a re-new practice

Mid January, I invited our congregation to start a daily morning prayer practice. I had just painted a wall of my study, and rearranged the space getting ready for my sabbatical. I had been saving one of the posts from our old porch for an undetermined project, and had another short beam on my desk that was from the old support structure for the organ at St. Mary's, Cypress, TX. I used part of each to create a little altar for my meditation space.

I used to have these little altars in college, when I was a youth minister at Christ Church Cathedral, Houston, and while I was in seminary. Then we got puppies, and they liked to chew on candles and icons, so the altar went away.

I have a chair that I would sit in for daily readings, but it wasn't quite right for meditation. I meditated only sporadically for years; in Houston (after seminary) it was in my back yard, or along the bayou. More recently it's been on the beach or in my room with a folded towel to help my posture. 

Now, as I prepare for sabbatical, I decided it was time to create a meditation space. It's been popping up all around me, like God is saying, "It's time to get back to this." A friend recommending a TED talk on the Right Brain and meditation, another friend recommending Russell Brand's book Recovery (which we are now reading through together) in which he talks about the importance of meditation, Laura (my wife) going on about how great the Calm App is (with it's meditation guides), a running book that includes the importance of having a meditation practice, and even Flea's memoir. All these sources are outside any churchy related suggestion to pray (which is a constant, though as a priest that can constant can fade to white noise.)

I realize, looking back, that I've been trying to coast along on my past prayer experience. In my mind I rationalize, "Yeah, I know how to meditate; I've done that, checked that box. Got that badge." Maybe not quite that explicitly, but you probably get the point. I've had some form of a morning practice, usually reading from a prayer book while I have my morning coffee; but I was missing the silence; the stillness.

That photo on the wall above my altar is of a waterfall with the sun breaking through thick pine trees. That's where I really learned how to pray. One summer, when I worked in Jasper, Texas, I would go out after work or on weekends to this waterfall, and sit and meditate. (And paint, or write, and always swim.) Toward the end of the summer, I had this very profound experience of falling off into non-being. Like there was no distinction between me an the world around me. Or, like I was connected to everything: rock, trees, air. After that, I went back to my last year of college, and had a few experiences close to that; usually meditating on the banks of the San Marcos River.  Then after I graduated I would meditate, and was able to return to a sense of connection, but never again quite like that.

I have spoken to many people who have had some experience where the veil of heaven and earth seems to have been pulled aside. Some of them stay in touch with that; sadly, many push it aside and get back to what they consider the real world. What could be more real than falling into such close union with God? What could be more real than spending that time allowing God to work in my heart to see the world differently, to be transformed by the Holy Spirit? Metanoia.

So now, with my old dogs who are slightly less interested in chewing up candles, I'm back to the beginning. I'm ready to learn again. Paying attention to those stories and experiences of others, and listening to a teacher. I set my alarm, and wake up to sit still with God. Maybe I invited my congregation to give it a try to have some accountability. Maybe as I become more aware of how important meditation has been to me and is becoming again, I just want to share it.