A recipe for peace

Our conversation at Church That’s Not Church was a summary of the past 4 weeks and how the things we talked about might just be a recipe for peace. So much wonderful dialogue and sharing about our experiences and challenges. Also remembering that we need sorrow to recognize joy, and our inner critic to feel the relief of grace and disharmony to recognize peace. There are no “negative emotions”. They all play a part in bringing our awareness to our humanity and the gifts that come with every sacred journey. Enjoy!!

Reflection - a recipe for peace

Today we’re exploring what happens when three inner qualities — grace, compassion, and joy, along with that quiet state we’ve been calling flow — begin to work together.
Each one by itself softens something inside us.
But together, they form a kind of internal ecosystem that makes peace possible.

Grace is the soft landing when we fall short.
It’s the spaciousness that reminds us, “You’re allowed to be unfinished.”
It’s the easing of the inner critic, the shift from tightening to releasing.

Compassion is what rises up when we turn toward our own suffering or someone else’s with gentleness instead of judgment.
It’s the act of saying, “This too is human.”
Compassion lets us stay connected when life gets complicated.

Joy is not constant happiness — it is aliveness.
It’s what bubbles up when we let ourselves be present, even for a moment.
Joy is the spark we feel when we notice something beautiful, surprising, or tender.

And flow is what happens when we finally stop fighting the moment.
It’s the sense of being carried, rather than pushing.
It’s presence without friction.

Individually, each of these qualities offers relief.
Together, they create a pattern — a way of being in the world.

Grace softens us.
Compassion grounds us.
Joy brightens us.
Flow aligns us.

And peace is what arises when these four begin to work in harmony.

Peace is not something we force.
It’s something we allow.
It’s the natural result of loosening the grip on perfection, turning toward our own humanity, letting joy spark wherever it wants to, and trusting the current of the moment instead of resisting it.

Peace grows in the exact places we used to tense.
Peace appears in the breath after we stop trying to fix ourselves.
Peace is the spaciousness that comes from realizing we don’t need to be anything other than what we are — growing, learning, imperfect, alive.

When we let grace meet our flaws,
compassion meet our wounds,
joy meet our ordinary moments,
and flow meet our resistance,
peace has a way of finding us.

Not as an achievement,
but as a byproduct of gentleness.

So before we leave today let’s take one more breath.

Let your breath settle into your body.
Let your breath land like a small kindness.
Let your breath remind you that peace is not somewhere “out there,” but something that grows inside the conditions we create.

May you move through today with grace.
May compassion steady your heart.
May joy surprise you.
May flow carry you.
And may peace quietly, naturally rise.

What happens when you’re the only one at church? – A Beautiful Blessing in Disguise of course!!!

I heard the familiar footsteps of my partner coming to the downstairs entrance of the space we had rented for Church That’s Not Church. “It looks like no one could make it today honey. Wanna go get groceries?”

I paused for a moment feeling a tightening in my throat…” No” I said with tears in my eyes, “I think today is meant to be about me.”

Seeing the confusion in his face I said, “Today’s reflection was really hard for me to write…I feel like I still need to read it out loud in this space - just for me. Will you stay and listen?”

He sat down next to me on the sofa that forms part of our regular circle for people coming to this new community. Together, we explore spirituality from the perspective of individual experience instead of any kind of religious practice. The space has come to hold a beautiful sacred energy for me, and I could feel the immensity of that energy fill my heart as I pulled out the two-page reflection that had taken me several hours to craft.

“Today I’d like to talk about grace,” I started from the top of the first page. “But first I’d like to describe what I think grace means.”

