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Title: The Inner Path: Mary Magdalene’s Way of Seeing
Subtitle: Psyche, Pneuma, and Nous

Still Point Introduction: The Path to Inner Transformation with Mary Magdalene

Welcome to Still Point — the sacred pause in our week where we breathe, reset, and rise. I’m Sharon and we are here to remember the truth that beneath all our striving, beneath the noise of our lives, there is a centre of stillness within us.

A place of Divine Presence that Jesus called Abide. A place the mystics named union. A place Mary Magdalene lived from — with clarity, courage, and profound love.

Today we open a path that is ancient and yet deeply needed for this moment in time — the path of inner transformation through the life and witness of Mary Magdalene.

For too long, Mary has been misunderstood — reduced to labels that never belonged to her.

But the early Church, the desert mothers and fathers, and the mystical tradition remembered differently.

They saw in Mary not a story of shame, but a story of awakening. Not “seven demons,” but seven powers — seven awakenings, seven healings, seven thresholds of liberation that prepared her to stand in the fullness of who she was called to be.

Mary Magdalene did not become whole by escaping her humanity —
but by journeying through it,
loving through it,
trusting the sacred heartbeat of God within it.     She walked a path of transformation that mirrors our own:
the path from wound to wisdom,
from fear to devotion,
from silence to sacred voice,
from clinging to releasing,
from self-doubt to standing as witness to the Risen Light.               And as we explore her path, we also trace the contours of Jesus’ own mystical teaching — what we call the Eight Mystical Steps: the inner journey from awakening, to surrender, to union with the Heart of Love which I have shared previously.

Mary’s story shows us that transformation is not punishment, but invitation.
Not perfection, but alignment.
Not striving, but remembering.

To follow this path is to learn to see as Mary saw —
with the eyes of the heart,
with the breath of compassion,
with the deep knowing that the Divine is not distant but here, and here, and here.

So today, as we begin, let us soften.
Let us breathe into the quiet centre.
Let us remember that we do not walk alone.

The same Love that called Mary by name calls you by name.
The same Spirit that awakened her power awakens yours.
And the same Christ who met her in the garden meets us now — in this Still Point, in this breath, in this sacred moment of turning toward wholeness.

Welcome to the Path.
Welcome home.

Breath practice:

Breath Practice: “Breathing with the Beloved”

A Still Point Practice in the Way of Mary Magdalene

Before we begin, gently place a hand on your heart —
just as Mary might have when she heard her name spoken by Love in the garden.

Feel the warmth there.
Feel the pulse — that quiet, steady whisper of life.
This is holy ground.

Now, soften your breath.
Let it fall into a natural rhythm.
No forcing. No pushing.
Simply arriving.

Breathing in — “I return.”
Breathing out — “I belong.”

Let those words rest inside you like a prayer.

On your next inhale, imagine the breath rising from the belly,
moving up through the heart —
the place where spirit and matter meet.

On the exhale, imagine the breath flowing gently down the spine,
rooting you into the earth —
just as Mary stood grounded in the garden,
awake and unafraid.

Let’s add a sacred rhythm:

Inhale… “Here I am.”
Exhale… “Here You are.”

Allow this to become a conversation without words —
your heart speaking to the Holy
and the Holy answering within your heart.

Now, imagine light gathering behind your breastbone —
not a harsh light,
but a warm, gentle glow,
like morning sun touching ancient stone.

With every breath, that light expands —
quietly, steadily, lovingly.

If your mind wanders, simply return to this knowing:
I am seen.
I am known.
I am loved.

When you’re ready, return to the first breath:

Breathing in — “I return.”
Breathing out — “I belong.”

Feel the way the breath opens you,
not to effort but to presence.
Feel the Still Point within you —
not a place you travel to,
but a truth you awaken.

And now, together, we seal this practice
not with striving,
but with surrender:

Hand still on your heart, whisper gently:

“Awaken the Love in me.”

And breathe.

There is a longing inside so many of us — and I think you know this longing.

It sounds like this: “There has to be more than trying to be good. There has to be more than holding it together.”

We are polite. We are kind. We are responsible. We get through the day.

But we can still feel unrooted. Split. Torn between who we are on the outside and what’s actually happening inside.

That longing — that ache to live from a truer center — is the doorway I want to open with you today.

Because beneath all the rules, beneath all the expectations, beneath all the “shoulds,” there is a path in the Christian tradition that is not about performing goodness.

It is about transformation. It is about becoming whole.

And this path has a guide.

Her name is Mary Magdalene.

In John’s Gospel, Mary Magdalene is the first witness of the resurrection, the first to recognize the risen Christ, and the one who is sent to proclaim that life is stronger than death (John 20:11–18).

Scholars like Elizabeth Schrader Polczer argue that Mary is not simply present in the story — she is central to it.

Her work in textual criticism shows that some of our earliest copies of John appear to elevate Mary’s role in a way that later copyists sometimes tried to soften, suggesting that the early church knew her as a primary witness and spiritual authority.

In other early Christian writings, especially a text known as the Gospel of Mary (preserved in a 5th-century Coptic manuscript but likely composed in the 2nd century), Mary teaches the disciples after Jesus has departed.

She is not hysterical, not fallen, not sidelined, not “less than.”

She is portrayed as the one who understands. Dr. Karen King of Harvard Divinity School calls Mary in this text “a visionary leader” and “an apostle who teaches the others how to stand firm in the face of fear.”

In other words: Mary is not just a character in the story.
She is a keeper of the path. And the path she gives us is profoundly interior.

Mary describes the journey of the soul using three words:

• Psyche — the part of us that wrestles with desire, fear, ego, wound.
• Pneuma — the Spirit-breath, the living presence of God moving in us.
• Nous — the inner eye, the deep mind/heart that sees clearly and rests in union with the Holy.

This is what I’m calling The Inner Path.

This is not “be nicer.” This is not “try harder.” This is a map of spiritual transformation.

And what I want to do with you today is walk this path, step by step, in eight movements — from seeing clearly, all the way to union.

Along the way, we’ll hear from John’s Gospel, we’ll hear from Mary’s Gospel, and we’ll hear from the scholars who are helping the church finally listen to her again.

Because this wisdom was never meant to stay buried.

It was meant to be lived.

1. Seeing Clearly — Freedom from Illusion (Nous)

We begin where Mary begins: with sight.

Jesus says in John’s Gospel, “You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” (John 8:32).

He does not say, “You will follow the rules and the rules will make you acceptable.” He says: truth will make you free.

This is about seeing reality without the fog.

In the Gospel of Mary, the disciples are shaken after Jesus’ departure. They’re afraid. The world feels hostile, uncertain.

Mary speaks to them and says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. His grace will be with you and will protect you.” (Gospel of Mary 5:5–7, as translated and discussed by Karen King). She is trying to steady their vision.

Later in the same text, Mary describes how the soul ascends past forces that try to keep it trapped — forces like ignorance, desire, and wrath. Those forces blind us.

They whisper lies like: “You are what you produce. You are what other people think. You are the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

Mary calls those forces “powers.” Jean-Yves Leloup, who writes on the Gospel of Mary, says these “powers” are what keep the mind (the Nous) clouded, turned inward on fear instead of open to God.

He describes Nous as “the eye of the heart,” the place in us that can perceive God’s presence directly.

So step one in the Inner Path is this:
Let the Nous — the inner sight — open.
See what is really true.
See what is not you.
See what you do not have to carry anymore.

That is already an act of freedom.

2. Turning Desire — Loosening the Grip (Psyche)

Step two: desire.

Jesus teaches, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19–21).

He’s not condemning having things. He’s naming what happens when our identity gets locked around them.

Our Psyche — our emotional, everyday self — clings.

“I’ll be okay when I’m seen.”
“I’ll be safe when I control this.”
“I’ll be worthy when I prove myself.”

And the grip gets tighter.

In the Gospel of Mary, Mary says that the Savior taught her, “Do not lay down rules beyond what I have given you, and do not make law like the lawgiver, lest you be confined by it.” (paraphrasing Gospel of Mary 4:7–9 in King’s translation).

That is stunning. She is saying: don’t build another cage. Don’t turn the living path into a new prison.

For us, that sounds like:
Stop making more ways to feel unworthy.
Stop inventing new conditions for being loved.

The healing here is not punishment.
The healing is release.

Psyche begins to loosen.
The white-knuckled grasp begins to soften.

This is repentance in the truest sense — not shame, but turning.

3. Inner Integrity — Aligning Heart and Life (Psyche + Nous)

Step three is where transformation becomes visible.

Jesus says, “The Kingdom of God is within you.” (Luke 17:21). Notice: within you. Not out there, not later, not “if you measure up.” Within.

When Psyche — the emotional self — begins to unclench, and Nous — the inner sight — begins to clear, something beautiful happens: the inside and the outside begin to match.

Integrity is not “I never mess up.”
Integrity is “I am no longer living split.”

In the Gospel of Mary, Mary describes the journey of the soul encountering Desire, Ignorance, and Wrath.

Each of these tries to claim the soul, to define it.

