If I was preaching a sermon today I would tell you a story about the breath of God, about tongues of fire, about visions and dreams, about not being afraid, about knowing that you are not alone. And this particular Sunday, Pentecost Sunday, I would be wearing red.

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On the day I graduated from seminary with the degree that ostensibly qualifies me to preach, I was gifted with a pastor’s robe. It was hugely symbolic. Weeks later I exchanged it for one that was more subtle, more subdued, less obvious. This seems symbolic, too. I’ve never worn it. Never even taken it out of the garment bag in which it hangs. Never even thought about it.

Until today. I pulled-down-then-climbed the stairs to the attic, found it, brought it back down, and put it on – with my Converse All-Stars peeking out from underneath. I stood in front of the full-length mirror. I took a deep breath and felt the heat rise within me; a familiar and unrequited passion to speak; to say what I know and love, to proclaim all that I vision and dream; and yes, to preach. Not from a pulpit. Not in a robe. But ever telling the stories that encourage, embolden, and inspire. Stories like this one:

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On that day, many years ago, a group of Jesus’ disillusioned followers gathered. He was dead, then resurrected, then gone again. They remembered days gone by; beliefs and plans upon which they’d pinned their every hope. Truth-be-told, Jesus felt far, far away. They were alone, afraid, and unsure – shut up in a room together.

Suddenly a rush of a violent wind blew in and filled the house. Divided tongues of fire appeared, one resting on each of them. They began to speak in ways and words they did not know, did not understand, could not make sense of. A crowd began to gather at the spectacle – foreigners from regions far and near – who heard their own languages being spoken. The skeptics in the crowd sneered and said, “They’re just drunk.” But Peter proclaimed, “No. They are not drunk. It’s only 9:00 in the morning. They are fulfilling the words of the prophet Joel. ‘…God declares, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams…’” (Acts 2)

Days later, all of them undoubtedly remembered what Jesus himself had told them before he left, “I will send you an Advocate, a Comforter, the Holy Spirit… Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you…Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” (John 14)

And on this day, Pentecost Sunday, we wear red – to rekindle the flame, to remember that we are not alone, to prophesy, and yes, to preach.

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If I was preaching a sermon today I would tell you that God does not usually, if ever, show up when and where and how we want, or even how we hope. But God does show up – most often in amazing and miraculous and completely unexpected ways.

I would assure you with the words your soul longs to hear and believe: Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.

I would make sure you knew that Pentecost wasn’t a one-time event. Wind still blows. Fire still burns and brands. Visions are still seen. Dreams are still dreamed. And preaching – saying what you must – inhaling and exhaling the very breath of God – still has the potential to change everything…and does.

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Today, Pentecost Sunday, I’m taking a deep, deep breath and going to church. It’s the first time in more than four years. This is amazing, miraculous, and completely unexpected. Someone else will be wearing the pastoral robe, someone else will be preaching, but I will have on red shoes.

“I’m spiritual but not religious.” These words are spoken by many as though anything other would be to acknowledge some kind of narrow, constricted, conservative stance.

But what if “religious,” in and of itself, was hardly something to avoid or resist; nothing for which to apologize or be ashamed?

For the sake of argument, try to understand it objectively, anew, and purely for what it is:

re·li·gious; adjective
1. of, pertaining to, or concerned with religion: a religious holiday. 2. imbued with or exhibiting religion; pious; devout; godly: a religious [wo]man. 3. scrupulously faithful; conscientious: religious care. 4. pertaining to or connected with a monastic or religious order. 5. appropriate to religion or to sacred rites or observances.

This way of being – life permeated by religious practice is what I hunger for; frankly, what I think most of us ravenously, endlessly pursue. We want liturgy and ritual that transform. We want routine and rhythm that fill our days with meaning. We want our relationships, jobs, conversations, activities, choices, emotions, and sense of self to be sacred. We want our life to have significance – not just when looked back on in eulogy, but our day-in-day-out experience of it. This is religious.

Granted, it is not reasonable (or perhaps even preferable) that we be monks – devoting our every waking moment to the knowledge and pursuit of God. Or is it? Maybe this is exactly what we should aspire to; what would most fulfill our heart’s unquenchable desire. Maybe, dare I say it (?!?)  being religious, and even religion, isn’t so bad, after all.

re-li-gion; noun
1. a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs.

The problem is, of course, that religion has become confusing along the way – often because of the religious. So many perspectives, so many hard stories, so much harm, and so many ways-forms-shapes-practices. It is hard to find our way, a way, not to mention the way. Sadly, for many of us, we’ve come to associate religion with rigidity and law and duty instead of  richness and grace and gift. And it’s made even worse in that we don’t know how to embrace the parts of it we love without feeling like we’re being pulled backward or being sucked into some vortex from which we’ll never be escape.

