Childhood’s Faith

Posted on November 25, 2014 by Katie Huffman

The following post was written by Rev. Ed Moore.

Last summer Mary and I moved from Burlington, NC, where we’d lived for six years, to Harrisonburg, VA, so she could begin her new position as Dean of the School of Business at James Madison University. This was something of a homecoming for me, since I grew up in the Shenandoah Valley.

In one of those ironies life occasionally tosses at us, I learned that our new home would be only a mile or so from Massanetta Springs, a retreat center owned by the Presbyterian Church USA, where I’d attended summer camp for a number of years in my childhood (we EUB’s – Evangelical United Brethren – leased the space for a couple of weeks each summer and remained immune to predestination). Now I drive through Massanetta several times a week, after an absence of many years.

I’ve had some of the experiences one commonly does when revisiting a place from childhood. The old hotel at Massanetta looks smaller than I remember it; trees newly-planted when I attended church camp are now mature; the hillside where most of the cabins are located appears steeper; the swimming pool less challenging. Memories formed in childhood and early adolescence had clearly been filtered by the mind, a common occurrence.

Not long ago I pulled into a parking lot at Massanetta and watched a group of kids playing basketball (boys and girls together; the EUB saints of old would have been mortified). As I watched, an unexpected feeling surfaced, a yearning at once deep and troubling. I found myself wishing for the faith I’d had when I was a kid at church camp, the enchanted faith that easily believes timeless truths abound in the Bible; that the parting of the Red Sea really happened; that there is an upward trajectory to the human story that will one day culminate in John’s vision of the New Jerusalem; that the tribal doctrines of my denomination (EUB’s again) came straight from the mouth of God; and that the basic goodness of people and noble institutions could simply be assumed. I longed for the faith which began to erode with my friends’ coming home in coffins from Viet Nam, with classes in intellectual history and biblical criticism in college and seminary and (true confessions) with my early experiences in the pastoral ministry. Elizabeth Barrett Browning felt, I think, a similar longing when she recalled her “childhood’s faith” and “lost saints.”[i]

Advent will soon begin, wisely set by our ancestors to commence in the darkest part of the year. There’s more than just metaphor in this. We need to be reminded that the enchanted faith of childhood must yield to the world of adults with its complexities, ambiguities, flawed heroes and ethical dilemmas. The baby soon to be born in Bethlehem literally incarnates this Truth for us, in his own journey from the manger to Pilate’s judgment hall. I wonder if Jesus ever longed for his lost angels, who rocked the heavens when he was born, then opted out of the Passion.

Those called to preach the Good News this Advent and Christmas enjoy the great privilege of proclaiming a faith that does not deny the power of darkness, but, instead, meets it head on when it appears most potent, and claims there is, indeed, a Light that begins with Mary’s labor pains and cannot be put out, all the might of Rome – and the world’s sin – notwithstanding. Perhaps it’s mere resurgent enchantment that makes me wonder if even Pontius Pilate dwells in that light at last.

[i] Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnet 43. “How Do I Love Thee?” is the popular title.

Rev. Moore is the Director of Educational Programs for the Clergy Health Initiative and an ordained elder in the Baltimore-Washington Conference of the United Methodist Church.

Photo by Flickr user Richard Bonnett, via CC

Update: Pedaling to Stop Traffic

Posted on October 6, 2014 by Katie Huffman

The following post, written by Mark Andrews, is an update to the article he shared with The Connection in April, where he previewed his cross-country bike trip. Rev. Andrews is a Spirited Life Group 3 participant and pastor at St. Luke’s UMC in Hickory.

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What a summer! On June 1, my wife, Denise, and I embarked on our journey across the country, me on my yellow, triple-crankset, Schwinn bicycle and Denise in our car, driving as my support along the way. We began at the waterfront in Edenton, North Carolina and ended at Sunset Bay State Park in Charleston, Oregon. The purpose of my expedition was mainly to take some time away from the parish, to refresh my spirit while pursuing one of my bucket-list items, but I also used this trip to raise funds and awareness regarding United Methodist Women’s efforts to stop human trafficking. While I fell short of my $40,000 goal, there has nonetheless been over $16,000 raised thus far — no small change!

