Mornings on Holy Hill

My little seminary is nestled on the north side of the Cal campus, along with several other seminaries. This area is known as holy hill. Sometimes I see monks at the dining hall, which I kind of love.

Rose and I took a new route this morning, finally heading up the hill.  The roads became narrower and narrower, until the neighborhood began to look a bit like Lothlorien – all stairways and wooden bridges. Someone had constructed a fence of brass bedposts twined with trumpet vine. Along the sidewalks: a shock of fennel, wilting nasturtium, monkey puzzle trees. Agapantha exploding like frozen fireworks.

For the past year or so I’ve been doing this meditation practice called lectio divina. I first heard of it when I was reading Kathleen Norris’ brilliant Acedia and Me. Later, when I was deciding to explore the progressive Christianity thing, I found “instructions” on the United Church of Christ website. 

So, I tried it.

(You have to understand that even saying the word “scripture” still makes me wince a bit. So many religious terms are almost fatally attached in my mind to people whose politics and behavior I abhor it can be a struggle to even say the same words. I suppose it is like reclaiming the word queer, turning it from a negative smear to an empowered positive. In some ways the whole past couple of years have been about this for me – trying to turn the clichés of right wing rhetoric back into the words of beauty and peace. I’ll say more on this later).

The thing I love about lectio divina is that it gives me time, breath and space to not just think about what the person is writing about, but also to feel it in a new way. I’m generally moved by language anyways, but in some way, the words become a part of my body and shift around in meaning.

So this morning, I had returned to what has become my favorite psalm -- #73. I like it because the poet basically says: yeah, it’s great to be all righteous and holy, but I was looking around at all the wealth that I don’t have and feeling jealous of everyone who seems to get everything they want. He talks about feeling bitter and cynical and still, how the spirit is always with him. This is the point that I love – that when he is feeling so hard and bitter, he realizes that he is still loved, and his return of that love is so sweet:

“Whom have I in heaven but you?/And there is nothing on earth I desire other than you/ My flesh and my heart may fail; /but God is the strength of my heart/and my portion forever.”

(Some of the rest of the psalm is a little problematic to me, but let’s put that on hold for now.)

The only thing about this verse, when I was meditating on it, that didn’t feel quite right to me, was the part: “And there is nothing on earth I desire other than you.”  I feel like I could say: there is nothing I desire more than my relationship with the spirit/god/universe, but there is nothing on earth I desire other than you? Not so much.

I have a lot of desires: I’d like a nice girlfriend, a house with a garden, maybe another Harley, definitely some better clothes. A pile of cash would be great too. Maybe a trip to Greece. Erm…and world peace.

As Rose and I hiked up the sidewalks, I was thinking about my poor neglected blog and what I might write today. Everything seemed like a poem – the winding streets, an orange tree, canna unfurling. Columbine blooming – like clown hats or candy. The sliver moons cut in garage doors, the stairways painted purple.

Suddenly it came to me: there is nothing on earth I desire other than you. What I usually really desire was this – being able to see the beauty of god or spirit in everything I passed; like we are moving through god.