In A Solitary Place

I shared last Sunday about how I was an angsty, angry youth. I wasn’t a white nationalist, but I was white-nationalist adjacent. I had an unclean spirit reflected in my attitude toward those who weren’t like me. And sometimes, even those who were. Yet family, friends, and mentors helped cast that unclean spirit out with love. And even in those times, I had a haven. A place I knew I could go and just be.

We’ve been taking advantage of the Medina County Parks. We have such an amazing array of parks. All so different and unique. What an embarrassment of riches.

Not to mention Cuyahoga Valley National Park not too far from us.

We have spent a lot of time at my in-law’s cottage on Atwood Lake as well. Throughout the summer and even into the winter, which we haven’t really done before. It is a real privilege to have an additional set of 4 walls to spend time in when we get sick of our own here in Medina.

The cottage is near that haven. I hadn’t thought to visit it in awhile. I didn’t remember the impact it had on me until Kate suggested we hike the trails around Camp Tuscazoar. As soon as I set foot on the campground, it was like I was 13 again. I remembered the camp. I remembered each cabin. It was like coming home.

When I was angry. When I felt so alone. Or bullied. Or when the grades weren’t what they should have been and my mom was rightfully on my case, Camp Tuscazoar was an escape from all of that.

It was a secluded place. Great campsites and trails. The camp was built in the 1920s and was the main Boy Scout camp in the area for a long time. Then sometime in the 1980s, a new camp was built elsewhere and Tuscazoar became a weekend camp out.[1] Not really a summer destination anymore. That feeling you get when you come upon ruins and wonder, “What happened here?” That’s sort of the historic feeling you get from the camp.

Kate and I hiked around the camp trails. The memories poured out of me. Kate listened as I pointed out my troop’s favorite campsite where I learned to toast the perfect marshmallow. The area where we played Capture the Flag against the Civil Air Patrol. The cabin we camped out in for a Polar Bear Campout and woke up to a foot of snow  dumped on us over night.

No matter what was happening in my life, what I was facing… all my concerns and stress and bad vibes… I could leave those at camp. That secluded place was a haven. I felt free to be. To pray. To be in God’s first testament of creation. I had nothing to prove. Nothing to argue about. A place to feel the sunshine on my face or the rain on my back and laugh about it. In those moments, I was.

Like the Psalmist wrote, and we just prayed… “Be still and know that I am God.” Thank God that I’m not in charge of all of this. It’s not all up to me.

Womanist theologian Monica Coleman talks about it in this way… Her theology states that “everything that happens is a product of the past, what’s possible in context, and what we do with those things.”[2]

Time away at camp helped give me the distance to take stock of the past, look for other paths, and then form a plan. Sometimes it was a conscious effort but most of the time it was subconscious. I came back from camp smelling like a campfire. It was like an incense my Catholic church growing up used at funerals and Good Friday. The time swimming in the creeks, like a baptism. The time learning outdoor skills from other scouts taught me humility that I didn’t know everything… and I didn’t have to. Others had other skills and knowledge that they could add.

At a time in my life that I was not fit for public consumption, camp helped civilize me. Scouts helped sand off some rough edges. We need that time away. It doesn’t come naturally to me. I was raised to work and press on and press through. Ignore the strong feelings, shut up, grit your teeth and work. Produce.

Nothing else in nature operates this way. Everything has a fallow period. Animals sleep. Seasons change what plants and birds are present in our neighborhoods. This is the rhythm of creation. Even God, the all-powerful, ever-present creator of all things took a day off. What makes us think we don’t have to?

Jesus models this rhythm for us today. He’s baptized in the River Jordan. He hears the voice “you are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.” He’s tempted in the desert for 40 days. He starts his ministry and calls his first disciples. He casts out an unclean spirit from a man. He heals Simon-Peter’s mother in-law. The crowds grow. Word spreads. And then he wakes up early and leaves it all.

Jesus goes to a secluded place. The disciples run off looking for him. I love that line, “Simon and his companions hunted for him.”

Jesus went and prayed. In nature. In a solitary place. Some texts say “a deserted place.” I like to think that wherever Jesus was, it was a wonderful spot of creation where he could get his bearings. Think of the events that brought him to that place. Consider his options and then decide what to do about it. Like Monica Coleman suggests.

