When supper was ended, He took the cup. Again, He gave You thanks and praise. He gave the cup to his disciples and said, “take this, all of you and drink from it. This is the Blood of the New and Everlasting Covenant. It will be shed for you and for all men so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of Me.”

Memory…

It’s a strange thing, but if mine records it correctly, I was somewhere around sixteen-years-old the last time I served mass as an altar boy at Saint Mary’s Visitation Church in Dickson City, Pa. As I write this, that was nearly forty-six years ago, and although I’ve only found myself inside a Catholic church a handful of times since then, if pressed, I can still remember a great deal of the liturgy verbatim.

During my years as a parishioner, I was not only an altar boy, but also a student at the parish grade school, which saw me regularly attending services like First Friday, Ash Wednesday, and Stations of the Cross with my fellow students.

There was a great deal of structure marbled through the meat of my religious upbringing. Confession on Saturday afternoons. Mass and Holy Communion on Sundays – but if the Host gets stuck to the roof of your mouth, don’t you EVER touch it with your finger… and for God’s sake, DON’T CHEW IT! Dietary and sometimes social restrictions on Fridays and High Holy Days. A whole legion of could’s and couldn’t’s, should’s and shouldn’t’s, do’s and don’t’s.

The rules and restrictions, and the rewards and punishments based on one’s ability to comply, brought a sense of order and purpose to my existence. They also brought an almost ever-present sense of guilt, shame, and fear. And while they certainly handed me more than enough of these things, what they never actually gave me was an intimate and personal connection with the presence of God.

That experience arrived decades later when, having just come through a very dark and heavily grief-ridden period in my life, I crawled into what would be the first of many sweat lodges. As I’ve said time and time again since that evening, some twenty years ago, I have talked to God many times, but that was the first time I actually heard Him talking back.

I wish to be absolutely clear that it is not my intention to set Spirituality against Religion. It is my deeply held belief that while many of us might be travelling along different roads, we are all pretty much headed towards the same destination. And if that’s true, what a wonderfully diverse assortment of stories we might share with one another once we get there!

The main point of all this is that aside from the occasional ceremonial guideline and teachings at the foot of an Elder, there don’t tend to be a lot of formalized restrictions to adhere to these days. Certainly, there are signs, if I’m aware enough to notice them; but the most important guidance comes from working to maintain a direct and open connection between heart and Spirit. Living this way has allowed my faith to deepen. It has also taught me to trust my instincts, and to accept with gratitude the portion that I’ve been given.

Some days there’s wood to chop, raised beds to build, stones to gather, or spoons to carve. Or perhaps, I might find myself holding space for someone who’s come to see me; or working through my own recovery in solitude or with my teacher.

When my humanity gets the best of me, it’s often convenient to wish for the times when the do’s and don’ts were laid out a bit more clearly and concisely. But just as my carving continues to evolve through the subtle – and not so subtle – lessons of wood, axe, and knife, my faith also continues to evolve through the subtle – and not so subtle – lessons of instinct, heart, and Spirit…