Introduction to David Owen:
Back in the early 2000s, I began to notice a tall gentleman attending several of the talks I gave around Indianapolis. We would greet each other, maybe lament the political atmosphere in Indiana, then say our goodbyes. After the third such meeting, I decided I should remember his name, which was David Owen, David, as it turns out, was a Methodist minister. But not just any Methodist minister. He had marched with King, spoke prophetically to the powerful, cared for the lonely and poor, embodying all the principles we Christians claim to cherish.
At the same time, I made it a habit to ask people I met to name the finest preacher they knew, and soon noticed a pattern. "David Owen," they would say. My admiration grew.
When David passed in 2021, I was delighted to learn a compilation of his messages was being published in a book called "When You Don't Know the Length of the Race." I read the book and made up my mind to tell others about it.
On the Sundays I don't bring a message to my Quaker meeting, I'll be sharing one of David's messages with you. I begin that today, with a message David preached at St. Mark's Methodist Church in Bloomington, Indiana called "Jesus Isn't Where You Saw Him Last." Enjoy.
- Philip Gulley
For more information on David Owen and, When You Don't Know the Length of the Race, visit the Owen Legacy Project by clicking below.
Have you ever, in the face of contemporary life, found yourself asking, “Is nothing any longer sacred?” I have. Ours is a world, it sometimes seems to me, in which everything is being brought down to the same level, our level, a level at which everything is to be used or abused. Where, I am asking, are the sacred spaces—those that speak of life at another level; those that create awe in us, silence us, or nourish us; those that are set apart and are considered holy?
Those who designed and built this space in which we are worshipping hoped, I am sure, that it would be a sacred space for all who followed, but sacredness is not just a room with stained glass and arches. A sacred space also has to do with the way we approach it and the way we are when we are in it. Is this, for you, a meeting room or a sacred space?
I strongly suspect that deciding which spaces are sacred for us is more and more a personal, individualized choice. Spaces that are sacred for you may not be sacred for me; spaces that are sacred for me may not be sacred for you, although I am sure that there are many we would agree on. I have never been to Normandy, where so many United States soldiers were buried after dying on the beaches there during World War II, but everyone I know who has been to Normandy speaks of the awe and the breathlessness that the countless perfect rows of white crosses and Stars of David call forth. No one has to tell a visitor that that cemetery is holy ground. That response is spontaneous and immediate.
So, too, in the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem called Yad Vashem. The whole museum calls forth a hush, but there is one darkened gallery in which a few candles, reflected by mirrors, generate more than a million flickering lights, one to represent each of the children murdered en-masse during the Holocaust, and the names of the victims are being read as you pass by. No one has to say, “Quiet, please.” I assume that the empty space in New York City where the Twin Towers stood before 9/11 also brings an unsolicited stillness to those who view it.
Many people find the sacred in natural settings. When in San Francisco for a family wedding two weeks ago, we drove to Yosemite National Park for the large part of one day after the wedding. My sister and brother-in-law showed the way, driving ahead. That meant an additional four or five hours of driving for them on their way back to Los Angeles, but my sister said, “We come here whenever we can. It’s so inspiring.”
P.L. Travers has written, “All mountains are sacred mountains. Is it possible for anyone alive, when confronted with a mountain of any kind, not to know himself or herself, if only for a moment, to be in the presence of a presence?” “In the presence of a presence.” I like that. Moses is not the only one who has stood on a mountain, knowing that the ground beneath his feet was holy.
An article on sacred mountains in Parabola magazine notes the power mountains have to awaken an overwhelming sense of the sacred. They confront us with something apart from the world we know, the article said, a mystery that inspires feelings of wonder and awe. They give us a vision of a higher realm of existence. In their presence, we experience something that we may not be able to put into words. Others may be affected in this same way by oceans, by great rivers, or by virgin forests.
I experience the sacred when standing beside my parents’ grave. Jerusalem, the Old City which I have visited three times, was sacred for me—not the traditional sacred sites that others had designated, but the Old City itself.
There was a season in my life when a small space at the Indianapolis Museum of Art was sacred. I am thinking of a few square feet in front of a landscape by Vincent Van Gogh. It’s not one of his best works. The colors strike me as muddy, but the energy and the thick, swirling brushstrokes are there. Vincent spoke to me deeply during one of my most troubled periods. I understood and smiled at what he wrote to his brother Theo about the mental asylum at Arles. Vincent found the asylum a blessing and said, “I would not have been able to withstand my illness, if I had not seen the other lunatics close up.” There was a season when I was better able to withstand my own illnesses by looking at that painting by Van Gogh close-up. For a time, it was in front of that painting that I found sanctuary. Once I wrote in my journal:
I love Vincent. In part, because of the energy and the color. And because I, too, have had seasons of feeling crazy and alone. But mostly I love Vincent because he did so much with so little talent. His early efforts were so childish and crude. But he stayed with it until he was able to display his soul. It is good to become transparent—to illuminate the world by becoming a window, allowing the sun, the stars and the storm to show through you.
I know that I am wandering, but that’s OK. I want you to wander, too. Where have you been touched by the sacred, and what has it said to you? Where are your sacred spaces?