Each of these says, “You belong to me.”

And the soul answers back, “No. You did not see me, nor did you know me. I belonged to the Holy One.” (Gospel of Mary 8:10–22, summarized from Leloup).

That is integrity. That is identity reclaimed.

This is where we stop living a double life:
the public self and the private ache,
the Sunday self and the Tuesday collapse.

Wholeness is holiness.

4. Presence — Living Awake (Pneuma)

Now we move into Pneuma — Spirit, breath.

In John 20, after the resurrection, Jesus appears to the disciples and does something so intimate it almost makes you hold your own breath. “He breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” (John 20:22).

He doesn’t hand them doctrine. He doesn’t give them a book of policy. He breathes.

Pneuma means wind, breath, Spirit. In other words: the very life of God moving in you, moment by moment.

Presence is not vague spirituality. Presence is letting yourself actually be here. Letting yourself actually feel your own life, rather than running from it.

Jesus says in John 14, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” (John 14:27).

The peace he gives is not the peace of “everything’s fine.” It is the peace of “I am with you right now.”

To live in Pneuma is to say:
I will stop abandoning myself.
I will breathe.
I will let God meet me in this exact moment.

Cynthia Bourgeault describes this as the path of “embodied presence” — faith not as an idea we agree with, but as a way of being rooted in God in real time.

She argues that Mary Magdalene models this grounded, embodied, present-tense Christianity. This is not escape. This is incarnation.

5. Abiding — Resting in the Divine (Pneuma + Nous)

Jesus says, “Abide in me as I abide in you.” (John 15:4).

Abide.
Rest.
Remain.

This is not a command to perform.
It’s an invitation to dwell.

When Pneuma — the Spirit-breath — and Nous — the inner sight — begin to move together, something deep settles.

You stop chasing God like God is always leaving you. You stop bargaining for closeness.

You live inside it.

In the Gospel of Mary, Mary shares a vision in which the soul rises through the powers that grasp at it, and in the end, the soul comes to what Leloup calls “the place of rest” — a state beyond fear, beyond division, in communion with the Holy.

This is not superiority. This is union.

And here’s the tender part: this rest, this abiding, is offered to people who are not finished yet. To people who are still wounded, still in process.

Abiding is not graduation.
Abiding is surrender.

“Stay with me,” Jesus says.
“Let me stay with you.”

6. Resilience — The Strength to Continue (Pneuma)

Here is where faith becomes costly and real.

In John’s Gospel, faith is not pretending you’re not hurting. Faith is staying in relationship in the middle of hurt.

Think of Jesus in Gethsemane in the other Gospels — “Not my will, but yours.”

Think of Peter falling apart and still being called back.

Think of Mary Magdalene at the tomb in John 20: she does not run away from death.

She stands there weeping, and it is in her weeping that the risen Christ calls her by name. (John 20:11–16).

Resilience in the Christian mystical path is not hardness.
It’s not “tough it out.”

Resilience is: I will not abandon love.

Pneuma — the Spirit-breath — is what carries us here.

Not our own perfection.

The Spirit. The breath of Christ in us when we don’t have breath left in ourselves.

Cynthia Bourgeault says that Mary’s witness at the tomb is the clearest picture we have of “fierce fidelity”: staying present even when the world says it’s over.

That is resilience.

7. Deep Awareness — Prayerful Stillness (Nous)

Jesus often withdraws to pray.

We hear this again and again in the Gospels: he goes to the quiet places, early in the morning, up the mountain, away from the crowds.

Silence is not absence. Silence is attendance.

“Be still, and know that I am God” is a line from the Psalms, but Jesus lives it. He embodies it. He teaches it.

In this stage of the Inner Path, Nous becomes not only clear, but spacious. Attentive. Awake.

The eye of the heart is open. You begin to notice God not as an interruption to your life, but as the substance of your life.

Mary describes, in the Gospel that bears her name, though we are not certain of it’s writer – it describes how the soul moves past Wrath, past Desire, past Ignorance — all the noisy, reactive voices — and into a place of deep knowing.

Karen King notes that in this text, salvation is described not as being rescued from the body, but as awakening to the truth of who you already are in God.

This is important: Mary’s teaching is not self-hatred. It is self-revelation in God.

Stillness is not passive. Stillness is the gaze of love.

8. Union — Oneness with the Source (Nous fulfilled)

At the end of John’s Gospel, Jesus prays something outrageous.

He prays that we “may all be one,” and not just politely united, but one “as you, Mother-Father, are in me, and I am in you.” (John 17:21, inclusive rendering).

This is mystical language. This is experiential union.

Union is not becoming God.
Union is resting so deeply in God that fear loosens its final hold.

In the Gospel of Mary, the final movement is the soul’s return to rest in the Holy — what Leloup describes as reunion with the Source.

The Psyche — the place of fear and grasping — has been set free.

The Pneuma — the breath of Spirit — is flowing.

The Nous — the inner sight — is radiant and clear.

Here is the fullness:

• Psyche is no longer ruled by fear.
• Pneuma is breathing through you.
• Nous is seeing truly — seeing God, seeing yourself in God, seeing all things held in love.

This is what union means.
Not escape from this life.
Union within this life.

This is the Inner Path.

A Still Point Practice of Breath (for Pneuma)

If you are comfortable, you can even do this with me now.

Let your shoulders drop.
Let your jaw unclench.
Let your hands rest, open.

Breathe in gently, as if you are receiving a gift.
Breathe out gently, as if you are laying something down.

Again: receive… release.

As you breathe in, you may say quietly in your heart: “You are here.”
As you breathe out: “I rest in you.”

In… “You are here.”
Out… “I rest in you.”

This is not performance. This is abiding.
This is Pneuma — letting the breath of Christ steady you, hold you, speak peace to the nervous system of your life.

This is prayer.
Your body can pray.

So here is what Mary Magdalene is offering us — and I say “offering” with purpose, because the early church knew her as a teacher.

Karen King reminds us that Mary is portrayed not as a problem to be managed, but as an apostle who strengthens the others when they’re afraid.

Elizabeth Schrader Polczer’s work on John shows us that Mary’s authority is not sentimental. It is textual. It is embedded in the witness of the Gospel itself.

Mary’s path is not about earning worthiness.
It is about awakening to the worthiness that was already breathed into you.

Here is the pattern of the Inner Path, the path of Mary:

1. We learn to see clearly.
2. We loosen our grip.
3. We become whole.
4. We become present.
5. We rest in God.
6. We are sustained.
7. We become still.
8. We live in union.

Or in her language:

• Psyche wrestles.
• Pneuma carries.
• Nous sees.

And I want you to hear this, because I believe it’s what Jesus said to her, and what she passed on to all of us:

You are already held.
You are already loved.
You are already spoken for.

The Kingdom is not somewhere else.
The Kingdom is within you.
It is closer than your own breath.
And it is calling you home.

Closing Words: “As you leave today, may you: Think with intention, Feel with hope, And speak words that shape a joyful, grateful reality.

Your subconscious is listening – the Nous connection as Mary Magdalene revealed within us. Give it something beautiful to believe in.”

🌬️ Soft Invitation (Likes/Follow)

If this space brings you a little peace — if it helps you reconnect to your breath, to Spirit, and to your inner sacred ground — I’d love for you to stay close.

Click like, follow along, and help weave a community of people choosing peace over pressure, presence over noise, and soul over hurry.

Every little touch of connection helps this Still Point reach someone who needs it.

🌙 Closing Blessing 

As we leave this sacred pause, may you carry this calm into whatever waits for you today.
Not by effort… but by remembering.
The peace is already within you.
The light is already lit.

And if this moment blessed you —
If it touched your soul or brought you back to centre —
consider sharing it with someone else.

A friend walking through a heavy week.
A soul looking for hope.
A heart that just needs a reminder to breathe.

Until we meet again…May you walk slowly, listen deeply, speak gently and receive the world with a smile! And remember to ….
Breathe.
Reset.
Rise.
And return, again and again, to your Still Point.

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Welcome, friends…
to Still Point 12:10 — where we Breathe. Reset. Rise.

This is your pause in the middle of the week, a threshold place between what has been and what will be.

The calendar may be full, the phone may chime, the world may hurry — but here, for these next moments, you have permission to step out of the rush and into reverence.

I’m SCR & today we walk The Path of Sacred Belonging, guided by the Celtic wisdom of John Philip Newell.

He reminds us that the first truth of our lives is goodness, that the divine light of the Beginning still shimmers at the heart of everything that exists, and that to live with reverence is to begin to heal the world.

In his gentle way he invites us to awaken, not by leaving the world behind, but by seeing it as it truly is: holy ground everywhere, “thin places” anywhere we are willing to pay attention.

So we cross the threshold now. We choose awareness over autopilot, tenderness over tension, presence over performance. We choose to come home to the sacredness that already holds us.

You do not need to perfect anything here. You do not have to say the right words or feel the right feelings. You are already inside the blessing. Let us begin.

🌿 1) Ready

Before anything else, let your body arrive.

