Dakota, and northwestern Nebraska. For whatever reason, it was determined that I was too young for that trip. I was heartbroken. Well, I would have been heartbroken, anyhow, if it hadn’t been for the great adventure I was to have in their absence! My paternal grandmother was to stay with me and I doted on her!
In those days, we were living in a new home in Omaha. We had an air conditioner, but it was to be used only on the hottest of days. That June was hot. And unlike many late spring days, the heat lasted in to the night. Grandma Strom was not one to waste money on air-conditioning. And so, after playing outside for much of the day, I was given a bath and sent to bed in a hot bedroom. The only concession to the heat was an open window and the rare permission to sleep without my pajama tops.
My bedroom window faced east, and I can remember lying in bed across from the window,looking out in to the fading light of evening. Sounds from the kitchen indicated Grandma was busy washing dishes and putting the room back in order. I was restless, as little boys usually are at bedtime. There was no brooking crying or tantrums, though. Grandma came from sturdy German and Swedish background. When it was time for bed, a little one had darn well better go to bed! So, I lay in my bed, watching the growing shadows, striving to find some comfort, some coolness in the hot air of my room.
And then, the curtains twitched, and then fluttered. A gentle breeze blew in through the open window, a cool breeze. The breeze caressed my bared chest, bringing relief from the heat.
As I revelled in the sweet coolness, I slowly grew to an awareness. This breeze was different, it seemed to me, than any other breeze. I began to talk to the breeze, thanking it for its gentleness and for the relief it brought. It seemed to me that it, too, spoke with me. It spoke calming words; words of love, words of peace, words of friendship. It was as if the breeze was saying to me “Be at peace; you are loved. I am with you. I will always be with you.”
For some time we spoke together. In truth, as clear as that evening is in my thoughts, I don’t recall the content of that conversation. I just recall that I was somehow aware of the experience being something sacred, though I certainly had no idea of the meaning of that word… or even it’s existence! I just knew it was special.
The grace of that twilight experience remained with me. That breeze returned frequently during my life, though the frequency of that experience dwindled over time as I grew up, maturing in to the man I am today. But even so, every now and then I’ll stop my activity, and an awareness will grow within me that once again I am in the presence of that breeze, that special loving breeze. In the Presence of “My Friend the Breeze.”
