With the pretty, new tennis balls

I didn’t have to wait long to find out what happened to my tennis ball. The next morning I was sitting with Mike Lundy at breakfast. Mike has been a host at Laity Lodge for many years. He and I share a spiritual history, having both been Baptists at one time and then moved on to more liturgical traditions. (That’s a small clue to my identity, I suppose.)

Anyway, Mike teaches tennis and bird watching at Laity Lodge. That morning at breakfast he told me that someone had indeed noticed the old tennis ball and used it in a game. It was Andy Gullahorn, who was one of the musicians that weekend.

According to Mike, Andy was playing tennis with some folks early that morning. Surprised to find the naked tennis ball, he served it in their first game as a joke. Those playing wondered where the strange ball had come from, and then it was discarded in favor of a fresh ball.

I was thrilled to hear this from Mike. It made me happy that the old tennis ball had one last volley.

But now I’m wondering what happened to the naked tennis ball afterwards? Did they just toss it aside? Is it still sitting there alongside the chain-link fence of the courts? Did someone hit it over the fence and back into the woods from which it was so recently rescued?

I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I’ve become somewhat obsessed with thoughts about this tennis ball. Was its reclamation and redemption so short-lived? Will it be alone in the woods for another ten or twenty years before some other pilgrim comes across it? I don’t know what this says about me, but I’ve lain in bed at night thinking about the naked tennis ball, wondering where it is now.

I guess it’s out there somewhere. Where else would it be? I think it takes a long time for a tennis ball to completely decay. I found where someone asked how long it takes a tennis ball to biodegrade at wiki.answers.com. The only answer given was “The time it takes you to get a life.”

I guess those of us asking deep, philosophical questions about tennis balls can expect to get precious little respect in this harsh world.

But my point is, the naked tennis ball is still at Laity Lodge, presumably on our around the tennis courts.

So here’s the deal: I’m going to be back at LL next weekend for the Vocation retreat. In fact, I’m teaching a class on creative writing for that retreat. I’m going to see if I can find the naked tennis ball again. I hope Andy Gullahorn didn’t knock it too far away with his racket.

I think the odds are against me. The old ball does rather blend into the scenery without its fuzz. But if I do find it again, what should I do with it?

Leave suggestions in the comments. I’ll post pictures if I find it next week.

Pilgrim.

As I waited for our first meeting to begin, I was a bit apprehensive; the last class of his I’d tried to take had required a working knowledge of either French or Middle English. Who knew what he might ask of us? I was expecting, frankly, a severe academic resplendent in tweed coat and tie, telling us to do things like “Elucidate!” or to “Hazard a conjecture, Mr. Echols.” I soon found that I was mistaken (except, possibly, about the tweed).

Like C. S. Lewis, I’ve tended to be very fortunate in my teachers, and Dr. Jeffrey was no exception. He impressed on me, more than anyone yet had, the difference between intelligence and wisdom, and the importance of having both. He clearly had the former in spades—a Ph.D. in English from Princeton, fluency in over a dozen languages, years of experience teaching across the disciplines of literature, theology, and art history—but he also had a Scottish grandfather, a keen wit, and a sense of humor. He had a way of bringing things out of us (which is, incidentally, one literal meaning of the word “educate”) that we didn’t know were there, of really illuminating a text rather than—as is sometimes the case with scholarly work—condemning it to a slow death by explanation. We were a motley crew of film students and math majors, freshmen, fifth-year seniors, and everything in between, but I think we all came away from that class with something valuable: a picture of what it might mean to think a bit more carefully, read more closely, and pray more thoughtfully.

Dr. Jeffrey will be speaking at Laity Lodge this summer at a retreat entitled “The Way of Wisdom: Explorations from Scripture, Literature, and Philosophy” on July 26-29. I am looking forward to hearing from him again and can only offer you the same advice my advisor did: “Best sign up quickly!”

–Reid Echols

Reid Echols lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife Emily and will be spending the summer as Operations and Media Coordinator for Laity Lodge. He grew up in the Canyon, and, taking his cue from Huck Finn, seldom wore shoes. He graduated from Baylor University, where he had the opportunity to take Dr. Jeffrey’s course on “Great Texts in Christian Spirituality,” in 2010 and will begin a Ph.D. in English at the University of Texas next fall.

The important thing is: you’re going to the canyon!

I arrived early, which is my practice. I need a few hours to settle into the place. And this retreat was a short one – Friday to Sunday. When I first get to LL, I like to explore the boundaries of the retreat center. I like to get off the beaten paths. I’m looking for the edges, the wilderness, the Negev, the forgotten places, or even – with a little luck – something that no one has seen before.

Friday afternoon I reached the far end of the quarter mile jogging trail. I had been counting my steps because I was curious to see how many of my steps make a mile. It seemed like the sort of thing a person should know. I got to 260 steps and noticed a ravine off to the right of the path that I had never explored before. I left a little monument for myself, my own Ebenezer, to document my progress. Maybe next time I’ll come back and finish counting. I still think a person ought to know how many of his steps are in a mile.

260 steps to this point

Entering the ravine, I began to mark my way along its edges, gazing with wonder at the tangle of deep rocks and roots exposed by erosion. Am I looking at 1000 years of earth history? 10,000 years? Is it possible that some of these rocks are newly exposed for the first time in a million years?

So much earth history

Passing through some beautiful wildflowers I came upon a frightening weed, bristling with thorns and spines. This is one mean looking plant. It cannot speak but still manages to communicate a clear message: “Do not mess with me.” I heeded its unspoken advice and gave it a wide berth.

This weed screams, "Leave me alone."