Place both feet flat on the floor, soles meeting the steadiness that has been holding you all day. Feel the quiet assurance of the earth beneath you — ancient, generous, unhurried.

Let your hands rest loosely in your lap, palms open — not grasping, not bracing, simply ready.

Let your shoulders release the posture of the week. Let them roll back and down, as though you’re setting down a pack you’ve carried farther than you meant to.

Let your collarbones widen, let the back of your neck lengthen. Unclench the jaw. Soften the space between the eyebrows. Give your face permission to be at ease.

Notice the chair receiving your weight without asking anything in return. Notice the way your spine naturally lengthens when you stop trying to sit “just right.”

Notice how, even now, the room’s light is touching the edges of things — the gentle sheen on a tabletop, the muted glow across the floor — as if the world keeps blessing you whether or not you remember to notice.

You are not forcing calm. You are allowing readiness — a grounded openness, a posture of welcome. If it helps, let a quiet phrase settle in your mind:

Here I am. I am safe. I am open.

This is your threshold. Stand on it with your whole self. The outer world may keep spinning; for now, you are permitted to be fully here.

🌊 2) Release

Now we make space.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imagine you’re standing at the Atlantic’s edge — the long, breathing body of water Newell loves. The tide is steady: rising, releasing, returning. Let its rhythm become your rhythm. With each gentle exhale, set something down.

Lay down what you were supposed to fix by now.
Lay down the conversation you keep re-writing in your mind.
Lay down the small shame that nips at your heels.
Lay down the hurry, the proving, the invisible fist you’ve kept clenched around the day.

Picture a smooth stone in your palm. It holds a word — should, more, perfect. Feel the cool weight of it.

Now place it on the sand and let the next thin line of surf reach for it. Watch the water take it. Nothing dramatic. Just the honest work of release.

Newell’s tradition calls this returning to the Original Blessing — letting go of the stories that say you are separate from the Holy so you can remember the deeper story: you arise from goodness, you are held by goodness, you are invited into goodness again.

If stray thoughts flutter in, notice them without judgment. See them like seabirds skimming the surface — real, present, but not the whole horizon.

The horizon is wide. The horizon is generous. The horizon is enough.

Keep releasing. Not as escape, but as return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

🌤 3) Receive / Reflect

 

 

In the space cleared by release, begin to receive.

Imagine first light moving across water — the world not yet noisy, the day not yet crowded. That light touches sea and shore and then finds you. It does not interrogate. It blesses. It says, You belong to this radiance. You are part of this song.

John Philip Newell teaches that the light of the Beginning still pulses through all things — that the sacred heartbeat that launched the stars continues in the river’s run and the bird’s cry and the breathing of your own body.

You do not have to manufacture the sacred. You are swimming in it.

Let that awareness become felt.

Sense a gentle warmth spreading through your chest, a brightening under the sternum, like a small hearth kindling.

This is what happens when we stop bracing and start receiving: the inner room fills with a light that was there all along.

Receive the nearness of the Holy that does not live “out there” but hums within and around.

Receive the kinship of all things — not as a poetic notion, but as a living truth: your breath belongs to the trees; the trees’ breath belongs to you.

The same oxygen that left a leaf this morning now turns in your lungs. The web of belonging is not a metaphor; it is your life.

Now ask, without strain:
What is the Sacred inviting me to see today?
It may be a face you will pass without really seeing.
It may be a small repair you can make — to a relationship, to your schedule, to the earth under your feet.
It may be a practice of gentleness toward your own body — water, rest, a walk at dusk.

Do not force an answer. Let meaning rise like mist from the water — forming only when the air is ready.

Hold what you are receiving with tenderness. Reverence begins here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

🌾 4) Return

Return now, not by leaving the stillness behind, but by letting the stillness travel with you.

Notice again the chair, the floor, the gentle play of air on skin. Notice the actual room you are in — edges, shadows, a familiar object that has become, in this moment, quietly beautiful.

Open your eyes softly if they were closed.

Gaze without grasping. Let sight be a blessing rather than a search.

The Celtic stream calls these places thin — not because heaven is closer there, but because we are.

We are thinner, more permeable, more willing to be seen by the sacred we keep walking past.

The invitation of return is simple: carry awareness back. Let the inner light meet the outer world. Let your next movement be unhurried enough to be kind. Let your next word be shaped by the reverence that is dawning again in you.

📖 Reflective Reading — John Philip Newell

“Living with Reverence in a World That Belongs to God”
(A long, narrated reflection intended for unhurried delivery)

There is a story John Philip Newell tells without telling — a story threaded through his prayers and poems and simple, steady sentences. It begins where the Bible begins: “Let there be light.”

The Celtic way hears that line not only as an ancient memory, but as a present tense reality. The light of the first day is not exhausted. It keeps speaking, keeps radiating, keeps rising in every dawn you have ever seen and every face you will ever meet.

When we forget this, we fracture.

We take what is whole and call it “separate.”

We take what is kin and treat it as resource. We take our own souls — luminous, longing — and bury them under should and shame.

But the earth remembers.

The sea keeps its rhythm. The body keeps its wisdom.

And the Spirit keeps singing beneath the noise, like a melody we know by heart but cannot quite hum until someone begins it for us.

Newell begins it for us.

He walks shorelines and city streets and invites us to look again: “What is deepest in you is of God. What is deepest in the other is of God. What is deepest in the earth is of God. Live from that place.”

He will not let us settle for a spirituality that despises the world or despises the body.

He calls us to love what God loves — everything— and to treat it all with the reverent tenderness it deserves.

Imagine, he says, if we lived as though this were true.

Imagine Sabbath eyes in Monday traffic — seeing the driver beside you not as an obstacle, but as a fellow pilgrim carrying joys and griefs you cannot see.

Imagine Eucharist hands at the kitchen sink — lifting a chipped mug as if it were a chalice; feeling warm water on your fingers and recognizing the baptism you are always standing in. Imagine baptismal words at the office — blessing that colleague who is difficult to bless, because they too are made of the light that made you.

Reverence, then, is not an attitude for special occasions; it is a way of moving through the day. It is the decision to treat the world as someone, not something.

It is the courage to live as if creation is a communion of subjects rather than a collection of objects.

And because reverence changes how we see, it changes how we act. We become repairers — of relationships, of routines, of rivers and soils and air.

He tells of Iona — small island, big sky — where stones remember prayers and wind writes psalms on the water.

The ancients called it a thin place, but Newell insists thinness is available everywhere. Thinness is the fruit of attention.

Thinness is what happens when we dare to believe that the divine pulse is here, now, under our feet and behind our eyes.

And so he urges practices that re-train attention:

• Rise with the day if you can — not to conquer it, but to receive it. Let the light arrive before your to-do lists do.
• Touch something living — a leaf, a dog’s soft ear, the bark of a tree — and remember that you belong to a family larger than your name.
• Bless what you handle — keys, dishes, steering wheel, laptop — as if each could carry a little more kindness into the world because your hands were gentler on it.
• Before you speak, ask whether your words will add to the world’s weariness or to its wonder.

This is not sentimentality.

Reverence costs.

It will ask for your habits, your convenience, your indifference.

It will ask you to slow the pace that keeps you from noticing the person in front of you. It will ask you to consume less so the river can live more.

It will ask you to confess where you have wounded — people or places — and to start mending with patience and humility.

But reverence gives more than it costs.

It gives you your world back — not as a problem to fix, but as a relationship to honor. It gives you your body back — not as a project to critique, but as a sanctuary to inhabit.

It gives you your neighbors back — not as strangers or threats, but as bearers of the same light that started this whole story.

And it gives you joy.

Not the thin kind you must keep chasing, but the deep, quiet joy that arrives when you live in alignment with what is real. Joy that shows up like birdsong after rain.

Joy that makes you want to take off your shoes because the ground has always been holy and suddenly you can feel it.

So let us practice seeing again.

Let us walk as if the earth were a chapel — which it is.

Let us listen for the first language — not only in silence, but in wind in the trees and a child’s questions and the kettle’s patient hum.

Let us bless the thresholds we cross today — the doorway into work, the aisle of a grocery store, the path to the car — as places where heaven and earth are on speaking terms.

And when we fail (we will), when we forget (we will), when we hurry past a miracle (we will) — let us begin again. Beginning again is a sacred skill. The tide does it every day. So can we.

(Unhurried pause)

Hear, then, a simple creed for those who would live with reverence:

• I will remember that what is deepest in me is of God.
• I will honor the divine image in every person I meet.
• I will treat the earth as kin, not as commodity.
• I will attend to beauty as a teacher and to pain as a call to compassion.
• I will live as if blessing is my mother-tongue and gratitude my daily breath.

This is not a program. It is a posture. It is the way a heart stands when it knows the world belongs to God and we belong to the world.

🌺 Thankfulness

Let gratitude rise now, not as a list you force, but as a tide you permit.

Let it find you in the ordinary:
the way light rests on a wall,
the way your name sounds when a friend speaks it kindly,
the way water tastes when you are truly thirsty.

