Last week, I had five big assignments due at once. It was midterm season, and my schedule just worked out that way. The list included three papers, a video presentation, and a sermon. Plus reading to support it all.
As a result, my life became consumed by work. This was true as soon as school started but became viscerally felt in the last two weeks of October. I hesitate to share this, because I love the work I am doing and know it is a privilege. And I typically avoid busy bragging, because I do not believe in productivity culture, the means by which systems in power have trained us to be used for their disposal. Our work is not our worth. Period!
But this time, I am sharing my to-do list to paint a picture of my internal state last week. I was struggling. We had a few days off from class before my week of deadlines, and I used the entire break to make sure my work got done. I called upon my deepest reservoirs of focus and self-discipline. Though I enjoyed every page I read and every word I wrote, and soaked continually in the joy of learning and growth, I was burned out by the Monday morning we went back to school.
I had found no time to decompress, except for a couple of walks in the woods over the weekend, and I was tired. Heading into the week, three of my five assignments were done, yet I could not rest. Two things remained: a sermon and a paper.
If hearing the word sermon from me is surprising or sparks cognitive dissonance, don’t worry; you are not alone. It did the same for me. I did not expect to ever be called “preacher,” even when I signed up for divinity school.
Yet two months into our program, I found myself standing at a lectern.
It might help to reframe what we understand preaching to be. Preaching, according to my homiletics professor, is the proclamation of holy truth. It is using your voice to proclaim said truth in compelling ways. Preaching can be based in scripture if you want it to be, but in our space, you are also welcome to ground your message in another text or tradition.
When I felt called to take the preaching course, which centers earth care and climate response, I did not know how much my sermon would mean to me. As the semester progressed, I realized I have wanted to use my voice in this way for a long time. Apparently, I have a lot to say.
Through meditation or divine guidance or whatever you want to call it, I stumbled upon a message that felt important and timely. It tied a story of love and redemption to the climate emergency. I was excited about it, though it must be said: I was also very nervous.
I was not worried about the message itself, which I could not wait to share. Instead, I was worried that I would somehow get in the way of its delivery. Bodies and nervous systems do strange things when put on the spot.
On Tuesday of last week, I still felt tired.
“How are you doing?” a teaching fellow asked.
“Like I’m running a marathon,” I responded. My exhaustion and anxiety were joining forces against me, and in response, I did what I always do. I tried to push through the storm alone. But life, it turns out, had other plans.
Later that day, I ran into an acquaintance in the hall whom I had casually told my first sermon was coming up.
“I will be thinking about you when you preach on Wednesday!” he offered. I was surprised he remembered and touched that he cared.
The well wishes continued. One friend asked how I was feeling, and another texted good luck preaching! A classmate told me how excited she was to hear me speak.
It took years of deprogramming for me to recognize my own voice as worthwhile, so having others affirm its value so generously still feels like a surprise. Their support energized me and kept me going. I was stunned to realize that my community is always beside me, ready to catch me if I fall.
Later on Tuesday, I went to a labyrinth walk at school. The event featured a silent, peaceful space complete with candles and an altar at the entrance. In the background, birdsong sparkled.
Labyrinths have been used by spiritual communities since ancient times, and they brim with symbolism. They can be used for walking meditation or to represent spiritual pilgrimage. They help us imagine what it feels like to follow a path towards center or mindfully walk towards the truth. Just being in a quiet, calming space in my moment of stress was soothing enough. But the magic didn’t stop there.
As I walked the labyrinth, I passed friends and classmates and professors moving in silence beside me. We wove ourselves around and round and round towards center, passing each other at different points on the journey. People paused frequently to ground themselves and settle into the moment.
On that path, and in those pauses, I became very aware of the people beside me. Our shared presence meant something. We were holding silent space for one another as we walked individual paths towards meaning. Some were ahead of me on the journey and some were behind me. We brought different histories, identities, and beliefs into the practice, but we were in it together. That was all that mattered.
Regardless of where we are on the path, we offer each other support. Since midterms were encroaching on all of us that day, each person was buried in varying degrees of chaos. As a community, we still carved out a container for peace.
Moving silently alongside one another reminded me that I am never walking alone.
This is an argument for finding a community that can hold your spirit. Being in community illuminates ways that others join you in the quest for truth. If you are like me, it may be hard to find a group that fits. It could even take years. But discovering one that is willing to support you in your fullness is worth the wait.
We can no longer afford to bring only parts of ourselves to the table. We cannot dim our lights to make anyone else comfortable. There are communities who will try to support you in all your messiness, in all your questions and contradictions. Where they don’t exist, we must create them.
In the end, my sermon went very well, and eventually, my paper got done. What carried me through my moment of distress was remembering that others are walking beside me. Imagine a life where we understand this: The labor and its fruits are communal.
Between you and me—
Hello, dear readers! How are you holding up? If you enjoyed this look at the symbolism of labyrinths, you may like these engravings from “The City of Truth,” an allegorical poem by Ambroise and Jérôme Drouart from the 17th century.
The poem features “a month-long spiritual journey undertaken by [the author’s] patroness, Marguerite, Duchess of Savoy, who travels through the City of Truth,” from its five portals, which represent each of the senses. Marguerite’s journey takes her to the Temple of Intelligence and the Temple of Wisdom. What’s not to like?
As I mentioned last time, October was wild in my world, which felt me feeling a little like things could go off the rails at any moment. But as I’ve mentioned, divinity school is a wonderful place to go off the rails, even a little bit. In moments of stress, I highly recommend the future chaplains and ministers of divinity school.
In November and December, I am looking forward to grounding myself and quieting down as we head into the darkest part of the year. I am trying to stay committed to balance and rest, even as I study endless fascinating topics. The things I am learning these days are invigorating beyond belief. I look forward to sharing more of them as things unfold.
For now, I will say that I am developing a set of climate sermons (or speeches) that I hope to offer churches, public spaces, parks, nonprofits, and community groups. If you know a community that would benefit from a climate speaker, let me know. You can reply to this message or leave a comment to get in touch!
Thank you so much, as always, for reading, and for walking beside me on this path. Till next time, take care out there.
The audio version of WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is available on Spotify, Apple, Substack, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. Can you help us grow? Send this to a friend and ask them to subscribe. Share it on Instagram and tag @lauren_only. If you enjoy this work, become a sponsor, which makes this publication possible and keeps it free for all. Thank you so much for your contributions!
I love this so much!