And then I came upon what seemed to be the deepest mystery of the day. A faded rubber ball sitting peacefully and seemingly forgotten in the vegetation. How came this human artifact to this place? I glanced in the direction of civilization and saw the tennis courts in the distance.

A human artifact

Another look at the ball and all become clear. It was a naked tennis ball. A tennis ball with no fuzz left. How long do you suppose a tennis ball must lie in the woods before all of its hair disintegrates and there is no trace of fuzz left even on the ground? One year? Ten years? Laity Lodge has been here since 1961, so it may have been there for quite some time.

Did some wildly errant shot years ago send this tennis ball into exile in the diaspora?

In a move that is typical of me, I personified the ball and wondered if it felt lonely out there, so far away from the sport that gave birth to it but ultimately cast it out. I retrieved the ball and returned it to the courts. I placed it reverently in the bin of new tennis balls. It seemed to me like Rip Van Winkle returning to his people.

Home again after all these years

I wonder if the next person to play tennis will choose the strange, naked tennis ball so starkly out of place amongst his brightly colored brothers. Probably not, but you never know. If there is a mischievous or curious player among the next retreatants, it may be that this ball will be fully reclaimed into its purpose, at least for a volley or two.

That’s the way it is with grace and reclamation, by the way. Redemption is sometimes dependent on the kindness of a stranger to complete a work that has begun in your heart.

Pilgrim

What you can’t see yet is some great new furniture that has been selected, new stone countertops, and a really nice (and heavy…trust us) new rug that ties it all together. Thanks again to Glenn Echols for his ongoing supervision and to Kimberly Renner, our design consultant extraordinaire!

I have followed Lauren Winner, the author, since her debut of Girl Meets God and am a fan, not only of her writing, but also her perspective, her outspokenness, and her humor. Over the last year and a half, I’ve had an opportunity to experience Lauren, the professor, by taking two of her writing workshops.

In the music business, there is an adage: “Those that can, do; and those that can’t, teach.” By the same token though, great artists rarely make great instructors.

I assumed it was the same in the literary world, so I was surprised and happily rewarded to find that Lauren is absolutely as good a teacher as she is a writer. I should have known—her resume includes fellowships at Princeton and Yale, as well as an ongoing position at Duke University’s Divinity school. I have found that experience is the best indicator, and, personally, my learning curve benefited dramatically under her direction. One of my favorite experiences of each class was the opening prayer. In each instance, Lauren’s choice of words was engaging and quite moving.

Though I have long referred to myself as a wordy introvert, I would gladly be part of any retreat she would lead regarding silence and prayer practice. Actually I would gladly be part of any retreat she would lead, period. She will remain an artist and priestess of interest and instruction to me.

-Ashley Cleveland

Join Lauren Winner for a Contemplative Retreat, June 7-10.
Ashley Cleveland will be at Laity Lodge later in June for two retreats: Embracing God’s Peace in a Broken World (June 14-17) and Meandering: Rediscovering the Way of Christ (June 21-24).

But some of the gifts Laity Lodge has to offer will come at you obliquely, sort of from the side. Some of them get under your skin and itch. Others are like seeds planted in your heart where they lay fallow before blooming months or even years later. These less obvious gifts are the mysteries of Laity Lodge. And I count Tim Blanks, the Laity Lodge chef, as one of those mysteries.

In Tim you will find a strange combination of archetypal trickster and master chef. I call him Kokopelli – you’ll have to ask him why. It’s as if Puck came down from the stage of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and started serving hors-d’oeuvres to the audience. Like all tricksters, Tim will not be pinned down in a philosophical conversation for long before he will make a joke or poke fun at you in a gentle, good-natured way. He is intelligent, so his disinclination to be overtly philosophical or theological has a mysterious and wise feel to it.

And his food is absolutely fabulous. There are Laity Lodge pilgrims who look forward to Tim’s food as much as to any speaker.

I can’t explain all that Tim’s food means to the retreatants at Laity Lodge. I’ve only been going there for twenty years, so I’m not experienced enough to understand these things completely. But I can give you a hint that might normally take you three or four retreats to learn for yourself. Here it is:

You must become like a child when you are at Tim’s table.

There are two kinds of people who are fed but do not have to work at meals and serve themselves. Wealthy people who have servants and children. Small-minded people might mistake what is happening at Tim’s table as a luxury and see themselves as important people with servants bringing them food. They would miss the point entirely.

At Tim’s table, you will become a child. You won’t have a choice in the matter.

• You will not plan your meals or select the menu.
• You will not prepare your food.
• You will not serve yourself or clean up afterward.

If you want to eat, you must sit politely in your seat and be served. It’s more humbling than uplifting. The hospitality of the kitchen staff is a gift that is well given. Neither pride nor shame are appropriate responses to it. The only thing that feels right is to receive this gift with a joy and generosity that matches the spirit of the ones who gave it to you.

The Dining Hall at Laity Lodge is, therefore, a perfect and visceral illustration of Grace.

The food at Laity Lodge is a pleasure that can be known instantly, a lesson that can be understood over time, and a mystery that is still unfolding for me after twenty years.

Pilgrim

Jerry said that when we speak of evil and suffering, the conversation is challenging because our perspective is always changing. A thing that seemed terribly bad when you were twenty might not seem nearly as bad when you are forty and looking back on it. Something that seemed positively evil to you when it occurred might be revealed in time to have been only painful and not especially evil at all. Maybe it even turned out to be an essential part of your growth as a human being.

Which perspective is the right one? The immediate perspective or the one years later? The latter is wiser but the former is more in touch with the painful reality of the moment.

