Some of my favorite guides on the journey toward spiritual wholeness include the late Eugene Peterson and the wonderful Barbara Brown Taylor (affectionately called Momma BBT in my household). They captured the life of faith I wanted to embody and practice: gentle, kind, thoughtful, and while counter-cultural, they were not abrasive. However, as I got to know their work more, I began to have less in common with them.
Eugene Peterson retired to the beauty of Flathead Lake, Montana, and Barbara Brown Taylor writes about her rural countryside home in one of my favorite books, Learning to Walk in the Dark. Both of these sages live so opposite to the way I lived. I was born and raised in Southern California, living in both urban and suburban settings.
With the hustle, bustle, and overwhelm of lights, sounds, and smells, how was I supposed to live in these unhurried rhythms of grace and lean into the life marked by retreat, solitude, and silence?
During my doctoral coursework, my family packed up our belongings and went to the similar shores Peterson prayed on, finding our home in a rural community south of Flathead Lake. As we drove from warm and sunny San Diego to the frigid northwest corner of Montana, I felt a sensation in my heart that is hard to describe. With each mile-marker, I could feel this space in my spirit growing, expanding, perhaps related to how Wesley’s heart felt strangely warmed? What is it about mountains that help us feel a deeper connection to God? Moses seemed to experience this on Horeb, the disciples at the transfiguration, and me going over the continental divide.
It has been a few years since that move, and I am still trying to identify what it is about these spaces that seem to promote formation. Is it the far fewer advertisements? Is it actually seeing nature in between towns? (I write that as I think about driving through Los Angeles and never catching a break in all of the houses, buildings, and infrastructure.)
What is it about wide open spaces that invite us to take a deep breath?
I don’t think I am naming anything new in the struggle for spiritual formation or the challenges we face in 21st-century Christianity. Certainly, pastors, authors, and spiritual guides are writing—perhaps ironically—feverishly about living in ways that slow our roll, help us find a routine, and invite us to be quiet enough to hear the subtle yearning of our hearts, minds, and souls. How do we sense the nudges of the Spirit attempting to attune our attention? The music at coffee shops is too loud, homes like mine are filled with at least one wild child, and the abbeys/monasteries are far away.
A mentor of mine once invited me to think about taking many mini-sabbaths. These are moments throughout the day where, before moving from one thing to the next, we take a centering breath to orient our spirit to the slower rhythmic movement of God.
While yes, cars, phones, and other technology are moving us faster than ever, and we are exhausted by the cultural expectation of immediacy in the slow work of transformation, I don’t think our time or schedules are the hiccups for formation. I believe it is our attention.
I started as a hospital chaplain at a rural, critical-access hospital in Montana a year ago. I have had the opportunity to lead devotionals/reflections at the beginning of various meetings to help guide our time and attention. Lately, I’ve been starting each with an invitation to breathe. And I’d like to share that now with you.
Take a deep breath. Take another one if you need it.
Rural spaces invite us to breathe and breathe deeply. Wide open spaces invite our imagination to explore. Beauty churns the longings of our souls. Silence helps us hear that still, small voice.
In the end, spiritual formation isn’t confined to the serene spaces of rural life. It’s about cultivating an awareness of God wherever our roots are planted. Whether that’s in the bustling city or the quiet of nature, the next step of spiritual formation can be in the practice of paying attention. Small breaths. Reflect. Listen. I invite you today, before clicking out of this article, to take that deep breath. You may be surprised by what’s right beneath the surface.
About the author
AJ Zimmerman
AJ Zimmerman, DMin, is a hospital chaplain at a critical access hospital in rural Montana and as Executive Director of Aldersgate School of Ministry. He writes frequently in his substack account, Dignity Weekly, a newsletter about the Christian life wrapped in human dignity and delivered to your inbox.
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