The labyrinth is a path of prayer, a mini-pilgrimage. It is a series of seven or eleven intricate, concentric circles that lead to the center in a roundabout way. A labyrinth winds and turns but unlike a maze has no tricks or dead ends. Its single path leads to the center, to Mystery.
The labyrinth in this photo is cut into the grass in a large open space. Individuals come to walk it. Whole confirmation classes come to walk it. Cancer support groups. AA groups. People on retreat.
In medieval times walking the labyrinth took the place of making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The Chartres Cathedral in France has a labyrinth in its floor which was made about A.D. 1200. Labyrinth designs have been found on coins and pottery in Crete from 2500-2000 B.C. Many cultures use the design. Labyrinths are circular, square, or octagonal.
The labyrinth invites both a journey inward toward God and a journey outward toward life. The center is a place of resting in God, of communion. The journey outward is recommitment to one’s work and friendships in the world.
One may walk the labyrinth and not find God at the center. But walking and breathing calms the mind. The journey invites the person praying to shed worries and concerns. Finding the unfolding path focuses the mind. This ancient form of body prayer connects head and heart. Walking the labyrinth invites a look into one’s life to reflect on questions, such as:
What path am I on? What am I looking for? What do I leave at the center? What or who is at the center of my life? How is the way out different from the way in?
Attitudes
by Chris Tures
I knew the lineup by heart that Coach Kastner droned out slowly; first, the forwards—Connelly, Rainy, Shields; then, the midfielders—Rodriguez, York, Greenwood; then the defenders and my name. We had never made it to the conference championship game before.
Soccer at our school was for guys too skinny to play football and too short to play basketball. This season we had new players—not just bench riders but Greenwood who pulled us together and Shields, a ball hog with an attitude because he was that good. He made most of our goals.
Crosby played sweeper and anchored our defense. Anytime I let a forward from the other team slip by, which I had done on occasion, Crosby bailed me out and rocketed the ball the other direction.
Our coach rarely subbed any of us in the starting lineup unless we requested it or got injured or we were leading 7-1. Bench riders seemed disconnected from the team except at practice and when uniforms blurred together to cheer a victory.
Not one ball will get near the box; not one forward will make it past me, I thought as I waited for Coach Kastner to name the defensive line.
“Flynn, stopper,” said Coach. “Quackenbush, you’re the right defender.”
My name was next. This was the game we worked all season to win.
“Lenz, you’re left.”
I couldn’t believe it. I had played every game and worked my butt off for the team. I was the left defender; I didn’t belong on the bench. Now a bench rider gets to play the game I had practiced for all year.
From the bench I watched Lenz play my position. As the 90 minutes ticked away, the guys running on the field began to look unfamiliar. I felt betrayed. I didn’t know bench protocol, so I started a conversation with Peterson, a tall, lanky guy who rode the pine.
I asked about math and potential college choices, but he was too into the game to talk.
In the last two minutes Greenwood assisted Shields and raised the 2-2 tie to a 3-2 lead. The bench tensed. Peterson’s eyes followed the ball from foot to foot, mesmerized. It was not the game but dejection and uselessness that held me in a trance.
The whistle sounded our win. Peterson and the rest of the bench went nuts. I stood up. An official walked a trophy out to Shields, Greenwood, and Crosby in the center of the field. The team flooded around them. I walked out behind the rejoicing Peterson, who rushed and jumped to touch the gold man atop the conference trophy. I just stood there.
Greenwood noticed and brought the trophy over to me. “That’s not mine,” I said.
He grabbed my hand and slammed it against the trophy. I recoiled as if I had touched a hot stove but got sucked into the mob that used to be my team.
After the victory I left as quickly as I could. At practice the following week I went through the motions. I couldn’t rationalize working hard for a team that was no longer mine. A starter doesn’t get benched for the most crucial game of the season and expect to play again.
What irritated me more than having to go to practice was watching the other bench riders. I had never realized how ridiculous it was for guys who hadn’t seen more field time than our fans to run and sweat only to sit down for the next game. I showed up because I wanted the varsity letter for my resumé.
When we played our archrival, the Sentinels, I felt in some remote corner of my soul that I might take the field. I was stellar when we played them earlier in the season. As soon as Coach Kastner announced the lineup, I felt apathy overtake my excitement. Once again I sat with the second and third string, next to the entranced Peterson.
The game was amazing, though I didn’t want to admit it. Both teams were ferocious. I felt a jealous longing to be off the bench and helping to hold the 1-0 lead. The feeling mixed with my complacency into anger.
Near the end of the second half, the Sentinels tied the game when our defense lapsed. I hid my face in my hands as Peterson and the bench watched the ball hit the back of the net. Unlike the rest of the team, I was smiling. I wanted them to lose just to give them a little taste of what I was feeling.
The shoot-out was intense for all of us. I sat on the bench, hoping for failure. The entire stadium was quiet as Shields stepped up for his turn. If he missed, our season was over. He arced back too far and the ball rocketed over the crossbeam. It took everything in my power not to throw my hands up in the air and yell, “We lose!”
After shaking hands, I was getting my stuff together, and I looked up at Peterson. He was crying.