I recently broke down and purchased an inversion table. One of those contraptions that flip you over and decompress the spine. Hanging upside down by one's feet is an unusual experience.  After the initial adjustments to inversion (relaxing one's muscles, the pressure on one's ankles, the blood flow difference, and emptying one's pockets prior to doing so) there is a strange comfort with the position. Few of us, beyond our childhood jungle gym antics and a very select group of adult athletes and harder core yoga enthusiasts change our physical positioning more than from somewhere between prone to upright. We live between lying down and standing up. Inverting ourselves even slightly is more than most of us experience, let alone entirely upending ourselves.
Aside from the spinal alignment benefits associated with inversion, the change in perspective offers some insight. While hanging upside down I look around and see things...well, upside down.  The floor is near my head and the ceiling is near my feet.  I scan the room and look at the chairs, the lamps, the items on the table, the books on the shelf.  It reminds me of Grandfather's Mansion at Silver Dollar City, which is a low tech entertainment feature of the park. You walk through a set of rooms and hallways with oddities, like the room that is uneven but all the items are set up to appear level with the unlevel floor, thereby making you and everyone else appear to be leaning. One of the hallways leads you past a window through which you can look at a room entirely upside down. All the furniture is attached to the ceiling made to look like a floor.
Inversion. It's my upside down view of the books on the shelf that reminds me of a book I purchased a long time ago called The Upside Down Kingdom. It takes the approach that the message Jesus proclaimed was inverted from what everyone thinks is important: go the extra distance for someone you actually have contempt for, forgive the person who has wronged you, give more than is required, pray for your enemies (as in pray for their wellbeing, not that they get what you think they deserve), help the ones who can't repay you, expose the hypocrisy of the righteous (which essentially exposes us all), and his counter-cultural list of inversions goes on.  He upended everything, not just each person's pet issues that get them upset and angry, but everything. His inverted kingdom perspective is exhaustive, leaving no one standing upright. He even upended the religious establishment.  All of which is why he was arrested, accused, tried, convicted, and received capital punishment.
The inverted kingdom of Jesus hasn't changed. It is still contrary to everything we think is reasonable and necessary. It isn't difficult to see how well adapted we are to the pursuit of wealth, personal comfort, security, power, self-righteousness (don't think you're excused from this party, we're all guilty of believing our perspective is more right than others), and so many other skewed values.  The only way to see it as it truly is, is to become inverted yourself.  The irony of this is that if you're successful in living according the upside down kingdom, then you're likely to be hung by your heels. You'll be in good company though. Many of the people we call saints are upside downers. One of the qualifications required for canonization as a saint is a miracle: healing someone, casting out an evil spirit, spontaneous generation of food, and so on. I can't think of anything more miraculous than truly being turned upside down by the inversion of the worldly values we too easily adopt and defend.

© 2016 Stephen Carl

As a pastor I have had the holy duty and privilege of being with family when or after a loved one dies. Sometimes these moments have been expected, other times they have been a terrible shock. All are losses.
One such time occurred when I was a new pastor for the congregation I served at the time. I had begun my service there only six months prior. It was a Saturday morning in late July. I was prepared for Sunday worship and my family was scheduled for vacation on Monday. I was contacted by the police department who had been unable to reach the deceased man's wife. Law enforcement, among other duties, are often the harbingers of the news of this sort. I think the officer was relieved that I would step in.
I spent most of that day trying to reach the man's wife, mostly by going to her house. Late that afternoon, after several unsuccessful attempts, I pulled up and saw her car in the driveway. Having one's pastor make an unexpected visit is probably unnerving. At least it was for her. When she opened the door and saw me she said "oh, this can't be good."
Her husband was an early adopter of the organically grown food movement.  He had done some amazing things to push the concept and practice forward, though it was financially burdensome. He had an explosive energy about him, but he also had a gentleness to his character. In the tender time immediately following his death, his memorial service was schedule and planned. I postponed our vacation for following his memorial. As pastors do, I spent time listening, making suggestions, and listening some more.  I prefer memorials to honor the individual, but to also bear witness to the resurrection. This man, in his larger than life way, would have wanted it that way.
Usually I'm able to identify something, some image or metaphor that captures the identity of the person. For this man, I remember talking about the signs I had seen when entering a nature preserve of some kind: take only photographs, leave only footprints. It worked well as I assembled some of the stories I had been told as "snapshots" of his life. As for leaving only footprints, what better illustration of his passion for reducing the carbon footprint?
The service, though a terrible experience given the circumstances, offered some healing balm.  I even recall a man who knew the deceased, but was himself a "religious atheist", approached me after the service and commented on it being the finest memorial he'd attended. He said that he particularly thought the homily was a perfect reflection of the deceased.
A day later my family loaded the car and drove about six hours to the state park where we were going to camp, hike, explore, and relax. On the way, we were still processing the past few days and talked about the experience, including the memorial. The first morning, after establishing our site, we drove to an area of trails and waterfalls, loaded ourselves with the necessary snacks, water bottles and such and began following the paved walkway to the waterfalls. Approximately twenty yards from the parking lot we all stopped and seemed to freeze, starring straight ahead. My daughter, who at the time was about 13, broke the silence and said "that's just too weird." Before us was a large wooden sign with a message routed into it: Take only photographs, leave only footprints.
It was as if a voice from beyond spoke to us in that moment. Of course, the sign had been there a long time, just as there are many others we might have just as easily discovered elsewhere. Still, it was one of those moments that whispers that there's more to what is going on in life than what appears to be going on. Sometimes we get nudges, other times they're shouts, most often though the reminders are subtle hints or clues.  So I have discovered that, along with prayer, alms-giving, fasting, service and a host of other religious endeavors, paying attention is a spiritual discipline.

