Happy Anniversary

I guess you could say this has been the longest and best anniversary trip that Shelly and I have ever taken. I can't begin to tell you how much I've enjoyed the time having her to myself!

Shelly is my best friend. I'm thankful for all of our years together. And on this journey, we have had time to truly be together. We have enjoyed times of reading to each other, then reading on our own--side by side. We've walked together--tons. We've cooked together, gone out together, and visited long-lost friends together. We've learned together and studied together, then dreamed about our ministry with our friends back at Parkview. We've thought about our marriage's next chapters. And, on top of it all, next week we set out on a tour of biblical sites, mostly ones we've not seen before.

Tomorrow, October 27, is the thirty-first anniversary of our wedding. We will be with the highlights of our lives together--our two children, our son-in-law and grand-daughter. (After five weeks in Europe, their presence has been so welcomed. And tomorrow we will go back to Rome with them for a day and a half of sight-seeing before sending them back home.)

It just seemed appropriate to share my gratefulness for my marriage and my love for my wife here. I've stepped-away, but thank God, not run-away.

Remember, you can see pictures of our times here at Shelly's blog: http://www.michelehayes.wordpress.com

Some are gold--Remembering our dear friends in Kiev

I'm thinking of the gift of long-term friendship. There have been many wonderful experiences during this step-away time. We have seen beautiful sites, shared delicious meals and enjoyed so many days together. I've told you about some great hospitality shown us in Ukraine and The Republic of Georgia. But there are new memories of old friends which keep coming to my mind in waves of appreciation. I want to share them.

When I was a child in Sunday School, we used to sing the song:
Make new friends, and keep the old.
One is silver and the other gold.

There were so very many people in Kiev that came to a reception for us. It was wonderful to spend time with them and remember what those days were like together. Two doctors (Marianna and Alexander) and their three children who are now doctors (or almost so) gave us gifts and amazingly encouraging words and renewed our relationship in their same warm way. How dear they are. Our missionaries there, Colleen and Bob Skinner, had us to dinner along with our old work mates. Bob returned us to the airport and had so many kind and encouraging words about our work.

I hope its OK to focus attention, however, on some dear friends with whom we lived and worked while serving in Ukraine some eighteen years ago.

We spent most of our time with Natasha (a faithful friend who has called me "Papa" for all eighteen years), Zena (an amazing young woman who has grown up from the delightfully spunky child we knew so long ago), her mother Svyetlana (who was our first translator and friend in Kiev and is now a pastor of our Obolone church there), Kolya, the young guy who took our children to school each day and Shelly shopping for food most days), and Vova (who also translated for us, and who pastors the first church we began in Kiev). This was most of our "A-Team" back then, and the accumulated time we spent together has forever endeared them to our hearts.

During our visit, each of these took time out of their lives--Natasha coming all the way from Germany--just to be with us. As alway when in Ukraine, we went with the idea of giving gifts, but they gave us so much more. Natasha, Zena and Svyetlana took us out to dinners. Yes plural. They showed us the new Kiev. They stayed out late and laughed and reminisced and filled us with joy. They even hired our taxis.

Kolya drove to the airport to pick us up. Vova joined him and spent days taking us through the city, and driving us (along with Natasha and Svyetlana) to a distant village to visit important new developments in the work. Vova and I had opportunity to share, not as we did in the past, but heart to heart--each of us now pastors.

I love this core group of early leaders. They gave and gave and gave to us last month, as they did "back in the day." And as I reflect upon our times together there last month, I'm feeling particularly grateful. I hope they understand how much.

Assisi, Italy. From prayer to prayer; from strength to strength...

This morning, I walked to San Rufino's and prayed. I was so encouraged and strengthened. I spent time in my usual routine of opening prayers (memorized from a prayer book), some of my own thoughts, then silence, then the Jesus prayer. I prayed for Tim Bond, the guy doing most of the preaching at home while I'm away. I prayed for the Wooten family. I prayed for Gram's family who will say goodbye to her at her funeral service this morning, when the sun moves around to that side of the earth. Then I meditated once more on Psalm One. (I have been continually drawn to this Psalm as I've prayed here in Assisi. My father had me memorize it when I was a boy, and that gift of his continues to pay dividends.)

After these prayers, I decided to go to Santa Chiara's church. The sun is shining brightly against the stone walkway--the sidewalks and streets where I step. At least it shines where it can between stone walls to my right and to my left. Ancient stone structures, many of them. A stiff breeze sifts my soul and I'm reminded of the prayers I've just prayed asking Holy Spirit to sift me of all but himself, his Father and God the Son.