Jerry wasn’t talking about bad things becoming good things. He is not an ethical relativist. He was pointing out how hard it is for us to grasp the ultimate reality of evil, mired as we are in our limited and admittedly selfish viewpoints.

I think I’d like to stop for a moment and acknowledge the reality of evil things that are so terrible they transcend perspective. The murder of a child, for example. There are evils that pierce our reality so sharply and cut so deeply that no amount of perspective can change our understanding of them. You can travel across a continent and your perspective of Orion’s belt will not change appreciably, nor does the tragedy of a child’s death diminish because time has passed.

Jerry’s thoughts on evil and perspective reminded me of Einstein’s theories of relativity and the speed of light.

Imagine that you and I were in the empty trailer of an 18-wheel truck traveling down a highway at 60 mph. If I threw a baseball at 40 mph from the back of the trailer to you at the front of the trailer, we would see and experience the ball moving at 40 mph from our limited perspective inside the truck.

But imagine if we pulled back from the event and saw the truck from the point of view of a man standing beside the road. If the trailer walls were transparent and I threw the ball at the exact moment we passed the man, from his perspective the ball would be traveling at 100 mph, the combined speeds of the truck and the thrown ball.

Should we say that the “real speed” of the ball is 100 miles per hour?

What if we pulled back farther from the event and saw it from the point of view of an observer floating in space above the earth? Then we would see that the earth is rotating at about 1000 miles an hour near the equator. In an amazing coincidence, our highway is on the equator and our truck is traveling in the direction of the earth’s rotation.

From this new point of view, the ball is traveling at 1100 miles an hour. Is this the actual speed of the ball?

But what would we say if we knew the earth is also rotating around the sun at a speed of 67,000 miles an hour and our solar system is rotating around galactic central point at a speed of about 490,000 miles an hour? Given that there are even larger movements we are unaware of because of the primitive state of our scientific understanding, can we ever really know how fast this ball is traveling?

No, we cannot. That’s why Einstein says everything we observe is relative.

Well, everything except one thing. One magical, wonderful, enchanting, and impossible-to-comprehend thing called light.

Light is somehow different. If we were to return to the trailer of our make-believe truck and imagine that I turned on a flashlight at the back of the trailer and shined it at you standing at the front, the light from that flashlight would move toward you at a speed which we can approximate as 186,000 miles a second.

Here’s where things get funky:

If we pulled back and watched this event from the point of view of the man by the road, the speed of light coming from the flashlight would NOT be 186,000 miles a second plus 60 miles an hour. It would travel at the same, constant speed. And even if we pulled so far back that we were watching this event from outside our solar system, with the speed of those cosmic movements making my flashlight travel at an enormous rate, the light coming out of my flashlight would still be traveling at 186,000 miles a second.

In the words of Liz Lemon, “What the what?”

Doesn’t this make light seem like it doesn’t really belong in our universe at all? It’s as if light is God’s personal pet that exists partly in our reality and partly in a greater, eternal reality. Like God is tossing sticks from eternity into the pond of our existence and his pet light dog is jumping in like a cosmic Labrador Retriever, romping around and shaking droplets of light everywhere.

For all I know that’s exactly how stars are formed. I would not be the least bit surprised and, frankly, I expect the origin of stars may well be just that astonishing.

Okay, take a deep breath now. Because I’ve gotten over 1000 words and they tell me the attention span of internet readers is really short, so I’ve got to bring this thing home in a hurry.

All I’m saying is this:

If I don’t know how fast a baseball is moving or know how to gain a good perspective on evil, it’s probably because I’m a pretty small creature in this universe. Which isn’t my fault, by the way. I’m bringing the best I have to these questions. I’m just really really really really dumb from a cosmic point of view.

And while it may be interesting to ask questions like “If there is a good God why do bad things happen?” what hope do we have of finding meaningful answers?

So if you’re asking that question and are really angry about all the bad things that happen in our world, I’ll listen to you. I’ll cry with you. I’ll sympathize with you. But I don’t have any answers. And if you keep going on and on about it, I’m probably going to lose interest because I don’t have much of an attention span either.

After a while I’ll get tired of listening and stare off into space. It’s not that I don’t care about the question of evil and God anymore. It’s just that I keep imagining God standing in a giant meadow filled with cosmic pools of reality, throwing sticks to Lumos his light dog who is shaking stars all over the sky.

Pilgrim

I am a firm believer that at any given retreat, what happens outside or even underneath the Great Hall is as important as what happens inside it.

For several years we’ve been discussing the need for additional space at Laity Lodge appropriate for after-hours conversation and fellowship. With the help of some trusted friends and our gifted colleagues led by Glenn Echols, we are converting the Library space below the Great Hall into a more intimate and comfortable gathering place. The walls will still hold plenty of books, but in a much brighter and more open setting, with refreshments nearby and a large deck that will wrap around the entire room.

The new deck overlooking the river.

Inside the library during construction

We hope the renovation will be completed in the next couple of months, and we can’t wait for you to enjoy this new space.

Steven Purcell

In my dream world, the Church would be exactly what these people need. But the American Church is as noisy as the rest of the world. And that doesn’t really matter because no one wants to go to church anyway.

Christianity is on the outs these days. People outside the Church don’t seem to think we have much to offer them. We’ve even become the subject of sitcom humor. The stock Christian character on television is a one-diminsional buffoon spouting silly platitudes and representing the worst kind of intolerance and bigotry. I think the jokes that sting the most are not the ones that poke fun at our hypocrisy but the ones that portray us as hopelessly outdated, terribly naive, and even harmful to the general welfare of the populace.

