What does it mean to be on a spiritual journey?  I'm not sure if I can answer that question for everybody, but I can share a little of what mine has been like.  First of all, I know that it's typical here to talk about what St. Thomas' has meant to me, but I'm not sure if I can do that, at least not just yet.  What I'd like to talk about, though, is what Christ has meant to mean.  Hold on, don't worry, this isn't some evangelical come-to-Christ witnessing.  There'll be no altar call.  Trust me, I've been there.  In church youth group, I was so eager to do the right thing that I gave my life to Christ and accepted him into my heart . . . twice.  Or was it three times?  Anyway, maybe it just didn't take the first time.  Who knows?

I can say, however, that it was NOT the case that Jesus took one look at me and said, "Nah, don't want him.  Throw him back."  That's not to say I haven't felt that way several times in my life.  Actually, I still feel like that at times.  Like God doesn't want, like no one wants me . . . But then my mood comes back up.  Ah, such is life with bipolar disorder.  I'm not going to go into all the details here.  That would take more time than I have . . . and cheesecake.  Got to have to the cheesecake.  One thing, though, that has gotten me through this has been faith.  Faith in God, faith in God's love, faith in the reality of salvation, in the reality that Christ did live and die as one of us, as God-with-us, but that through that death he conquered death and all the forces that work against us, that try to convince us that it's easier just to give up.  And there were certainly times when I wanted to give up, but then somewhere within me I'd feel as if Jesus were holding me in his arms, letting me cry, but assuring me that all would be well.  It's as if he was whispering in my ear, "I have a place for you, a place where you belong.  That place is here.  You're strong, and my Spirit will always be with you, always strengthening you, giving you comfort, calming your heart in the midst of the storm.

And I have come through it; I continue to come through it.  God didn't make the storm disappear.  I still have my stormy times, times of darkness, but faith has taught me to ride the waves and to see the turbulence as just as much a part of myself as the calm.  God has redeemed all of me, my self, my soul and body.  That includes all of my wounds and sorrows.  I still carry them with me, but I see them not as curses but as moments of grace.

Of course, I haven't made it all on my own.  It required other people.  It required the church.  And I found a home in the Episcopal Church, where I could face the paradox of having a place of safety to engage in the often scary transformation that can occur in the very concrete life of the church.  This concrete assembly with all of its foibles and incarnational messes.  We are all of us on a journey together.  We have a place in Jesus, a place of healing.  And we have a place here at the altar.  Okay, I sort of lied.  There is going to be an altar call, but it's a call to encounter Christ and be transformed by him.  It's not just to receive his Body and Blood, the bread of heaven and cup of salvation, but to receive who you truly are.  We offer all that we have and all that we are, our selves, our souls and bodies, and receive them back united in Christ.  So come with your doubts, your pains, your wounds, your sorrows.  Come to this table.  As St. Augustine said, "It is your own mystery that you see here on the altar."  So I invite you, come and see, taste and see.