From “Beautiful Agony”

Church communities are beautiful agony. 

We weave others into ourselves, and ourselves into others, not fully realizing the risk we take. In community we share our triumphs and griefs, weddings and funerals, births and unexpected unemployment; these highs and lows are the vibrant threads of the living tapestry we make. The routine of often-forgettable weekly gatherings can seem inconsequential—yet these are the almost invisible threads of the tapestry which nevertheless stitch our souls to each other, month after month, decade by decade.

Our communities can be far more frail than I once imagined—our church, the church I served as pastor, unraveled with shocking speed. And yet, despite the time that has passed, a chance meeting with someone can still rip open scabs and draw blood, reminding me paradoxically of the still-present strength of our shared bonds. 

I think often of the sanctuary where we knit our lives together—red brick outside, wood wainscoting inside. Long before I ever entered that space, previous generations wove a tapestry there. Walking in that room for the first time, I felt it wrap me in warmth like a cozy comforter. Before very long, I, too, was adding to the weave: giving and receiving, co-creating. We all shared in the making, our very selves the threads as we made that space holy. And all of it, the good and the bad, bound us together.

That room is where Elaine and I spoke vows of lifelong commitment to each other. I dedicated children to God in that space, and smiled years later at their young adult faces staring back at me from the balcony. We hosted the public high school Baccalaureate services, washed the hands of all who entered on Maundy Thursday, shouted “Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!” and chased the darkness away each year with hundreds of Christmas Eve candles. We sang each other’s songs of praise to God. And we, with raised voices in meetings for business, spoke accusations out into the open and created barriers, evicting people from the room and then shattering the community home we made together.

In the last two-and-a-half years I’ve only been inside the sanctuary three times, but I can still visualize each detail. My mind sees each and every one of the stained glass windows: the anchor, the dove, the chalice—and my favorite, the one with the crown dangling precariously from the cross. I picture the long pole with the metal hook, tucked behind the railing of the platform stairs to the balcony. (I mastered the intricate skill of maneuvering that tiny metal hook through an eyelet on the end of a string, in order to raise and lower the blinds on the three windows high above the platform.) And I see those cracks—like spider webs—spreading out through the plaster from the enormous fir beam, which has supported the ceiling for more than 125 years.

Would we have given ourselves to each other if we had known how much the tearing of the tapestry and the absence from sacred space would hurt?

❖

5,225 miles from the room filled with wooden pews and memories, I sit on a stone bench beside a stone wall. Nuns’ voices still echo in my head as I drink in the view. I’m in the courtyard of St. Hildegard’s Abbey in Rüdesheim, Germany, atop a hill overlooking the Rhine River, with the town of Bingen visible on the other side. 

I’d love to tell you that as pastor of that shattered community, I was wise enough to know just what I needed for health and healing. I’d love to claim that the profound healing going on in my mind and heart as I sit in the land of Hildegard was a result of my careful planning.

But it would be a lie. Sometimes I think Hildegard found me, despite the title of this book. Her breathtaking descriptions of the Divine fiery presence reach out from 900 years ago and surprisingly kindle joy, peace, and hope—right in the charred spaces of my soul. 

❖

I began my journey of discovery by devouring Hildegard’s writings one after another here at home, which then prompted me to make my own spiritual pilgrimage. I spent a week in the heart of Germany, roaming the hills and the rivers where she lived, and breathed, and saw visions. My personal pilgrimage took me to the very places where she prayed for people’s healing, gave spiritual leadership to women in her abbey, fired off bold letters to emperors and popes; and where, as a woman in the 12th century, she toured towns and villages to preach. I have marinated in her words and her life. More importantly, I’ve tried to make space in my mind and heart for God’s Spirit to challenge and cleanse, to heal, and to (hopefully) give me a fresh vision for how I am to live and be in this world today.

On this journey with Hildegard I’ve seen how the beautiful agony of Christian community spans the centuries. Though God always dwells with us, always incarnates in and through us, our communities are a blend of spirit and flesh, good and evil, beauty and agony. Human selfishness and failure mean institutions oppress, and churches wound.

But we were not created to be alone! Community is worth the risk. Pursuing God is worth the risk. Beauty is worth the agony!