And without warning, my heart erupts in joy. I'm in Assisi. I'm walking up streets and steps and down streets of steps which strengthen my body, as the time spent in prayer rebuilds my faith--my spirit. I am alive again, walking from prayer to prayer, from strength to strength.

I thank God for the LIlly Endowment and their unbelievable gift of this time and this place. I thank God for my congregation back home which applied for this grant, then took the step of allowing us this time.

I look into the light blue sky, with its lacy cloudy whisps bowing just beneath the sun's glory. I AM HERE. I am unworthy. I am so very grateful. And I am once more...ALIVE.

I can scarcely take in the Joy who meets me in this day. But I determine that in this new life, beginning here in Medieval Europe, I will never forsake him.

(Later today Shelly and I plan to re-visit San Damiano's church and convent just down the side of the mountain from Assisi. Perhaps she will post some pix at her blog. Stay tuned at http://www.michelehayes.wordpress.com.

I also want to offer, upon my return in mid December, to meet with any pastor, or church leadership team who might want to consider a sabbatical for the purpose of clergy renewal.)

Where do you pray? (And a couple of prayer requests.)

Since stepping away for this sabbatical, my priority has been to take time each day to go somewhere and pray. My plan has been to pray in churches here. Churches are usually quiet places, but with all of the pilgrims walking through, sometimes they aren't so quiet.

Yesterday I decided to scout out a mountain trail I hope to hike with my family when they come next week. (Shelly and I ended up doing a few miles of it today.) It was raining yesterday, and so I found a completely dry spot underneath one of my favorite trees (Shelly and her friend Amy call them "creepy Italian trees), sat at its base, drew my knees to my chest and began to pray. Ahhh! Now that's more like it!

I don't have anything against grand Medieval churches, but that tree was the hands-down winner of all the chapels, basilicas and tombs I visited so far. God whispered through its tight branches and those of other trees nearby; and birds sang with such happy voices.

Then it dawned on me: This is where the great Saints prayed! The ones they celebrate here went to the mountains and out under sun and stars to pray. We travel around the world to step into "holy places," light candles and meet with God; and then I find a forest to be my favorite holy place.

At this point in my life, traveling around the world was a good idea. I needed to be free to seek God with all of my heart and strength for a while. But as I look to the time when I return home, it is good to know that a forest waits outside the doors and windows of our home. And God is there.

And these thoughts: Two days ago, one of my dear old (and I mean old--95!) friends came to mind. I was walking to a church, I thought of Jewell Carmichael. There was a twinge in my heart, and I wondered how she was. I prayed for her. I trusted her into God's hands.

Last night the word came that she has been sick, and passed away yesterday morning. Please pray for Jewell's wonderful family: Her two daughters and their families who loved "Gram" (as we have always called her) so very much. They may or may not build a basilica in her honor someday. But her place in Heaven is as joyous as any saint you've ever known.

Yesterday was also the sixth month anniversary of the passing of Marcus Shadrick, my nephew by marriage, but MY nephew none the less. So long as we're praying, would you remember his wife and children, mother and father, two brothers and sister and their families for the next few days. Your prayers may just lessen the pains they feel, and swell the joy that belongs in every memory of this wonderful man.

It will be dark in another hour or so. I'm going step away from the apartment for a few minutes, walk past a couple of churches, through an arch and outside of a medieval city wall. I'm going to look for a tree on the side of the mountain, and meet the MIghty One for a few.

Where do you pray?

IN A TOMB. THINKING OF HOME

IN A TOMB. THINKING OF HOME
I'm sitting in a tomb. It is also an ancient church. Straight before me some twenty feet, are the remains of Saint Francis of Assisi. All around and beneath me are the remains of his faithful friends, and others who have been left here...forever.

A mass is taking place at the other end of this long, lower basilica. Prayers are being sung in beautiful, ancient and monastic tones. All around me, wide-eyed visitors and pilgrims meander, observing the sights and nuances of this beautiful, cave-like place: Frescoes from masters of the middle ages and after, rounded Romanesque arches, small chapels with candles glimmering, and an altar placed over Francis' grave...placed here in 1230 AD.

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
I've never thought of being remembered with such devotion eight hundred years from now. But I do like the idea I've heard so many times--the challenge to "Do something great for God." And as I sit pondering the phenomena of this saint and others, I wonder: "What does it look like to "do something great for God?"