In the Bible, sacred spaces show up in different ways. Sometimes, as with Moses on the mountain tending sheep, they just light up and grab you, becoming aflame with God in some mysterious way. Jacob was surprised in a similar fashion when camping overnight while traveling from Beersheba to Haran. There in a dream he was suddenly aware of a ladder reaching all the way down to him from heaven, and angels were descending and ascending upon it. Then God spoke to Jacob in his dream. When Jacob awoke, he said:
“Surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it. How awesome is this place. This is none other than the house of God and this is the gate of heaven.” Early in the morning Jacob set up a stone marker and named the place Bethel, which means the House of God.
I was once surprised by such an unexpected experience when praying in Jerusalem at the Wailing Wall, which is the portion of the wall from the Second Temple that remained after the Temple was destroyed. For centuries Jews have taken their most fervent prayers to this site, but even though I went respectfully I did not expect it to become a holy place for me.
One Jewish custom is to read from a prayer book at the wall, and you will see persons swaying in front of the wall while doing that. A custom in which I have participated during each of my visits is to write a prayer or the names of the persons for whom you are praying onto a small piece of paper and then stick that piece of paper into one of the many cracks between the large stones of the wall. On my first visit, I wrote the names of my family members and the names of church members who were struggling with terminal illnesses. I began praying by silently naming those names. But then my prayer began expanding. Soon I was praying for a wider circle of people that I knew. Then, instead of praying for individuals, I found myself praying for the peoples of the world. I say “I found myself praying” because, as the prayer expanded, it began to include peoples, nations, and tribes that I hardly knew. The names came in a rush. It no longer felt as though I was praying the prayer, but that the prayer was praying me. I had been turned into an instrument, having tapped into something or someone far greater and more loving than me. After the prayer was over, I tiptoed away, knowing that I had been in a sacred place. It was a few years before I told anyone about it. To have said something too soon would have seemed sacrilegious.
In the Bible, there are not only stories about places that suddenly flared up as sacred, but also about traditional places where the presence of the sacred often appeared and was expected. For ancient Israel the sacred was often sought in the majesty of a mountain or in the barrenness of the desert. Moses went up on Mount Sinai and Israel was forged in the desert. Later prophets seeking God’s presence often went there. Jesus went into the desert at the beginning of his ministry and up on a mountain toward the end. We are also told that when Jesus wanted to talk with God while in Jerusalem, he liked to go to Mount Olivet, where he spent time in a garden. I had us sing “I Come to the Garden Alone” this morning because it was a favorite hymn of a prior generation. It was loved most, I suspect, by those who spent time in their gardens. Do you have a garden? If so, is it a sacred space for you? Do you allow God to speak to you in your garden?
In addition to sacred spaces that suddenly flare up or traditional spaces tried and true, the Bible also encourages God’s people to create their own sacred places. For example, God asked Moses to build a Tabernacle in the wilderness and Solomon to build a temple in Jerusalem. It was as if God were saying, “You build it and I will come.” Most of us seek God only in spaces that others have built. But how many of us create spaces in which we go to meet the holy or expect the sacred to come? In several religions, rooms or spaces in a home are set apart as places for meditation or worship. For those without a special room, sometimes an altar or worship center is erected, or a prayer corner is reserved and used. Perhaps it is just a space to be designated. Jesus said, “When you pray, go into your closet to pray.” Do you have such a private place, one in which the world’s noises and agendas can be shut out? A place where the sacred can more easily be detected? Would you be willing to experiment with creating such a space?
Sometimes—I would certainly not say always—spaces become sacred because of the way we approach them and use them. Wasn’t it the poet Christina Rossetti who asked us to take off our shoes wherever we are, believing that every patch of ground is holy?
As a child, I was taught that God is everywhere. That teaching has stuck. I don’t believe that there are any spaces where God is not, but there are many spaces in which God goes unrecognized. Are spaces more likely to become sacred, if we treat them as sacred?
When the sacred flares up and grabs us, almost always it creates a hush around us and a silence within us. Sacred places give us pause. Could pausing more than we are prone to do create sacred spaces? Just opening ourselves to life, in silence?
When sacred spaces surprise us, they create awe and wonder in us. We are becoming immune to awe. We’ve seen so much. Less and less is awesome to us. Is there a way to open us to the awesomeness of the ordinary? Could we become so still and so open that we could again sense the awesomeness of a tree, or a bird, or one human being or a single flower? What do you think? Is the universe becoming less awesome these days, or are we losing our ability to be moved to the depths? What would it take to reawaken the awe in us? Would that not multiply our sacred spaces?
Sacred places need pondering, looking, and listening. Sipping and savoring, not gulping or gorging. We can’t get much out of a sacred space while rushing past or through it. If it’s the sacred we’re looking for, we can’t be like the tourist who rushed past a guard at the Louvre in Paris, asking “Where’s the Mona Lisa? I’m double-parked.” Spaces become more sacred when we give them time. They also tend to become more sacred if we return to them again and again.
There are sacred places in your life—places that could lift your eyes to the presence of God as well as to a higher level of human living. What I’m asking today is that you seek to be more alert to them—that you name them, honor them, and where necessary create them—and then make sure that you spend time in them. Sacred spaces are a gift from God. They can inspire us, challenge us, expand us and heal us. They are food for our souls. Bread from heaven.
Sorry, friends. There's a typo in the introduction. It should say that today's post is "Sacred Spaces" and not "Jesus Isn't Where You Saw Him Last."
Beautiful!!!