If you wish, name three gifts of this very moment:

1. Something you can seethat gladdens you.
2. Something you can feelthat steadies you.
3. Something you can rememberthat keeps you kind.

Hold each one like a small flame cupped in your hands.
Notice how the room changes when you pay attention this way.
Notice how you change — posture softening, breath easing, jaw no longer braced.

Whisper, if it helps:
For the gift of life — thank you.
For the gift of earth — thank you.
For the gift of love — thank you.

Gratitude is not the garnish on a good day; it is the doorway into seeing that all of life is threaded with grace. Thankfulness does not deny sorrow; it keeps sorrow from owning the whole house. It does not pretend the world is unbroken; it teaches us to become menders.

Let thankfulness widen your field of vision. The more you thank, the more you see. The more you see, the more you bless. The more you bless, the more you live as if God’s first word still echoes through creation: Light.

✨ Closing Reflection

As we end this Still Point moment, may your eyes stay tuned to the light that began the world and begins you again each morning. May your steps remember the softness suited to holy ground. May your words be instruments of reverence. May your hands learn the craft of healing — small repairs, steady kindness, patient care of people and places.

When you feel the old hurry rise, pause at the threshold and begin again. When you forget to notice, choose one thing and notice it wholly. When you doubt your belonging, look at the sky and let its vast welcome remind you.

Together, softly:

The light within me is of God.
The earth beneath me is sacred.
I will live with reverence.
I will walk with thanks.

If this quiet has steadied you, pass a little of it on — a slower tone in a conversation, a kinder note in an email, a moment outside to bless the day.

Until next time, friends, may you Breathe… Reset… and Rise.

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🎙️ Still Point 12:10 – Intro for “The Eight Steps of the Mystical Path of Christ”

Presentation Title: “Your Subconscious Power: Mindfulness and Thankfulness with Dr. Joseph Murphy”

🌿 Still Point Opening — Joseph Murphy / Inner Sanctuary

Welcome, dear friend, to this Still Point moment.
A pause… a breath… a gentle turning inward.

I’m SCR and today we talk about The Power of Your subconscious mind for contemplation and thankfulness with Dr. Joseph Murphy.                              Joseph Murphy — a spiritual teacher who believed our subconscious is the sacred gateway where God’s truth takes root —  he once wrote that the Divine Life within us is always ready to guide, restore, and renew us — if only we quiet the surface of the mind long enough to listen.

As we arrive here, simply breathe.
Feel the subtle shift from doing to being…
From thinking to noticing…
From striving to allowing.

Here, in this sacred interior sanctuary — the place Mary of Magdala would call the Nous, the holy mind within — we remember:

✨ We are not separate from peace.
✨ We do not chase the Presence — we return to it.
✨ Our breath is the bridge, the Spirit-breath, the Pneuma, connecting our hearts to the deep wisdom already here.

Let this moment be a gentle homecoming.
To the God-Light within.
To the breath of Spirit.
To your own quiet wholeness.

Breath Practice: Returning to the Inner Sanctuary
Settle into a comfortable posture.

Let your spine lengthen, as though a gentle thread of light lifts you upward…
and your feet soften into the earth beneath you.

Let your hands rest where they feel safe.
Let your breath arrive as it is.

In this moment, you are held. In this breath, you are home.

When you are ready, breathe in slowly through the nose…
and exhale through the mouth, as though releasing a soft prayer.
Again ~
Inhale… receive
Exhale… release.

 

 

 

 

Awakening Psyche

Begin to notice your inner landscape—the psyche:
your emotions, thoughts, stories, and sensations.

Not to judge them, not to change them,
but simply to witness them with compassion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As you breathe, whisper inwardly:

“This is my inner world.”
“I witness without fear.”

Let every inhale soften your experience,
and every exhale loosen the grip of anything heavy.

Opening the Pneuma – Breath of the Heart

Now bring one hand to the heart.

With each breath, feel the chest rise and fall.
Feel the pneuma—the breath that animates,
the subtle rhythm that has carried you through every season,
every storm, every dawn.

Inhale: Sacred breath within me.
Exhale: Sacred breath around me.

Allow your breath to lengthen…
like a calm tide washing the shore of your soul.

Meeting the Nous – Inner Sanctuary

As the breath deepens, imagine a soft light glowing behind the heart—
the place ancient mystics call the Nous,
Mary’s word for the inner knowing, the holy center,
the still point where Divine mind and human heart meet.

Let breath carry you there…

Not forcing, not striving…
Simply allowing.

Inhale: I return to my Inner Sanctuary.
Exhale: I rest in Sacred Wisdom.

Let this space expand, warm, luminous.
This is where God speaks without words.
Where Murphy’s subconscious opens like a garden,
where seeds of faith, peace, and possibility are planted.

Feel that tenderness.
That intelligence.
That silence that is not empty but full.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Full of Presence.
Full of Promise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breath Prayer to Close

Place both hands over your heart.

Breathe in slowly for a count of 4
…pause softly…
and exhale for 6.

Repeat three cycles:

Inhale: Light
Pause: Love
Exhale: Peace

Let your final breath be a blessing to yourself:

“I am here.
I am held.
I am guided.
My Inner Sanctuary is always open.”

When ready, open your eyes gently,
bringing with you the calm, clarity, and quiet power of the Nous—
the Wisdom within.

(Pause for 30 seconds of silence)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Short Talk: Aligning Thought and Spirit 

We arrive here, in this quiet space, to remember something ancient and true:
The inner world creates the outer world.

Joseph Murphy reminded us that the thoughts we hold, and the beliefs shaped deep in the subconscious, are constantly forming the reality we experience.

Not as magical thinking…
but as spiritual alignment.

Murphy taught that our subconscious is like fertile soil —
and every thought we plant… grows.

Every belief we nourish… takes root.
And eventually, what we cultivate within rises into our lived experience.

So today we pause to ask, gently,
“What seeds am I planting?”

Not with judgment.
Not with pressure.
But with compassionate awareness.

Mindfulness is our doorway.

When we become still, we begin to watch our thoughts the way we might watch clouds drifting across the sky.

Some are bright… hopeful… spacious.
Others are heavy, long conditioned by fear, scarcity, or the wounds we have carried.

And yet — here is the grace:
Thoughts are not destiny.
Beliefs are not chains.
Awareness gives us choice.

Each breath becomes an invitation to redirect our inner narrative toward truth and healing.

Not through force, but through soft return —
again and again —
to the deeper knowing that we are beloved, guided, and held.

Murphy called it the power of the subconscious.
We might call it the whisper of Spirit within.
The Divine imprint that remembers who we truly are.

And one of the simplest, most profound ways to align with that truth…
is through gratitude.

Gratitude doesn’t ignore pain or pretend life is perfect.

Rather, it tunes our hearts to the frequency of abundance, noticing what is good, what is present, what is quietly sustaining us even on difficult days.

Gratitude magnifies good.
It trains the mind to look not for what is missing,
but for what is already here —
and what is becoming.

And as Joseph Murphy would say, the key to transformation is not effort or striving,
but repetition, belief, and gentle persistence.

Softly, faithfully, we choose again:
“I plant thoughts of peace.”
“I nourish trust.”
“I welcome abundance.”
“I align my mind with Spirit.”

This is not a one-time awakening,
but a daily choice —
a loving practice —
a spiritual muscle strengthened breath by breath.

And so we breathe…
letting the body rest…
letting the mind unclench…
and allowing the heart to open to possibility.

Right now, you are shaping your inner sanctuary.
Right now, you are choosing a new way of seeing.
Right now, you are aligning thought and Spirit,
and the seeds you plant here will grow.

Hold this truth gently:
Everything you need already lives within you.
Peace is within you.
Wisdom is within you.
The Divine is not distant —
but breathing in your very breath.

So let us walk forward from this Still Point
with quiet confidence,
grateful hearts,
and a steady knowing:

As we transform our inner world,
our outer world transforms with it.

 As we near the end of our time together – Take a moment now — silently or in writing — to name three things you are thankful for.

Gratitude is prayer.
It lifts our awareness
to what God is already doing,
already growing,
already healing in us and around us.

Gratitude doesn’t deny hardship;
it declares that the Holy still moves.

Every “thank You”
opens a window for more light.
Every appreciation
draws us closer to the quiet steady beat
of God’s presence.

And transformation, as Murphy reminds us,
is rarely sudden drama —
it is gentle persistence.
A faithful returning.

Let them be things you want to reinforce in your life — joys, hope, blessings you feel and have experienced.

You can speak them softly in your heart,
or write them down if you have a journal nearby.

Choose things that feel nourishing —
blessings you want to root more deeply into your life.
Moments of joy,
truths that steady you,
or hopes you are beginning to welcome.

Let this practice not just notice goodness —
but strengthen it.
Each gratitude is a seed.
Every acknowledgment is a gentle “yes”
to the life you are growing from within.

Take your time.
Breathe.
And allow gratitude to expand quietly in you —
like light finding its way through morning branches.

Let this truth settle:

You are held.
You are guided.
You are accompanied by God in every step and every thought.

