For All The Guests

In our spiritual community we have a consistent practice, each time we gather, of expressing our gratitude out loud. It creates a ground of positive energy from which we can be nourished, and from which we can draw when it comes time to express our deepest, most profound concerns. Prayers that are long on asking and short on thanking seem awfully hollow.

I’m not certain, however, that we have mastered the Pauline art of giving thanks “in everything.” There is a sugary version of it that I’m just not buying, like when people try too hard or too quickly to submerge their anger and bitterness in a desire to live in the familiar comfort of positive spin. Thankfulness is never about spin. It is the response of human tension to divine activity, much like the sound of a violin, when the masterful bow is drawn across its taut strings.

Rumi’s “The Guest House” is one of my sacred scriptures, for it speaks to me of the full range of human experience and emotion, including depression or meanness. It reminds us to “welcome and entertain them all,” because each has been sent as a “guide from beyond.”

There is a lot of meanness showing up at our doors each morning. It is a temptation to slam the door shut and hope that it goes away. But it won’t. The only true way to handle it is to invite it across the threshold for a cup of tea, with the full understanding that the welcome has brief shelf-life.

There now, I’ve heard you. Thank you for sharing. Kindly leave now.

Were the human family not called upon by the unwelcome guests of injustice, greed, and hatred, we might never have seen the subsequent rise of truth, generosity, and heart-felt activism that is pouring forth all around us–by necessity.

So, this Thanksgiving, we don’t pause to give thanks only for blessings of home and hearth and harvest, but also to welcome a world that is none too rosy at the moment. Gratitude means that instead of cowering within our fears, we stand in the present moment with a strong measure of grace.

We welcome all that comes our way, and eventually some of those things will feel welcomed to leave us. I’m pretty sure of it.

Take a Moment . . .

At the turning of this new year, the only celebration I require is the one that happens on this bench just off the Tiburon rail trail. I know a ball will drop in Times Square later tonight, but all I really need is a bit more time to stare at this view of Mount Tamalpais, to offer gratitude for the year that has been, as well as the one that is to come.

I am struck with wonder at the sights and sounds of a place that feels very new to me in one moment, and in the next, it’s as though I’ve spent forty lifetimes circling this sacred ground.

Time feels less linear these days. My intentions feel less etched in stone. I am breathing more deeply, sleeping more soundly, enjoying a life that grows simpler and deeper with each passing day. There is no magic formula for any of this, other than the words that came to me on this spot. “Take a moment. . . .”

This past year, I have felt the churning of a harsh and bitter world. I’ve listened to the pundits, gasped at the latest outrage, and wrung my anxious hands with the best of them. But when I take a moment, I can see another plane of reality, one that is filled with all the hope, peace, joy, and love of the Advent just past, one that leads me toward the peace of mind and heart that waits patiently for me every day on this bench. Like a Tesla called to its charging station, I sit, I wait . . . I plug in.

If there is any intention I would set for the new year, it is that I take more moments . . . for . . . myself.

All In Good Time

I’m not great at waiting. It doesn’t matter whether it’s on the freeway, in line at Target, or sitting in a doctor’s office. I am programmed to get on with it, no matter what “it” is.  When people and situations get in the way, I feel impatient, inconvenienced, and maybe even put upon. 

So, when I encounter an entire season, like Advent, that is a celebration of waiting, it isn’t something that I naturally take to. How many days until Christmas? How many sermons? How many concerts, gatherings or parties will happen before I get to the beginning of a new year. How long must I hold my breath until I get to a breathing space. How much confinement is there before the opportunity for expansion?

Recently, we learned that a new grandchild is on the way, and what a perfect season to receive such news! A new life holds all the hope and promise to supersede obstacles, to create new energy, and maybe even change the course of history.

The potential of human pro-creation is nothing short of miraculous. Some would say there’s nothing supernatural about it. I get the fact that human reproduction is a series of natural processes that happen everyday. But, the energy we call Life, that which breathes us and beats our hearts, is something that defies easy explanation. 

As we celebrate Emmanuel, “God with us,” the demonstration of divinity residing within a human body, let us avoid the theological detours that could accompany our seasonal celebrations. Instead, let us wait for just the right moment, which is actually the present moment, to open ourselves to divine awareness.

Let us draw ourselves inward, at least until the turning of the solstice when the shift in light occurs, and something like a star appears in our hearts, illuminating all that the Christ Child represents within us.

Let us recognize that as we watch and wait for civility, equality, and justice to blossom in us and all around us, we are living in a gestational moment, as something new is near us, and waiting to be born. 

It will come.


Blessed Subtraction

The single most important shift in the second half of my life is that I have become a person of subtraction. The earlier years were all about addition, the having of children, the gaining of education, the gathering of possessions.

In terms of religion and spirituality, my focus was on learning more stuff, building a theology, a comprehensible view of the world, full of plausible explanations of reality that, hopefully, enabled me to stand in front of numerous congregations over the years and interpret the great questions of life.

