Living “Sacred Space”

I grew up taking fishing trips in Wisconsin, Minnesota and Ontario with my parents and two younger brothers. As we grew, we moved from simple family trips to more…well, more beer and fart trips, and my mom found other things to do with that week.

Rituals developed, and certain rules. For example, when we first arrive at the cabin, nobody sits down until everything gets unloaded from the truck and boat and put away inside. Or, no matter what the weather or what time you go to bed, you’re still getting up at the butt crack of dawn, eating breakfast, and going fishing. Dinner dishes are washed by whomever catches the fewest fish (which is a scam for my youngest brother, who goes after the schooling – and boring – Walleye, while I like to cast and prefer the more elusive bass and pike…and yes, I’ve done my share of dishes as sacrifice to this better way of life). The sons had tasks, but Dad always took care of two daily duties in particular: getting breakfast started so we’d wake up to an expression of his love, and making sure the boat battery was plugged in and properly charged the next day, so the trolling motor would work and our time on the water would be more pleasant and effective…an expression of his desire that we would all enjoy our time together.

The last time I went fishing in Ontario was a few years ago, and my brothers had other obligations, so just my dad and I went. I love my brothers and definitely prefer having them along, but I’m really glad that I had the experience of being there with just my dad. The rituals were exactly the same, except that because it was just the two of us, I experienced each ritual, each choice to do something in a certain way, as an act of service, of love. It was like that all week, both of us had done the stuff enough times that we just knew what to do and did it, offering the gesture and receiving the gift of the other man’s gesture. I don’t know if the details of how we do things are the best way (I would assume they’re not, actually), but they’re the way we’ve done them, and now our behavior and way of doing the week means more than ideas of “best way” or something like that. What our behaviors feel like now is something closer to my dad saying, “I love you in this choice I’m making to serve you right now,” and my response being something along the lines of, “I choose to receive your love in the way you offer it, and I choose to respond in kind.”

And at some point, the word “sacred” stuck with me.

No matter what life choices I may make, or how our differences may show up in the rest of our lives, there is something very sacred about life in the cabin with my dad and me. The sacredness has to do with a few things, I think. The first is that the time and space has been claimed as different, a ground for relationship unto itself, where all that is invited – or at least dwelt upon – is who we are at root, not what things we attach to or clash over at home. The second is that the cabin is a very real expression of my dad’s love – a place to which he invites his son(s) to share time together. The third has to do with what a father’s love also provides – namely boundaries and protection. My dad welcomes my choices and preferences while we’re on our fishing trips, but he also jealously guards the time, the environment, and his role there – certain music or technology wouldn’t fit, and it seems to be right for both of us that he be the “host” and the head, even though I am fully welcomed there and pay half the bill. Part of how he jealously guards the week has to do with who else is welcomed. I wouldn’t even think of inviting a friend (though I would certainly be open to inviting my dad on trips I took with friends). And if some stranger from another cabin were to show up at our door, we would both help the person, my dad would be the one who set the rule about what sort of help and what level of welcome we’d extend. In fact, the only person who’d be welcomed on the trip would be my bride.

And that’s us with the Father and the Son, I think.

I think of capital H, true and ultimate Holiness as being the Father’s fierce and protective love for the Son – He will keep the rules and He will maintain the sacredness of the space – holiness is an expression of love, always. We are welcomed into the space that exists within the embrace between Father and Son the way my wife, Christine, would be welcomed into the fishing cabin. Christine is welcomed because I love her, and because my father loves me.

Here’s where the “living sacred space” title of this post comes in.

What would I have to do to prepare Christine to fit in and love the week fishing with my dad and me as much as I enjoy it? And what things get in the way?

Certainly one thing that would get in the way would be an obsessive focus on her part about trying to get everything right – especially if she tried to practice and memorize the “rules” before we ever arrived at the cabin. What if I told her we don’t really listen to much music when we’re up there, but what we do play is mostly Eagles, Jimmy Buffet, and Chris De Burgh (because several years ago my dad loved the “Lady in Red” song and my brothers and I humored the replaying of the album so many times on the drive up that it became part of the fishing cabin soundtrack), with occasional doses of what my dad may or may not intentionally screw up when he asks for “Tom Petty and the Mindbenders.” (Crap, now I’ve heard it so many times that I had to Google to make sure I was swapping out “mindbenders” for “heartbreakers” correctly.) That little bit of information would get in the way for Christine – maybe she’d start listening to the music here so she could appreciate it there, or maybe she’d brace against the music she wouldn’t like, or maybe she’d just see the existence of an established soundtrack as an imposing and uninviting lame law.