“Grace is the experience of being met with kindness we didn’t have to earn. It’s the softening that happens when we stop pushing, fixing or forcing”

My voice cracked and I could feel the tears start to fall. I repeat the words for myself “It is the softening that happens when we stop pushing, fixing or forcing…”

I’ve just started exploring what it means for me to be of service to others through ministry as a leader of Church that’s not Church and as a spiritual coach and companion. It hasn’t been a clear path but recently I’ve come to serve a community of like-minded people who have become a part of something unique. As a new venture, there is the lovely side of being with human beings in a space that welcomes deep conversation and discovery. But there is also the business side, advertising, marketing, cashflow – the hustle really. Lately I have felt the burden of making my spiritual “business” something people have access to, working hard to post and write and get the word out. I didn’t realize how much I was feeling the weight of what I considered a lack of progress. But on this Sunday morning, I was encountering it at my core.

“Do you need a hug?” My partner asked as I wiped the tears away.

“No, I need to get through this...But I’ll take one afterwards” I said with that wonderful mix of laughter through tears.

I continued. “Grace isn’t about deserving. It’s about being willing to let the universe hold us for a moment. It’s the universe leaning toward us, inviting us to meet our own lives and the lives of others with fierce gentleness and outrageous kindness”

Paragraph after paragraph I read out loud words, I had written just hours before….” Grace is what whispers “You are allowed to be unfinished””.

I could feel myself giving over to the rush of relief. I could feel the mystery of that sacred energy that can flood the center of your being with warmth. Through the reading of my own words, in that intimate space, I was accepting the grace as unearned, beautiful and complete kindness, and love for who I was exactly in that moment.

As I came to the end of my reflection I started the final blessing.

“May we receive, No,” I said to my partner. “Let me say that again.”

“May I receive the grace that is already here. And may I offer that same grace to myself and to others, not because it is earned but because I am learning, growing and wonderfully human and grace is there simply for the taking”.

Leaning in for my hug, I knew how incredibly the sacred had worked to make this moment happen, to allow me to feel ministered to and to recognize the true lesson of grace as I welcomed the spaciousness, the ease and the unexpected mystery of the feeling of being loved by the universe. What a beautiful blessing!

Reflection on Grace

Today we’re exploring grace - a powerful tenderness that meets us exactly where we are.

Grace is not passive, mushy or inactive.
It’s the universe leaning toward us, inviting us to meet our own lives, and the lives of others with fierce gentleness and outrageous kindness

Grace is what rises in the gap between who we are and who we want to be.
It’s what whispers, “You’re allowed to be unfinished.”

Brené Brown when asked in a recent interview about what she had “fixed in her life”, said she doesn’t believe in being “fixed” — not for herself, not for anyone. She shared that even after all her years of research and teaching, she is still doing her own inner work. She’s not done, and she doesn’t want to be.
Because, she said, if we ever truly “fixed” ourselves to the point where we never struggled again, “we would be so short on grace for other people that we would be tyrants.”

John O’Donohue called grace “the permanent climate of divine kindness.” Not kindness we earn… but kindness that simply is. There is no way to earn grace. I can remember my father – who was a minister in the Christian church - would struggle with the teaching that we had to do things to be saved, that our salvation was conditional based on our actions. He would say - True grace means that there is no action you could perform, no duty that could ever justify the grace and love that the universe has to offer and that was the key to it. We have to let go of our need to justify receiving it and just accept grace as unearned, beautiful and complete kindness and love for who we are, exactly in this moment.

I believe that is what it makes it so difficult for us to understand and wrap our heads around grace. It doesn’t ask for anything.

Richard Rohr says, “Grace is not something you receive; it’s something you awaken to.”
And maybe this is the heart of self-grace: not performing worthiness, but allowing ourselves, actually giving ourselves permission, to receive the gentleness already available to us.

Grace is giving ourselves permission to feel compassion over criticism, curiosity over shame, presence over panic.

Grace reminds us that even in the moments we feel broken, we are still becoming and the universe will give us the grace required in those moments to turn back to love.

So today, let’s loosen our grip on the expectation to ever be fully formed.

