The Ruined Church

Close to where I live there is an old abandoned Protestant Church. It is known only because of its imposing tower that hides behind a stand of trees and a boundary wall of well-ordered stones surrounding the old churchyard. It sits atop a small hill.

At one time there would have been a bell that would toll to call people to remember. That bell has fallen silent.

Each time I pass this high tower hidden among woods I remember the following poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Sometimes a Man

Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors and keeps on walking
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East
and his children say blessings on him as if he were dead


And another man, who remains inside his own house
dies there, inside the dishes and glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward the same church which he forgot.



This poem, of course, is not about simply going to church or finding some religious group that you belong. It is about following your longing for the true Self that arises in each and every moment.



This old Protestant church is in ruins but the poem a bout what a man (or a woman) sometimes does is find what St. Paul termed a church made without hands. Outside that ruin where the bell no longer tolls and where the boundary wall is the boundless is the bell that is always ringing.



When you follow the call of that church made without hands you give the gift of blessing the world. You gift the world what it is you are here to be – not necessarily what you think you are here to do. Being precedes doing. The man who remains inside his own house is the man who has built a self-image that he tried to hold onto despite all that he feels he is called to be. Inside that image his imagination dies and this impacts on whose living in his orbit.



It is left then for the children to do what the father (or mother) refused to be – to go out into the world, often far out into the world of exile and abandonment in order to find that missing centre of the sacred within themselves.



In this poem a man stands up. He is willing to take a stand for what is calling him to become all that he is. When he takes this stand he goes eastward toward the rising of the sun, toward the place of new beginning, toward the dawn of the new day. He keeps walking. He keeps moving. Movement is a sign that there is still life flowing through him.



Each and every thing can become an invitation to your wisdom heart and mind. This invitation comes not simply in words but in symbols and paradoxes that touch your life. Creation is always in conversation with you but it does not speak in words. It speaks in metaphor. This is a language that has been forgotten by many people.



It is the most beautiful of languages that illustrates great poetry. We all know this because most all of us at ‘threshold times’ in life turn to poetry to try and give meaning to our deep human experience.



This old church reminds me of what is forgotten and that I also so often forget. I too often die among the dishes and the glasses, fretting about what I haven’t done or what is yet to be done. I have forgotten the sacred place within myself that arise in the eternal moment and gives me peace.



In writing about this old church I could tell you facts about how long ago people last worshipped here. You would have more information but the experience would not invite you to remember and reconnect to what is holy and what is sacred and complete within you. Facts about this old ruin will not bring you alive the way that the invitation to what the church represent can and is intended to invite within you.



The tower that remains is a square tower. Churches are built around what is called sacred geometry and squares are key aspects. The square is a universal shape and considered a foundational shape. It allows for solid bases.



I contemplate and am reminded how the sacred has fallen silent within me and within this land of Erin. At this time of writing, Erin is bankrupt, an outer sign of an inner poverty, and a sign of loss of real meaning. Our leaders have died amidst the dishes and glasses. They have left it for future generations to go far out into the world, the exiles that we as a nation are so good at producing.



So I hope that you might have fun with a new idea. Become a metaphor hunter. On one day let some object speak to you as a metaphor for what is important to the engagement with what is whole and what is holy in you. Let me assure you that this is a wonderful thing to do. The more you do it the more interesting your days become.



This allows your heart and mind to being to awaken to the way that creation created you to be and to become. Each day then becomes a holy day, a day when you venture to a space within yourself where you have never been before. The beauty of this practice is that you begin to come home to the beauty of who you are. You begin to see in ways that will enchant you.



Then you will be able to have a real holiday experience everyday you choose. You can make a stand and walk into the story of a holy present life in love with the creation you are so that you do not die amongst the limitation of an image you create and that is often in fear of ruin.



© Tony Cuckson 2010