Lights Out Louisville

Sometimes I just need a good old-fashioned power outage. Not an endless deprivation of light or refrigeration, and certainly not the type caused by a dangerous storm that leaves homes damaged. But the kind of electric shortage that creates no harm and provides unasked for peace.

The kind that comes at dusk, when I have enough time to scamper through cupboards for extra candles. The kind that is long enough that somebody’s got to eat the ice cream, and it might as well be me. The kind that comes when there seem to be so many tasks piled up to be done and the lack of electricity is reason enough to delay their completion.

And I further welcome a late summer black out because of the good it does for my soul to shut off, retreat from, lay low and quiet down.

It seems appropriate that this unplugged state occurred during my first week at Lousiville Seminary. Having driven for two days through the heartland of Kentucky with the welcome company of my mom and slightly sedated cat, I was ready for some stillness. But there were boxes to unload, groceries to buy, orientation to complete and a new life to adjust to.

I quickly learned that coming to seminary doesn’t mean one instantly enters a tranquil bubble of spiritual awareness. I may come to know the Hebrew roots of certain Bible verses, but there are still bills to pay, dishes to wash and a liter box to empty.

It was important to remind myself that seminary is not meant for saints or angels or otherwise perfect souls. Instead, it has quickly become clear that seminary, at least Louisville Seminary, hosts regular human beigns who are rough and tender around the edges, at times quirky, and most often, we are simply ourselves.

Some have an affinity for reality television, while others are content walking their large dogs (or ferrets) on campus. Some are outgoing and self-described comedians, while others are more reserved, having grown up in a small tight-knit community on a rural farm.

To be in seminary doesn’t mean one is removed from the daily tasks of life. In fact it seems that in this particular seminary community everyday life is profoundly visible.

A pavilion loaded with bikes and children’s tricycles is visible from my room in Seminary Hall. A community garden with a giant rubber pig as its mascot grows proudly in the courtyard behind my apartment.

A basement closet has been converted into a food pantry to supplement students’ groceries and provide emergency rations for such instances as the recent two-day power outage.

As my “Beach Walk” scented Yankee Candle continues to glow on my desk, I imagine what early travelers, scholars, soldiers and nurses must’ve felt when they relocated out of necessity. I envision a small wood-floor room with a straw bed, a crooked corner table bearing nothing but a tattered journal and a single candle stick.

The new arrival would be carrying little more than a briefcase or a carpet bag, and his or her new life would begin without a welcoming committee. And surely, there would not be an arrangement of food items (a box of spaghetti, can of tomato sauce and cornbread mix) placed on the countertop with a friendly prayer of dedication.

While such weary travelers may have had less material resources, I would bet that they may have been more prepared for their coming journey than some of today’s college-bound students, with our laptops, four-door sedans and bank accounts.

While part of me feels guilty of my level of comfort “for a seminary student,” I also know that spiritual development doesn’t always require complete deprivation or removal from mainstream society.

I noticed this while traveling in Italy this summer. Having chosen the destination for the purpose of a pilgrimage of sorts, my travels exposed me to new people and ancient pathways, revealing a certain cosmic energy that has sustained me into this new chapter.

It was in Assisi that the contrast between spiritual formation and contemporary culture blended seamlessly. While standing in the Piazza del Comun, I observed a gathering of Franciscan monks in their traditional brown hooded robes.

Their presence seemed to blanket the cobblestone city with a sense of serenity. The town seemed to radiate a gentle hum, a collective vibration of hundreds of humble prayers. Having just arrived on a sweaty overcrowded train from Rome, I felt far from the apparent centeredness of the monks and nuns, breezing through the street archways.

However, I soon felt a certain solidarity with the pious visitors in canvas robes, for they too were disoriented. I observed a group of monks huddled around an ATM machine, slipping cash beneath their folds of fabric. One spoke hurriedly on a cell phone, while another flipped a crumpled map from side to side.

If that wasn’t enough to shatter stereotypes of ever-placid holiness, I was delighted to see two more laid-back monks, with dusty sneakers, baseball caps and trendy sunglasses.

Somehow, that encounter gave me permission to simply enter Assisi as I was, without presupposition of how to be more holy or sanctified.

It is that same acceptance that I feel here at Louisville Seminary, a place that allows me to be myself. And maybe the power outage was a reminder that this place is still affected by life. In fact, it is the unapologetic infiltration of life that will make this experience most enriching.