For many Notre Dame is a sacred place; a place that inspires thoughts of connection to something, someone bigger than ourselves. A place that lifts us up, even as it may cause us to fall on our knees in humility. A place that shelters and provides sanctuary, but also stirs us to make the world beyond the structure into a better place. A place that draws us to reflection, contemplation, even confession, but also to redemption and action. A place of beauty, of gratitude, of possibility, of history and significance. A place of community and shared pain, but also hope. 
Sacred places, it seems to me, speak to us beyond our religious tradition or affiliation. We know when we are in the presence of something sacred. In those places we open to an awareness of creation, including the call to become the persons we were created to be. How grateful I am for the sacred places I have encountered and experienced during my life, with Notre Dame being one and Chartres Cathedral, where I walked the labyrinth, another. A sacred place, however, doesn't require an oversized building to be revered or doesn't even have to be a building. Instead, a sacred place may be a place in nature--a waterfall, the shores of Lake Superior, a mountain view, a tree in your back yard or a garden you have created. Or perhaps a place that is sacred to you is the hospital room where you held the hand of a loved one who was dying or your grandchild's nursery or a library reading room or even a coffee shop where you are greeted every morning with "Your usual?"
On the civil rights tour we experienced last fall in Alabama and Mississippi we stood on holy ground every day: the bridge where Emmett Till was thrown into the Tallahatchie River; at the base of the steps leading to Alabama's capitol where Martin Luther King, Jr gave his "How long? Not long" speech; the somber National Memorial for Peace and Justice, also known as the "lynching museum;" and many more.
The first time I saw Sweetwater Farm in Chardon, Ohio, I knew it was a sacred place and that we were meant to live there and be its stewards for a period of time. Our years there from 1997 to 2007 were not without significant challenges, but every time I crossed the threshold, going in or coming out, I felt holy breath giving me life. Our job while living there was to add to that sense of divinity, and I hope we did that.
Here's the other thing about a sacred place. It continues to live within you, even when you aren't there. A sacred place continues to form and inform us, even when our lives don't feel very holy. Sometimes we need to be reminded of its gifts, and we need to open to that feeling all over again and perhaps that's what the burning of Notre Dame has done for us.
An Invitation
Where are the sacred places in your life? I would love to know.
One of my sacred places is at the base of a jack pine on the shore of Seagull Lake in northern Minnesota's Boundary Waters. How do I know this? Permit me a longish story.
ReplyDeleteYears ago, I had an ectopic pregnancy. My gynecologist had alerted me to symptoms to watch for and, when they occurred, she met me in a hospital emergency room. She told me that she needed to test for blood in the peritoneum, which would involve inserting a needle through the wall of the uterus. She said, "I can either put you under or we can try visualization." I chose the latter.
She covered me with a warm blanket and said, "Close your eyes and go to a place where you feel safe and warm." I went to that sacred place under the jack pine on the shore of Seagull Lake. I was aware of her calm voice and barely noticed as she completed the test.
She brought me gently back, confirmed what we had suspected, and then suggested that we do another visualization to prepare me for surgery. I returned to that sacred place then and have--without a guide--many times since for comfort, calming, hope, and joy.
Myrna Sheie
Such a powerful story and I thank you for sharing it--and your sacred place.
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