© 2016 Stephen Carl

I was recently on an afternoon walk on a paved pathway in the woods when I heard an owl hooting and then two woodpeckers on opposite sides of me using their jackhammer heads to drill into trees for bugs. At the end of the walk I was crossing a large, open field when I heard the sound of a waterfall or rapids. Then as I walked under the only tree in the field I realized it wasn't water, but thousands of unshed, dry leaves shaking in the gentle breeze.
In that moment I realized that my keepsake box of memories in my head and heart is filled with serendipitous moments like this: unscheduled, unprepared, unforced, unrehearsed, unanticipated moments in which life caught me off guard and tickled me or splashed water in my face or dazzled me with a grand and overlooked wonder.  Like the universe is saying "are you paying attention?!"
I have another keepsake box of memories that contain the expected collection of moments and events: graduations, recitals, weddings, holidays, birthdays. These are wonderful and special and cherished. But the other box of keepsakes has a different kind of value because it contains moments that even though they happened in the ordinary flow of life, they remind me that none of this is ordinary.
We are on a chunk of space debris hurling along at several tens of thousands of miles an hour in a vast expanse with billions times billions of stars and planets and chunks of stuff, none of which, to our knowledge hosts any other life. And even if we discover there is life somewhere else, that will not reduce the wonder at all, since it will still be extraordinary.
The owl and woodpeckers have beating hearts and reproductive systems and eyes that can see far better than mine because of the uniquely adapted assortment of rods and cones.  Another of the memories in this keepsake box is of sitting for a short break along a meandering mountain trail when backpacking, with an open bag of gorp, my back is sweaty from the pack. There's nothing special about the location. The view, though beautiful, isn't spectacular. Why is this in the box? I haven't a clue, but I can remember the moment. It is shuffled in among memories of holding one of my fevered children who finally has fallen asleep in my arms after an exhausting, stressful day of work; and another is of my toes burrowing into the moist sand on a beach in Texas while leading a retreat with a group of youth; and another of the rich blue sky above the green grass of the outfield at a little league baseball game.
This box of keepsake memories continues to capture moments, some of which I don't even notice when they happen. They are beyond precious or even priceless. They are simple reminders that I am, for some reason, conscious, aware, and a part of something remarkable. Out of this I derive some sense of responsibility, some obligation to be a steward, attentive to my own footprint, considerate of the simple needs others have.
It reminds me of what the Spanish poet Antonio Machado said in reference to Jesus:  "All your words were one word: Wakeup."

