The Holocaust Museum

One of the priorities for my travels was to come to Washington D.C. to visit the Holocaust Museum.  This has been high on my list since its opening. 

But as I walk through this four story labyrinth of a terrible part of our world's history, I ponder why it was so important to be here.  The museum tells the story of the rise of Nazism in Germany and the subtle ways in which Jews were scapegoated.  In telling the story, the designers do not sugarcoat the history.  They point out moments throughout when the German citizens and world leaders could have swayed the outcome but did not.  While it was sad to read such accounts, the honesty was profound.

The images from the concentration camps were difficult to look at.  And even as I gazed upon these images, I am sure that the photos could not do justice to the reality of the suffering that took place there.  Along with the photo and written accounts, there were some powerful visual displays.  In one area there were the discarded shoes, thousands of them, taken from the Jews before they entered the gas chambers.  The shoes were all sizes...men's, women's and children's.  Amid the large pile of shoes, my eyes focused on a small pair of shoes, probably belonging to a child, and I imagined the life that had once inhabited them.

In another display there were photographs of the people who dwelt in some of the villages.  The photos were of the kind of occasions we might photograph...weddings, birthdays, holidays, special occasions.  These were the people of the Holocaust looking back from better days.

While the Jews were the main focus of the exterminations, there were displays of other groups singled...gays and lesbians, political opponents, the handicapped, Gypsies and many others. 

There were several moments where I was moved to tears.  I was not alone.  Benches were sparse in the museum and people stood and cried where they were.  And I found myself asking again, why was it so important to be here.

For one I think it is important to remember the lives of those who perished.  It is a matter of paying respect. 

I also believe it was important to me to see the recognize the reality of evil in our world.  And in doing this, the point was not to isolate that evil within Nazi Germany or "bad people" who live somewhere else.  It was important to recognize that all of us have the capacity to hurt or help, myself included.  On any given day, I have the ability to lift someone's spirit or crush their dreams.  That is the nature of free will.

But most importantly, I wanted to come to the Holocaust Museum for the unexpected hopefulness that it provides.  Sad as it was, there were stories of Jews marching into the gas chambers, knowing that they were about to die, singing the prayers of their faith.  There were stories of people and communities that defied the Nazis to provide safe lodging, at the risk of their own lives, to Jews fleeing persecution.  I am touched by such stories.  And in the end, these are the reasons I wanted, perhaps even needed to come, to the Holocaust Museum.  In the midst of such unimaginable tragedy, there are stories of hopefulness and love for one another that emerge from the ruins.

Forest Meditations

Today I drove four hours east from San Francisco to Yosemite National Park.  My first and only stop for the day was Mariposa Grove, the home of the Sequoias.  Along with my trusty camera and a light jacket, I hiked with a copy of a book containing meditations from John Muir's journals.  I was planning to read the entries at various points along the way.

At the first sequoia I found a place to sit and read Muir's words.  Recognizing that some of his writings were inspired by the same beauty I was seeing today made the readings very special. 

But then I recalled Barbara Brown Taylor's book, "An Altar on the World."  In that wonderful book she tells about encouraging students to read a poem to a tree and the ways in which this impacted the students.  I decided to do the same.  So, throughout the next four hours of hiking, I stopped to read Muir's words aloud...to the sequoias, to the chipmunks playing on a stump, to the mist flowing through the trees, to all of God's creation.  And after each reading I gave thanks for such a beautiful place.

Along the path, I came upon five does grazing.  They were not disturbed by my presence.  I was able to get several good photos.  After a while I continued walking and nearby came upon four stags.  Again, they allowed me to approach without darting away.  I left the path and came to a fallen tree right where the stags were grazing.  I knelt down with my knees cushioned by the soft forest floor.  My arms rested on the fallen log, just a few feet from these incredible creatures. 

Kneeling there, I became aware of the familiarity of this pose.  In Mariposa Grove I was kneeling at the railing receiving this incredible gift.  One stag continued forward as I read, coming within ten feet.  It was a holy moment.  I knelt there for perhaps 20 minutes before saying thanks and returning to the path. 

"Nearly all the park is a profound solitude.  Yet, it is full of charming company, full of God' thoughts, a place of peace and safety...I can write only hints to incite good wanderers to come to the feast."  
                  ---John Muir

Dancing From Saturday Night to Sunday Morning

I am a parrothead.  For those who may not be familiar with that phrase, it refers to a fan of Jimmy Buffett.  I have wanted to attend one of his concerts in Indy for a long time.  But, Parrotheads are very devoted fans and they tend to sell out concerts in a matter of minutes.  So, I have never attended a live show.

On the local radio I heard that Buffett was performing on Saturday night in nearby Santa Cruz.  It was worth a shot.  I discovered that there were a few lawn seats available.  I bought one. 

The evening was all that I had hoped for.  Lots of singing, dancing on the lawn and a smile that stayed on my face long after the concert ended. 

With a late night concert, Sunday morning worship came very early.  I wanted to attend the 8:30 a.m. service at St. Gregory's.  I made it into the sanctuary right at 8:30.  The service was a delight.  Wonderful singing and chants, an excellent sermon and prayers and reflections shared by the congregation.  Near the end of the service, we dismissed from the sanctuary and danced to the communion table.  After we had received communion, we danced once again.  It was an expression of our shared joy.

Dancing on Saturday night to the sounds of Jimmy Buffett and then on Sunday morning with those wacky dancing Episcopalians at St. Gregory's.  The joy was contagious and the smile is still on my face.

Feeding and Being Fed

On Friday I walked to St. Gregory's of Nyssa Episcopal Church to volunteer at their food pantry.  This ministry was brought to my attention through Sara Miles' wonderful book, "Take This Bread."  She writes about being inspired to create a food pantry modeled after their Sunday morning communion. Every Friday they surround the communion table with various fresh foods to distribute.  Like the morning communion, everyone is welcome.  No one is turned away.  Presently, they are serving about 450 families every week. 

I arrived around 11 a.m.  The volunteers were sitting down for lunch.  Immediately, Angela, one of the volunteers arose and welcomed me to the table.  I was fed and I hadn't even done anything yet!  Angela told me that she is not a member of St. Gregory's but she appreciates the work they do and volunteers every week.  She also introduced me to Sara Miles, who was equally gracious in her welcome.

Food at St. Gregory's is distributed around the communion table.  There were stacks of food...artichokes, bok choi, apples, bananas, rice, potatoes, yogurt, bread.  It was a healthy offering of food.

As I prepared to distribute the bananas, I was reminded of the communion metaphor.  I looked the guests in the eyes as I offered them the food they needed.  I presumed that if I was a regular volunteer I would have known some of the regulars and would have been able to call them by name, as I prefer to do in communion. 

Most importantly, I was reminded that the word eucharist comes from the Greek word meaning "to give thanks."  And I heard those words repeatedly.  As hungry people received the food that would nourish their bodies for another week, they said thank you in many different languages.

Two days later I would return to St. Gregory's to participate in worship.  We gathered around the same table and were fed once again.  And I was thankful to be fed in so many ways.

Lessons from Cathedral Grove

In the first few weeks, I have had the great opportunity to visit several prominent cathedrals.  They have been breath-taking.  And the insights from each locations have been many.  But yesterday I visited Muir Woods, about 30 minutes north of San Francisco.  It is named after the conservationist, John Muir.  Muir Woods is the natural habitat for the California Redwood trees.  These trees, though not as wide as their relatives, the Sequoias, can grow up to 400 feet tall.  To stand in the midst of such trees is incredible.

A brief hike took me into what is called, Cathedral Grove.  God;s natural cathedral.  And there were many lessons to be found.  Imagine that these immense trees grow from a tiny, fragile seed.  Imagine that it takes the right conditions and care to reach their magnificient height. 

But the most inspiring and meaningful lesson is in what is called the Family Circle.  A family circle is a ring of trees growing in close proximity to one another.  In the center is the original tree which may have died because of decay, fire or other circumstances.  But, when the original tree died, the root system was still alive and strong.  Shoots began to form from these roots, creating a circle of new trees.  The new stand of trees, surrounding the original one, mature from the root system of that original tee. 

With the five mile hike that followed, I had a lot of time to think about the Family Circle.  It was an inspiring thought to imagine that the death of the tree is not the end.  New life continues to be formed and to grow.  The family circle of trees, surrounding the original tree seemed like an embrace, a symbol of gratitude for the original tree that took seed, put down deep roots and grew strong.  Where there was death, there is a now a loving symbol of hope.  God's Cathedral has some of the best lessons!

Labyrinths

I didn't realize the first few weeks would be spent walking labyrinths.  At the Center for Action and Contemplation in Albuquerque, I found an outdoor labyrinth and spent some quiet moments walking and thinking there. Then at the Ghost Ranch another outdoor labyrinth.  Now, here in San Francisco, my first day was spent exploring and orienting.  I was able to find Grace Cathedral with its well known labyrinth. 

This was a great help to me.  I was experiencing a bit of culture shock, having come from the quiet, slow paced lifestyles of the monastery, pueblos and retreat centers into the frenetic pace of a major metropolitan city.  Walking the labyrinth was a good opportunity to remain in touch with that silent center. 

For those who may not know, a labyrinth is not a maze.  It has a clearly defined path from the entry into the center.  I was walking the canvas labyrinth at Roberts Park we used during Lent last year.  After setting it up in the afternoon, I decided to walk.  There was someone in the Fellowship Hall quietly watching me on this path.  At one point I stopped to think and this person watching said, "I think you need to turn left."  I had to smile. 