Man, that’s just music, which does translate. There’s no way she’d be game for a discussion of dacron vs. monofilament vs. braided nylon fishing line, or Mepps vs. Daredevil lures. There’s a world of practical knowledge – still experience-based and preference-driven – that only makes sense when you’re on a boat in Ontario. How much more with God?

You know what would make a fishing trip attractive to Christine (though I’ve probably poisoned the thought with years of details and stories now)? If I told her that when we’re in Canada we spend a week in thorough enjoyment of our surroundings, our activities, and the working of love between us.

Wouldn’t be a bad summary for evangelicals to consider, either, I suppose.

So, if I were to tell Christine about a week of thorough enjoyment of love working between us, and she were to come along, then what?

I would not tell her a bunch of rules. I would live the rituals and welcome her participation if she asked how she could jump in. I would let her receive the benefits of the love working between us – because I love her and would love to be a benefit to her, and that would be my father’s heart for her as well, because he loves her on her own, but also as an expression of loving me. I would welcome her thoughts and ideas and questions – maybe there are better ways to live the week…and if she had good ideas, my dad would say, “That’s really slick” (because that’s what he says about all new ideas he likes) and wouldn’t think twice about adopting an improvement – the rituals are expressions of love, and they only matter for their ability to convey the love…upgrades are always welcomed. And if Christine did things differently – even annoyingly – she’d still be welcomed, and her Chris De Burgh contribution would become part of the soundtrack, too. (That’s just an example, Dad – De Burgh is still awesome.)

If I wanted Christine to experience something of what I experience on my trips to Canada, it would be important for me to “hold space” for her – to welcome her without demand and to see if she discovered aspects of the trip that felt like love to her, and inspired her to offer love into the mix. It would be important for me to protect her freedom to join in as she felt comfortable doing so, and not to scare her off by rushing, ridiculing or reprimanding her choices on the trip. There are situations of risk while we’re in remote water – there are ways to make expensive errors (my dad’s got a pretty comprehensive record of expensive learning experiences from his 30+ years of fishing) and there are ways to die, for sure – but because Christine would be with us, she’d be okay, so there’s nothing to fear when it comes down to it. My job would be to guard and protect the space for Christine to experience fishing in Canada, and what love looks like from my dad and me in that context – that’s what would make it sacred.

I want to be more like that with other people and in more and more of my life, too. Especially when it comes to issues of living with God. There is a deeper reality than “belief” that bonds us together – the person of the Lord is real and present, and really the point of faith is about how we engage life remembering that. Christine could learn all she wanted about my dad’s “rules and ways” on fishing trips, and she could even show up on the trip and ride in the boat with him, convinced she knew he’s a fan of the braided nylon, and why, but it would be a kind of silly focus to have when the living guy is right there, liable to ask the now famous question, “So, if you were a rock, would you rather be above water, under water, or half-way?” Because, seriously, once you’ve communicated your love for someone and are hanging out in a boat just enjoying their company, who cares what you talk about?

I want to hold space for people. I want to treat their souls as sacred. I want to pursue my Father and love Him in response to His love and His presence. And I want other people to receive the benefit from my efforts. And maybe, at some point, they’ll taste the love too, and jump in. That would be cool.

* Oh, and as to where the Holy Spirit is in this whole metaphor. He’s the one who shows me that breakfast is love, that a charged battery is pursuit of enjoying me, that a GPS is an expression of the value perceived in my life, that an invitation to go fishing is an invitation to spend a week in the shelter of my father’s heart. The Holy Spirit is the one who adds Chris De Burgh to the playlist, who inspires me to respond to love with love. And the Holy Spirit is the one who causes me to take note of how incredibly wonderful a week in a cabin with my dad can be, and still say, “the only thing that would make this better would be if my brothers were here – I would love to share this with them, too.” That’s Him at work, in Ontario or on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon saying a prayer for people who may read my blog.