Visiting Places Where Miracles Happen

 Visiting Places Where Miracles Happen

Caravaggio. Supper at Emmaus National Gallery London

“A cancer inexplicably cured. A voice in a dream. It is possible to look at most miracles and find a rational explanation in terms of natural cause and effect. It is possible to look at Rembrandt’s Supper at Emmaus and find a rational explanation in terms of paint and canvas.”—Frederick Buechner, Beyond Words (HarperOne, 2009).

I believe in miracles. Once a week, I step into a room full of people who are themselves miracles. It is a 12-step recovery group of people who once were crippled by addiction and now are “happy, joyous, and free.” They talk about what it was like then and what it is like now. I have heard some of their stories hundreds of times, but each time, I see more similarities to my own story and identify more closely with theirs. Sometimes, a person’s story is so similar to mine that I think: That IS my story—the differences blur. Everyone in the room is a miracle, and I realize I am, too. And so, each time, I leave that place profoundly grateful.

I see other miracles every day. Someone calls or comes for a visit. I just listen and listen. In my mind, I have no idea what to say. Sometimes, words that seem to help my friend come out of my mouth. I am in the dark about where a particular statement might have come from. I know it’s flashing into my mind, but it’s a miracle, not of my own making. Some would call it the Spirit working in our lives.

I see people living for many years despite cancers that in the past would have killed them in months. These are all miracles. People who find cures are miracle workers. These scientists and physicians are often inspired by seeing patients die of a particular disease and are determined not to see that happen again. 

I remember a conversation with my grandmother when I was a junior in medical school, as we rode together in the back seat of a car. She told me she could not understand how people do not believe in miracles when they see a newborn baby. I just smiled, but in my mind I was thinking: “Grandmother, I know how babies develop. I know all the secrets and stages of how they come to be born. These are all facts of science.”

Over fifty years later, I know my grandmother was right because I have seen so many sick newborns. The birth of every baby is a miracle.

Tomorrow, watercolorist Ken Fellows will discuss the best advice from his favorite art instructor, who said, “Artists are in the business of making miracles.” Buechner also reflects on seeing Rembrandt’s Supper at Emmaus at the Louvre in Paris. Rembrandt has captured the miracle. Many other works of art qualify as miracles as well. They connect us to the God of our understanding: Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg; Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus in the National Gallery in London; Georges de La Tour’s The Repentant Magdalen at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. 

Buechner challenges us to remember the many works of art that speak to us individually and to look at them anew. Do we truly recognize the miracles offered to us in art books today, or should we plan a pilgrimage to see these masterpieces firsthand, learning more about the miracles they hold and about ourselves?

Joanna  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Crossing the Divide

Photography as a Spiritual Practice

Crossing the Divide

Guest Writer: Alan Schlesinger

My wife and I had moved to Asheville, NC, in retirement less than a year ago. The town is nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It is a beautiful cultural center for music and art. It is a Mecca for tourists who enjoy hiking, visiting countless microbreweries, and savoring the impressive foodie offerings in this quirky mountain town in Western North Carolina. It is fitting, therefore, that the Class A minor league baseball team that plays here at the legendary 100-year-old McCormick Field is named the Asheville Tourists.

Over the years, fans have had the honor of seeing the likes of Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, and Jackie Robinson play in this historic ballpark nestled into the mountains surrounding Asheville. 

Soon, my wife and I attended a game with some new friends we met in Asheville. It was a beautiful, balmy summer evening, and the game was exciting as the last-place Tourists beat the Winston-Salem Dash 6-1. It was a sellout crowd, with a huge number of families with young children enjoying America’s pastime and dollar hotdog night rather than their electronic devices. Two towering home runs by the home team Tourists cleared the tall wall in dead center field and still seemed to be climbing as they left the ballpark. A glorious fireworks display capped off the evening, as it was a “Fireworks Friday”—a weekly tradition at McCormick Field. 

However, the night’s biggest ovation was reserved for a gentleman unknown to me and most of the other fans before that evening—George Sarros, a 98-year-old World War II Navy veteran who threw out the first pitch. He fought in the Battle of Normandy at Utah Beach. The crowd’s response to Mr. Sarros did not end with a standing ovation at the start of the game. 

Throughout the nine innings, a steady stream of people—both young and old—made their way to his seat along the third baseline to meet him, shake his hand, and thank him for his service. I took this photograph as he answered questions from three young baseball fans (you can see his signature where the girl on the right had him autograph her cap). He seemed surprised by the outpouring of gratitude from the fans at the game. I have to admit that I, too, was caught off guard by the response. In these days of political polarization, where even the definition of the term “patriot” sometimes seems divisive, the sellout crowd of 4100 people (including the progressive “elites” who live in the liberal town of Asheville and the right-leaning citizens from the surrounding rural countryside) came together to celebrate this gentleman and express their gratitude for the sacrifices of this patriot and the countless others of the “greatest generation” who took up arms to save democracy.

 As a son of refugees liberated by the Allies in World War II, I was honored to wait my turn, shake his hand, and offer my grateful thanks. 

Alan Schlesinger  

Joanna  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Kanuga Chapel, Leaving Fingerprints, Letting Our Right Brain Be in Charge

Kanuga Chapel, Leaving Fingerprints, Letting Our Right Brain Be in Charge

“The God who existed before any religion counts on you to make the oneness of the human family known and celebrated.”—Archbishop Desmond Tutu.

The Chapel of Transfiguration at Kanuga Conference Center in North Carolina has always been a place where the family of God is celebrated in diverse ways. I love the chapel's exterior and interior, crafted from southern Carolina white pine from trees downed in a severe storm in 1936. 

My mind always wanders as I sit in the chapel, waiting for any service to begin, and I remember more. The wood for the chapel was not pretreated, leaving unusual dark oval markings from the oil in the workers’ fingerprints. The simple prints are more prominent on the ceiling, where it was more difficult for builders to work.

When I am in the chapel, I feel surrounded by the thousands of prayers from people on retreat who have worshiped here and by the hands of those who labored on the building. I remember our own fingerprints and where we leave them, as well as those of others.

I especially remember the day I was sitting in the chapel when I learned that my fingerprints for TSA PreCheck had not been captured clearly enough. That meant there would be a delay in receiving my PreCheck, delaying my traveler number! You carry this identification to go through a special security lane at airports. I realized that it is now physically hard for me to leave fingerprints for the remainder of my life’s journey.

I have a new appreciation for the builders of this chapel, who must have been incredibly strong and would have been tightly gripping the wood to leave their prints in this sacred space.

I remember other services in this chapel that I never wanted to end. I have memories of a preaching conference, dancing around the altar with Barbara Brown Taylor as I offered the bread and she followed with the wine. I see Bishop Tutu dancing on the green after an amazing closing Eucharist at a retreat led by Trinity Wall Street. Priceless. I remember two Lenten retreats when we were snowed in. Breathtaking.

I played my harp at one retreat that Phyllis Tickle led in this chapel because the scheduled musicians could not make it. I also played at the closing of our spiritual direction class at the Hayden Institute—a privilege.

Thin places like Kanuga can offer us an entire album of memories, times when God’s presence and love were palpable—or, as Gordon Cosby would tell us, times when we lived in the real world—or, as Lara Patriquin would tell us, times when our right brains were leading us.

Joanna.   https://www.joannaseibert.com/