What if we surrendered rather than fought? What if we trusted instead of critiqued? What if we could find and experience grace while allowing for humanness? What if we stopped arguing (mostly with ourselves) and just.let.go?

Given such musings, you will understand why my highlighter immediately came out when I (re)read these words:

Let go of everything when you write, and try at a simple beginning with simple words to express what you have inside. It won’t begin smoothly. Allow yourself to be awkward. You are stripping yourself. You are exposing your life, not how your ego would like to see you represented, but how you are as a human being. And it is because of this that I think writing is religious. It splits you open and softens your heart…  ~ Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within

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Admittedly, there is a gap between writing and religion; but I wonder…What might come of seeing their similarities rather than their differences?

Letting go. Simple beginnings. Simple words. Not smooth. Awkward. A self-stripping. Being exposed. All of this makes for the most profound of writing AND the most meaning-full of religion(s), not to mention the life of the religious. 

I’m not suggesting, at least in any dogmatic way, that you head back to church (or stay seated in that pew if already there) – though that might be the most surrendering, trusting, grace-filled, unargumentative, and freeing thing you could do. I’m not suggesting that you vocalize creeds or chant mantras or revisit your Vacation Bible School days – though these might not be the worst choice ever, either.

I am suggesting that you consider any means by which something/Someone “splits you open and softens your heart…”

• I had lunch with a friend last week who is becoming an Episcopal priest. As I listened to him speak of the discernment process, of the church itself, of the community, of the embrace of kind and seeing souls, something in me felt a deeper, more palpable longing than I’ve known in months, if not years. It split me open and softened my heart.
• I was served a delicious breakfast in bed on Sunday morning, Mother’s Day. I looked into the eyes of my two daughters and could not put into words the emotion summoned. It split me open and softened my heart.
• I downloaded and listened to the most gorgeous and soul-shifting choral music; beautiful, haunting melodies that brought me to tears. They split me open and softened my heart.
• I’ve been writing in ways that make me tremble in fear – albeit my inner editor working overtime; God revealed, speaking, showing up. It splits me open and softens my heart.

Admittedly, these examples, if descriptive of both “religious” and “religion” make it an easy sell. I know: it’s far more complex, far more messy, far more…

Religious, then religion. Ritual, then faith. Words, then creeds. Writing, then Writ. Beauty, then belief. Maybe this is the way home, the way over, the way through.

And I am suggesting that it’s possible all this and then some can and may be more likely found in the place(s) we work the hardest to avoid and evade.

I don’t have answers to these questions yet they feel resonant and important; leading me down a pathway of truth…and hope. So, I press on and lean in and let go. I keep writing. And I follow another piece of Natalie Goldberg’s advice:

Go further than you think you can.

Deep breaths.

And in the meantime, all the time, pursue anything/anyone that splits you open and softens your heart. I’m pretty sure that’s where God dwells, anyway – religious and/or spiritual, or not.

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I want to write a strong and striking post for Tara Sophia Mohr’s Grandmother Power Blogging Campaign. But day after day, as I’ve stared at this screen, I’ve been struck by just how disconnected I feel from the two women who hold the actual title of “Grandmother” in my life. They are the lineage from which I descend and yet they are distant, long ago, long gone, far away.

Berniece and Pauline.

Berniece. My mother’s mother. Determined and driven. Familiar with grief. Her husband died in a tragic accident, leaving her to care for my mom, only 5, and my aunt, then 3. She told my mother, years later, “I tried to be strong in front of you and your sister and not cry. I didn’t allow myself to express my emotions.”  She remarried, had three more children, and then set about the work of raising her family. Curious, adventurous, and always learning. Odd-but-full-of-promise remedies: green drinks, healthy food, the power of positive thinking. An artist; oil and china paintings gracing her home and ours. And hardly subtle – in opinions, in decorating, in appearance.  A round bed covered in shocking pink. Huge peacocks that hung proudly over the couch, precision-cut from Shasta cans. Custom-made hats to match most every outfit. Créme de menthe on vanilla ice cream. Flamboyant and impossible to ignore: Berniece.

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Pauline. My father’s mother. Incredibly warm. Highly affectionate. So much desire for so much more. Her words haunt: “I always felt loved but I never felt cared for.” Much sadness. Much grief. A life of little means – barely getting by. Invested in the church, in her faith, in her God. She worried about and doted on her two sons. She loved in nearly-overwhelming ways. She laughed. She had dimples to die for. Her eyes twinkled. And she loved The Lawrence Welk Show. She sang in the church choir. She had handkerchiefs and white gloves. She took me back-to-school-shopping every Fall. We’d sit at a soda fountain and have a ladies-lunch. She was proud-beyond-compare of her grandchildren and couldn’t get enough of them. And she was ill, so much of the time. Years of heart problems finally claimed her. A heart that loved and longed. Pauline.