Yes, there are a significant number of people who see us as harmful. They feel their children should to be protected from our influence. If that’s shocking to you, you’ve not been paying attention. And here is more bad news: we didn’t get this reputation overnight, so we won’t be losing it anytime soon.

I think there are a couple of mistakes the Church needs to avoid as she reacts to her plummeting numbers in the opinion polls.

First, it is a mistake to argue about whether or not we have earned our bad reputation. I’m inclined to think we did earn it with manipulative shortcuts to spiritual growth and theologies based on expediency instead of truth. But it doesn’t really matter how we got our reputation, does it? That’s what people think about us, and we aren’t going to argue our way out of this.

Second, it is a mistake for the Church to panic and try to become whatever it is that our culture wants. The Church fails miserably when she tries to compete with rock music, pop psychology and Disney. Those are not our games and we end up looking desperately derivitive when we try to emulate them.

But there are some things that we do well. Music forms that developed organically in our spiritual tradition are unique and compelling. Old-time gospel music and the soaring harmonies of cathedral choirs are beautiful to believers and unbelievers alike. Silence, meditation, prayer, waiting, and other spiritual disciplines are not things that people will easily find outside of the Church. If we can slow down and live in these classic forms of our faith, eventually the spiritually starved people of our culture will come to be fed.

I mean, if someone is so hungry for peace and quiet that she will pay $2000 for a night with no television, perhaps her soul is crying out for God.

The thing is not to let ourselves become so desperate and indebted that we are in a hurry and feel we must compete for the whimsical attention of the masses. The Church does not exist to provide sound bites of theology and shiny distractions to people who show up on Sunday morning looking for an hour of amusement.

Let people grow hungry. Let them have their fill of this world and come to us when they have consumed all that our noisy culture has to offer and found that their appetite has not been sated.

And on the day they arrive at our doors, hungering and thirsting for something they cannot name, let them find us abiding in our deepest thoughts, practicing our ancient disciplines, dividing our esoteric words of wisdom, and living waist-deep in our poverty.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if the American Church could embrace a radical idea like that?

Pilgrim

I haven’t exactly settled on what kind of ministry I will do in the future. I haven’t even found a church to join yet. And it’s not that I haven’t tried. I go to church almost every Sunday. But I’m still in a state of confusion.

I walk into a church and feel rather lost. I see people rushing around, preparing things before worship starts. I know they are church insiders, because I used to be a church insider. I shuffle down a row and sink into a pew. I used to plan worship and be a part of making it happen on Sundays, but now I hardly understand what’s going on. It seems so incredibly busy. And I worry a bit about the ones in charge. I hope their souls have remained tender and open.

I’ve decided that I’m in a child-like season, where I’m supposed to forget that I went to seminary and allegedly know what’s going on in church. I have fallen backwards into the wide arms of the Church universal, trusting that she will catch me and hold me and accept me, a sinner and a wandering soul.

I have consequently entered a delightful state of innocence. I sit in the pews, watching what the big people are doing and learning simple lessons.

I have been to Orthodox churches – Russian, Greek, and Armenian. I have endured the grueling rigors of their uncompromising worship and done so as an outsider to their communion. The Orthodox hold their boundaries carefully; none but an Orthodox may take communion. I don’t begrudge them their integrity. Indeed, I delight in it and have been inspired to consider my own spiritual boundaries.

The pilgrims of a downtown Episcopal church reintroduced me to the joy of worship after about a year of drought. It was midnight, Christmas Eve of 2011. The lights dimmed and all the saints knelt before the Christ child. Last of all even the priests in their vestments knelt, and I felt a sense of wonder and awe at this moment. So deeply was I moved that I began sobbing and found it hard to stop.

I have sat in silence with the Quakers many Sunday mornings since 2010, waiting and listening with the Friends. Occasionally Spirit moves someone to speak. The Quakers are teaching me to love silence and enjoy the time of waiting. It seems amazing to me now, how much I used to talk when I was a pastor.

And then there is the beloved communion of saints connected to Laity Lodge. We are scattered in a delightful diaspora across the world. Steven Purcell is our pastor and shepherd, guiding us carefully through our weekends by both attending to our needs and leaving us alone. Tim Blanks is our deacon, setting the table and freeing us from mundane concerns of the body so that we might care for our widowed and orphaned souls.

And you who read my humble words. Whether or not you have joined us at Laity Lodge, I feel we share something that makes us a kind of virtual community. May the Spirit of God be with you in 2012. And should circumstances bring us together at the Lodge for a weekend retreat someday, I hope to break bread with you at Tim’s table and share the sacrament of conversation with you in the canyon.

Pilgrim.

The closer look is the practice of zooming in until familiar objects become strange landscapes with surprising beauty and deep lessons. The closer look often means getting on your knees or laying on the ground. It is the more difficult discipline. It takes some effort to hike down a mountain, but any sound or thought can pull you out of a closer look. All you have to do is lift your eyes to reclaim your former life.

Do you have the perseverance to find something unique in one leaf, pulled from a tree full of leaves that any reasonable person would say are identical?

Or did you want to be a reasonable person?

Both the long view and the closer look are contemplative luxuries we sorely need but rarely embrace. We live our lives in the middle view. There are trees – if we notice them – but forests and leaves are almost incomprehensible to modern humans.

Because Laity Lodge is set deep in a canyon, I find it lends itself more to the the closer look. This is a place that calls us to radical introspection. Rub your hand along the rough rocks of the fountain and suddenly your life appears at the end of your nose. Will you embrace a searching and fearless encounter with yourself on a weekend in the cleft of a giant rock? The secrets of your heart may remain stubbornly hidden unless you prove your resolve by first looking into the heart of a pebble.