Nothing you must become.
Nothing you must earn.
Just a remembering.
A leaning into the One who lives in you.

As you align your thoughts with Spirit,
your inner world opens…
your life softens into grace…
and the outer world begins to reflect the peace
God has already placed in your soul.

Breathe into that.
Rest there.
And let God do the transforming work in you,
one quiet yes at a time.

5. Closing Reflection (2 minutes)

Closing Words: “As you leave today, may you: Think with intention, Feel with hope, And speak words that shape a joyful, grateful reality.

Your subconscious is listening – the Nous connection as Mary Magdalene revealed within us. Give it something beautiful to believe in.”

🌬️ Soft Invitation (Likes/Follow)

If this space brings you a little peace — if it helps you reconnect to your breath, to Spirit, and to your inner sacred ground — I’d love for you to stay close.

Click like, follow along, and help weave a community of people choosing peace over pressure, presence over noise, and soul over hurry.

Every little touch of connection helps this Still Point reach someone who needs it.

🌙 Closing Blessing & Share Invitation

As we leave this sacred pause, may you carry this calm into whatever waits for you today.
Not by effort… but by remembering.
The peace is already within you.
The light is already lit.

And if this moment blessed you —
If it touched your soul or brought you back to centre —
consider sharing it with someone else.

A friend walking through a heavy week.
A soul looking for hope.
A heart that just needs a reminder to breathe.

Until we meet again…May you walk slowly, listen deeply, speak gently and receive the world with a smile! And remember to ….
Breathe.
Reset.
Rise.
And return, again and again, to your Still Point.

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🎙️ Still Point 12:10 – Intro for “The Eight Steps of the Mystical Path of Christ”

Welcome to Still Point 12:10 —
a pause in the middle of the week to breathe, reset, and rise.
I’m so glad you’re here.
This is your moment to exhale the noise of the world
and return to the stillness that has always been waiting for you.

So often, when people think of Jesus’ teaching, they imagine rules to follow or simply being good. But the truth is, Jesus offers us something much deeper — a path of transformation.

Today, we begin a journey —
a sacred unfolding known as The Eight Steps of the Mystical Path of Christ. This isn’t a path of perfection,
but a path of transformation.
It’s not about leaving the world behind,
but discovering the Holy woven through every ordinary day.

Each step invites us deeper —
from awakening to surrender,
from purification to illumination,
from union to service,
from embodiment to return.
These are not steps we rush through,
but rhythms we live into —
the slow, sacred spiral of becoming Love itself.

This is the inner journey Jesus invites us to walk. Not just a way of being nice, but a way of awakening, of seeing differently, of living with resilience, and of resting in union with God.

So wherever you are —
driving, walking, washing dishes, or sitting quietly in the soft light of morning —
let this be your still point.

Let this be your breath between worlds.
Here, we remember what it means
to walk the mystical path of Christ —
to awaken, to trust, to shine, and to serve
as Love made visible.

Take a deep breath.
Let’s begin.

There is a quiet place within you where the wind of the Spirit moves like breath across water. The early followers of Jesus knew this hush. They listened for it on hillsides and in kitchens, on shoreline mornings and in the press of the crowd. Mary Magdalene learned to recognize it in the garden at dawn, where loss became recognition and grief became love that cannot be unmade. This is the mystical path of Christ—not an escape from the world, but a way of walking in it so wholly that the ordinary shines.

What follows is the path as pilgrims have found it in the life of Jesus and through the first contemplative witness of Mary Magdalene. Eight movements, circular rather than linear—like tracing a quiet spiral into the heart of God and back again into the world we are given to love.

• Awakening
  Awakening is not thunder. It is the soft knock at the door when you were sure no one knew your address. It begins the way morning begins—slow, then suddenly everywhere. In the Jordan’s water, Jesus rises with the water still on his skin and hears the Voice name what already was true: beloved.

Mary’s awakening happens by name as well—“Mary”—and the world rearranges itself around a single word. We awaken when something tender in us recognizes that love has spoken first.

On this path, you don’t manufacture holiness; you awaken to presence already here. You breathe, you consent, you open your eyes.

• Surrender
  Surrender is the second movement, but it shadows every step.

In the wilderness, Jesus releases every glittering shortcut: turning stones into bread, grasping power, insisting on spectacle. He chooses trust over control. Surrender is not defeat; it is the unclenching of the heart so that grace can flow. Mary also surrenders in the garden—she lets go of clinging to the old form of Christ so that she might receive the Risen One as he is. We surrender when we let love have the final say over our anxious strategies, when we whisper, “Be with me as it is,” and mean it.

3) Purification
This is the clearing-out, not of shame, but of the fog that crowds the window. Jesus overturns tables, not people; he drives out what blocks honest encounter. Purification is the broom and basin of the soul: the habits that keep us numb, the narratives that keep us small, the resentments that knot our breathing. It is forgiveness like warm water. It is the simple courage to speak truth kindly, to confess what is stuck, to stop feeding what harms us. Here the Spirit is not a critic but a midwife, steadying us as we release what we cannot carry onward.

4) Illumination
Once the window clears, light finds its own way through. Illumination is not information; it is recognition. “Come and see,” Jesus says, and vision widens—bread becomes body, strangers become kin, the lost coin gleams. On the mount, garments shine; at a well, living water wells up; on a road, hearts burn within. Illumination is the grace of seeing that every bush can blaze with God if we will only turn aside. Mary’s illumination is Easter morning itself—the world still bruised, yet radiant. We practice attention, and the plain day brightens.

5) Union
Union is the simple, shocking intimacy of abiding: “I am in you, and you are in me.” It is not an achievement; it is a homecoming. The mystics say union tastes like silence that isn’t empty, like breath that prays itself—God within, around, and through. In union, the divide between sacred and ordinary softens: kneading dough becomes doxology; washing a face becomes blessing; walking the dog becomes a liturgy of fresh air and grace. Mary speaks “I have seen the Lord,” and that seeing lives inside her. Union is not a fuse that burns out; it’s the quiet hearth that keeps everything warm.

6) Service
Union blossoms outward as service, not to earn love but because love cannot help but share itself. Jesus kneels with a towel, and the shape of God looks like humility. Service is the sacrament of the basin and the bread—feeding, tending, mending, showing up. It is the courage to risk proximity to other people’s pain without trying to fix them out of our discomfort. Mary becomes apostle to the apostles—good news carried on tired feet because joy insists on being told. Here our gifts become rivers, not reservoirs.

7) Embodiment
Embodiment is love with skin on—faith that can be touched. The Word is made flesh, and so is our prayer: how we breathe when anxious, how we speak when offended, how we rest when weary.

Embodiment asks: can your theology be seen in your shoulders? In your calendar? In your checkbook and your laughter? Jesus blesses bread and breaks it; he eats with outcasts and friends; he weeps; he sleeps in storms and wakes to calm them. In embodiment, we stop outsourcing holiness to ideas and let it inhabit our gestures, our tone of voice, our steady presence at the kitchen table.

8) Return
Every pilgrimage returns home, and the truest test of transformation is the way we carry groceries across the threshold, the way we answer texts, the patience we offer a stranger at the four-way stop. Return is not regression; it is re-entry with a softer center. The disciples come back to Galilee, to work and waves and firelit breakfasts. Mary returns with a message; her ordinary life becomes a doorway. We return to the same streets with new eyes—the sacrament of the mundane revealed. The path loops: awakening opens again, surrender loosens anew, purification clears once more. The spiral widens; our lives grow roomier with grace.

And so the mystical path of Christ is not a ladder we climb but a rhythm we learn. It is Celtic in its trust that the Holy hums in the river and the robin and the rain on the roof. It is Christ-shaped in its pattern of descent into the heart, rising in love, and returning with bread for others. Mary Magdalene walks with us as friend and witness, reminding us that love speaks our name and sends us out.

If you want to begin, begin small. Put your feet on the floor in the morning and remember you are beloved. Let go of one tiny thing you don’t need to carry today. Make space for light—open a window, notice one ordinary mercy, say thank you out loud. Abide for a few breaths. Offer a quiet kindness that costs you something but not everything. Let your body become a sanctuary where peace can be felt. Then come home to yourself again tonight, and rest. Tomorrow, the spiral opens once more.

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Welcome to Still Point 12:10, a place to pause, reset, and rise.
I’m Sharon, and I’m so glad you’re here.

Today we’ll step into a labyrinth meditation. The labyrinth is an ancient path — not a maze to confuse us, but a sacred journey that invites us to slow down, to breathe, and to walk with God. Every turn reminds us that life is not always straight, but the center is always waiting.

So wherever you are — walking an actual labyrinth, tracing one with your finger, or simply listening with an open heart — this is your time to find stillness, to breathe deeply, and to rest in God’s presence.

Take a deep breath in … and let it go.
You are here. God is here.
Let us begin the walk together.

 

Imagine you are standing at the entrance of a labyrinth. Not a maze with tricks and dead ends, but a sacred path that winds toward the center and then gently carries you back out again. The labyrinth is a mirror of life, a place to walk with prayer, intention, and openness.