What if we let go of the idea completely – If we say out loud “I will never be completely fixed” and feel the grace for ourselves and others that comes with just letting go.
Grace is the experience of being met with kindness we didn’t have to earn.
It’s the softening that happens when we stop pushing, fixing, or forcing.
It’s the moment when life offers us a little spaciousness, a little ease, a little unexpected support.

May we receive the grace that is already here.
And may we offer that same grace to ourselves and to others
not because it is earned
but because we are all learning, growing,
and wonderfully human and grace is there simply for the taking.

The Courage to Make Joy the Foundation

This week, as we continue exploring the inner landscapes that shape our lives, I want to sit with the idea of joy. Not the loud, ecstatic joy, happiness or excitement that bursts in like fireworks - but the quieter joy that lives inside us like a warm light, constant and soft.

Joy is one of the most delicate emotions we experience. We can notice it in the smallest moments: the way morning light lands on a table, the steadiness of a familiar voice, the sensation of belonging, or the simple relief of being exactly where you are. These moments matter not because they remove the complexities of life, but because they reveal something deeper within us—an inner orientation that is joy itself.

But joy can be complicated.

Brené Brown often says that joy is one of the most vulnerable emotions we feel. When joy touches us, many people immediately tense with a quiet internal warning: “Be careful. This could disappear.” She calls this foreboding joy—the instinct to brace for loss. Joy exposes what we cherish. And with that exposure comes the awareness of fragility. Feeling joy means caring, and caring always comes with risk.

Yet if we want, joy invites us into a different kind of relationship with life.

Joy that is foundational isn’t about chasing peak moments. It isn’t the sudden high, the extraordinary event, or the momentary delight. Foundational joy is more like the steady undercurrent running beneath the surface of things—something shaped over time by how we pay attention, how we connect, and how we return to ourselves.

And importantly, living with a stable sense of joy doesn’t mean you never feel sadness, stress, or doubt. (Story about Been in the struggle) It doesn’t mean bypassing the hard parts of being human. Instead, it means that your emotional life becomes more resilient. Joy becomes one of your inner resources—something that helps you bounce back, reach out, keep going, and stay connected to the things that matter. Joy doesn’t cancel sorrow; it counterbalances it. It reminds you that you can hold both. IN his book the Prophet Kahlil Gibran says about Joy “your Joy is your sorrow unmasked. The selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears”

This kind of joy doesn’t ask you to pretend everything is fine.
It asks you to stay awake to what is good, even when life is complicated.

It doesn’t ask you to suppress fear.
It asks you to let beauty coexist alongside your uncertainty.

Joy isn’t asking you to ignore pain.
It’s asking you to make room for wholeness.

Joy isn’t asking you to pretend everything is perfect.
It’s asking you to let yourself feel what is good, even while the rest is still unfolding.

Let joy be a companion this week—even if it feels tender, even if it stretches your heart in uncomfortable ways. Let it surprise you, soften you, and remind you that you have permission to feel joy in times of sorrow, to feel joy in times of uncertainty, to feel joy in times of grief. To let it always be part of who you are as you experience the diversity of what it means to be human.

Compassion as a Way of Seeing

Today we’re reflecting on compassion.
Not as an idea, not as an obligation,
but as a way of being in the world…
a way of seeing.

In Buddhist teachings, compassion—karuṇā—is described as “the trembling of the heart.”
The soft, instinctive movement we feel when we encounter suffering—
our own, or someone else’s.
It’s the natural response that arises when we allow ourselves to be touched
instead of turning away.

The great teacher Thich Nhat Hanh says,
“Compassion is a verb.”
Not a feeling to possess,
but a continual choice
to look again,
to soften,
to stay open
even when we would rather turn away and close down.

Compassion isn’t something we manufacture.
It’s something we uncover
each time we let ourselves witness life honestly
—its beauty, its grief, its messiness, and its tenderness.