Upon first getting permission for my leave, I was filled with giddy delight, but as the day for departure approached, I began feeling anxious about what I had gotten myself into. Was I physically up to the challenge? What if I failed? What would I say to my congregation? I began to worry about the challenge to which I had committed Denise and myself.

I started off the trip the way I do most projects, trying to get it all finished as quickly as possible. After the first two days of riding almost 190 miles, we arrived in Durham, North Carolina at our daughter’s home, physically and emotionally exhausted from trying to do too much. Lovingly fed and refreshed, I resumed the journey at a more moderate pace the rest of the way.

There were some more long-mileage days, but I averaged about 65 miles, or 100 kilometers, a day — fewer in the mountains of eastern Kentucky, more on the flats of the Kansas plains. But each mile brought “signs and wonders” at the beauty of the United States and the marvels of creation. Traveling on back roads and through small towns granted me a perspective on this country that one misses when driving on interstate highways. Never having traveled extensively, every day was an adventure, as I discovered Mark in mountains what was around each curve in the road, or exulted in the vistas just over every mountain and hill.

Denise and I learned to trust in the providence of God for safety, weather, food and lodging. My bicycle had no mechanical problems. I never even had to change a tire! We found a place to sleep every night, whether in a city park in a tent, in a church fellowship hall made available through the hospitality of its people, and a few hotels. There were a few dangerous and anxious moments in the journey, but all of them were overcome by God’s mercies.

What I enjoyed the most was the simplicity of each day. A recent book detailing Paul Howard’s epic bike ride is entitled, Eat, Sleep, Ride. That title pretty well summarizes the gracious gift this experience was for me. What seems so out of reach these days is at the same time what we need most — Sabbath, solitude, silence and simplicity. These were all characteristics of my time of renewal. I hope to incorporate what I learned this summer into my daily life and my weekly observance of Sabbath-keeping. And I’m still pedaling when I can.

-Rev. Mark Andrews

Photo taken by Denise Andrews in the mountains of Montana

To Love A Place

Posted on June 20, 2014 by Caren Swanson

“Love makes you see a place differently…

…just as you hold differently an object that belongs to someone you love. If you know one landscape well, you will look at all other landscapes differently. And if you learn to love one place, sometimes you can also learn to love another.”
― Anne Michaels

Three years ago this summer my family packed up our modest hill-farm in NH and piled everything we owned into the largest moving van Budget would let us drive ourselves. It took us 18 hours, down the New Jersey Turnpike, navigating through Washington, DC, but we made it–a little worse for the wear, but here. We were that familiar mix of nervous and excited and exhausted that accompanies a major life change. When we had purchased our farm several years earlier, my husband and I never could have predicted that we would land on a hot sidewalk in Durham towing the detritus of our life, and our reluctant daughter. But God’s call can be funny like that.

You see, we were happy in NH, but something there started to unfold that neither my husband nor I could have predicted: we found a church that fit us, in which we could use our gifts. Particularly, one in which my husband could use his gifts. And it became clear that there was more for him to do. More, that would lead us far from our hillside to that hot Durham sidewalk, looking up at a mustard yellow bungalow that we were to make a home in for the duration of his Divinity School studies.

We came because we were called. That much was clear. We would do what we set out to do–Dave would get his degree–and then we would go home again. We were sad to leave our home and family, but hopeful that God would make a way for us in our new resting place. What we were not expecting was to find Home here, to fall in love with our new place.