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As I wander through the sparse words found to describe them, scenes flicker back to life and memory begins to serve. I see more of them. And then, surprisingly, I see more of me: Always learning. An artist. Flamboyant and impossible to ignore. Full of desire. Invested in her faith and in her God. Laughter. A heart that loves and longs. I feel connected to them, held by them, supported by them. They are of, with, and in me. Not apart from them; I am a part of them. I remember.

When I remember, the presence and power of my grandmothers is alive, ample, accessible, and mine.

When we remember, the presence and power of all grandmothers and countless women throughout history is ever-available to all of us, all the time. It knows no limit, no lack, no bounds: this endless source, this deep well, this infinite embrace.  

But oh, we are so prone to forget.

• Forgetting causes us to feel alone in this world, in relationships, in work, on a given day. But we are not. We are imbued with the presence of every woman who has gone before – known and unknown, blood-kin and total stranger, sacred narrative, ancient myth, family legend. Remember.
• Forgetting causes us to feel weary in this world, in relationships, in work, on a given day. But we need not. We have access to the power of every women who has gone before – their blood in our veins, their stories to sustain, their wisdom to strengthen, encourage, and embolden. Remember.
• Forgetting causes us to feel disconnected and un-witnessed in this world, in relationships, in work, on a given day. But that is far from the truth. The presence and power of every woman who has gone before surrounds us even now, encircles us, embraces us, hears us, sees us, and celebrates us.  Remember.

I remember. Berniece and Pauline to be sure, but so many others. Eve. Noah’s wife. Sarah. Hagar. Mary. Elizabeth. The woman at the well. Mary Magdalene. Hildegaard of Bingen. Julian of Norwich. Teresa of Avila. Sojourner Truth. Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Audre Lorde. My mother. My sister. My daughters. My friends.

More than enough presence and power is to be found. Look around. Look behind. Look above. Look ahead. Women – in spirit and in truth – surround, sustain, strengthen, and stay.

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Berniece and Pauline. The two women who are part of the long and glorious matri-lineage that is mine. The two women who birthed my parents. The two women who held me in their arms. The two women who laughed over me, looked out for me, loved me. The two women deserving of my memory, my honor, my gratitude. The two women who still-now-always surround, sustain, and strengthen me. The two women who stay.

Berniece and Pauline. Two women of so many more. A great cloud of witnesses. A sacred circle. All mine, if only I will remember.

And when I do? They are hardly distant, long ago, long gone, far away. They are here, now, present, and power-full; imbuing me with the same.

Read more Grandmother-Power posts at Tara’s site. 

Our heart knows when it’s time to say “no” or “goodbye” or even “yes.” But if we listen to it, it most-often means we are required to close a door. And we don’t want to. Maybe something will change. Maybe he’ll change. Maybe she’ll change. Maybe there’s a lesson here for me. Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I’m just being selfish. Maybe I shouldn’t go…just…yet. To close the door, turn our back, and walk away requires movement out of ambivalence and often, if not always, into pain. 

And so, of course, we resist. To close the door ushers us right across the threshold of feeling loss, feeling grief, feeling, period. Admitting  disappointment or harm or unresponsiveness. Naming our own self-contempt-based patterns. Dredging up stories and scenes and themes we thought we’d buried, at worst; worked through, at best. As long as we stay in a place of maybe or I’m not sure or just a little bit longer we do not have to be completely subsumed by the emotions that wait  just under the surface: that lump in our throat, those tears that brim, the pressure in our chest.

Like most, I’m not a fan of this place—or of pain. But I have learned am learning that disallowing it slows me down, holds me back, and ultimately hurts me more. The bargains and deals and wishes within may be helpful devices to weigh pros and cons, to enable reflection and rhetorical questioning, to analyze repetitive behaviors; but ultimately, all of these, if prolonged, are smoke screens; futile attempts at anything other than having to feel the finality of that lock turned and the deadbolt fastened.

Because it is so real, pain is an available antidote to unreality—not the medicine you would have chosen, perhaps, but an effective one all the same.  ~ Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith

Pain is our closest friend, whether we like it or not; the ally we need if we hope to find and open the door before us. It is evidence and marker that we have been willing to close another. It is the place in which there is no doubting our heart: its affect and sentiment clear. And clear, albeit hard, is good.

So once closed, then what? Now what? How long? These are the questions we ask; the ones we sought to avoid. I have no answers. (And anyone who tells you different is lying.) I have no timeline. I have nothing…other than this: just stay. As much as you long to move past closed doors and the endless unknown, it’s the threshold that calls. This is where you must reside. For now.

