Holy Smoke, Holy Spirit

Holy Smoke

“And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, rose before God from the hand of the angel.” Revelation 8:4.

I slowly stand up from my seat next to the bishop’s chair near the altar at Holy Spirit Episcopal Church in Gulf Shores, Alabama as the organist plays the prelude to the closing hymn, “Lift High the Cross.”  The music is uplifting, but suddenly I am transported and lifted to another space. There is an unusual burning smell in the air.  I look up and see almost two straight lines of black smoke rapidly rise at least a foot above the altar and just as quickly disappear into the air in front of the congregation. I am aware as the acolyte in the white alb passes by me as she reaches for the silver processional cross that she just extinguished the two candles on the glass altar.

This smell is different from what I usually know at the end of the service. For me it is a holy smell, and it is accompanied by an uplifting holy smoke, stronger than incense. It is raw, attention getting, signaling that something has happened.  The black smoke should be seen certainly by those few in the front rows of the congregation, but the smell probably only lives around the altar. By verse two of the hymn as the crucifer starts to lead the procession of choir members with blue cassocks and white surplices out of the church, I realize what this is all about.

The altar guild of Holy Spirit uses real candles, not the oil candles that I am familiar with in many of the churches I visit or serve. This is the smell and smoke from extinguished candle wax.

This is the smell I know after a session of spiritual direction with someone as they depart. I light the candle at the beginning of a session of spiritual direction to symbolize our meeting as holy as we care for our souls. I extinguish the candle at the end of our time to symbolize the passing on of what we have shared together. I know our time together as spiritual friends is holy work just as our Eucharist together on Sunday is a holy time.

The smell and the smoke tell me that whatever has happened is now being lifted up, spreading into the air of our surroundings, our universe. The Word we had together has now moved away from the altar at our the congregation and from the altar of our meeting out into the world.  We can no longer see the smoke, but it is there. I only realize the smell briefly, but it is an icon of what is happening.  The holy Word has moved on with its healing blessing out into the world, making a difference in all our wounded spaces.

Bless the altar guild of Holy Spirit for teaching me a little more about the movement of the holy.  

Joanna  joannaseibert.com

Spiritual Practice of Fishing

Spiritual Practice of Fishing

"If, then, I were asked for the most important advice I could give, that which I considered to be the most useful to the men of our century, I should simply say: in the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you."  Leo Tolstoy, Essays, Letters and Miscellanies

I sit outside each early morning on the gulf coast just after sunrise and watch lone surf fishermen come like clockwork to the water’s edge with their fishing rods, fishing rod holders, buckets, bait, and folding beach chairs.  They are early risers before the pelicans and sea gulls and dolphin come out of hiding.  The members of this all male club mark their territory as they spike two rod holders apart into the sand as far away from any other sign of human existence. They unfold their chair, bait the line, cast their line beyond the roaring white ocean’s surf, and sit and wait between the two holders for the rods to jump and bend.  The nibbles are infrequent, so they spend most of the time sitting and staring out into the gulf. They sit and stare as if they can see all the way beyond South America. They do not take out their cell phones or read books. They wait patiently usually for several hours with great faith for some sign that they will be connected to the gift of some unknown food from beneath the sea.

 I have become so intimately connected to each of them that I recognize them by their walk, what they are wearing, who they talk with, what time they come out, and how long they stay.  They have taught me much about spirituality and faithfulness and how to surrender to a spiritual practice. Indeed, some of the fishermen talk about this daily routine as a spiritual practice while others would be appalled at giving their daily exercise such a name. They all agree that this recreational sport does bring them peace, and most realize that it is not fish that they are after.  It is indeed re-creation.

Perhaps this is an unknown about any of our spiritual practices, centering prayer, saying the rosary, walking the labyrinth, praying, fasting, lectio divina, worshiping. The peace comes in the offering of time, a piece of our life, to the practice rather than always reaching any goal or making or receiving a connection.

My second gift from our fishermen is that in spending time observing them I have kept grounded, connected to my surroundings, living in the present moment. The fishermen are teaching me about looking out beyond the turbulent water’s edge and having faith that there is something greater than any of us constantly trying also to connect to us.

Joanna joannaseibert.com

What Matters Most

 What Matters Most

“The things that matter most in our lives are not fantastic or grand. They are moments when we touch one another, when we are there in the most attentive or caring way.” Jack Kornfield,  A Path With Heart, inwardoutward.org, August 4, 2016.

We are returning from an almost sixty-year high school reunion. There were Thirty-three in my graduating class. We thought we could make the trip this year but weren’t sure about the next, so decided to go now. We had lunch with friends I knew growing up in a small town in tidewater Virginia. Some might have called it a one-horse town since we only had one stop light. We would talk about driving up to “the light.” I am so glad we went.  I talked with one of my friends who now lives in a county in Virginia that boasts it has no stop lights!

It was as if it had only been a few days since we saw each other instead of fifty-eight years. Why is it so easy to re-connect to those we grew up with? They knew us before we had no or very few masks. There is no need to wear a mask with them. They know who we are and where we came from. We are all back on a equal playing field. Most of the women in my class went off to college. Many of the boys stayed in our small town, worked at the mill, and took early retirement. All seemed to enjoy life. Most seemed genuinely interested in what others were doing instead of talking about themselves. All had had some tragedy and all had had some magical moments.

As I write my oldest granddaughter is at her senior prom. I see pictures of her friends and can in some small way remember how important these relationships are to her. I wonder what her fifty-eighth high school reunion will be like.

I will keep this day in the memory book of my mind and hope to revisit it again, giving thanks for where I grew up and the many friends who influenced me and taught me about caring for each other.

Joanna  joannaseibert.