But fall in love we did. With this gritty city that is remaking itself in an abundance of delicious food, funky music, and great baseball. With the trails along the Eno River, only a short drive from our Durham neighborhood. With the Farmer’s Market and its abundance of produce all year long. With the mountains and beaches that can be reached in a few hours. With our neighbors, coworkers and classmates that we formed friendships with. Most of all, with our little church community that drew near to us in what would prove to be a difficult season.

eno The three years have flown by in a flurry of late nights writing papers, swims in the Eno, stimulating lectures, breakfasts at Monuts, jobs to find, multiplication tables to learn, walks in Duke Gardens, a family crisis to navigate, play-dates to have, deaths to grieve, hymns to sing, births to celebrate, chickens to raise, flowers to arrange…

And suddenly, it is time to go. My husband has accepted a call to pastor a church in Pennsylvania. The largest truck that Budget will let us drive ourselves will pull away from the mustard yellow bungalow next Saturday, with all our earthly belongings packed inside. I was nervous to come. I am so sad to go. The friendships that have been woven, the familiar paths we have worn through this city, all the places to love… We will miss these and so much more.

Following God’s path can take unexpected twists and turns, as any Methodist pastor knows all too well. There are seasons of abundance and there are seasons of need. Sometimes those seasons overlap and collide in unexpected ways. And sometimes we are given the grace to love a place in a way that changes us. When that happens, it can be so, so hard to take the next step, but when we have been changed by love, we can be assured that our hearts will be all the more opened to what lies ahead. Because, “if you learn to love one place, sometimes you can also learn to love another.”

View More: http://urbansouthphoto.pass.us/swanson-family

–Caren Swanson

Images by the author. Lower image by Urban South Photo, used with permission.

Also by Caren Swanson: The Healing Power of Nostalgia

We Will Uphold and Care… Together

Posted on May 30, 2014 by Caren Swanson

We all know that our relationships have a significant impact on other spheres of health in our lives. When we have strong ties to our friends, extended families, spouses, children and communities, a solid foundation for health is nourished. But when those relationships are expected to exist in isolation from each other, too much pressure can be put on those relationships. There can be pressure to have flawless relationships with our children. Single adults can be expected to endlessly serve their friends and neighbors. And we all have seen marriages that are expected to function without the support of community.

This past weekend I drove to Philadelphia from Durham to attend a wedding. My husband was there to support his best friend by being the best man. The wedding was a beautiful mix of style and substance. The bride and groom had the ceremony and reception at a facility that was in the middle of the woods, which lent the proceedings a kind of rough, rustic fairy-tale quality.

The ceremony itself took place in a stone amphitheater that felt like it was built around the time Stonehenge was constructed. It was a beautiful place to watch a couple get married and it felt like their marriage was springing up out of some primal past, up from the rocks and moss and trees. But there’s the rub: we were an audience gathered to watch something good happen. The presiding minister, who my husband’s family knows to be an excellent human being who loves God and has lived his life in God’s service, had played a significant role in the groom’s life. But it became clear over the course of the ceremony that we were there NOT as participants in this sacrament, the liturgy of marriage, but as spectators of someone else’s special moment.

He preached classic sermon texts from Genesis two and Ephesians five, but the message we were left with was that we were gathered there to watch God do something to these two people. The God in the sermon was extremely fond of marriage, so much so that He had instituted it as a rock on which to build in the creation. Marriage was about God, and a successful marriage was one that “had God at the center.” Of course, all of this was good. But as the ceremony and sermon went on, suddenly it became clear to me that at this wedding, something was missing that should have been driving the whole thing: Community.

The group rallying around this couple was not there as the Church (though nearly all of us were practicing Christians and many where actual members of the couple’s place of worship) but rather people meaningfully connected to the couple who had come to watch something wonderful happen to them. Moreover, and perhaps more deeply troubling, the unity and bond of marriage between two others becoming one was not traced back to its source. There was no Trinity. On p. 118 of the Methodist book of worship, the congregation is asked to “do everything in [our] power to uphold and care for these two persons in their marriage.” Marriage in the Methodist tradition is not a thing that happens merely between a couple and God, but one that is supported, facilitated, and affirmed by the community of the Church. It finds its shape and roots and source in a community that is God and is nourished, supported, and guided by God’s body, the Church.

