I’ve been a few pages into Eugene Peterson’s book, The Pastor—for the past week. Not for a lack of time, energy, or motivation—just stuck. I think that’s when you know you’ve hooked a whale, when something gets stuck and you can’t let go. It’s a beautiful memoir of a seasoned pastor’s experience of life, of personal calling, of ministry, of triumph, of emotion. The book came to me by way of Joe as many books do.
Here’s where I’m living—
“All the great realities that we can’t touch or see
take form on ground that we can touch and see.”
Peterson uses his family’s 60 year old cabin—one that he and his father built together—as the foundation for the conversation. His childhood was shaped by this cabin. His identity as a father, husband, and now grandparent honed, whittled, sculpted, and mended on this “two acres of holy ground perched high and dry on the edge of what’s left of the melted glacier” in Colorado. For Peterson, theology happens on the concreteness of place.
As for me, I’m stuck in place. Where has place played a role in what I hold sacred—in my journey with God, with family, in my personal development? For me, place becomes the proving ground, where flesh meets the floor. A time where waxing theological subsides and “on earth as it is in heaven” grows legs and walks. This is real hands and feet of Jesus stuff.
My place.
Hang around with the Bradshaw’s long enough, and you will eventually hear stories of the Island. For the past 15 years (and nearly 30 years for Perrin and her brother), I’ve done my best to describe this place that defies description (see picture above). An 80-year-old hunting cabin, at the top of a hill on an 11-acre island in the middle of the Susquehanna River...outside of a one-stop sign town called Port Deposit in Maryland. What’s ironic is that Peterson himself pastored a church in Bel Air, not 20 minutes from my…place. A 100 yard rowboat ride with coolers and kids in tow, baths in the river, intermittent electricity, finicky plumbing—this is our home away from home as often as possible.
It’s raw. It’s nature. It’s quiet. It’s iPhone and email free— and it’s at this place where major decisions are mapped, children planned and named, raging fights waged, calling confirmed, unlikely friendships developed, single malt scotch sampled, sagely wisdom offered, guerilla home-improvement skills honed, seminary papers written, and stinky cheese eaten.
“Place gathers stories, relationships, memories.”
About every five summers, the planets align for the perfect experience. The warm summer breeze joins with the bath-like Susquehanna. We sit on Raft Rock. We laugh until our sides hurt. We enjoy only the closest of friends and family. We float. We rest. While I may only get to the Island for one or two weekends a year these days, my theological roots run deep at this place.
The theology of ebenezer—God showed up.
Moses had place. Abraham had place. Nehemiah had place. Paul had place. Jesus had place. The stories of scripture are chocked full of individuals who attached encounters with the transcendent with the tangible.
In a world where place is limited, where virtual supersedes actual, where digital trumps analogue, place takes on a whole new meaning—and perhaps importance. We need concrete, we need substance, we need bricks and mortar and mud and sand between our toes. We need rushing water and “Scotch” pines, and warm summer sunsets. Our lives need tangible anchors with which the Anchor can anchor our souls. If place were not so important to God, then why dedicate the first chapter of the book to creating it? Place matters.
What place matters most to you?
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