Peel some bark from a Juniper and smell it. Taste a blade of grass. If you are lucky enough to stumble across some chili pequin in season, bite one and feel the pain. Pull a naked wildflower close enough to see its stamen and pistil and try not to blush. Every small thing at Laity Lodge mocks the skimming and hurried glances of reasonable people.

Have you seen the curious pattern of stones in the chimney of the Great Hall? Have you wondered about the person who laid them? What strength of spirit gave him the freedom to abandon straight and expected lines? Have you gotten on your hands and knees to feel the lovely flagstone floors of the Halls, Great and Dining? Have you descended the staircase of Black Bluff to the bottom and seen the dwelling place of Kokopelli?

Listen to me now. This is important:

You cannot live well in the middle way. The Via Media makes for good neighbors and practical politics, but if that is all you allow yourself, your soul will whither. If you never pull your eyes up to see the mountains or down to see the grain in your leather shoes, you will live the life of a drone, a lock-step marcher, another person living a decent and altogether reasonable life of desperation.

Do what you must to buy some time. Sell your possessions and give your riches to your poor soul. Endure the stares and giggles of reasonable people. But for God’s sake, open your eyes.

You will never see anything…

The outside fireplace at Laity Lodge

until you open your eyes…

cock your head to the side…

and take a closer…

look.

Pilgrim

But never fear, intrepid traveler, for Pilgrim is here to give you the straight dope on the secrets of Laity Lodge.

1. There is soap in the rooms but no shampoo. So make sure you bring your own.
2. The coffee is fabulous, but if you’re more of a soft drink person, there is a soda machine near the bookstore. It’s around the corner and tucked into an alcove, so many visitors don’t know it’s there. More good news: the sodas are only 25 cents.
3. There is no mobile phone service in the canyon, so your phone will be useless, thanks be to God. But there is unsecured wireless internet in and around the Great Hall. I think the staff have mixed feelings about the internet, so they might not mention it.
4. If you forget your shampoo, toothbrush, or something like that, the office is officially the world’s smallest HEB store. They have a lot of personal care essentials there. Just ask. They probably have what you need.
5. Ask Tim, the chef and chief of operations, about Kokopelli. Tell him I told you to ask.
6. Lately – and I don’t know how long this is going to last – someone has been putting out a little basket of Candy Corn in the office. You can pop in whenever you like for a handful. Last time I was there I pretty much ate the whole basket myself. I was in and out of that office so often they were calling me the Candy Corn Man.
7. If you go into the kitchen after hours, you can sometimes find dessert leftovers. Not that I needed them after all that Candy Corn.
8. There is a Native American midden right out in the middle of the retreat center. You won’t see it unless you know what you’re looking for. The staff doesn’t talk about it because they don’t want people digging around in it.
9. Can’t find something you want to read in the bookstore? There is a very cool library underneath the Great Hall with an interesting collection of books, many by authors of the mysterious Chrysostom Society that meets once a year at Laity Lodge.
10. There are black squirrels that look like they came straight out of Mirkwood. They are black as Halloween cats and very shy, so you have to keep an eye out for them. I’ve only seen one or two in all my years there.
11. There is a shuffleboard court, but I’ve never heard anyone mention it or seen anyone play. The introverted contemplatives who are attracted to Laity Lodge seem to be more into the art rooms and hammocks.

That’s just a few of the small secrets I’ve learned over the years. I’ll dish some more in a future post. But for now, if anyone has been to Laity Lodge and wants to tell us a secret, leave them in the comments!

Pilgrim

That’s why I say that Laity Lodge is both a beautiful and a dangerous place. You can get hurt here. The retreat leaders are not safe. They are good and righteous people, but no, they are not safe. They might rub salt in an ancient wound or, if they can’t find one of those, open a fresh wound for you.

That kind of honesty sometimes hurts. But it’s the sort of pain that leads to deep joy, the good stuff. The surprising, full-bodied and robust burst of pleasure that wells up inside you until you laugh and cry at the same time.

I’ve known this about Laity Lodge for some time now: that it can hurt you. So I’m asking myself why I chose to come to the Food Retreat. Because I have not been particularly healthy with food and eating in my life. It’s been a little secret of mine, this bad eating. I have a tendency to see every meal as an opportunity for pleasure and escape. Lunchtime comes and I say, “Hmm, what do I most want to eat right now?” Then I go and get that food, whatever it is. I also tend to eat compulsively, cramming cheetoes or some other horrible processed food into my mouth in a ridiculous attempt to silence a demon or deal with my anxiety. And even when the food has lost its taste and clearly is making me feel worse and not better, I keep eating.

And now I’m at this retreat listening to Cliff and Christine Warner talk about their family with its wonderful Sabbath tradition of sharing carefully planned meals with their children and how they like to invite friends over for nutritious, locally grown, beautifully prepared meals that feed both body and soul. They seem to be living Babette’s Feast while my life looks like the cafeteria scene from Animal House.

Like I said, sometimes coming to Laity Lodge can hurt. This is one of those times for me. I was struggling with feelings of regret and feeling overwhelmed by all the changes I need to make to the ways I relate to food. Then we were brought into the dining hall where we spent an hour in a guided meditation with an onion. Seriously, we spent an entire hour with this onion. We peeled the outer layers of our onions and examined them carefully. We smelled our onions, talked about onions around the table, then carefully pulled them apart, section by section, and laid the sections out on display.

Which is kind of how I was feeling. As if I had been filleted and laid open, my inner secrets being revealed, not to others, but to myself.

It turns out that the thin, desiccated layers of skin on the outside of an onion used to be the inner layers, plump and full of juice. An onion grows from the inside, forming new layers deep within its core. As the outer layers are pushed to the surface, they lose fluid and become thin and papery.