Marriage, like baptism and ordination, is the work of God in the church. Pastors, baptized individuals, and married couples share the distinction of owing their lives to the church. Pastors, if they are to be healthy and whole, need the community of the church to be with them, to nurture and support them, and hold them in prayer and relationship. One of the great difficulties for clergy is loneliness—of being the other within a community–but there is a call and opportunity for pastors, like married couples, to say out loud that they need support, they need care to be whole and human in the midst of the hard work of their vocation.

-Caren Swanson

Image by Caren Swanson

The In-Between Space, Part III

Posted on May 26, 2014 by Katie Huffman

This is the third in a special series on Transitions by guest blogger Rev. Dianne Lawhorn. Click to read the first and second installments.

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Last week, I left you with three questions for discernment in the midst of your transition. Where am I now, what do I want, and what is my next right step?

If we aren’t careful, we’ll rush right through these steps, won’t we? I invite you not to do that today; I invite you to slow down a little bit. If we rush in, things don’t process as they should, and we get stuck. I invite you to take a long, slow breath. I invite you to hold the work that God is doing in you through this season, in prayer. Prayer helps us to process through these steps well. Prayer can be the safe container to hold all the emotions of transition, the place where we trust that God will work to bring us through our transition, accompanying us to the other side, where we’ll be stronger and better for it!I was thinking of a biblical illustration that might be helpful for this time in your life. I kept thinking about the Israelites during the Exodus. This was a wilderness experience that was pretty confusing for them. They weren’t sure which way they should go, what they should do. They had a lot of emotions to process. Should they move ahead to another place without clear direction or should they stay put?

So, what did they do? They pitched a tent, didn’t they? They decided to stay put and wait on a clear direction from God. They committed themselves to waiting & seeking God’s will.

That may be what you need to do during this time, pitch a tent, and prayerfully wait to discern your next best steps. Discernment doesn’t happen in our time, it happens in God’s time. So, don’t rush the process, slow down, pitch a tent- even if it feels uncomfortable to you right now. God is there for you, you can trust God to show you the way. When we slow down, this gives God a chance to show up, to lead us into our next phase. So, we wait, trusting the process, and trusting God to work within that process.

I will borrow the words of that favorite author again as I offer you her prayer for transition:

“I encourage you today, to slowly, move into this new phase of life and ministry. I pray that your heart be refreshed, encouraged, lifted up, and strengthened by the truth that during this season, you’re not walking in isolation from God. God is hunkered down with you in the midst of your steps, and he sees clearly the marked path in front of you. Trust in that abiding, friends, and stick close to the Father. God has something more for you than currently meets the eye. Most certainly, that something will stretch your faith and shape your soul.” -Elaine Olsen

May God’s abiding grace sustain us as we journey through the season of transition together!

-Dianne Lawhorn

Dianne is currently the Minister of Spiritual Formation for the Lydia Group which is a resource for spiritual wholeness offering formational teaching, retreat leadership, and spiritual direction.

Image by Flickr user Geraint Rowland, via CC

The In-Between Space, Part II

Posted on May 19, 2014 by Katie Huffman

This is the second in a special series on Transitions by guest blogger Rev. Dianne Lawhorn. Read the first installment here.

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Last week, I left you with a question: What is it time for now- in the midst of this in-between space?

I believe it’s a time to grieve, honor, reflect, and hope.

The first task is that of grieving. This is a time to allow yourself to feel whatever feelings you are having about this change. It’s not a time to ignore those feelings; you should name them, as you recognize them, as real and significant. It’s important to acknowledge the sense of loss that comes with any change, with the ending of any season. There’s always a measure of anxiety that comes with change because we are facing the unknown. We have a choice about what we do with that anxiety. We can ignore it, unknowingly act it out, or simply choose to hold the anxiety. Acknowledging our anxiety gives us permission to grieve the end of the past season.