Sometimes compassion looks like a gentle hand.
Sometimes it looks like saying “no.”
Sometimes it looks like rest.
Sometimes it looks like listening to someone’s story
without trying to fix a single thing.

Let us also consider that
compassion is also the simple act of not abandoning or pulling away from ourselves.

We can be quick to extend softness to others,
and so reluctant to offer that same softness inward.
We judge our own pain.
We rush ourselves through grief.
We brace against the tender parts
that most need our presence.

But compassion begins right where we are.
With this breath.
This body.
This moment.
With whatever we are carrying today—
fear, joy, exhaustion, longing, confusion, hope.

This is compassion.
The small shift that opens a doorway
from resistance to understanding,
from judgment to curiosity,
from distance to a kind of quiet connection.

Compassion doesn’t demand great things from us.
It simply asks that we stay open
to the truth that every living being carries both suffering and beauty,
confusion and wisdom,
fear and hope.

And that we—just by being human—
are capable of meeting one another
with a gentleness that can change things.

May our hearts tremble open.
May our softness become strength.
May we trust that our compassion will ripple outward
in ways we may never fully see
but that will always, always matter.

Cultivating a feeling of flow

Take a slow breath.
Imagine for a moment that you are standing beside a river.
Not a rushing one, not a torrent — but a steady, living current.
The sound of it is constant.
The water glides over stones that have been here far longer than you.
It moves without hesitation, without second-guessing, without apology.

This river does not worry about where it’s going.
It doesn’t ask if it’s moving fast enough,
or if it’s taking the right path.
It simply follows the shape of the land — responding, adjusting, surrendering to what is.
And somehow, it always finds its way home.

John O’Donohue once wrote:

“I would love to live like a river flows,
carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”

That’s what trust feels like —
a willingness to be carried by something larger than our plans,
a quiet confidence that there is wisdom in the movement, even when we cannot see its destination.

The sacred, too, has a current.
There is a rhythm, a timing, a direction that invites us to soften, to listen, to trust.
But so often, we fight the flow.
We dam it up with expectation.
We churn its surface with worry.
We even try to scoop it up in our hands — as if we could hold water still.

What would it mean to stop fighting the current?
To soften into its pull?
To trust that even when we’re still, the river is still carrying us somewhere holy?

Rumi reminds us,

“Try not to resist the changes that come your way.
Instead, let life live through you.
And do not worry that your life is turning upside down.
How do you know that the side you are used to
is better than the one to come?”

What if flow is not something to achieve,
but something to remember —
a natural state we return to when we stop struggling against what is?

Sometimes, the river is calm and luminous.
It nourishes and cools.
Other times, it swells and floods — a season of change we didn’t choose.
Yet even then, the current knows its course.
Beneath the motion, the stones are being shaped.
The banks are being carved.
Even in what feels like chaos, creation is quietly at work.

The river teaches us this too:
when joy comes, when stillness arrives, when love opens —
step in. Let it move you.

Perhaps trust begins here —
not in knowing the destination,
but in remembering that we are of the river.
That life, the sacred, is always moving through us —
washing away what’s done,
refreshing what’s tired,
and guiding us forward in its own time.

So maybe we can stop asking the river to move faster.
Maybe we can stop measuring how far we’ve come.
Maybe it’s enough — for now — to stand here,
to feel the cool water around our ankles,
to listen, to breathe,
and to whisper, “I am part of the flow. I am being carried. I can trust this.”

“Be like water,” said Lao Tzu.
“Water is fluid, soft, and yielding.
But water will wear away rock,
which is rigid and cannot yield.”

And so it is with us —
the more we soften,
the stronger our faith becomes.
The more we surrender,
the freer we are to move with grace.

May you live like the river —
curious, patient, unhurried,
trusting that every bend is part of the sacred’s unfolding.

What is the Sacred?