Today, we’ll move through this practice in 6 steps: Ready, Release, Receive, Return, Write, and Rest. As we journey together, notice what stirs in you, and allow the Spirit to guide your steps.

Step One: Ready

Take a deep, steady breath in… and slowly let it out. Again, inhale peace… exhale distraction.

Ground yourself. Feel the floor beneath you, steady and strong. Notice your body — your shoulders, your hands, your breath.

Now, silently set an intention for this time. What do you bring with you today? Perhaps a question, a longing, or simply a desire for stillness.

As you begin your walk into the labyrinth, whisper a quiet mantra. Something simple, like “Here I am.” Or “God is near.” Or “Peace, be still.”

Step Two: Release

The path curves and winds, carrying you deeper toward the center. With each step, let go.

Release your thoughts — don’t trap them, just notice and let them pass like clouds drifting across the sky.

Let go of distractions. Let go of judgment. Let go of the need to control.

Perhaps you repeat your mantra: “Here I am. Here I am.” Each repetition loosens the grip of fear, anxiety, and clutter.

You don’t need to hold everything right now. Let it fall away, one breath at a time.

Step Three: Receive

Now you arrive at the center of the labyrinth. This is a sacred space — the still point within.

Here, you don’t need to strive or prove anything. Simply be.

If you wish, bring your intention to God. Ask your question, or simply sit in openness. Notice what arises — an image, a word, a feeling, or perhaps just silence. Trust that even silence carries wisdom.

Breathe deeply and let yourself receive whatever is offered. Even the stillness itself is gift.

 

 

Step Four: Return

When you’re ready, begin your walk back out of the labyrinth. The path feels different now. You are carrying something new.

Walk slowly, with thankfulness. With each step, whisper gratitude.

Thank you for this breath. Thank you for this moment. Thank you for what is, and what will be.

Return with a grateful heart, knowing you are not the same as when you entered. The Spirit has walked with you.

Step Five: Write

When your journey is complete, take a moment to write. Jot down any word, phrase, image, or feeling that surfaced.

Don’t edit. Don’t analyze. Just let it spill onto the page — even if it seems small or unclear.

This is how the labyrinth speaks: through fragments, symbols, whispers. Trust them.

Step Six: Rest

Finally, resist the urge to explain or share right away. Hold this experience quietly for a couple of days. Let it deepen within you, expand in your heart, and reveal its meaning in its own time.

The labyrinth’s wisdom unfolds slowly, like ripples across water. Give it space to move.

Closing

As we close, take one last deep breath. Inhale peace. Exhale gratitude.

Carry this stillness with you into the rest of your day, knowing that the path is sacred, your steps are guided, and your life itself is a journey of presence and purpose.

If this pause is giving you space to breathe today, I’d love for you to pass it along. Share it with someone who might need a Still Point in their own life this week.

Until we meet again, may you walk slowly, listen deeply, speak gently, and receive the world with an open heart and a smile! Many blessings!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Welcome to Still Point 12:10. I’m so glad you’ve taken this moment to pause.

So much of our lives are restless. Our minds are always racing — replaying the past, rehearsing the future, rarely fully here. And yet, stillness is not a luxury. It’s the very thing our souls need.

I’m Sharon and in this episode, we’ll explore how the restless heart can discover the gift of stillness. We’ll talk about what it means to pause, to breathe, to let go of control, and to awaken to God’s presence — right here, right now.

The self-criticism. The endless rehearsals of what we should have done, said, or been. It is only as we stay that something deeper begins to stir.

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Step with me into the potter’s house.

The air is damp, carrying the smell of earth and water.

You hear the hum of the wheel turning—steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

The potter leans over the wheel, arms strong, hands coated with wet clay. The wheel spins, the clay wobbles, and with each turn the potter presses and pulls.

The clay resists. It slumps. It cracks.

At one point it nearly collapses. But the potter does not throw it aside.

Water is splashed across its dry surface, softening what has become rigid.

The potter leans in again, hands firm and tender at the same time.

Slowly, patiently, the clay begins to take shape.

The ruin you saw a moment ago becomes the beginnings of a vessel. Nothing has been wasted—not the collapse, not the mess, not the time it took to begin again.

Now imagine you are that clay.

The wheel spins beneath you—sometimes too fast, sometimes unsteady.

You feel the press of skilled fingers against your surface, reshaping what feels familiar.

You resist at first. You think, “I was fine the way I was.”

But the potter sees what you cannot.

The potter knows what the vessel can carry when it is strong at the base, true at the center, open at the top.

Though it is uncomfortable, you yield. The hands never leave you. The pressure is purposeful. The water is mercy. And slowly, something new emerges.

Breathe with me here: in for four counts and out for six. On the inhale whisper, “Form me.” On the exhale whisper, “Guide me.”

Again—“Form me… Guide me.”

In the quiet of this breath, we begin to trust that change is not random; change is an arena where God is at work.

Jeremiah lived in turbulent times.

The geopolitical map was shifting beneath the feet of God’s people.

Empires rose and fell. Leaders faltered. Security crumbled.

Into that moment, God gave Jeremiah a living parable: the potter and the clay.

Divine truth, not delivered in a theory or a rulebook, but shown in a workshop, in the ordinary labor of a craftsperson at a wheel.

The message is both sobering and hopeful.

Sobering—because the clay does not determine its own shape.

Hopeful—because the clay is in good hands.

The potter does not discard a marred vessel; the potter remakes it.

The covenant people had walked in stubborn ways, but God’s purposes were not at an end.

Change would come—some of it painful—but even the painful change could become formative in the hands of the Divine.

This image is woven through Scripture. Isaiah cries, “Yet you, O Lord, are our Father; we are the clay, and you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand” (Isaiah 64:8).

Paul asks the Roman church, “Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’” (Romans 9:20–21).

The Psalms sing that the Holy One “knit me together in my mother’s womb” (Psalm 139:13), language of delicate, intentional forming.

From Genesis’ dust to Revelation’s new creation, God forms, reforms, and transforms; God brings order from chaos and beauty from brokenness.

But why do we resist? Because change asks us to release what we cling to—control, certainty, the comfort of what we already know. Abraham and Sarah leave the familiar for a land they have not seen.

Moses steps from wilderness obscurity into public obedience. Mary receives an immensity she had not planned.

The disciples drop their nets and find themselves on roads they could never have imagined.

Every one of these moments required letting go, trusting a voice that said, “Come,” trusting a hand that said, “I am with you.”

Jeremiah’s image also carries a pastoral nuance. Clay is not weak because it yields; clay is strong because it is held.

Yielding is not defeat; it is participation.

Change, then, is not primarily about losing ourselves—it is about yielding ourselves so that a truer self may emerge under the hands of

Consider a nurse—three decades of midnight shifts and morning rounds, of holding hands in ICU rooms and celebrating small recoveries in hallways.

Nursing was not merely a profession; it was identity, calling, heartbeat.

Then an accident disrupted the story. In a single season, the role she loved was gone, and with it the shape of her days.

She asked the aching question many of us ask when change arrives without our permission: “If I am not that anymore… who am I?”

But in that wilderness, forming continued.

She retrained as a counselor. The listening she once offered beside monitors became listening in a circle of chairs.

The calm she used to bring into trauma rooms became calm in a counseling office.

The gift remained—the vessel changed.

Years later she said, with a soft smile, “I thought I was broken clay. I was b

eing reshaped.”

Her transformation became a testimony to others in the community who feared that an ending would be the end of them. Instead, it became an opening.

Think of a town in the wake of a fire. Streets coated in ash. Windows bo

Grief came in waves. There were angry prayers and quiet days.

arded. The scent of smoke lingering like a memory that refuses to fade.

In the first weeks, despair felt like fog.

Then neighbors began to gather—someone organized a meal train; someone else opened a garage for supplies; teenagers showed up with shovels; elders brought stories and prayer.

Listen Here

 

 

 

Watch Here

 

Sometimes we search for God in grand moments—mountaintop experiences, answered prayers, quiet revelations. But often, God’s presence comes wrapped in something beautifully ordinary: a shared meal, a hand to hold, a listening ear.

This week’s message explores how friendship and community are not just comforting—they are sacred. In a world that often isolates and rushes us along, choosing to show up for each other becomes an act of grace. Through the bonds we form and the stories we share, we catch glimpses of the Divine in one another.

Join me as we pause to reflect on the relationships that shape us, steady us, and reveal God’s love in the most human of ways. This isn’t about perfect community—it’s about real connection, sacred presence, and the hope that rises when we walk together.

The Ache of Loneliness

There are moments in life when we find ourselves surrounded by people, yet a deep loneliness lingers inside.

It may be while sitting in a crowded coffee shop, the hum of conversations swirling around us, but no voice truly speaking to us.

Or perhaps it happens late at night, scrolling through Facebook or Instagram, clicking “like” on photos of smiling faces, while quietly wondering, “Does anyone really know me?”

Even in church, we can feel this. You sit in the same pew, see the same faces, share the same hymns—and yet sometimes it feels as though no one knows the depth of what you are carrying.