This is also a time to honor the passing season, to celebrate the past! It’s a time to honor all of the experiences that you’ve enjoyed with your former community of faith. It’s a time to honor the times you’ve been there for each other and all that you’ve learned from each other. It’s a time to celebrate what you’ve accomplished together and to honor the difference you’ve made in each other’s lives.

This is also a time for personal reflection. It’s a time to remember who you are as a pastor. You might think about what your strengths are. You might recall those teachable moments in your ministry that made you better. It’s helpful to find new ways to talk about your challenges that invite growth and discovery, energizing you for the future. You might consider what you have already overcome, what ground you’ve already trod. It’s also helpful to recall those moments where you embodied your best self, where you behaved as if you were who you want to become. This reflection becomes a resource to help us get through transition.

This is also a time for hope. It’s a time to allow yourself to dream a little bit as you look forward to what’s possible for the future. It’s a time to remember that your story is not over! As we consider our hopes and dreams, we have the opportunity to live into them. When we live into them, they can shape our destiny. They can serve as a bridge to connect past and future. They can help us to determine who God is calling us to become in this next phase of our ministry. This is something that we can really get excited about!

Some questions you might use in your discernment are:

Where am I now? What do I really want? What is my next right step?

–Dianne Lawhorn

Dianne is currently the Minister of Spiritual Formation for the Lydia Group which is a resource for spiritual wholeness offering formational teaching, retreat leadership, and spiritual direction.

Photo by Flickr user Alex de Carvalho, via CC

The In-Between Space, Part I

Posted on May 12, 2014 by Katie Huffman

This is the first in a special series on transitions by guest blogger Rev. Dianne Lawhorn.

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For UMC pastors, we’re all heading into a new conference year. And for many of us, we’ll be moving on to new appointments, which means that we might find ourselves in the midst of a season of change.

We may find ourselves longing for the familiar during this time. While we are hopeful that this season will have gifts to offer, we are quite unsure of what those gifts will be. We find ourselves living in the land of the unknown, where uncertainty resides. As we hang on to the land we once knew, while traversing into a new land, we find ourselves feeling very much “in-between.” The in-between space can feel like a strange place, but there is much we can learn if we “lean into it.”

We live a seasonal faith. With the change of seasons, there is a grief that goes along with letting go of the season that has just passed. And there is a hope that we may grasp hold to the new season that’s arriving to replace the old.

Here are some questions that we might ask ourselves during this time:

What if we don’t want to move onto a new season?

What if we don’t feel ready for it?

What if we’d rather hang onto the season that has just passed?

While we do have the option of holding onto the past, we also realize that it’s better for us to let go of the past and take hold of the future. There is much we can learn from the seasonal nature of our faith that can help us in the midst of transition. Here is a quote from a favorite author of mine about the opportunities that each season brings:

“Each season bares a worthiness all its own… we live a seasonal faith and with that living, comes a time for everything—every joy, pain, frustration, surrender, sorrow, and celebration. Nothing in our lives is exempt from the cyclical process of our winter, spring, summer, and fall. We can choose to walk through these seasons, with little or no effect to our hearts, but we cannot deny the possibility of growth extended to us because of them. Each season of our lives is rife with eternal possibilities. The soul shift happens when we bow low and lean into those possibilities.” -Elaine Olsen

I love that last line, the soul shift happens when we bow low and lean into those possibilities. Our scripture tells us for everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. That means that there is even a time for change, but change is scary, no matter how you want to slice it!

I leave you with these questions for the week:

So, what are your tasks in this season of change?
What is it time for now- in this in-between space?

–Dianne Lawhorn

Dianne is currently the Minister of Spiritual Formation for the Lydia Group which is a resource for spiritual wholeness offering formational teaching, retreat leadership, and spiritual direction.

Image by Flickr user Rick Harris, via CC

Pedaling to Stop Traffic

Posted on April 23, 2014 by Katie Huffman

The following post was written by Mark Andrews, Spirited Life Group 3 participant and pastor at St. Luke’s UMC in Hickory.