To get to the meat of an onion, you have to peel away things that were once alive but now are dead.

Later on the front porch I watched Tim preparing the BBQ that our group of retreatants were soon to enjoy. I smelled the onion on my fingers and in that moment, the truth I will take away from this retreat was revealed to me.

I don’t have to become perfectly well with eating and food right now. I just have to peel back a little dead tissue, find something alive and well on the inside, and make one small move toward health and goodness.

Pilgrim.

My Onion

You can write on onion skin. Who knew?

Layers

The rooms and facilities are sealed up nice and tight. We’re not talking about rickety buildings with animals running amok. But yes, when you are walking around, you might see a scorpion. I put your chances of running into a tarantula at about one in five, depending on the time of year. There’s an ancient raccoon that is completely unafraid of humans. The window at the back of the dining hall tends to attract moths at night, transforming it into a raccoon buffet. He will happily eat while you sit nearby watching.

I wouldn’t recommend trying to pet him though.

In all my years of going to Laity Lodge, I’ve only had one encounter with a mouse. Just one encounter in 15 years. But it was something I’ll never forget.

It was at a retreat back in 2008. I was in the Great Hall helping with preparations for the communion service on Sunday morning. Communion is always served on a beautiful antique table. I was about to set out the wine and bread when I noticed a single mouse dropping right in the center of the table.

The "present" left by our little friend

You may be wondering why I would take a picture of such a thing. It’s a fair question. I took the picture because I was reminded of something I once read about nativity scenes.

Modern nativities generally have a stable with a few figures and a couple of animals gathered around the manger. Nativities from the 17th and 18th centuries in Spain and Europe often depicted the entire town of Bethlehem. The stable with the baby Jesus was only a small part of the whole.

And sometimes, squatting behind a door or hiding in some lonely corner of Bethlehem, you would find the Caganer.

The Communion Table at Laity Lodge

The Caganer was a well-known nativity figure. He wasn’t as important as the Christ child or the Magi, but he was important enough to have an official name. The Caganer was person with his pants down…how shall I say this?…taking care of business. Defecating. It was a common game for children of that time to try and find the Caganer in the nativity. It was kind of a 17th century version of “Where’s Waldo.”

“But why, why why,” you say, “Why would they put such a thing in the nativity, of all places?”

I’m not sure how the Caganer tradition got started, but people of that era tended to be unashamed of earthy realities. They lived with death and human odors and bodily elimination in ways that are lost to us because of our technological conveniences. Their world – and consequently their religion – was not as sanitized as ours.

And that’s not such a bad thing. When religious practice becomes too cerebral, too lofty, too separated from the body, we get out of balance. When that happens, God has special servants who bring things back down to earth.

Children have a natural affinity for this kind of spiritual work. I was in a church service once when a little boy returned from the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and six feet of toilet paper sticking out of his bottom and trailing down the aisle like the devil’s own bridal train. First there were horrified gasps, and then the laughter started.

We are only human, after all. Sometimes we need a little reminder of that.

I like to think of the mouse who left the unexpected element on the communion table as the Laity Lodge Caganer. One of God’s small creatures with his own special calling.

Twas the night before communion
And all through the house
God’s children were sleeping
Except for one mouse
He crept to the Great Hall,
Mounted the table with care,
And left us a small, mousy present there.

Friends, I do not know the mind of God. But if God’s attention was drawn that night to our little mouse and his nefarious, after-hours activities, I bet God was smiling.

Heck, the whole thing might have been God’s idea.

Pilgrim

Still, even in this introvert’s paradise, you may find yourself craving a deeper solitude. If you do, I recommend a secret hideout. I have one. I’ve never told anyone about it, but if you’ll agree that I get first dibs if we’re ever at a retreat together, I’ll tell you where it is.

The journey to my secret place is as important as being there, so I want you to imagine that Laity Lodge is a city. The Great Hall and the dining room would be downtown. The office is the mercantile concern. The fountain is the city square where locals gather to talk. Head out past the suburbs, through the community center with the fireplace and ping pong tables. Soon you’ll be on the edges of the city proper. After a short walk through the woods, you’ll see the Cody Center, which is a frontier outpost. The art buildings are hermitages. Ahead you’ll come to the last sign of civilization – the walking and jogging trail.

Follow that trail to its end. Gnarled and ancient trees lie beyond. I think this part of Laity Lodge best symbolizes the spiritual journey. You have travelled the beaten paths as far as they will take you, but the most exciting stuff lies ahead. What might be in the untamed woods before you? Bushes aflame with revelation? Mountains shaking with the presence of the Divine? A cleft in a river rock into which you might squeeze as the robe of God goes by? I mean really, who knows what’s out there?

The end of the trail.

Leave the trail and go into the wild woods. The river will be on your left and an interesting ravine on your right. When you can go no further without trouble, turn and make your way down to the river. I won’t tell you the way will be easy, because it isn’t. There will be scratchy bushes. You may get dirty. Just get to the water however you can.

At the river.

You are now on the Frio river well below the dam that creates the picturesque scene you see from the Great Hall. Aeons have carved two shelves in the bank. An upper and a lower one. Turn left and start heading back toward Laity Lodge. Walk on the lower shelf close to the water. It’s like another world. You’ll see strange rock formations. You’ll find odd plants that grow upside down, their greenery jutting from below the shelves and curving upwards, reaching for light.

The lower shelf. Strange rocks and upside down plants.

Go past the magical place where water springs from the rocks and ferns abound. Yes, wild ferns in the Texas Hill Country. They are rare in these parts, but you can find them here. Beside a small waterfall you will find my secret hideout and the solitude you seek.