My spirit is learning a great deal from the life of St. Francis. But I don't want to mimic him. He renounced everything in order to live the life of a beggar. He owned nothing except for his ragged robe, belt and sandals. He slept in caves while in the mountains to pray, and under temporary shelters of piled branches when at home. He loved and cared for lepers, and looked after the poor and disenfranchised; and he led a disheveled band of followers who took vows to the same poverty, chastity and obedience as his own. WHY?

WHAT GOD NEEDED FROM FRANCIS
In a day when the church was arrogant, wealthy, powerful and pride-filled, God needed someone to point to the lowly Jesus. God needed a wealthy and popular young guy from Assisi to renounce knighthood with its fame, his famous parties with their camaraderie and revelry, and his wealth with its comforts, opulence and security. And so Francis rejected fame, camaraderie, revelry, comfort, opulence and security; in order to turn his heart toward his true love.

And at the end of his brief life, he said something like this: "I have been faithful to obey God's call for me. Now you each must go and do as he calls you."

HIS HUMBLE HOME
This morning, Shelly and I hiked down the mountainside to the site of Francis' death. Here is the tiny church which he called home. There is room for only a couple of dozen people inside of the church at once, it is so small. But this is where Francis obediently went to pray and minister. He lived his life and died his death in its shadow. This humble place was away from the seats of power and attention of the powerful. From here Francis went to bless the poor, the lepers and those who had been excommunicated from the city. In this tiny chapel he lived his poor life and met with Mighty God.

As we approached this place this morning, my heart despaired for the saint. Coming around a corner, what met our eyes is the tenth largest church in all of Roman Catholicism. A huge Golden statue stands atop, and others are carved into the entrance high above the building. And finally, inside the cathedral and at the front, is the actual tiny stone building where Francis met with Jesus, and from which he went forth to be HIS person and presence.

FINDING HOME
In the heart of every lover of Jesus, there is a humble center. A place of prayer without which they cannot exist. Here they meet with the humble Jesus, who pleads with them and then strengthens them to mightily do his humble service. Only here are they able to hear and understand Christ's calling on their lives. And when their time comes to die, it will be to this humble quiet and lonely place they will return...where Jesus is central and the only treasure...no matter the lore or titles or edifices which might follow.

(For pictures of our days and much more consistent posting, be sure to stay-tuned to Shelly's blog.)

Scratching-in our legacy: Graffiti in a holy place

Walking back to our apartment this afternoon, I couldn't help but notice a beautiful young girl pose next to a shop window.  She smiled and lifted a heal, her father snapped the shot. And her mother looked away, somewhat amused, but not planning to show it. It seems to be a universal truth about humans: We want to be noticed.

All of us have seen landmarks ruined by names scribbled, scratched or carved into their surface. Names with dates or initials of lovers left behind hoping that someone, someday will see and recognize them. Recently I saw a footbridge in Kiev, Ukraine where couples write their names along the way, or better yet on padlocks which they affix to the handrails, hoping they will never be taken away. A way of saying "I love you, and I mean it."

Today, I was blown away by another sort of graffiti, a differing sort of signature left behind for posterity. We climbed high above the walled city of Assisi to the site of mountainside caves where St. Francis and his brothers used to go to pray for extended periods. There is one particular place where rocks once fell from the mountainside during a prayer battle with Satan. Upon his defeat and exit, stones fell away from the mountain; and where the stone mountain walls remain, is now a place of prayer.

Pilgrims and faithful come from all over the world to see this centuries-old place of prayer. And when they arrive, and after they have prayed, they have for centuries marked the wall with graffiti. How do they wish to be remembered? Look closely at these photos. They show only a tiny portion of a huge area.

Francis of Assisi's life was at one time about gaining honor and fame as a brave knight. Two times he went off in bright armor in order to make a name for himself. And two times he returned to Assisi perceived to be a failure...a coward even. But God had spoken to him and told him to return. And Francis chose to leave behind all gains in order to follow in the ways of Jesus. His life was to be about the glory of Christ's life.

When people go to see this monument of his devotion to prayer, they seem to understand. We do not leave our own names behind for posterity. Rather, we celebrate the sign of the ONE who matters forever.

We can and will be forgotten. He will not.

A Sabbatical Prayer

A SABBATICAL PRAYER

Lord, I invite you to enter the mystery of me.

You can see where I cannot,
into the shadowlands of my soul.
You can see beyond
the corners of my brokenness.
You can be strength
where I am weakness.
You can mend
what I do not know is torn.

That which I don't even know to confess,
and that which I do,
I confess.
Please forgive me.

And where I carry
sorrows, regrets, disappointments, failures--
Send peace, I pray.

What I cannot know to ask for,
yet what I need the most,
please grant me.