One of the hardest things I have ever had to do is admit to my church that I need help. Somehow, through almost thirty years of ministry I had taken for granted that as the spiritual leader of my congregation, I could never admit any weakness or vulnerability. But keeping up that façade of invincibility has been catching up to me in these last few years. In a new appointment with more staff and more administrative responsibilities I found myself less and less able to maintain the persona.

In the midst of this stress I began Spirited Life through the Clergy Health Initiative. At the same time I also took part in a year-long spiritual practices exploration called the School of the Spirit offered through The Lydia Group. These two programs reinforced each other, and one of the messages that became clearer during this year was what Brene Brown calls the courage of vulnerability. Somehow, if I was going to get better I must, first of all, admit I was needy, and secondly, ask for help.

With fear and trembling I went before my Staff-Parish Relations Team, then my Administrative Council, and finally, my congregation, asking for a three month renewal leave. I told them I was weary and needed a rest from my responsibilities, with the hope that I would come back renewed and refreshed to continue ministry. At each announcement, I received from my people powerful signs of grace, appreciative affirmations, and open-hearted permission to do what I needed. Such an outpouring would have never happened had I not admitted my need. And as a result, I have already begun the healing that I had denied myself but so desperately needed.

On June 1, I will begin my renewal leave by climbing on a bicycle and riding from the Atlantic Coast of North Carolina to the Pacific Coast of Oregon. I plan to use this trip as a means of support for our United Methodist Women’s efforts to stop human trafficking. As I ride 4000 miles, I hope to raise $10 a mile ($40,000 total!). Your donations are welcome (Pedaling to Stop Traffic).

Most of all, I am making this trip for me. I want . . . no, I need to do this. I am anticipating a restoration of my soul as I use this time to reflect on my calling and how to fulfill it with greater vulnerability in the years I have left.

But I have already learned one thing — we who serve the needs of others must acknowledge that we have needs of our own, and we must be vulnerable to our congregations if we are ever to receive the help we need.

-Mark Andrews

Walking Together

Posted on March 31, 2014 by Caren Swanson

I had the opportunity recently to walk two different labyrinths. It had been a number of years since I’d walked one, and walking two nearly back to back was a refreshing and grounding experience.

We’ve written before on this blog about labyrinths as a form of contemplative prayer, and I’d encourage you to read that post for more information on labyrinths’ origins and modern use. I personally love labyrinths for the way they tie me to ancient spiritual practice. Labyrinths are found in Greek and Roman mythology, and came into wide use in Christian tradition in the Middle Ages, but they also have been discovered to have their place in ancient Nepalese, Indian, Native North and South American, and Australian cultures. The sense that this pattern and practice is meaningful across time and different religious traditions is very powerful for me — like all liturgy, it is a gift to participate in something that transcends my particular time and place. I also love that the path is laid out clearly before me, with no dead ends or choices to make (so UN-like life!) which allows me to sink into a deeper level of mediation and prayer.

I experienced the first labyrinth during a women’s retreat at Avila, a retreat center in North Durham (for those of you who are local!). Walking the path under tall and sturdy pine trees with the wind in the branches and the sun on my back was so peaceful.

The second one was in Duke Chapel — a large 11-circuit labyrinth made of canvas spread on the slate floor just before the altar. The settings couldn’t have been more different: hushed darkness, candles, the only noise the swish of socks shuffling along the path. And this time my eight-year-old daughter, Clara, was with me.

Walking the labyrinth with Clara is an experience I will cherish for a long time. On the way in, I led the two of us slowly, asking “What do I need?” She followed close behind. I had instructed her to open her heart to God, to pay attention to her breath. An 11-circuit labyrinth takes a long time when walking at a meditative pace. She didn’t seem to mind.