Pilgrim.

Video: My Secret Place

But don’t take our word for it. Have a look at what some of the people from the retreats are saying:

The Artist Retreat

Bob Carlton writes about swimming in the famous Blue Hole.

Blue Hole panorama by one of our retreatants.

Our own blogger, Pilgrim, posted a blog entry live from the retreat.

Caroline Coleman’s devotion, inspired by the weekend.

Paul Soupiset created this short film about water, inspired by Ian Cron’s morning devotional thoughts.

The Writer’s Retreat

Blog posts from:

Sandra Heska King

Carolyn Counterman

Diana Troutwein

Bradley J. Moore

Kelly Sauer

The annual Artist Retreat is when the wild children of Laity Lodge come out to play. It’s kind of funky, kind of edgy, kind of cool, kind of not for everyone. I liked it though. Ian Cron and Luci Shaw facilitated the retreat and led us in our closing worship. When I went up to receive communion, one drop of wine landed on my hand. I felt like a smuggler stealing a ruby from the king’s treasure as I walked back to my seat. I turned my hand back and forth, watching the light play on the wine. Then I glanced around to see if anyone was looking and licked it off with the very tip of my tongue.

I thought it was a respectful thing to do. The elements of communion should be consumed or dealt with in a careful manner. One wouldn’t want to wipe the blood of Christ onto one’s jeans, is what I’m saying.

Ian told us the Franciscans have their own way of respecting the leftover elements of this meal. It’s based on the words of Saint Paul, who said that all of creation groans in labor pains, waiting for redemption. Accordingly, the Franciscans feed the remains of communion to the animals, inviting brother squirrel and sister sparrow to join in the meal with whatever level of understanding they have.

I think their understanding is limited to “Yay food!” but that’s okay. We all bring what we have to this table.

To close our service, Ian invited us to take the leftover bread outside for the animals. “I am SO feeding the turtles,” I said to myself as I headed for the table. I got a chunk of bread and went out to the balcony. Others joined me, and soon the catfish down in the river were feeding with gusto.

But there were no turtles. I waited, hoping some would show. But they didn’t. Turtles can be shy that way. I nibbled my chunk of bread until it was round and about the size of a poker chip. Then I threw it out past where the fish were feeding, hoping maybe a turtle would find it.

Ian came and stood with us, watching the fish thrashing below. Just as I turned to go back inside, he said, “Hey, a turtle.”

Given my state of mind these days, the arrival of this turtle seemed to be a miracle. Here he came, paddling across the river, attracted to the sound of feeding fish. I tossed some bread down near him and we all watched as he approached it. He poked at it hesitantly. We called out from the balcony to urge him on, and then he took a bite.

Ian said, “That’s about the holiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And I would agree.

god rest me gentle savior
im hoping to abide
with tiny creatures of this earth
so small we cannot hide

Pilgrim

Worship with Ian and Luci at the table

I think the one on the right is the one that ate the communion bread.

Steven Purcell opens retreats by saying,

“We have an agenda this weekend, but we don’t have an agenda for you.”

I like that. In fact, I’m skipping out on the second creative workshop to sit here in the dining hall and write this.

This morning in the devotional time, Ian asked us to leave in silence and go to water. Find water somewhere. The river, the fountain, one of the many trickling streams. We were invited to spend an hour in silence with water and then come back.

My first moves were elemental. I drank water and made water. Then I went to the fountain. One of the retreatants, whom I ate dinner with last night, forgot that we were supposed to be in silence. He said something to me and burst out laughing. The sound was jarring. Then he remembered that we were keeping silence and looked sheepish. I felt a flush of love for him in that moment.

I sat beside the fountain and listened to the sound of water.

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve had a hard time hearing from God these days. With the sound of the fountain behind me, I let myself consider how much water reminds me of the Creator.

mystery of the ages
you are soft as a babys lick and hard as a glacier

your presence is slaking
your lack is drought
our desire a panting need

controlling your spirit is folly
churches are beaver dams

this much I can say
i am here
i seek you in the small places
i will wait forever

Pilgrim

It’s really strange. One day I’m leading worship, and the next day I have no idea what the church people are talking about.

I came to some understanding of my situation three weeks ago at the Laity Lodge writer’s retreat. It was Friday morning and I was throwing bits of a sandwich to an enormous soft shell turtle from the balcony of the Great Hall. Suddenly I felt like Jesus was standing next to me. I didn’t dare look at him. I just kept watching the turtle.

“You owe me some serious penance for the sin of being a preacher for all those years. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

I didn’t say anything. I just nodded and threw a chunk of sandwich at the turtle. I did know what he was talking about.

Preaching is dancing with the devil. It’s a hazardous occupation. Maybe people get something out of your sermons – I will allow that possibility – but you are at considerable spiritual risk. For ministers I recommend reading James 3:1 a couple of times a year and regularly checking your dance card to make sure you’ve saved the last waltz for Jesus.

Because God knows who you’ve been dancing with to get the job done every week.

I have many preacher sins to atone for. I used to take enormous pride in my sermons. Perhaps I thought I could build a tower of words to the heavens. Maybe God has confused my speech.

For twenty years I was in charge of worship. It was an event to be planned and controlled and fretted over. The problem is, once you start trying to control worship, you take yourself out of the event. No wonder I can’t hear anything on Sundays. I’m out of practice.

Jesus leaned over the balcony and let a gob of spit drop. We watched the wind jerk it sideways, just before it hit the water.

“So anyway, yeah, that’s why you can’t hear anything in church. That’s your penance. It’s the price you must pay.”