O Lord, that which I cannot imagine,
that for which I do not know to hope,
the things for which I do not know to ask,
BE.

How beautiful is the Body of Christ

The beauty of the presence of Christ is so illusive and so inspiring. Illusive for those who insist on seeing Him only in one branch of the church--Protestant, Roman Catholic or Orthodox. (And protestants can further sub-divide to near infinity with branches and streams of this church and that...) And so if His glory alludes you, perhaps you are looking too closely, and not broadly enough.

Today we worshipped in a Roman Basilica. We understood very few words, but my spirit soared at each "hosanna" and "alleluia." We saw thousands of pilgrims crowd into multiple churches and chapels to rehearse the same salvific story, raising their hands to heaven as they recited our common Lord's Prayer.

Last Sunday the Georgian Orthodox worshippers spoke an even stranger tongue to our ears, but a dear one to our spirits. They grew quiet to reverence the reading of the gospel, recited the Lord's prayer and the creed, and bathed in the mellow comfort of soft light and the non-stop chanting of scripture. They venerated icons, and I watched with particular empathy as a priest listened to the confession of a tearful young woman.

Two Sundays back, we were in a church of our own denomination, hearing Russian and Ukrainian songs and the four common scripture readings. Hands were lifted in worship, and just as in the past two weeks, "The peace of Christ" was passed, person to person. Members of one Body.

And three Sundays back, our last in the States, we attended the mass of an Episcopal Church. The prayer of the day was modeled around Saint Francis' much loved "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace."

I cannot help but think about the following: In each church we have visited (besides the one which is part of our own denomination) we have heard four scripture readings, with the Gospel reading receiving special centrality. We have witnessed Holy Eucharist (communion), and the passing of the peace and reciting of the Nicene Creed and the praying of the Lord's prayer. Sure, there is "form" and habit in these things. But to me, they are things that bind us together. Litergy is less typical in my church, but its consistency across man made boundaries is a unifying bond. I have cherished it during my sojourn.

I often receive complaints when I write with interfaith themes. I cannot, however, glibly disown such a precious inheritance as the Body of Christ. Our Christian sisters and brothers see things differently, and speak differing languages. But there is one Body, one Church and one Baptism. And I for one intend to hold to this treasure.

I have stepped away, but not outside the reach of my faith, or the faithful who belong to it.

Going to the Well for everyone but yourself...

A human soul is a funny thing. And the soul of this pastor is trying to learn to "hear" again.

On the second day of this sojourn, in an Indiana monastery, a dear friend gave me a simple direction for this time away. "Listen." More specifically she said, "Your job is to listen." The task sounds simple. But today, on this first day in Assisi, Italy, I found a strange interference. And it was my role as teacher/preacher. I wonder how many pastors struggle with the same static? Let me explain.

During my time away, there have been a few moments that were simply inspired. God spoke to me through people, events or places...and I understood. But today was the day I had pictured myself getting down to the business of prayer. While Shelly was preparing for the day, I found my way to the Basilica of Saint Francis.

Once inside, I walked through the magnificent 780 year old cathedral. I took in the painted ceilings, a beautiful bronze statue and the famous Giotto murals of the life of Francis. Finding a kneeling bench toward the back, I quieted myself to pray.

Like rays of light into the cold and darkened stone building, I sensed God warming my soul. That was a moment of joy, and crisis.

Immediately, I was trying to find ways to tell my congregation what I was learning. I was thinking of how to explain what his Spirit was saying to me.

"Hush!" I told my racing mind. "BE STILL." And I began to pray again, and Peace began to speak again--words too tender to be true, and too inimate to share. But my mind didn't think so. "Why didn't I bring my notebook? What if I forget this? How will I ever teach it?"

And then for a third time, I tried to pray. Nothing.

Can you imagine that anytime you had a particularly warm conversation with your Mother or Father or child, you felt bound to make a speech about it? Or each time you shared tender words with your spouse, you found in them a poetic ecstasy about which the world just had to hear? This is the trap I walked into at some unknown point in my past. Prayer time has become prep time. Intimacy has sought a spotlight.

I've begun going to the Well of Living Water only to pour it on other souls. And my own has gone dry. My relationship with God has become the source of my preaching--even the stream of my income--rather than the font of my existence. Lord have mercy.

Distraught and distracted, I stepped from the cathedral and confessed that I have forgotten how to spend time with God without divulging our intimacies to the world. Who would want a lover like that?

Tomorrow many of you will listen to a pastor. Pray that he or she is drinking deep from the wells of God's Spirit, and not simply hustling from the well, to your Sunday.