Wait
and see what comes
to fill
the gaping hole
in your chest.
Wait with your hands open
to receive what could never come
except to what is empty
and hollow.
~ Jan Richardson, from “Stay“

One day you will feel your heart’s healing. One day you will look up instead of down. One day you will sleep more deeply. One day you will breathe more slowly. One day you’ll know more laughter than tears. One day faith will sustain. One day hope will return. One day love will beckon. One day you will know…

And on that day, probably when you least expect it, you will see it: the door before you. And you will be ready. You will step forward, reach out, turn the knob, and step right through. Into the light. Into the open. Into the new. Head held high, shoulders back, radiating the glory that is you when fully alive, awake, aware. With a tender and ferocious heart that is raw, but strong.

You cannot know it now,
cannot even imagine
what lies ahead,
but I tell you
the day is coming
when breath will
fill your lungs
as it never has before
and with your own ears
you will hear words
coming to you new
and startling.
You will dream dreams
and you will see the world
ablaze with blessing.
~ Jan Richardson, from “Stay“

Just not yet.

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I’m “preaching to the choir” in this post. I wrote it for myself: resisting-but-feeling all the pain that a middle space brings. I wrote it for you, quite certain that you have been here before…are here now…will be again. And I wrote it to remind us both that we are not alone; that we are companioned by one other, that we journey alongside amazing souls who have gone before, that we are buoyed by an unshakeable belief that we will yet rise, yet walk, yet fling open doors into more truth, more beauty, more life, more love, more awareness of an ever-present, ever-faithful, ever-loving God.

I’m convinced that closed doors—whether by self or others—are what expose and enable the open ones; those that (eventually) invite expansive freedom, deep(er) wisdom, and exquisite life. Just not yet. So stay here. On the threshold. I’m with you. 

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If you are right in the thick of a threshold, you can take an online retreat with me, Christine Valters Paintner, Trish Bruxvoort Colligan, and Dana Reynolds. We’ve created Threshold: The Wild Heart of Longing because we know these places, because we love the stories of others who do, because we want to walk with you into and through yours. Learn more.

And of course, if you haven’t had a chance to watch my TEDx Talk on Eve, I’d be honored if you would. She has known so many closed doors, traversed so many thresholds, and opened infinite pathways to brand new worlds in bold and powerful ways. Meet her. Share her. Allow her to be known.

A TEDx talk. Oh, how I wanted it. Oh, how I thrilled at the invitation and opportunity. And oh, how I worked and labored and wordsmithed and edited and doubted and practiced and critiqued and cut and pasted and rehearsed. The day we gathered – women together – each of us whispered the same, again and again: “Something’s up, right? This feels significant, weighty, and full-of-meaning. It’s no small thing. This matters.”  

Minutes before the event began I was still not certain I could make it through my content without the dog-eared index cards that held my notes. I was so determined to say everything I’d crafted that I couldn’t bear the idea that I’d forget, that I’d freeze, that I’d fail. I paced. I practiced. And I prayed.

Then, the moment came. I set the cards underneath my chair. I walked down the narrow hall. The microphone was clipped on to my collar. I heard myself introduced. And I Walked. Onto. That. Stage.

Truly, I only remember two aspects of the day. First, the deep breath I took when I said to myself, “You know this, Ronna. It’s in your blood. It’s what you believe. It’s what you love. Say it or don’t. Do it or don’t. But this is it: DON’T HOLD BACK! Go. Speak. Stand. Rise.” And so I did. Second, I was totally, completely, and 100% present for every word I spoke. I could hear my own voice. I could feel my own tears. I could almost touch my strength. And I could sense Eve’s presence.

Click here or on the screen below, to watch.

It wouldn’t matter if no one ever saw this recording. If the camera stopped working. If the files somehow corrupted. What does matter is that I said it; that I stood up and proclaimed (some would say “preached”) what I know-that-I-know-that-I-know. And as I watched it again a few days ago, I felt exactly the same all over again. I heard my voice anew. I felt my tears again. I could touch, feel, and hold on to my strength. And I sensed Eve’s presence even more. 

I’ll be the first to admit that those barely-spoken thoughts about giving a TEDx talk were spot on: It was no small thing. It did matter. And it still does. But what matters even more is that you know and do the same. No matter the context, no matter the circumstances, no matter the pressure, no matter the cost. Stand up and speak. No stage required. Tell your truth. Live your desire. You don’t need your notes. Take a deep breath and hear me say, “You know this. It’s in your blood. It’s what you believe. It’s what you love. Say it or don’t. Do it or don’t. But this is it: DON’T HOLD BACK! Go. Speak. Stand Rise.” 

And believe me, when you do, all of heaven rejoices, Eve smiles, and God says, “It is good.”

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I would be honored and grateful if you would forward this post (or the direct link to the video) to any and everyone you can think of; ”like” and share it on Facebook, Tweet it, and spread it hither and yon. Eve’s voice matters. I so deeply long for more opportunity to make her known! Thank you.