Fifth Sunday of Lent
Return: Open to Integration
"Hope is a song in a weary throat."
— Pauli Murray
Pauli Murray—poet, activist, lawyer, and the first Black woman ordained as an Episcopal priest—knew weariness. She also knew hope. Her words meet us as we begin our journey home from the center of the labyrinth, carrying what we've received back into the world.
My final job interview for the position at St. Mary's Sewanee was an in-person meeting on a cold January morning on campus. I bundled up and arrived about 45 minutes early so that I could walk the labyrinth before the interview. Last week, we practiced waiting at the center. That morning, I had waited—and this is what I carried back.
The prior year had been full of anxiety, disappointment, anger, and self-doubt. I had experienced a lot of healing, but I knew that I was still carrying fears and resentments that I did not want to take with me into the interview, or into this new opportunity if it was offered to me.
I stepped to the entrance of the labyrinth, took a deep breath, and set my intention to show up in the interview as the most authentic version of myself. I walked, remembering difficult moments, hard conversations, despairing thoughts, and I imagined dropping them along the way. At the center, I waited to hear what wisdom God had for me at this turning point in my life—a reminder of my belovedness and a prompting to forgive. And as I returned to the beginning, I prayed about how to integrate that love and forgiveness into my life and into leadership with a new organization, a new staff, a new mission, and a new challenge.
For me, that last step out of the labyrinth, returning to the world, always gives me pause. I wonder if the experience, insights, and wisdom are real or imagined. Can I trust what happened in the silence? Will it hold up under the fluorescent lights and daily demands? And I wonder if I am strong, humble, and faithful enough to return to the world ready to integrate that wisdom.
Last January, I paused—but I also felt the rising of hope in my weary throat. That walk was a significant piece of healing the past, of reestablishing trust in myself, enabling me to be open to a new future. Whether I had gotten the job or not, that remains true. Thank God, I was offered the job, and returning to work has landed me here, writing to you and praying that, this Lent, you receive a word that you have the courage to integrate into your life and bring a song of hope to your weary places.
Practice: Hope for Integration
As you begin your journey of return, imagine holding in one hand something that represents the wisdom you heard at the heart of God. Maybe a cup of water to be less rigid, a rock to be more steadfast, a feather to remind you to hold things more lightly, a balloon to remember joy. What can you carry with you as you return that will remind you of your time at the center?
As you walk (or trace or imagine) the path, pause at the turns and bring to mind a challenge or relationship that is waiting for you. Hold tight to the object in your hand and imagine how you might integrate this wisdom into that situation, next conversation, or interaction. Will you let a coworker's comments flow right by you? Will you draw firmer boundaries with a family member? Will you leave work on time and not check email on your phone? Will you make more time for exercise or a hobby that brings you joy?
As you come to the edge of the labyrinth once more, I hope a song of hope is bubbling up from your toes or your belly. You can return to the world a little different, a little lighter, a little more confident that the Holy One walks with you. Before you step out, take one more moment. Look back at the path you've walked. Remember your intention from Week 1. Notice how far you've traveled. Then turn forward and step out. The last step is always the hardest—and the most important.
Next week, we will complete our journey together. We'll explore what it means to take this work—this hope—into the world.