Loneliness is not new. Across the centuries, people have cried out for connection. And into this ache, Scripture whispers a reminder: we are not created to walk alone. God often makes the presence of divine love known through the gift of friendship and community.

Hear these words from the book of Ruth:

“But Ruth said, ‘Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die—there will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!’” (Ruth 1:16–17)

This is not just a story of two women. This is a story of God’s presence, wrapped in human loyalty, courage, and companionship.

Naomi’s Grief, Ruth’s Loyalty

Naomi’s life had unraveled. She and her family had fled famine, only to be met with death and loss in the land of Moab. Her husband was gone. Both sons gone. All that remained were two daughters-in-law.

Naomi urged them to go back to their families, back to safety, back to a future she could not offer. One left. But Ruth stayed.

With fierce loyalty, Ruth clung to her. “Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.” Ruth did not have answers for Naomi’s grief. She could not erase her pain or solve her despair. But she gave something greater: she gave her presence.

This is where we see God at work—not through thunder from the heavens, not through miraculous signs, but through the steady footsteps of a friend who refused to leave.

The Presence of God in Friendship

Friends, this is often how God works. When our prayers feel unanswered, when heaven seems silent, God’s love walks in through the door with the face of a friend.

Sometimes we look for God in the spectacular, when in truth God is often found in the ordinary—

• in the neighbor who brings a casserole after surgery,
• in the friend who sits with you in silence at the funeral home,
• in the phone call that arrives just when you were ready to give up.

That is not coincidence. That is God’s presence, showing up embodied in human friendship and community.

Modern Example: A Circle of Friends

A woman I know lost her husband suddenly. She was devastated, adrift in grief. The days blurred. Meals went untouched. Sleep would not come.

But then something happened. A circle of friends from her church gathered around her. One brought groceries. Another picked her up for walks. Another simply sat in the kitchen with her, sipping tea, saying almost nothing—but staying.

Mary told me later, “I didn’t feel God in those early weeks. I felt empty. But looking back now, I realize: God came to me in the faces of my friends. They carried me when I could not carry myself.”

This is Ruth and Naomi all over again. This is the gospel alive.

Experiential Reflection

I’d like to invite you, right now, to pause for just a moment. Close your eyes if you’re comfortable. Breathe deeply.

Think of one person who has walked beside you in a hard season of life. Picture their face. Hear their voice. Remember the strength you drew simply from knowing they were there.

Now, think of one person who might need you to walk with them. Someone who is weary. Someone who might be silently carrying a burden.

Hold these two images in your heart: the one who walked with you, and the one God might be nudging you to walk beside now. This is how God’s presence moves through us.

Three Ways to Live This Out

1. Reach Out First.
   Often we wait for someone else to take the first step. But Ruth did not wait for Naomi. She reached out. A phone call, a card, a knock at the door—it may feel small, but it can be the very presence of God to someone who feels forgotten.
2. Practice Sacred Listening.
   Ruth did not fix Naomi’s grief. She didn’t try to explain it away. She stayed. She listened. Listening is holy work. When you give your full attention to someone’s story, you are offering them God’s presence through your ears and your heart.
3. Show Up Consistently.
   Friendship is not about one dramatic gesture. It is about steady, faithful presence. Whether it’s a weekly coffee, a check-in text, or sitting side by side in church—consistent presence builds a bridge where God’s love flows.

Theology of Friendship & Presence

God does not simply act from a distance. God acts through us. Ruth’s friendship was not just kindness—it was divine presence.

When Jesus sent out the disciples, he did not send them alone—he sent them two by two (Mark 6:7). Why? Because discipleship was never meant to be a solo journey.

The early church knew this. Acts 2 tells us they devoted themselves to fellowship, breaking bread together, sharing possessions, praying, and praising. God’s presence was known through their life together.

And Jesus promised: “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” (Matthew 18:20) God’s presence comes alive in community.

Reflection Thought

Here is the line I want you to carry with you this week:

“God’s presence walks with us in the friends who do not leave.”

Say it quietly to yourself. Write it down. Hold it as a prayer.

 

 

Closing Story & Call to Action

Ruth’s faithfulness to Naomi did not just bring comfort—it became part of God’s greater story. Ruth remarried, bore a son, and that child became the grandfather of King David. Out of loyalty and friendship came new life, new hope, and the very line from which Christ was born.

Friendship is never just friendship. It is a holy thread in God’s tapestry of redemption.

So I leave you with this:

• Who has been a Ruth in your life—walking with you, carrying God’s presence?
• And who might God be asking you to walk beside now?

May we be people who not only receive God’s presence in friendship but also offer it—steady, faithful, and full of grace.

Listen Here

 

 

 

 

The Living Room of Bethany

The sun was beginning to set behind the hills of Bethany.

Inside a modest home, the smell of baking bread drifted through the air.

Pans clanged, oil simmered, and Martha rushed from one side of the room to the other. Her hands were caked with flour. Her brow beaded with sweat. Jesus—the Teacher, the miracle-worker, her friend—was in her home.

He was seated not in a palace, not in a synagogue, but in her living room.

And while Martha hurried to make the moment perfect, her sister Mary did something scandalous.

She sat at Jesus’ feet.

This wasn’t just about rest. This wasn’t laziness or domestic rebellion. Sitting at the feet of a rabbi was the posture of a disciple—a student. It was where men were expected to be. Mary dared to sit there, wide-eyed and open-hearted, absorbing his every word. She chose to be a disciple.

And Martha? She chose service. She chose duty. She chose doing.

Until she broke.

“Lord, don’t you care?” she snapped, voice cutting through the calm like broken glass. “My sister has left me to do the work by myself. Tell her to help me!”

Jesus turned to her, not with anger—but tenderness.

“Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better…”

The CEO and the Forgotten Self

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fast forward two thousand years.

Across the ocean, in the heart of a city that never sleeps, sat another Martha.

Her name was Jennifer Caldwell. CEO of one of the fastest-growing tech firms in North America. On paper, she was unstoppable. Interviews. Strategy meetings. Flights. Deals. Awards. A beautiful penthouse and a calendar booked for the next six months.

But behind the gloss of her success, she hadn’t sat with her children for a meal in weeks. Her parents had stopped calling. Her partner had quietly grown distant. She hadn’t meditated, prayed, or paused in years. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d read Scripture or even wept in the presence of God.

One Wednesday afternoon, Jennifer found herself sitting in a hotel lobby during a layover. She picked up her phone to scroll, but a Mid Week Wednesday video appeared in her feed—shared by her long-forgotten church’s page.

She almost swiped past.

But something—something gentle and unnameable—made her pause.

The speaker was calm, warm. Not flashy. Just a person speaking peace. About the noise of life. About Martha and Mary. About how Jesus didn’t condemn the doing, but invited us to choose the better part.

Her breath caught.

Tears streamed down her face before she knew they were coming. She looked around to make sure no one noticed. But something cracked open inside.

That video was the first step. The next was a message to her assistant: “Please clear my Friday afternoon.”

She needed to find the feet of Jesus again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Tension We All Feel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Martha in us says:

• “There’s too much to do.”
• “I don’t have time to pray.”
• “I’ll sit with God after I finish everything else.”

But the Mary in us whispers:

• “Just be.”
• “Come close.”
• “Choose the better part.”

The tension isn’t between right and wrong—but between urgent and important.

And Jesus is not angry with our doing—he just misses our presence.

That’s why Mid Week Wednesday, Still Point 12:10 matters.

It’s not a show. It’s a pause.

In a culture that glorifies hustle, we need sacred disruption. Something that doesn’t ask for money or applause. Just a moment of grace.

For the Jennifer Caldwells of the world, it’s a reminder: You don’t have to earn God’s love.

You don’t have to schedule your soul.

You don’t have to keep running.

Mid Week Wednesday offers space. Stillness. Reflection. A gentle hand saying, “Come sit. Come rest. Come listen.”

Choosing the Better Part

What makes Jesus’ words so powerful in this story is what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t shame Martha. He doesn’t say, “Your work is meaningless.” He doesn’t say, “Service is bad.” But he does say that Mary chose the better part.

Why?

 

         

Because being with Jesus, truly present, is more life-giving than anything we can do for him.

It’s easy to applaud productivity. In a world where identity is tied to performance, sitting still feels like laziness. Meditation feels inefficient. Prayer feels like silence. Sabbath feels like wasting time.

But Jesus tells us something shocking: “Only one thing is needed.”

One thing.

Not a list. Not a resume. Not a perfect table. Not a spotless kitchen. Not a mega-church program.

Just one thing.

To be with him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mary Magdalene, the True Disciple

Mary of Bethany wasn’t the only woman to sit at Jesus’ feet.

Mary Magdalene was the first to witness the resurrection. She too, was called by name—“Mary”—by the risen Christ, just as he had called Martha tenderly.

And what did she do?

She ran to tell the others. She preached the resurrection before Peter even arrived at the tomb.

Mary Magdalene wasn’t just a witness. She was a disciple. A preacher. A teacher.

