You Can’t Go Home Again?

..or can you?

This past May, I ended my year of Ministry in Context or in layman’s terms my year of serving and learning in a teaching parish. This church has a richness in its liturgy and ritual which can reach throughout Creation and connect us along with prayer in a sacred relationship to the Most High.

But, as the phrase goes this meant that I was ruined for any other church setting. This meant that I carried the beautiful ballet that evolved from each rising of a Sunday morn with me wherever my Gypsy soul traveled. This also meant that because my spirit had been swirled and poured out into the rushing waters of life, that my gaze would now view the world before me critically.

There had been an occurrence of this several months ago when I returned to my home parish celebrating the life of a long standing, long serving member and as seen as one of the young leaders in my congregation when asked, I served during the funeral wherever I was needed.

Gypsies are seen as wanderers, laying their heads wherever they can, greeting the day however they choose, carving out life what order they wish.

This Gypsy, however craves order and ritual.

The funeral was one of uncreative chaos and I found myself struggling to remain afloat; I found myself rushing for the serene sands along the banks of this river, wanting to never be swept into this calamity again.

Discernment of this call to ministry finds one alone surrounded by a lower prairie of green peering to see the fragile violets that wind slowly around the earthen goddesses. We are now open to how worship works, what we should be listening for and how order plays a massive role in fellowship, hearing Good News and kicking open the doors of the church.

So as this summer waned and bowed from the stage of Life, I was cringing about returning to this congregation who had lifted me up from drowning waters and gave me rebirth so that my soul could hear what the Creator was speaking. I needed the rhythmic chanting and prayers ascending as incense; I needed the communal feeling before the Table.

Yet I knew that none of us as children of God are perfect and in my own imperfection I should pay homage to this, my family as Sunday rolled around. And as I swept through those doors greeting and sharing the peace with familiar faces I realized that this place would always be open as a beacon of wondrous light for me; that God had nurtured me here so that He could send me out, elsewhere…

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