I recently watched a documentary about Jane Goodall. What an incredible life and human being who will be greatly missed on this planet. At the beginning of the documentary she talks about her experience of the sacred in the forest in Gombe. This is what she said ““Being out in the forest, I had this great sense of a spiritual awareness of some spiritual power, and it was so strong out in the forest, you cannot help but understand how everything's interconnected. I often used to think sitting out there on my own that, you know, maybe there's a spark of that great spiritual power in each one of us.”

But what actually makes something spiritual? And how do we define the sacred?

Is it sacred because it has been named so by tradition? Or is it because, in its presence, something deep within us awakens? Is it a place? Is it out there, or in here?

For some, the sacred is tied directly to God, the universe, Gaia, creator or an external entity that comes with a relationship with a divine presence connecting them to the infinite. For others, the sacred is not bound to deity or doctrine, but arises in the sheer mystery of existence itself. A blade of foxtail catching the morning dew can be as awe-inspiring as any cathedral, the spark of spiritual power that you feel on a forest trail, it could be the feel of another person’s hand in yours when words fall away, it could be the energy of place that stops you in your tracks or it could be the silence and timeless flow that happens when you are holding brush and paint to paper.  The sacred wears many faces.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote “The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.”
This defeat, this awe, this humbling before something greater than ourselves—that, too, is sacred.

To call something sacred is to declare: This matters.
This is worthy of reverence, of stillness, of our full presence and attention.

In that sense then, the sacred invites us to wake up—to move from numbness to attentiveness. It reorients us to what is essential. It is less about belief, and more about attunement. It asks us:
What are you paying attention to in this moment?
Where is your reverence going?

And perhaps even more radically: What if the sacred isn't just something we find, but something we practice? What if sacredness is not located in objects or places inherently, but arises in how we relate to them? The sacred, then, becomes less about what we encounter and more about how we encounter.

Across the world’s spiritual traditions—from the Upanishads to the mystics of Sufism, from Indigenous ceremonies to contemplative silence—we find this shared thread:
The sacred connects. It binds us—to the earth, to each other, and to the mystery of being alive on this earth.

And so, whether you pray, meditate, sing, serve, or simply breathe deeply into the moment—you are engaging with the sacred. And there is no wrong door into that mystery.

Let us remember then, that in this space, and in life, we need not agree on language or symbols. But we can honor the sacred in one another by showing up with presence, humility, attention and listening hearts.

Today we gather around a shared question: What is the sacred?

It sounds simple. Just four words. But like many spiritual questions, it invites us not toward an answer, but toward deeper questions.

Is it possible that by slowing down, listening deeply, and being fully present—we create the conditions for the sacred to emerge?

And so perhaps then we need to also consider the question what does it mean to live in relationship with the sacred?

It might begin with reverence.
Reverence for life itself—for each other, for the earth, for the mystery of our being here at all.

It might continue with responsibility.
Because when we recognize something as sacred, we treat it differently. We tend it. We protect it. We listen to it.
This could mean protecting the land. Listening to those who are suffering. Creating spaces of welcome and healing.

In this way, being in relationship with the sacred is not just a private experience, but a shared calling.

We become keepers of the sacred, our own and each others fully in community —not by possessing it, or declaring a definitive truth but by being present to the sacred however it shows up for us

What is our Responsibility to Sacred experience?

In my previous post I talked about “what is the sacred” and I wanted to bring us back to some of the words I shared.

To call something sacred is to declare: This matters.
This is worthy of reverence, of stillness, of our full presence and attention.

In that sense then, the sacred invites us to wake up—to move from numbness to attentiveness. It reorients us to what is essential. It is less about belief, and more about attunement. It asks us:
What are you paying attention to in this moment?
Where is your reverence going?

Is it possible that by slowing down, listening deeply, and being fully present—we create the conditions for the sacred to emerge?

And so perhaps then we need to also consider the question what does it mean to live in relationship with the sacred?

It might begin with reverence.
Reverence for life itself—for each other, for the earth, for the mystery of our being here at all.