So when people say women should be silent in church, they’ve forgotten the women who spoke first.

They’ve ignored the Jesus who called women by name. Who allowed them to learn. To lead. To weep. To worship.

 Busyness is not holiness.
We must stop baptizing burnout. Stop celebrating exhaustion. Stop equating full calendars with faithful hearts. Sometimes the most revolutionary act is to be still.

The Gentle Correction

Jesus didn’t rebuke Martha to shame her. He corrected her gently so she could find peace.

“Martha, Martha…”
He said her name twice. Not to scold. But to call her back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe today, he’s calling yours:

“Jennifer, Jennifer…”
“Sharon, Sharon…”
“Church, Church…”

Come back.

Come sit.

Choose the better part.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Final Invitation — Come Sit at His Feet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So we return to Bethany.

To Jesus.

To a quiet room.

To two sisters—one bustling, one listening.

And we hear his voice again:

“Martha, Martha… You are worried and upset about many things. But only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen the better part.”

We remember Jennifer, the CEO, whose life was full but soul was empty—until one Mid Week Wednesday helped her slow down.

And we remember ourselves.

Jesus is calling again.

He calls you not to perform—but to pause.

Not to impress—but to abide.

Not to earn—but to receive.

He calls women and men. The weary and the powerful. The overlooked and the overworked. He calls you.

And he says, “Come sit at my feet.”

To the church that has silenced women: let them speak.

To the Martha working too hard: come rest.

To the Marys who dared to listen: you chose rightly.

To you reading this now, wondering if God can still use you: yes, yes, and yes again.

Friends, the world won’t stop spinning. The dishes will still be there. The meetings won’t reschedule themselves. The headlines will shout, and the phones will ping.

But the feet of Jesus are still open.

The better part is still available.

And it will not be taken away from you!

Listen Here
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This week’s message, “The Breath Between Words: Finding God in Quiet Moments,” is now available to read here on the blog and to listen to on the podcast.

Welcome to this week’s message: “The Breath Between Words: Why We Pray in a Busy World.”
In this heartfelt message, I explore what prayer really is—beyond formulas and performances.

You’ll discover:

• Why real people still pray in modern life
• The wisdom of the Celts and the walking labyrinth
• What science says about prayer and stress
• How to pray through your breath, your steps, and your day

This message is for you if you feel overwhelmed, spiritually dry, or unsure how to connect with the Sacred in your ordinary life.

The sun hung low over the horizon, the air still heavy with the heat of the day. A woman has stepped barefoot onto the sun-warmed stones of the labyrinth tucked behind the retreat center.

Cicadas hummed.

The pathway coiled ahead of her like a question waiting to be lived.

At first, she simply breathed.

She didn’t force anything. Ready—she caught her breath, whispered a mantra: “Here I am.” Her feet found rhythm, each step a loosening.

Release—the clutter in her mind stirred but she let it pass like clouds. She wasn’t here to fix anything. She was here to be.

At the center, she stood still. The world quieted around her and within her. Receive—a sense of spaciousness, a thread of hope. She wasn’t sure if it was the Sacred or her own soul answering back—but peace met her there.

And then she turned. Return—thankful, slower, softer. She stepped out of the spiral. Later, she would journal, draw, maybe nothing at all. But the shift was real. Something had opened.

This is prayer—not a formula, but a flow: Ready. Release. Receive. Return. Even if insights come days later, the sacred has already done its work. She hadn’t said a prayer. She had prayed.

Prayer is not a performance. It’s a presence practice—a connection to the Sacred within and beyond us. A way of walking, breathing, and noticing. A form of listening and longing. A way of healing and belonging.

Today I want to explore four things with you:

1. Why pray at all?(real reasons for real people)
2. How the Celts—and the labyrinth—teach us embodied, everyday prayer
3. What science says (and doesn’t say) about whether prayer ‘works’

Then I’ll offer three grounded, practical rhythms for daily life: morning breath prayer, midday walk-based prayer, and evening heart coherence.

Why Pray?

Here are honest reasons that move beyond old images:

a) Presence over performance.Prayer reminds us we’re not alone. It returns us to connection.

b) Formation over formula.Prayer doesn’t always change our circumstances, but it often changes us.

c) Clarity over chaos.Prayer slows the rush and realigns what matters most.

d) Solidarity over self-reliance.Prayer holds others in care, and reminds us we’re held too.

e) Truth over hiding.Lament, doubt, even silence—all are valid forms of prayer.

f) Noticing over numbing.Gratitude invites us to name what is good right now.

The Celtic Way: Prayer as Breath, Journey, and Blessing

The Celtic Christians didn’t treat prayer as a segmented task on a spiritual to‑do list. Prayer was woven into everything: milking the cow, lighting the fire, crossing the threshold, starting the journey. They prayed with creation, not against it. The wind was a teacher, the sea a sanctuary, the hill a cathedral. Their prayers often spiraled—like the labyrinth—toward the heart of God.

The Labyrinth is an ancient Christian walking prayer (not a maze; there are no dead ends). You walk inward, releasing; you rest in the center, receiving; you walk outward, returning. The movement of your body becomes the movement of your soul.

St. Patrick’s Breastplate (often called “The Deer’s Cry”) is a bold, embodied prayer of presence—Christ before me, behind me, within me, beneath me. It’s a Celtic way of saying: wherever I go, I go in God.

Breath prayer—a short phrase prayed in rhythm with inhaling and exhaling—mirrors the ancient Hebrew and Greek link between breath and spirit (ruach, pneuma). Your lungs become the chapel. Your breath becomes the liturgy.

Does Prayer Work? (The Science & the Mystery)

First, the research:

• Intercessory prayer studies (where strangers pray for others) show mixed results—some slight improvements, many inconclusive.
• Contemplative prayer and breath-focused meditation, however, consistently show lowered stress, improved focus, and greater well-being.

Second, the deeper truth:

• Prayer “works” because it forms us.
• It can’t be measured like medication—but it transforms our inner world, which in turn changes our outer responses.

How Do We Pray in a Busy Life?

You don’t need to set aside an hour. You need a rhythm that meets you where you are.

A) Morning Breath Prayer (Presence & Clarity)

When: Wake up, before grabbing your phone. How:

• Inhale: “I belong.”
• Exhale: “I am held.”
• Or: Inhale “Peace,” Exhale “In me.”

Set a timer for two minutes if you like. Or just do it while the coffee brews.

B) Midday Walk (Release & Intention)

When: While walking—on break, during errands, or even just down the hallway. How:

1. Walking Inward: Begin with, “I release…” and silently name the tension, pressure, or distraction.
2. Center Pause: Stop for a moment. Breathe. Receive whatever insight or calm arises.
3. Walking Outward: Say, “May I bring peace to…” and name a situation, person, or worry.

This is prayer in motion—action rooted in presence, not performance. No need to say “forgive,” “sin,” or “Lord”—just speak from the heart to the Essence, to the Sacred, to whatever name feels right.

Evening Heart Prayer (Mind–Body–Soul Coherence)

The Science of Heart–Brain Coherence
The HeartMath Institute uses HRV (heart rate variability) to measure a state called “coherence,” where the heart, brain, and body operate in sync. Research shows this leads to resilience, emotional balance, and calm.

Heart-Focused Prayer & Meditation
A 2017 study showed that combining HeartMath techniques with heart-focused prayer increased HRV and inner calm. A 2014 dissertation titled Deep Abiding linked heart-based contemplative prayer with emotional healing.

Evening Heart Prayer Steps:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1. Place your hand on your chest. Inhale and exhale slowly for 30 seconds.
2. Bring to mind something that brought joy today.
3. Silently repeat a phrase: “Sacred Peace—fill me.” or “Thank you—carry me.”
4. Imagine someone you love and extend that peaceful energy toward them.

This is not passive. This is real, grounded care.

Evening Reflection

• What gave me life today?
• What do I want to let go of?
• What am I grateful for?

Close with a phrase like: “I release. I rest. I begin again tomorrow.”

 So you now have Three Accessible Prayer Practices

1) Breath Prayer

• Short. Repeatable. Portable.
• Let a phrase carry you through your day.

2) Heart Prayer

• Rest your awareness in your chest.
• Breathe. Say nothing. Be held.

3) Intentional Intercession

• Don’t just scroll headlines—hold people in your awareness with care.
• Whisper hope, send calm, offer kindness inwardly

  Prayer as Connection, Not Control

  Prayer doesn’t erase our to-do list. It reorders it. Prayer doesn’t promise perfect outcomes. It anchors us in something deeper. Prayer isn’t what we say—it’s the courage to be present, to hope, to stay connected.

  So:

  • Morning — 2 minutes to anchor.
  • Midday — walk and realign.
  • Evening — slow down, reflect, reconnect.

  Prayer is not a duty. It’s a rhythm of return. Not a rule—but a re‑membering.

  Walk the labyrinth when you can. Walk your hallway when you can’t. Let your breath, your steps, your pause be your prayer.

  You are not alone.
  You are already held.
  Begin again.