After a half day on Day 1 (students come from a partial school day) to kick things off, Day 2 really kicks Kairos into gear. The retreatants have stayed the night at the retreat center, and are starting to feel more at home with their groups, their leaders, and their surroundings. The newness of the center hasn't worn off though, and it comes in handy to pair with the trust that's budding in the individuals and the collective group.
"Cry the 2nd" refers to some activities that can evoke deep emotion. Our chaplain, who directs our Kairos retreats, likes to say, "On Kairos, there are no secrets, just surprises. There is nothing secretive about God's love." I think he's right on, and so if you have yet to attend a Kairos, I'll omit many of the specifics of the schedule and activities to maintain the confidentiality and surprise.
Today, we awoke to an interesting email: the (hopefully final) snowstorm of this winter that hit the midwest laid enough snow on Northwest Indiana to force our school's sixth snow day of the year. So while the almost 500 students not on Kairos stayed home, our 47 students were in the early parts of a lengthy retreat. I wondered if this was something we should try to keep under wraps, but before I could even dialogue, word had gotten around. Thank God the kids brushed it off; no one really even talked about it at all today. Props to the kids for their presence, to the leaders for setting a positive example.
In ministry, the administration/organization/planning side of things often involves the futile quest for perfection. We try to organize ourselves maximally ahead of these big Masses, retreats, and gatherings to minimize the confusion when things go live. The beauty comes when the first mistake is made, when the first bump in the road interrupts the smooth ride. That imperfection reinfuses humility and refocuses everything and everyone on growing closer to God and one another.
We start each full day of Kairos with morning prayer - a lectio divina style Gospel reading and reflection followed by brief homiletic input by an adult and a closing prayer. To add some continuity around the themes that change with each day, we use the same songs each morning as bookends to the service: "The Day is Dawning" by Jill Phillips and "Say" by John Mayer.
This morning, the snowstorm knocked out the main power to our building, leaving us to rely on a generator that only powers lights and heat, and not wall outlets that power sound systems and boomboxes.
One of my deputized responsibilities is to take care of the first things each morning. As breakfast ended and morning prayer neared, I gathered with our student leaders to decide how to handle the music. iPods and cell phones were too quiet on their owns to play the song to everyone, so we settled on an interesting idea: put the iPod on the altar, jack up the volume, and let it be the support to us, as we attempt to be the choir and lead everyone in singing together. So the seven leaders and I sheepishly but enthusiastically sang our hearts out, praying our strength wouldn't fail. And it sorta worked.
Then one of my fellow teachers began presiding over morning prayer while I scrambled to try to enact an idea that lightbulbed into my head: I bring my guitar on Kairos to play the songs associated with my talk and to play in the background of some evening prayer services. So I ran to my room, got my guitar, and looked up "Say" on Ultimate-Guitar, praying that John Mayer's propensity for choosing wild tablature patterns would be merciful on my adequate sight-reading abilities. But the internet was down!
So I turned the WiFi off on my phone and slogged through the rural 3G signal to grab a screen shot of the "Say" chords. I quickly transposed it and slid the capo up to sound more like the recording; I made it back just as morning prayer ended, and I was scribbling down the last chords as I walked toward the altar. I slung my guitar over my shoulder and asked if I could attempt to embarrass myself a bit. I asked the leaders to come back up and be the choir with me. I told the group that we were just gonna go for it and that we were a bit scared, so we'd need their help.
Through the grace of God, the mostly-four-chord song came out pretty clean. With sturdy support from the leader-choir, the retreatants latched on to the simple, catchy, and inviting repetition of "Say." What a beautiful accident it was.
It brought me back to last year, to the only Kairos I've directed thus far, while I worked at a school in California. On the morning of Day 3, I went to the bathroom as our first speaker took the podium. When I came back, rather than hearing a her opening song via a booming stereo and timid voices underneath, I happened upon an amateur but solid a cappella rendition of "I Won't Give Up" by Jason Mraz. While I used the facilities, my DJ-leader couldn't get the sound to fire up, so they simply went for it sans music.
The problem and fix was simple: the master volume on the sound board was all the way down, a bonehead error by us. But the "mistake" was beautiful.
When we get out of our own ways, the bumps in the road can help us find good paths. By being open to the potential for goodness in what transpires, we're letting God do what he does best. Evil tries to rear its head and turn us from our trajectory toward God. When silly things like this happen and we're tempted toward frustration, stress, doubt, and anger, the devil is scoring points on us.
We shouldn't seek out problems, issues, and frustration. However, when it presents itself, we need to keep good humor and race God, running alongside Him to discover the good that is waiting to emerge from apparent evil or obstacles. Openness to the unexpected outcome is a big help. If I woke up this morning and told myself everything would be perfect, I'd never have had the experience of being the accidental front-man to a John Mayer religious tribute band.
Let me close with this: the snowstorm that hit didn't treat us too violently out here in North Central Indiana. Most of the snow fell overnight, so we simply awoke to fresh powder. The sidewalks and streets nearby were slushy, and the grounds around the center were newly snow drifted.
Our "chapel" is really just a conference room with added ambo and altar, but the beauty is that, rather than stained glass or altar piece, we have humongous picture windows that share with us a view of the woods and lake behind the center. The backdrop to our prayer and liturgies is a stunning portrait of Creation.
This morning, the impact of this tableau was especially stark, as the fresh white snow reflected the scant rays of sunlight that worked through the clouds. Rather than the faint glimmers of perma-cloud sun, we were bathed with luminous, bright light.
Despite the stark, lingering presence of winter, we were being almost blinded by reflected light. God's Creation was openly receiving the light from above and reflecting it onward to everything it could. Where one would expect simply grey tones, darkness, and cold from winter, the snow was profoundly bright.
What a beautiful image for us to reflect on while we retreat - how can we more fully and completely reflect the light that God shines for us and in us?!
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