Update: Well, let's just say it: I misspelled fury and made it furry. Now it's changed. Cheers, Dianna, for noting that. ---
I have packed a life.
In 150 lbs spread over three bags, in a carry-on, in a backpack, I have packed a life. Wednesday evening, I board United flight 4, a redeye to London, connect at Heathrow to Edinburgh, take a taxi to the rail station, a train down back into England to stay with friends along the coast for a few days before taking the train back, once more, and meeting my parents in Edinburgh before heading to St. Andrews.
I've been muddled in nostalgia for the past few days as I made the arrangements to pack this life, as I decided what absolutely had to be packed, what could wait, what could be given away. It found me thinking, churning, slipping back to the lunch we had not too long ago, when I told you about candles and lit paths. It found me thinking, because I'm not sure we talk about this way of grace all too well sometimes.
I've taken a turn here, I know. I've addressed an anonymous reader that is very likely not you. But I want to bring you in on this, I want to tell you this very important thing that suddenly occurred to me while I made conclusions about what constituted 150 lbs worth of a life:
Ours shall be without sound and without fury.
I don't have much to say on this. I'm exhausted. I'm on reserve power. But I need you to think this through with me, for a time, while I get on that plane and try to piece together a new life: ours shall be without sound and without fury.
What do I mean?
It's something about how we lead. It's something about leading through our willingness to curate a space where good and wise minds can find rootedness together. It's something about leading through the willingness of our hearts to empty.
It's something about tables. It's something about gathering people at tables and feeding them. It's about loving them. It's about stepping back from the Internet games and the book publishing and the theological fights to be quiet long enough to join hands and call this small patch of land our own, our safety.
(There aren't many safe places anymore. They're as common as the thin places now.)
My room is a mess. A barren mess as things are tucked away, stuffed away.
What do I mean?
I mean something like this: a network of tiny lights along the road of this life. An overground railroad. A network of small candle flames, tiny little whispers offered out to those journeying to whom we call, "Here, friend. Here is safe tonight." And we bring them in. We round our tables. We feed. We quiet ourselves to receive.
I mean ours shall be without sound and without fury.
Our Faith, our hope, our love, our revolution.
Because denominational lines aren't safety. Spiritual acronyms aren't safety. My church building is not safety.
I mean ours shall be without sound and without fury.
I mean something about baking and being fed so as to feed.
I mean being unto another Christ.
I mean 150 lbs is actually quite a lot of a life to pack.
I mean I'm exhausted.
I mean I have nothing left but this little candle flame and, tonight, I'm stretching out my hand and raising it up, whispering this place is a safe place. Another light along the road. Another light.
Light a light, light a light.
And it's the quietest sort of battle cry.