“Okay. How long till I can hear stuff in worship again?”

No answer.

“I mean, it’s been 18 months, so it seems like a long time already. But I guess even longer, huh?”

No answer.

I threw another bit of sandwich into the water.

“Do you still like me?”

No answer. But Jesus reached over for a piece of sandwich and said, “Let me throw him some.” And something about the way he did that let me know that we’re okay.

The next morning we gathered for a time of devotion and worship. There were some prayers and some scriptures and people said some things. Then the musicians had us all stand up and sing “Nothing But the Blood of Jesus.”

“Great,” I thought. “One of the blood hymns.”

I haven’t been on particularly good terms with the blood hymns for quite some time. It’s all my problem. Lots of people like them. But me, not so much. Still, I was in a room full of nice people, and everyone was singing. I didn’t want to just stand there, so I opened my mouth and tried to sing along.

Couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t make myself say the words.

So I made this low-pitched kind of growling noise. “Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

I kind of liked the way it sounded. So while everyone else sang the words, I just growled. After a few minutes my voice started sounding like a bagpipe to me. You know how a bagpipe makes that single, droning note as a kind of background to the music? That was me. Everyone else was singing, and I was just this little bagpipe boy over in the corner, kind of huffing and puffing and doing his best.

In that instant I realized that I wasn’t in charge of the meaning and the message and the structure of this worship service. I didn’t have to preach a sermon. I didn’t have to choose the hymns and understand their theology. Everyone else in the room was carrying that load. I didn’t even have to say the words.

I became like a child. The big people, they were taking care of everything. I was just blowing my bagpipe.

A rush of emotion hit me like a fist. Hard. The beauty of being a small boy in the Kingdom of God broke my heart. I started to cry.

As I left the room I heard Jesus say, “You know come Sunday it’s back to hearing nothing for you. You still have quite a bit of your debt to work off. But I thought you needed a little taste of what you may rediscover someday.”

Pilgrim.

The balcony

Frio Turtles

Think about that.

I had.

Some time.

It almost sounds like an illicit drug, this time.

“Yeah, I know a guy. Down in a canyon off the Frio river. He can get us some time.”

If you are at Laity Lodge and manage to score some time, I highly recommend the swings and hammocks. They’re all over the place. The big double swing by the fountain is a favorite of mine. It’s good if you want to share some time with a friend. Another one I like is that lonely swing over by Black Bluff, the one that looks out over the river. After dark you can see the stars pretty good from there. And the lights from cars flickering on the canyon wall.

My swing. July 2005

So anyway this was 2005. I would have been…let’s see…43 years old. Yep, that sounds about right. That’s about the time that praying got hard for me.

Before then my prayers were sort of like business meetings. I would set an agenda, call the meeting to order, run through my talking points, and then glance at my watch. “I’m aware of our time,” I would say, standing and walking God over to the door. “Always nice to see you, God. Let’s do this again real soon.”

That worked for me until I ran out of things to say. The business meeting prayer model got a little awkward after that. I began to feel like God was the one standing up and saying, “I’m aware of our time.”

On this night I flopped into the swing and sat there trying to think of something to say to God. Finally I said,

“I’m listening, Lord. That’s all I have tonight. I wonder do you sometimes speak to doubtful and wayward boys like me?”

Then I stopped talking. It was a pretty big relief not to feel like I had to carry the conversation. I closed my eyes to encourage my mind to pay more attention to my ears.

The first thing I heard were the crickets. They seemed to be everywhere. Funny, I hadn’t heard them before I got quiet, and then suddenly they were deafening. In a nearby juniper tree, an insect clattered away in the darkness, calling for a mate or perhaps just singing the song of himself.

My tennis shoe scrapped on the hardened earth beneath the swing. It seemed incredibly loud to me and I didn’t like the sound of it. So I stopped moving my feet.

I turned my head to the left, pointing my ear back over my shoulder. In the distance, on the other side of the river, I picked up the desperate cries of coyotes on the scent of prey. I felt the wildness of the canyon in the sounds I normally would have filtered out because I was busy doing things.

Suddenly a noise to the right. Eyes still shut, I turned my head, probing the darkness. I heard a murmuring conversation down by the bookstore. I couldn’t make out the words, but the voices were masculine and the cadence seemed friendly.

Then a closer sound. An insect was making a “tick, tick, tick” noise. Another made a sound like a man compulsively rolling ball bearings around in his cupped hand.

Some wind. Soft steps behind me, moving left to right. A bit of laughter wafting up from the dock. Then the crickets again. And my own sounds. My breathing and the gentle creaking of the swing.

Everything I heard seemed like a cry of longing and need. The insects were breathing the cool air of the night and dragging their legs and wings together, little violins calling across the darkness for companionship or comfort. The coyotes cried out in their hunger and in praise of the chase and the kill. The indistinct voices of the men bore the sound of reason and the timbre of friendship.

And I too was calling out in the night, hoping to find the God that I have worshiped and served since I was a boy.

I can’t tell you if I heard from God or just heard the sounds of nature. I can tell you that I came to a place where that distinction seemed unimportant. I felt myself to be in fellowship with all creatures searching and needy. And I liked that feeling. That feeling seemed right and good to me. The feeling of need.

This is prayer. You do not have to speak. Do not let anyone tell you that you must speak. Speaking is a dangerous thing. Pity the preachers who live so fully in their words.

Listening is good. Listening pries open the secret places in your heart. Listening makes it hard to think too much of yourself. Listening makes you feel small.

God lead us to quiet.

God open our ears.

God save us from our words.

Pilgrim.

Me in a hammock at Laity Lodge. 2007.