Labyrinths, A Spiral Journey

We have been talking about our church grounds in new and unique ways, especially with the building process continuing behind the scenes and the recent release of Eric’s book. One dream that I have had for our church campus has been to have our very own, permanent labyrinth. Small, temporary installations over the years have deepened that desire to have a lasting home for this tool of spiritual practice–that the place where I was introduced to the labyrinth would host one, too.

I had to do some digging to find the date, but the first time I walked a labyrinth was over twelve years ago at a DaySpring Silent Retreat. There was a large canvas spread out on the sanctuary floor with a beautiful spiral painted on it, and some well-curated materials for the retreat showed me the Veriditas Labyrinth reflection. It was so simple: no wrong turns, just one foot in front of the other, a simple aim of reaching the center and returning. I was fascinated by the tactile and visual journey of the practice and had to learn more. I created a finger labyrinth for our Godly Play classroom and walked any labyrinth I could find–at Cedarbrake in Belton, Lake Shore and St. Mary’s in Waco, and St. Paul’s UMC in Houston. 

Pinecone Labyrinth at Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas, in 2015.

I learned how to draw a small, 7-circle labyrinth and practiced often. Since then, I’ve doodled labyrinths in sketchbooks, drawn them with sidewalk chalk on my back patio, and created several walkable paths while camping. Eventually, I made a Lenten practice of drawing a labyrinth out of spray chalk at DaySpring for the Holy Saturday Silent Retreat–a sort of work for a temporary reality. I have joked with Brett Gibson that I made myself a labyrinth, and others could use it. 

With that practice, I was able to make attempts in diverse locations over the years: in the Oak Grove, by the circle, by the gaga ball pit, in the field, near the St. Francis tree. Each attempt was a beautiful practice in itself. Also, each attempt made a good trial run for a permanent installation, but each spot was not the right place for a variety of reasons—the highway is too loud, or there are plans for that location, or the spot is too public for such a meaningful private experience. I had eyed several other locations to try, like the clearing by the rock wall, but each had its challenges, too.

And then, the trail team cleared the ligustrum in the woods to reveal the Trinity Oaks last year. It was a perfect clearing, tucked back in the woods, far enough from the highway and open spaces, but close enough to easily access.

This January, when it was freezing outside (my favorite time to be in the woods as the poison ivy was hibernating), I used the ligustrum trunks the trail team cast off as the starting point to begin laying out the vision. In short breaks from The Desk–just 10-20 minutes at a time, I’d move the sticks into place, knowing this was only a tiny step up toward permanence from the spray chalk—at least the rain wouldn’t wash it away.

Even the practice of building a labyrinth is layered with meaning. The beauty of walking the labyrinth is also the beauty of building it—there were few decisions I had to make—just the starting point… and then, simply laying it out. Given the almost-secret attempt, the low-stakes prospect of just seeing if it would work was inviting—I was curious and had very low expectations. 

I found the exterior boundary before too long, and then just needed to tidy up the path. It became very important to me to get the path to a point of being able to walk it barefoot—like a holy ground moment—which would require moving layers of sticks, leaves, and (easy to clear) sprouts of chinaberry and (not easy to clear) briars out of the way. And even as I worked on that layer of the path, the deeper meaning of what I was creating is still with me today—clearing the path, pulling the weeds, setting my foot down sure of its landing spot. My bare foot finding the earth at every step felt sure and holy, like tiny little burning bush moments. I was journeying in the labyrinth, but I felt a journey inward, a constant return to prayer, and a connection to Christians who have prayerfully walked labyrinths all over the world.

My friend Mae King offered a beautiful reflection on the labyrinth at our women’s retreat this year. In her talk, she gave words to what I have always experienced when taking a labyrinth journey. As we enter into the familiar spiral path, we are rarely the same as when we last walked a labyrinth, and we can release or let go of expectations as we journey to the Center. We might pray about ways we can cooperate with God’s Spirit, borrowing his strength and God’s will for the change in us. At the Center, we can receive the rest in Christ, knowing that I don’t have to earn my belonging in God’s Spirit and God’s love, replacing our skewed responses with a reassurance of Christ’s Divine Love. And finally, as we journey out with the Father’s intimate fullness, there is an invitation to live out that fullness and return to live in the power, love, and mercy of who we are in Christ.

The invitation is that with a labyrinth on the church grounds, you’ll at least give it a try sometime–low expectations, low risk. I realize there is also the puzzle of upkeep of a permanent installation–something that the landscape team, the trail team, and the mowing team should not have to take on above and beyond their existing responsibilities. But, I hope: I set out to cast a vision and seek partners to link arms in this labyrinth endeavor… something that could add to the experience of retreat attendees and our own congregation. (If you find it meaningful or are interested in helping make it more permanent, please reach out.)

I didn’t find the practice of walking a labyrinth on my own, but I have made it my own. Over the years, as more folks have shared the path–be it in sticks, leaves, or spray chalk– I sense an opening up, a spreading out, a deepening, and an expanding of this experience to remember, release, receive, and return. Thanks be to God.