© 2016 Stephen Carl

I don't recall the "aha" moment, but it has been a helpful insight in my life and those I've shared it with through the years. I am not sure why it even came to me, since I've never done embroidery or needlepoint. No matter, the illustration that came to me was of a beautiful, serene scene, cross-stitched and framed, hanging on the wall. The scene is of a hillside covered in green grass and flowers. The colors are pastel giving the eyes a pleasant and peaceful image. Perhaps there's even a brief scripture verse, "The Lord is my Shepherd" or "I can do all things through Him Who strengthens me." With closer examination the orderliness of the threads can be seen and though there is a uniformity to the grid, this gives the impression of control and contentment, that life is exactly as it should be.
The actual scene isn't important because the insight of this inspiration isn't in the seen, but in the contrast with what is unseen, even hidden.  Behind the orderly, cooperative threads on the front which produce a scene of all being well, the unseen backside offers a different message. By looking on the backside one sees a tangle of threads, knots, loose ends, and chaos. The scene on the front is still discernible, but it doesn't give the same impression of order, control, and serenity.
We all have our public personas and our private lives, our scenes of order and competence and happiness and strength and fulfillment we display in our attractive frames for all to see, as well as the underlying craziness of loose and frayed feelings, knots of abrupt disappointments and mistakes, tangles of relationships that we shudder anyone will discover.
In our competition for everyone's approval we overlook that others have their backside too. And in the midst of it all we forget about ours, or deny that it's there.  The problem is, it's more real than what everyone is seeing. It is exhausting and even violent to ignore and deny it.  When we do so, we tend to pounce on the opportunity to revel in the exposure of another's dangling and tangled threads, mostly out shame in our own.
I'm not sure where we each conceive or receive our idea of what the front of our needlepoint is supposed to show, but I've discovered that becoming familiar and comfortable with the backside of mine has been more of a blessing than I would have ever guessed it would be. As I have accepted my own tangled threads, I've found I am okay about others knowing they're there, but I've also realized that it has given others permission to be okay about theirs too.  I've also learned that because I am aware of the backside, and even okay about it, that the scene on the front continues to be restitched into a scene of grace far more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

© 2016 Stephen Carl

The English word solitude means "to be alone". It is derived from the Latin solus, which means "only".  It is also related to the Latin word for "sun", since the sun is the "only" source of daylight the earth has.
This connection offers some interesting ideas to consider about solitude, the experience of singular being.
The sun provides light because of the physics of the universe.  Gas, by way of gravity, is pulled together and as more is gathered, the gravity increases. It reaches a point at which there is such great pressure, the gasses super-heat and ignite, producing light. It is "alone", yet visible and influencing planets and anything else caught in its gravity-well. We are in orbit around the "only", but we also derive life from the "only". The "only" is essential to our existence. It's no surprise that the "only" is central to our thinking and living and sense-making. We use what appears to be its movement to describe the beginning and ending of days, events, and eras when we speak of "the dawn and dusk". The "only" is identified as a god in many belief systems.
It is an unusual linguistic lineage that the "only" (solus) led to our word "solitude". It makes sense, but there certainly were other words and concepts that could have been used to identify solitude.  That solus is used clearly separates solitude from loneliness, isolation, separation, even or perhaps especially independence. In truth it is our interdependence that is dependent on our solitude.
The linguistic inheritance of the word solitude indicates something powerful and essential to the experience and engagement of solitude. To be in solitude is not to be isolated or cut off so one has no influence or impact. Instead it is to acknowledge the one-of-a-kind gravity-well each person creates through his or her being.
In addition, each of us is a solus, the "only" us there is. There is no other like the one you are, with your unique light shining. It is our solitude, our "only-ness" that holds certain things in orbit, and brings order and balance to our solus system.
If we neglect, ignore, or otherwise discredit our solus, then chaos results, as the gravity of an "only" is devalued. The sun might as well be devalued. To disregard the solus of another is an act of violence against the cosmos. Each person is a star, shining in the way only he or she is able. Just as we draw light and life from the sun, there are solitudes (individuals) in our lives from which we draw light and life. Without the sun, the "only", we wouldn't exist. Likewise, through the existence and well-being of others in our lives, whose uniqueness is essential, we are each a unique "only". The wonder is that it is the "onli-ness" of each that any "only" can be. We are a community of onlys, each dependent on every other only. When the only-ness is lost, through social pressure to conform, then our own only-ness is diminished and threatened.
Solitude, therefore, isn't about being alone, although being alone helps many in the work of solitude, which is the discernment and practice of being you. It is a way of disclosing the blessing we each receive and are; a way of blessing all the other "onlys".

© 2016 Stephen Carl