The second half is about letting go. My children are in their thirties. The house has been sold. Nothing feels better than getting rid of some unnecessary thing, the dust-gathering figurine, the book I’ll never read again.

At the risk of horrifying some of my colleagues, the attic of my theology is likewise in a state of subtraction. The older I get the less I know, and the happier I am about it.  Obscure biblical points have become irrelevant to me. Questions that used to occupy my attention, and perhaps send me scrambling through dozens of reference volumes, lexicons, and commentaries, will now elicit a single comment, “Nobody knows! And isn’t this a beautiful day? Have you seen that beautiful heron over there?”

Ideas of church and ministry are likewise falling by the wayside in favor of only the most vitally important.  I don’t know exactly what Jesus said, but if I’m getting the gist of it, we probably should analyze it less and practice it more. It’s not so complicated Just do it. Ask questions later.

There is no doubt that we’re living in troubled times–times that call forth from us new ways of being in the world, times that necessitate the casting off of ballast, of parting with things that no longer serve us, and of focusing on that which is most important: doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly.

When we have finished the subtractions, that is pretty much it.

David Starbuck Gregory


Something In the Water

Something happens to me when I am near the water, something really good–emotionally, energetically, spiritually.

I recently read that my heart and brain tissues are 73 percent water, so I suppose it should come as no surprise that walking on the beach, floating in the swimming pool, or gazing at the bay vistas off our porch bring me a sense of calm that I cannot seem to find anywhere else. It also explains why the places we have lived have tended to bring us into close proximity with water–the Hudson River, the East River, Esopus Creek, and now the Bay, not to mention the Pacific.

Staying centered and calm is my current salvation in a world that tends to frighten me. Our national leaders have turned away from our long and loving relationship with democracy to pursue an illicit love affair with hard authoritarianism. They have turned their backs on the very friends and allies with whom we partnered to destroy fascism–or so we thought.  Oligarchy has become fashionable. Cruelty has become desirable. Human decency has become a sign of weakness, and truth must now surrender to a world of “alternative facts,” or so it seems.

This dystopia is not the world I grew up in. It is not a world I  thought I’d live to see. It is certainly not the one I intend to leave for my grandchildren.

A couple of days ago, I viewed the documentary film about the life of Fred Rogers, the gentle but quirky minister to whom we fully entrusted our children several hours each week . . . back in the day.  I found myself weeping through the entire movie. There were times I feared I would audibly gasp and sob, and I was particularly grateful to be in a theater that offered pinot noir with my popcorn. It got me through, but the film left me feeling a bit hopeless, grieving the loss of the world I thought I knew and marveling at its obvious contrast with the world that is.

That same day, I had stood in front of my congregation and asked them, “What are we going to do?”  My text was from the parable of the Good Samaritan, and the answer I gave them was that we are going to do the loving thing that is in front of us each day, one benevolent action at a time, doing the neighborly thing every single time we have the opportunity.

It has been said that if you take enough baby steps in a row without giving up, you can eventually climb Mt. Everest.  I look at our current Mount Everest and wonder how we’ll ever get to the top, but the answer is one step at a time.

Maybe I’ll start on the beach, just to calm my soul.

Back to Center

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It had been thirty-six years since I packed things up and moved across the country. With my then-wife and toddler son, I made the trek from Denver to Chicago in a ’79 Chevette, to begin a journey I can only now begin to comprehend. Life has taken me in and out of vocational ministry, back in again, then yet again, in new ways and times and places.

Last month my now-husband and I came from New York to begin an entirely new life in the San Francisco Bay area, and again it is something we do not yet fully understand. It reminds me of when Abram and Sarai were prompted to get up from where they were and go to a destination they did not know, a later-in-life transition that was quite unexpected.

Major life changes are easier when you are 25.  Youthful innocence and idealism can be energizing, and when coupled with the physical resilience of post-adolescence, embarking on something new can be downright fun.

But for two sexagenarians, it took a call from the very gates of heaven to be certain that this was the right thing to do. I don’t think it’s ever too late to hear and answer that call, but the performance of it is not for the faint of heart. When the Reverend Mother called upon Maria to “climb every mountain,” she didn’t say it would be easy. But then again it was all about the dream, wasn’t it? The vision of a new co-creation is its own fuel, and when Spirit begins to flow, you just get in it and go. Ask questions later.

We’ve truly found our dream here. A year ago, we began to ask, “What is a life we would love living?”  We’re living it. Being part of a contemplative spiritual community, drawing on a bank of shared wisdom, serving alongside people who care deeply for one another, for society’s most vulnerable, and for an even more vulnerable earth–this is our dream.

It doesn’t hurt at all that we wake up every morning with our beautiful bay views and say, “Look at where we live!”

So, now, we are here. Present in this place and time. Returning to our center. Digging a deeper well in a new place, drawing from the same stream of Spirit and consciousness that we found on the east coast. Going deeper sometimes means going farther. Wow! This is great!

David Starbuck Gregory

Divine Intention


The turning of a new year is by definition a pivotal moment, the launchpad for detox diets and gym memberships, the reining-in of holiday excesses. A clean slate. A fresh start. The turning over of a new leaf. Such is the DNA of what we call “resolution.”