It might continue with responsibility.
Because when we recognize something as sacred, we treat it differently. We tend it. We protect it. We listen to it.

Today I thought it might be interesting to continue with that question. Once we’ve glimpsed or felt the universe in something — once we’ve felt that quiet spark of aliveness or connection — what then?

What is our responsibility if any to that experience? I came up with 4 thoughts for that questions:

Maybe our first responsibility is simply to remember.
Because it’s easy to forget.
The universe often shows itself in subtle ways — in stillness, in beauty, in the space between things.
And the world moves fast.
So perhaps our responsibility is to keep returning, to keep remembering what matters, what feels magical and mysterious.

Our second responsibility might be to respond with care.
When we recognize something as sacred — whether it’s a person, a place, a moment, or even a truth within ourselves — we begin to treat it differently. Last week several people shared truths that were really meaningful to them…a type of revelation…a realization that there was something important in that recognition.
We listen.
We protect.
We act in ways that honor that recognition with care.— it’s a natural outflow of reverence to a gift that we’ve been given – we treat it with care.

And maybe our third responsibility is to embody it —
to let the experience of the sacred or the universe, shape how we move through the world.
To allow it to soften our edges, deepen our compassion, and remind us of our belonging and connectness.
In that way, the sacred doesn’t stay in one place or moment — it moves through us, and into how we live.

And when we are ready, perhaps the fourth responsibility is to share it.

Not to explain it away or make it someone else’s, or convince someone of it
but to let our reverence be visible.
Perhaps it can be through a kindness offered. A story told. A way of living that quietly says, This matters.
Or it could be that we are vulnerable enough to actually put words to our experience, to share what it feels like to walk in the woods and encounter a place that some people might call holy, or others called energized or how weird a particular synchronicity was that the universe threw our way. By talking about this, it gives people the opportunity to share their stories and to remind each other that we have these things in common.

When we share our experiences, they ripple outward —
not as something to own or prove,
but as something to invite others into.

So when we ask, what is our responsibility to the experience of the sacred?
Perhaps it is this:
To remember it.
To respond with care.
To embody it.
And to share it — gently, freely, as an act of love and wonder and gratitude for the experience we’ve been given.

How does our relationship with the sacred impact our lives?

Over the last posts I talked about What is the Sacred to each of us and what is some of the language we use to describe the sacred if any.

I brought forward the thoughts that :

To call something sacred is to declare: This matters.
This is worthy of reverence, of stillness, of our full presence and attention.

That the sacred invites us to wake up—to move to attentiveness. It is less about belief, and more about attunement. It asks us:
What are you paying attention to in this moment?
Where is your reverence going?

I talked about our relationship to the sacred.

Because when we recognize something as sacred, we treat it differently. We tend it. We protect it. We listen to it.

Continuing with this review…Once we’ve glimpsed or felt the universe in something — once we’ve felt that quiet spark of aliveness or connection — what then?
What is our responsibility if any to that experience? I came up with 4 thoughts for that questions

Maybe our first responsibility is simply to remember.

Our second responsibility might be to respond with care. We Listen, we protect

our third responsibility is to embody it —
to let the experience of the sacred or the universe, shape how we move through the world.
To allow it to soften our edges, deepen our compassion

And when we are ready, perhaps the fourth responsibility is to share it

Not to explain it away or make it someone else’s, or convince someone of it
but to let our reverence be visible.

So when we ask, what is our responsibility to the experience of the sacred?
Perhaps it is this:
To remember it.
To respond with care.
To embody it.
And to share it — gently, freely, as an act of love and wonder and gratitude for the experience we’ve been given.

Today I thought I could go a little deeper still and ask the question “how does our relationship with the sacred, however we define that, impact our lives in deeper ways...for instance decision making, surrendering something to a higher power, asking for help, seeking understanding in the face of uncertainties, the things we can’t quite control?