We made our way to the center and found a place to rest. She wanted to sit on my lap. I had told her beforehand that the center represented God’s womb. She understood right away that I meant a safe place, free from harm, surrounded by God’s love. I invited her to open her heart again and to ask God what she needs. We sat like that — me cradling her and us being held together in that prayerful space — for a long time. We started back out slowly, with her leading. On the way in I had given her a special stone to carry, and she passed it back to me as we started out. I held it, still warm from her little clasp, and prayed to see how and where I could best participate in God’s healing work in the world.

Walking out after her, I asked for wisdom from on high to follow her lead in life, to let her teach me how to she needs to be cared for. She walked a bit faster than me, and got ahead of me. I had the chance to look upon her and behold her. I prayed, “God, teach me to cherish her more and more each day. Make me worthy of her. Teach me to mother her with Your love and light. AMEN.”

I think the reason walking the labyrinth with Clara was so powerful is that it was something we could do together, something we could participate in as equals. When I think about passing my faith on to her, there is so much that is difficult for me to explain — so many of her questions leave me tongue-tied. And yet here was a form of prayer that was both simple and profound and that involved our bodies but not our intellects. No special training or instruction was required; she is sensitive and picked right up on the sacred tone of the moment. Afterward we quietly put our shoes back on and filed out in silence, blinking in the evening light. I held back from asking her questions about what it meant to her, though over the next few days she did offer some reflections, and mentioned a number of times that she really liked it and wanted to do it again. That evening as I was tucking her into bed, she shared that it was her favorite part of her day. All I could say was, “Mine too, sweetie, mine too.”

-Caren Swanson

First and third images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons; second image courtesy of Avila Retreat Center

Creating Space For God

Posted on March 27, 2014 by Katie Huffman

The following post was written by Rev. Dianne Lawhorn.

I was participating recently in a Quiet Space Day at the Starrette Farm. These days provide sacred space to encounter God through silence, solitude, and stillness. These days help me to consider my needs for these disciplines. It makes me think about how Jesus sought out this kind of quiet space throughout his ministry. It is obvious that he saw it as something he needed.

Jesus needed quiet space in order to experience rest that would replenish him in mind, body, and spirit. He also needed it to reconnect with his father, to nurture this relationship, to be reminded of the work that was given him. He needed this quiet space because his job was difficult. Jesus had people pressing in on him with great needs. He had work that never really felt complete.

Pastors need time apart for similar reasons. We need rest that replenishes us in body, mind, and spirit. We need time to reconnect with God, to nurture this relationship. We need to be reminded of the work God has given us to do. We need this space because our job is difficult. We have people pressing in on us with many demands and work that never feels complete.

Silence and solitude gives us the opportunity to slow down, to be still, and to get quiet, so that we can hear the voice of God. We need a pause from the ever-constant demands that are placed upon us, to slow down long enough to show up for God, so that God can give us what we need to persevere through challenges. Just as it was for Jesus, it’s our connection with God that is our greatest resource for life and ministry.

This is why we need to create space in our lives for silence, solitude, and stillness. We need to protect this time from getting hijacked by the many demands placed upon us. We need to rest our bodies, quiet our minds, and nurture our souls. Don’t we need this kind of spiritual rest? Wouldn’t it replenish our souls and allow us to re-enter life and ministry refreshed?

Often we deprive ourselves of this gift because we are afraid. We are afraid that we won’t accomplish what is needed if we take a break. We’re afraid that we won’t be able to slow down long enough to enjoy the space. We’re afraid of having to face ourselves and our unpleasant feelings. Sometimes it’s easier to skip it- then our souls miss out on much needed peace. We miss out on the fruits of silence, solitude, and stillness. We miss out on allowing God to give us the strength we need to press on! Quiet space is something Jesus needed and something we need if only we have the courage and wisdom to create space in our lives for it.

Quiet Space Fridays are offered the Second Friday of every month at the Starrette Farm in Statesville, NC. For more details, click here.

-Rev. Dianne Lawhorn, MDiv

Rev. Lawhorn is currently the Minister of Spiritual Formation for the Lydia Group, which is a resource for spiritual wholeness offering formational teaching, retreat leadership, and spiritual direction.

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