Resolution involves willpower, and if there’s one thing we can say about willpower, it is a limited resource. By February 1, most of us have returned to the same patterns that keep us locked in the lives we’ve been living. As bearers of Divine Image, we have the innate desire to create something new, but there is an energy of homeostasis, a comfort with what is known, that keeps us from the edge of what is unknown.

In this realm of the known, we have often spoken in creeds and formulas that we are “created in God’s image.” The problem with creeds and formulas is that we so rarely believe what is contained in them, let alone experience them as humans. Case in point:  if we really bear Divine Image, then in concert with Divine Spirit, we are also creators. What is it then that we are going to create? 

The deeper stream of “resolution” is to be found in clear, creative intention, supported by the unlimited fuel of gratitude. If you can spend some moments seeing yourself one year forward, and then express those things for which you are profoundly grateful, you will have created something that is far different–far better–than what you would have thought possible.

The default method for moving into the new year is to “take it as it comes,” to “see where it goes,” or worse yet, to let the toxic waste of the news cycle wash over you day after day. We must create something far better than that, a just and peaceful world, one that is characterized by love for one another and a commitment to the common good.

This will not happen until our inner world is at peace, until we have surrendered our willpower to Divine Intention. Take a moment today and just breathe. Listen to a better voice. Release the desire to take in useless information. Resist the manipulators of public discourse.  Find the still small voice within you and stay in its presence for as long as you possibly can.

And then, in the power of gratitude, create the new year that is worthy of your time, your efforts, and your energy. All of humanity needs your best self to be fully centered, utterly present, and completely engaged with what is true and beautiful and filled with grace.

David Starbuck Gregory


Light and Shadow


There is no shadow without light, nor is there light without shadow.  The existence of one requires the existence of the other.

The land we live in, the place we call home, has been transformed into a noisy caricature of itself, devolving into a shouting match between people who are always right and never wrong.  If the world would only listen, we could provide a path where there is only light, and never any darkness.

We’re on a mission to enlighten, to cajole, to persuade, to win over the skeptics, and in the process we hope to make the world a better place.  Compromise is a sign of weakness.  Compassion is for sissies. Creative solutions are irrelevant. We only want our own way, and we want it at the expense of all others, because we know we are right.

The problem is that we are made of light and shadow.  In the arena of incessant argument, we have forgotten that we have no corner on truth, no claim to absolute and pristine righteousness, that our very humanness needs its shadow in order to be.  To be holy is not to be perfect, it is rather to be real.

It has been said that the greatest indicator of spiritual maturity is the ability to observe oneself without judgment.  The light in our own souls is beautiful and life giving, but so is our darkness. Plants require sunlight in order to grow, but they also need the night, which is as  sacred and necessary as the light of a brand new day.

The evil and violence that plagues us does not come from outside ourselves, but rather from our unexamined lives, our inability to admit our faults, and our unwillingness to make allowances for the imperfections of others.

As we breathe our way into the present moment, seeing ego for what it is–both darkness and light–control turns to surrender, war turns to peace, and hatred turns to love.  This is how contemplative life will transform the world.

No Sense of Time

IMG_8902I snapped an image of these lilies on our front lawn five or six weeks ago. As perennials go, they are vociferous. It’s a yearly effort that keeps them from taking over the garden, and each time I see new ones sprouting, I dig them up and move them out to the creekside, where I can more fully welcome their invasion. Some plants require a lot of work to get them to grow.  Others call for clear resolve and skills of management. Evolutionarily, perhaps I was meant for the jungle, but I can’t seem to go there quietly.

Why not just mow everything down and be done with it? The answer to that question is found in the absolute glory that happens every year in mid-summer, the three weeks of profuse color that I cannot take my eyes off of.  It’s worth the effort. I love them infinitely more than a grassy lawn.  Now they are gone for another year, replaced for a time by the cone-flowers and black-eyed susans.

My father always said that the older you get, the faster the time goes. My theory is that for every year you live, that year becomes a smaller and smaller percentage of your overall life.  And if time were merely linear, it could get pretty depressing, a nihilistic affirmation of “life’s a bitch and then you die.”

But the idea of “time” is much more layered than that.  Within all of the world’s great traditions one finds a place, whether through prayer, meditation, or mindfulness, where one moves beyond time and space to touch Spirit, universal consciousness, divine intelligence, God, or whatever you wish to call it.  If I can make a daily prayer practice that moves me to a place where there is no time, I can come back to the world of clocks and calendars with a much less anxious presence around my lily patch, for example.

For too many centuries my own tradition has been drowning in a sea of materialism, thinking that what we see is what we get, all at the hands of a deity who lives in a far-off heaven.  But once we master the idea of incarnation, God With Us, we begin a co-creative process that changes the way we view the world.  It enables us to see that tyrants rule only for a season, that, as Martin Luther King said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

It may not seem like it when you read the news, but it is true, nonetheless.