The Nudge of Spiritual Formation

Driving across the tundra of upstate New York was never my choice for a spiritual reckoning. Many road trips have fed me through the years, accompanied by a soundtrack of known and forgotten musicians. But this week, as my all-wheel drive Forester navigated snow on Interstate 90, and the blues of Robert Johnson's Crossroad reverberated in the warm cab, I realized most of my spiritual formation occurs in a kind of post-traumatic spiritual disorder.

The oft-overused word 'trauma' gets people's attention in our hyperbolic culture. I'm using the term here to reference those micro-moments when your thoughts collide with what you witness. The dissonance can be jarring or, more likely, a simple nudge. Mine was a nudge, so ok, 'trauma' is overplayed, and I'm guilty as the rest of society. Let's try ‘post-thinking spiritual dissonance,’ as in the rational collided with the somewhat mystical on the turnpike. That sounds like lyrics Tom Waits might consider.

The arctic blast that left a blanket of snow and minus zero temps and moody skies of white and pale grey clouds reminded me of other times the road rearranged my sense of God and self. The interaction between those two always seems jumbled, especially as the miles of pavement disappear underneath me.

On this occasion, the road took me to western New York state, Bemus Point to be precise, and a gathering of pastors eager to mine the scriptures in preparation for the upcoming season of Lent. That time of the church year between Ash Wednesday and Holy Week when Christians embrace Lament and the long road of an apprenticeship with sorrow. Considering the best of times-worst of times we find ourselves, I thought ‘Lament’ an appropriate engagement. I'd been wrestling with authors Francis Weller and Stephen Jenkinson, whose writings on death, grief, and sorrow seemed fitting, not just for Lent or these times but for life. Strangely, dying always seems to heighten living.

Our conversations at the retreat heightened how Luke's Gospel seemed obsessed with including the Holy Spirit as an accompaniment for every step of Jesus' life. From birth in a muddy cave, through a time of wilderness temptation, in his travels in hostile lands, and leading up to his welcome by a rag-tag group of desperate souls and the final cluster-show in Jerusalem. My return trip on the road allowed for reflection time. I was brewing and stewing as the snow and salt-covered roads lay before me. The back burner of my psyche simmered on how an accompanying Spirit hangs with Jesus in the wilderness and with me in times of mud, temptation, hostility, and desperation.

I confess. I've been avoiding the craziness of these best of times-worst of times. LA Fires, DC dumpster fire, friends with cancer fire – ugh, just stop! Brewing and stewing on Luke's Gospel and the conversations around our societies' need to explore the grief we all know, leads me back to Lament, that age-old human practice of deeply acknowledging people's soft and tender spots - those wounds from long ago. Weller calls on our need to hold an apprenticeship with sorrow.

"To be human is to know loss in its many forms," writes Weller., "This should not be seen as a depressing truth. Acknowledging this reality enables us to find our way into the grace that lies hidden in sorrow. We are most alive at the threshold between loss and revelation; every loss ultimately opens the way for a new encounter."

Francis Weller The Wild Edge of Sorrow

"Find our way into the grace that lies hidden in sorrow." Can a few words describe more profoundly what hit me on the road? I think not. Bullseye!

The best of time-worst of times unravel around us, and yet rather than avoid them, the Spirit nudged me into grief. The grief we likely all know deep inside or just under the surface. Our lives seem unmanageable, and admitting our powerlessness might be a starting point. The moment stuck in my throat and chest and welled in my eyes.

Jim Morrison, the frontman for the 60's group The Doors, carrying deep wounds himself, sang, "No one here gets out alive." Which could become a rallying cry for a 2025 nihilism. Tempting. Instead, I'll merge those lyrics with some ancient Hebrew and land here:

Praised is the One for showing me the wonder of divine kindness,

Even in a city under siege.

I have said in my panic,

"I am cut off from before your eyes."

But you heard the voice of my plea,

The note of desperation when I cried out for help.

Excerpt from Psalm 31 (The Complete Psalms by Pamela Greenberg)

We wander in a land of grief and sorrow, but the Spirit seems hell-bent on accompanying us. At least, that’s what the road, and the snow and the blues music man revealed to me this week.

More to Come,

James Hazelwood is an author of four books including Ordinary Mysteries: Faith, Doubt and Meaning. He writes and photographs in Rhode Island and around the world. His website is www.jameshazelwood.net