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

I recall when I was a wee little sprout, in kindergarten or some daily event at church, having a time when everyone was required to lie down and remain still for a time.  I suspect I fell asleep on occasion, but I don't remember doing so.  What I do remember is how difficult it was to cease whatever I was doing and to remain motionless for ten or fifteen minutes.  I guess this was a routine for those students who simply needed the break in order to maintain the social engagement of school.  It was probably a good way for the teacher to take a quick breather too.  Periodic breaks are a valuable endeavor for all of us, even the extroverts.
The Gospels record that occasionally Jesus withdrew from the crowds, even his disciples.  He withdrew to the wilderness or to a garden. During these times he was deep in prayer and communion with God. Its not that he didn't pray and wasn't in communion with God at all times, but that he withdrew into solitude indicates that there's s difference between the two and a necessity for both.
The first occasion he did so was after his baptism. We are told that he was in the wilderness for 40 days, which scholars tell us is code for "long enough". During this retreat we are told about the temptations he faced.  Other times that tell of him retreating are in the midst of ministry and mission--healings, feedings, teachings, revelations, challenges, disputes, arguments, and the general substance of life.
As a pastor of more than 30 years, I have made my share of mistakes and I've had my share of folk who are keen to point those out. Likewise, I can be my own harshest critic over minor issues.  Oddly, however, if I've had one stellar failure, it has been my lack of practicing retreat, spiritual withdrawal for the purpose of unimpaired prayer and communion with God.  Strangely, though this is true, it is one thing for which I've never been criticized or held accountable. Admittedly, it isn't something I've ever carried any personal guilt for either.
It's not that there aren't those who declare the importance of such retreat, or even gentle (albeit universal) encouragement (as compared to specifically being told to practice retreat). It's just that I have never ever been pressed by anyone--personnel committee, elders, denominational staff, no one--to take the time to do so. Perhaps it is one of those things that people simply assume you know to do, but I think there's more to it than that.
I once had a retired clergy tell me that pastors who don't continue in their academic studies through educational events ought to be sued for malpractice. In essence, if you're not continuing to pursue truth through studies then you are not living up to your professional standards.  There's merit to this, but I think that perhaps the greater malfeasance is the neglect of retreat for the purpose of prayer and communion with God.
There's no clear indication that Jesus retreated in some organized or scheduled way, like setting aside a week every year.  There's something to be said for such regularity and routine. However, praying, especially earnest prayer and communion with God is not the easiest thing to schedule. It often occurs when I least expect it.  It would be nice to be able to drop everything and clear one's calendar and retreat when the Spirit (literally) moves you.  It's another to feel justification to do so.  Oddly, we do so when we're struck with the flu or there's some sort of emergency, but when God sends a bug to infect the spirit, we usually ignore it or shrug it off.
One way or another--either scheduled or serendipitous--retreating, I have to admit, is better than not doing so for whatever reason.  It is extremely arrogant to act as if one doesn't need to do so when Jesus clearly did.  Besides this, I cannot understand refusing the sweet well water of God's presence that is received in such retreats.  It is madness to refuse do so, but that's the peculiar dark magic of madness: we accept the incantation of foolishness despite its ill effect upon us.
If taking ten or fifteen minutes of inactivity and silent stillness for kindergarteners is healthy, I am inclined to believe--especially after neglecting to do so for so long--that practicing retreat for the sole purpose of soul-full prayer and intimate communion with God is healthy in more ways than we can imagine.

© 2016 Stephen Carl

When I was very young, barely old enough to have memories of this sort, I recall being at the grocery store with my mom. Presumably my younger sister was there too, but she would have been in the shopping cart. I remember getting separated from my mom as she shopped. Perhaps I wandered off, or perhaps I stopped to look at something and didn't keep up with her as she moved on. I admit that I would often become enticed by the options presented on the breakfast cereal aisle, in particular the boxes that promised a decoder ring or magnifying glass or plastic race car.  Whatever was the reason for separation, I remember becoming aware of my situation.  It didn't register that I had no way home except for my mom. Nothing registered in my brain except that I was separated from her.  I didn't think "oh my goodness, the one who takes care of me, feeds me, comforts me, provides for me, puts up with me has disappeared and I am all alone!" No such thoughts raced through my mind. What I remember, however, is what I felt: panic.
Panic is a function of the brain, albeit a rudimentary function. It arises from a part often referred to as "reptilian," indicating that it is not as evolved as other areas of our gelatinous neural network.  Though it isn't as highly evolved it still serves a function. It causes immediate reaction to the perceived stimulus of threat.  Such immediate reaction is necessary when there is danger. If we are faced with certain peril, say we are being stalked by a lion, then you're better off responding to the part of your brain that provides the freaked out voice screaming "run" than to wait for your higher functioning neo-cortex to act like a committee which considers all possible scenarios.  There's a reason you don't see committee meetings on the African savanna.
But I digress.  Suffice it to say that when the situation I faced at the grocery store took place, my cognitive development was in its earlier stages. The reaction of panic to the absence of my mother was acceptable.  Despite this, however, I recall doing something that did exhibit the presence and function of my neo-cortex: I devised a plan to locate my mother.  Rather than scream, which would have undoubtedly produced several mothers, as well as store staff, and rather than run up and down every aisle, I figured that if I walked the width of the store while looking down every aisle, then I would find my mother fairly quickly.
As someone who leans in the direction of faith and a belief in God, in particular a belief in God who loves each of us more than even our earthly parents do, I am aware that there are times when I feel separated from God. I will abstain from speculating how such a separation may occur, or even whether God is genuinely not present.  It is enough to know that I experience a separation from God. Such an acknowledgment is a huge admission and is the initial step to reconnection between the aberrant heart and God.  Like prodigals our hearts are prone to become enamored with what we perceive as the most exciting or most likely fulfilling experience or event or even product--like a sugar laden cereal with a cool prize contained in the box.
The first thing that makes sense to do is to reconnect.  And some sort of plan is the best approach.  Since it is unlikely that we can simply walk the width of a store while spying down each aisle to find the deity we've lost, some other approach merits attention.
I won't go so far as to prescribe a plan. I think that though there are some aspects of the spiritual life that are generalized, each of us must design our own unique plan for reconnecting with God when we feel separated.
I trust, however, that though the world is far larger than a grocery store and therefore a greater challenge to navigate in search of God, God is still God and will not abandon us, no matter whether our experience is of being lost, overlooked, forgotten, neglected, or left behind.
Here are the ways I search the aisles for God: Prayer, Worship, Connecting with other sojourners, Reading scripture, Studying the lives of spiritual leaders and emulating them, Service (which always has the effect of humbling me), and Listening (as in paying attention to the signs of God rather than the cereal boxes).
I don't know whether the feeling of being separated from God is a function of my brain and if so, what part, but I know what it feels like and I'm grateful it triggers a desire to pursue the One who knows just where I am, even when I don't.

© 2016 Stephen Carl