A labyrinth is a good means to quieting life's distractions and walking and listening.  In the center, walkers are encouraged to remain there and pray or meditate as long as desired.  The center point at Ghost Ranch had several large rocks upon which one could sit and people had left notes and items in the center. 

In a fast paced world, I find the labyrinth a good way to be intentional about slowing down and listening for that still, small voice. 

Acoma Pueblo

I spent a recent day visiting the Acoma Pueblo, about an hour west of Albuquerque.  The Acoma have fascinated me for several reasons.  For one, I love their pottery which features very intricate, almost web-like designs.  On one occasion, I was fortunate to watch one of the women as she painted and found her work mesmerizing.  I also enjoy visiting the Acoma Pueblo because it is situated atop a very remote mesa.  It is very peaceful and relaxing.

Our tour guide walked us through the village explaining their history.  The culmination was the mission church and cemetery which we were not permitted to photograph.  The guide explained that the village had been receptive to the first priest who arrived, throwing rocks down upon him every time he tried to ascend the mesa. It had less to do with Christianity and more to do with their satisfaction with their own traditions and worship. 

With time, however, they did permit the priest to ascend.  The Spanish leaders sought to convert all the native peoples of the territory and decreed that churches needed to be built in all the villages, including Acoma.  One of the tragic parts of this story is that the site that was chosen for the church was atop their kiva, the sacred ceremonial site.  Years later, pueblos throughout the region would revolt and burn these churches.  The Acoma did not.  Although they refused to re-enter the church, they could not burn it down because it was situated on a holy site for their people.  To burn the church would be to desecrate the kiva. 

Now, more than three hundred years later, our guide explained that most Acoma honor both their Christian roots and their native roots.  And the setting for such worship is the same place, the kiva and church located on the same site. 

Perhaps if we excavated the depths of our personal faiths we would discover more compatibility than we realized.

The Balloon Fiesta

For many years I have heard about theAlbuquerque Balloon Fiesta and have wanted to see it in person.  I scheduled my time so that I would be in town to witness this world-wide event in person.  And it has not been a disappointment.  Most of the events take place early in the morning and late at night.  So on Sunday evening I came to the fiesta and watched as hundreds of balloonists inflated their multi-colored hot air balloons.  The culmination was to be a night burn, meaning the balloons would rise above the ground and then light up like a Christmas ornament.  Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate for this final portion, but I walked the grounds watching as balloon after balloon was inflated.  It was a delight to watch.

In the photo above you see one of the traditional style balloons.  But there are balloons of all sizes and shapes.  There is one in the shape of Darth Vader, another shaped like a haunted house, a large flying cow, a heart, Spongebob Squarepants and countless others. The enthusiasm was contagious.  As a balloon was inflated, the crowd would cheer.

I returned the next morning at 6 a.m.  Those who know that I am not a morning person can do the math to figure out what time I had to get up to be there before sunrise!  As the sun peaked over the tops of the Sandia mountains, the balloons were once again inflated and rose into the sky.  I cannot begin to describe what it was like to see hundreds of balloons in the air at the same time.  And one of the things that pilots love about Albuquerque is its unusual wind pattern.  They call it the Albuquerque box.  Balloons can take off in one direction, change their altitude slightly and reverse directions taking them back to where they began.  I watched this phenomenon as balloons returned to the same spot from whence they took off. 

Through it all I felt like a kid, mesmerized by the beauty and tranquility of these balloons.  And while I have fulfilled the desire to attend the fiesta, a new dream has emerged.  I would like to fly in one some day!  How cool would that be!

In Remembrance

The retreat at the Norbertine Center ended on Sunday morning.  Father Angelo would drive me back to the airport where I would pick up a rental car and continue other adventures here in Albuquerque.  But, before I left, there was one last opportunity to worship.  I went to the chapel a little before 9 a.m. to prepare for worship.  Much to my surprise I entered a silent and empty sanctuary.  Finally one other retreatant arrived.  She informed me that the monks had all gone to another church that morning to celebrate the congregation's 25th anniversary.  Fortunately, Father Angelo had volunteered to remain behind in case any of the retreatants wanted to worship.  I appreciated his willingness to remain behind. 

There were three of us in worship, counting Father Angelo.  But, as we came to the Eucharist, the three of us gathered around the simple wooden altar in the middle of the sanctuary.  We spoke a liturgy that was very familiar to my ears.  And in that moment I was reminded of the communion of saints.  At that very moment, the congregation at Roberts Park and others around the world were also sharing this holy meal.  Although there were only three of us at that particular table, we were united with others who gathered around tables all around the world.  It was a pleasant reminder.