Labyrinthine Graduation Reflections

Well, it's official. After four years, Keith and I have finally graduated from Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary. There's even a picture of us, walking out the door of University Presbyterian Church, where the commencement ceremony was held, on the seminary website to prove it (it's number 5 in the changing slideshow of images at the top of the page).

Now Keith and I have entered the "call process," seeking a call to ordained ministry in a Presbyterian Church, somewhere in the world. It's a bit of an overwhelming process. Somehow, through the Holy Spirit, we will encounter our match and begin a life-changing relationship with a group of people who have come together in this amazing thing called "church." The best comparison to this process in my experience is that of seeking, meeting, dating, and choosing a mate. So far it's been both exciting and frightening. We've taken the first step, entering a new labyrinth.

During this past momentous and busy month of May, I've had the chance to walk two different labyrinths. Just before we left for graduation, we went to a church in Ruston, Louisiana and walked their labyrinth. It was a beautiful labyrinth, a replica of the famous one in Chartres, France. A couple of days after our graduation, Keith, Lucas, and I walked another labyrinth, at John Knox Ranch, a Presbyterian camp and conference center south of Austin. It was in the classic style (check out Wikipedia's page on labyrinths, which displays various styles).

Both times, as I walked, I took the suggestion of Daniel Wolpert, in Creating a Life with God, who says that, while walking toward the center of the labyrinth, listen for and let go of the things which have become barriers to your relationship with God. In the center, rest in communion with God. As you leave the center to walk the outward path, listen for and accept where God is sending you on your continued journey of faith.

Keith and I took turns, alternately walking the labyrinth and attending to Lucas. Lucas enjoyed running crazily in and out of the labyrinth, seeming to delight in the rhythm of its lines and flow. I went first, and I walked somewhat quickly, wanting to make sure Keith would have ample time to walk. But even with this concern in mind, I settled into a comfortable pace, and I was aware of God's presence with us in that place.

I could not help but love Lucas' wild running exuberance, though at first it seemed an interruption. But then, those interruptions simply became part of the journey. As I walked the outward cycles, I came to new gratitude, receiving and accepting the life God has given me as a gift, which is now replete with such "interruptions." Instead of wishing that I could be off by myself, silently, as I might have been able before Lucas came into our lives, I gave thanks that I could practice both the spiritual discipline of the labyrinth and the practice of mothering Lucas . I gave thanks for the vocations of ministry, of marriage, and of motherhood, to which God has called me.

These experiences resonate with something I read in Gernot Candolini's book, Labyrinths: Walking Toward the Center. He writes, "For me the labyrinth is an invitation to turst that my life has both followed and is continuing on a good path. We can take the prevailing directives--'this is the way to do it right'--and lay them aside. I don't believe that my life is locked into a bewildering maze, with someone sitting in judgment behind every wrong turn mocking my stupidity. I believe in a path that I take in just the way I'm taking it. I ultimately believe in the great contradiction, the great paradox, the great mystery of life: that on one hand I am as a person utterly free, that I may be entirely myself, unique and irreplaceable; and that at the same time I am perfectly secure and led, completely embedded in a sure path" (p. 97).

I am grateful for the chance to walk these labyrinths at this time in my life, as I take leave of seminary and listen for God's call.

Fantasy and Reality

I love reading sci fi/fantasy novels, especially ones written for teenagers. Starting with Lloyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain in fourth grade, in my reading, I have gone on little vacations from this world and gallivanted around in mythopoetic worlds of all sorts. These "vacations" have been especially important for me during times of transition in my life.

Of course I love The Lord of the Rings and the Chronicles of Narnia as well as the whole Harry Potter series, but I've always felt a little guilty about this reading passion. However, over the past couple of years, I have realized that my love for mythic fantasy is very congruent with my love of the Bible and its narratives, as well as my passion for theology and philosophy. CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien (and even JK Rowling) all understood this long ago, but I'm only now catching up.

Well, I'm in another transition time in my life, as Keith and I prepare to graduate from seminary and continue the process of seeking a call to church ministry. And I have found myself drawn again to reading fantasy novels. Currently I'm reading The Books of Pellinor by Allison Croggon. I came across them in the local library's "Young Adult Fiction" section, and I'm on the third of the quartet, called The Crow. Croggon, whose primary writing before these books was poetry, writes with breathtaking and beautiful detail, describing a beautiful world in extreme peril. The "Dark" is rising again, bringing with it horrifying violence, brutal inhumanity, and despair. The main characters, a girl named Maerad and her brother named Hem, orphans with tragic histories of slavery and neglect, discover that they are prophesied to put an end to this menacing evil in their world.

As I'm just beginning to think about the theology of fantasy, I've come across a wonderful essay Croggon has written about "The Reality of Fantasy." She articulates very clearly much of what has been circling about in my head as I've been reading. Croggon points out that, in order for fantasy to work, the world in which it is set must be described in almost hyper-realistic detail, so that it is believable for the reader. She also points out that one of the most essential aspects of fantasy or "fairy stories" is what Tolkien calls the "eucatastrophe," the sudden turn of events which moves the protagonists--and the reader--from despair to hope. It is an unexpected moment of grace, which does not deny the regular catastrophes in the world, but shows that those tragedies are never the end of the story.

For this reason, fantasies like those I have noted describe and wrestle with realities which are profoundly spiritual. They offer room for what Croggon calls "emotional catharsis," which is a deep human need. As they allow the reader to distance momentarily from the difficulties of his or her own life, fantasy stories also offer the reader a chance to come to new terms with those difficulties.

Not surprisingly, the primary virtue of protagonists in fantasy stories is courage, because those characters face dark realities in their world; and it is for this reason that fantasy stories can inspire courage in their readers to confront own lives with acceptance of the challenges they face. Croggon writes, "It is through fantasy that we may enter reality whole, unafraid of ourselves and so more able to deal with the fears we face in the world. Fantasy is not an evasion of reality, so much as an enabler of it."

I love this quote, and I love Croggon's books.