For many of us, the sacred isn’t a separate realm. It’s something woven through our living — a thread of awareness. Sometimes that presence feels like guidance, a small nudge that says yes, this way. Other times it’s the invitation to wait, to release the need to know, to trust that something larger is still at work.

When we face decisions, the sacred may not hand us an answer it might be more about a feeling we get, an instinct to pause, to listen more deeply. To remember that wisdom often whispers, and that love doesn’t hurry. To notice which choice brings a sense of peace rather than tightness.

Or perhaps its about release and surrender… it’s the tender act of releasing our grip so that the universe can work its magic.  To allow us to feel a sense of peace in the letting go.

But I believe that being in relationship with the sacred is also about a kind of partnership. The universe meets us through who we are — through our intuition, our gifts, our passions, our questions. What draws us close, what lights us up, what feels deeply right — these may be among the sacred’s ways of speaking. Our very design — our personalities, our joys, our sensitivities — can be part of how the universe moves and creates through us trusting that our own lives are part of the unfolding conversation and that it is less about certainty and more about companionship. We are in quiet collaboration with the sacred in how things unfold.

How do we intentionally bring about spiritual experiences

Summarize the last three posts

First I shared the different ways we named our idea of the sacred – some said the universe, some said God, some said “me”. Many of us had different and similar ways that we named the sacred.

Then I asked with the question: What is the sacred?
To call something sacred is to declare: This matters.
It is worthy of reverence, of stillness, of our full presence and attention.

When we bring that kind of awareness to a moment — whether it’s this meditation, the quiet on a trail, or a tender exchange in a relationship — we awaken to the truth that the sacred isn’t separate from life. It is life, met with awareness.

In the next post I talked about once we’ve felt that recognition of the sacred, felt the spark of the universe what then? What is our responsibility if any to that experience?

4 things I talked about:

Maybe our first responsibility is simply to remember.

Our second responsibility might be to respond with care. We Listen, we protect.

Our third responsibility is to embody it — to let the experience of the sacred or the universe, shape how we move through the world. To allow it to soften our edges, deepen our compassion

And when we are ready, perhaps the fourth responsibility is to share it. Not to explain it away or make it someone else’s or convince someone of it but to let our reverence be visible.

So when we ask, what is our responsibility to the experience of the sacred?
Perhaps it is this:
To remember it.
To respond with care.
To embody it.
And to share it — gently, freely, as an act of love and wonder and gratitude for the experience we’ve been given

Finally, in the previous post I talked about how we bring the sacred into our lives – decision making, how we respond to things.

At Church That’s Not Church, people shared that for them this had to do with faith and grace, and many conversations about seeing the power of the universe through synchronicities or how the universe worked things out in ways that almost seemed magical for our greater good. Who we are, our very design — our personalities, our joys, our sensitivities, our intuition, our desires and dreams — can be part of how the universe moves and creates through us. We are in collaboration with the sacred in how things unfold.

Today, I want to invite us to look at how we intentionally bring about spiritual experiences — of any kind — into our lives. How we open up the possibility of creating them.

What does being intentional look like?

To be intentional means to live with purpose — to make conscious choices about where we place our time, our attention, our energy, and our heart.

It means we stop waiting for the sacred to find us by accident, and instead, we prepare the ground for the sacred to take root in us.

Being intentional doesn’t mean forcing a spiritual experience to happen — that can’t be done.
It means opening the door, creating the space, softening the ground of our awareness so that when the sacred moves, we are ready to notice.

When we live intentionally, we shift from drifting through our days to moving through them with meaning.
We say, I want to live awake.
We live as though the sacred could appear at any moment — because it can.

When we do that, we are calling on the sacred — not to control or demand it, but to welcome it.
We are saying, in the language of our actions:
“Come, meet me here.”

That’s what makes spiritual practice powerful: it’s not about the form, what could I do — or stop doing - but about the being intentional about the orientation of the heart.