When the disciples found him, I hear them say their words in an exasperated tone. “Everyone is searching for you!” He answered, “Okay. Let’s go.”

He didn’t go back to where the crowds were. He went somewhere new. He went to the neighbor towns to spread the message. Jesus unplugged from the noise of the world. The talking heads. The freely offered advice. The call of the “safe and sound,  the don’t rock the boat, don’t ruffle any feathers” crowd.

Jesus took time off. Reconnected to himself. His purpose. His God. Remember the Lord. Remember his goodness. Remember the hopes to which we are called in his name. What a friend we have in Jesus.

The Gospel of Mark could have presented a superhero Christ who blew through the world at a rapid pace, who needed nothing and no one. That’s not the Jesus we get. We get a Jesus who accomplishes a few tasks, observes sabbath, and rests. He gets tired. He eats. He unplugs without telling anyone and his disciples have to hunt for him.

This is vital for the life of faith. Resting doesn’t mean you’re any less committed than the next person. It might mean you’re more committed. Committed to bringing the best. Not slogging through. Not powering on. Not the dehumanizing march of endless production and growth. There’s only one thing I know that operates that way–it’s cancer. Endless production and growth until it kills the body. I hate cancer. It has taken too many lives.

Jesus rested. He took a break. He found a solitary place. There he renewed his commitment to what he was about. Took stock of the past that brought him to his present options, and he decided where to go from there.

Howard Thurman wrote, “Commitment means that it is possible for a person to yield the nerve center of their consent to a purpose or cause, a movement or an ideal, which may be more important to them than whether they live or die.”[3]

Remember the Lord. He was true to God. Committed to his faith in such a way that he willingly faced death. Endured all the shame that we could heap on him. All the violence and humiliation we could dish out. He took it all and came back with love.

Not a love that said if you believe this, then I’ll love you. If you do this, then you’ll be accepted. If you just follow my path for your life, then you’ll be in. Jesus didn’t play the if/then game. He told parables about the radical love of God that didn’t have any if/thens in it. The lost son returns home and gets a hug instead of a lecture. The shepherd leaves the 99 to find the one. The supposed enemy is the one who stops and helps the one half-dead in a ditch.

This type of love can be found in solitary places. I’ve been reminded of one of my places, Camp Tuscazoar. I’ve found them in the Medina parks. At the cottage at Atwood Lake. I hope, church, that you have a place. A solitary place. A place where you can sit and be alone with your thoughts. Or just alone in silence. It could even be a favorite spot in your house.

A place where you can feel the weight of all that you’re carrying, and set it down. If only for a little while. Let God’s love flood in. A love that requires nothing from you. It just is. A love that embraces you without you having to do anything.

But because of this love, you’re willing to risk everything. Willing to change, and try, and heal, and lead, and experiment, and fail, and learn, and risk again.

A journalist once asked Glennon Doyle, “with the onslaught of bad news and endless needs, how do you not quit?” She stated, “Oh, I do quit! Quitting is my favorite. Everyday I quit. Every single day. I wake up and I care the most amount. And then- at some point- I put it all away and melt into my people and my couch and food and nothingness. And I care not at all. I forget it all. Then I got to sleep and wake up and begin again. Begin and quit every day. Only way to survive. Embrace quitting as a spiritual practice.”[4] And if quitting is too strong of a word, substitute “rest.” Embrace resting as a spiritual practice.

Jesus did it. His friends hunted for him and he got off the couch and did it again. Then quit. It’s biblical. Our story starts that way. God did it and commands us to sabbath. Quit. And know that if you press on when you should rest, that’s okay. And if you fail, that’s part of the process. If you feel like you need more time in the solitary place before trying again, that’s understandable.

Each and every day, we are given the gift of the present to try again. God’s mercies are new every morning. If you didn’t feel like you did what you needed to do today, that’s okay. Another day will be along in the morning. Take a minute. Set your burden down. Be still. And know that God is God. And you are not. Thanks be to God.

Works Cited

[1][1] For more on Camp Tuscazoar, visit: http://tuscazoar.org/camp-tuscazoar-history/

[2][2] Monica Coleman, Making a Way out of No Way: A womanist theology. Fortress Press, Minneapolis, MN; 2008. Page 8.

[3][3] https://quotes.thefamouspeople.com/howard-thurman-4832.php

[4] https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=263419575142031&set=a.263419181808737

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *