Starving and Searching in the Airport

Almost constantly, people, sometimes only one and other times several, stop and look up at the monitors. They are searching, searching for the flight on which they have a seat, hoping that it is scheduled to leave on time. I have the perfect vantage point to watch them, sitting here in the Austin airport waiting for my own flight to Boston and home.

So many people wandering through the airport. Some are waiting to depart. Others are arriving at their destination. Some are going home. Others are leaving home.

I'm struck by how little any of us pay attention to each other. Except for the occasional "excuse me" as we try to get around each other with our carry on bags, we are close together and very far apart.

And yet, we are all searching . . . for a flight, for an escape from home, or for a return from home. And, at least for most of us, we are seeking for so much more, something deep in our hearts and souls that resonates with "home" and our desire to be grounded in relationship with others.

According to Tony Jarvis, who spoke so eloquently and passionately at the conference of the Consortium of Endowed Episcopal Parishes this morning, what most of us are searching for is God. "People are starving," he told us this morning. They ask themselves existential and spiritual questions, whether consciously or not. Why should I get up this morning? What is the purpose of the work I do? What does all of this mean? What will I find when I get off the plane at another airport in another city?

Quoting Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, we were reminded that we are not human beings on a spiritual quest but that we are spiritual people on a human pilgrimage.

"People are starving," he told us. "They are starving for God." And they are starving for relationships, authentic relationships of love and grace. Here in the airport, surrounded by a crowd and yet so very alone.

As I watch people searching, searching for flight numbers and gates and destinations, as I ponder what Tony Jarvis said this morning I hear a woman named Kate Eaton singing the words "Follow me" over and over and over again (I'm not hearing voices, by the way, only listening to her CD "Arise" through iTunes).

Follow me. The words of Jesus to a starving people 2,000 years ago. Follow me.

What might happen if, as the Body of Christ in the 21st century, we simply repeated the invitation to all of these people who are searching and waiting and hoping and questioning? What might happen if instead of trying to answer all of their questions, we simply introduced them to Jesus? What if, instead of a program, we simply invited them into a relationship with the One who will welcome them home as they are and feed them with abiding love?

Oh, that sounds so simple . . . and so complex at the same time.

They're still looking up at the monitors. Shall we invite them to come home?

Inviting the Church into the Wilderness

I'm attending the annual conference of the Consortium of Endowed Episcopal Parishes this week. I was particularly struck by the different ways we prayed yesterday.

Curtis Almquist, the Superior of the Society of St. John the Evangelist led us in a simple breath prayer as we started the formal conference.

We celebrated the opening Eucharist at St. David's Church. It was a traditional, Prayer Book liturgy filled with the voices of many clergy and lay people who love the Episcopal Church (which means we were louder than most Sunday congregations with our enthusiastic responses -- "AND ALSO WITH YOU!" included an exclamation point).

Earlier in the afternoon I attended a workshop led by the leadership of the Wilderness, an alternative Eucharistic congregation based in the cathedral in Denver, CO. The worship was simple, yet profound. Prayer stations invited us to be active participants, to wander and experiment, before, during, and after the liturgy. We used alternative prayers, new arrangements for some traditional Lenten hymns, and a deep and holy silence.

In this worship, the most profound and moving of the three times of prayer yesterday, we entered the wilderness of Lent. On their website, the Wilderness describes the experience this way:

"The wilderness is a quiet place, free from the hectic bustle of life and free from distraction. It is a place of stillness, where mind and soul can wander, searching for meaning of life . . . and searching for God. It can be unsettling, a place of questions, but also of transformation. It can be a haven of peace and renewal, of nourishment and creativity. It is holy ground."

We need more of this, I think, more invitation into the wilderness, into a place in which open seeking is not only permitted but encouraged. How might this transform the church in the 21st century?