There was a single tear, and I knew we were on sacred ground, but there was a decision to be made. I chose to linger and listen.

I was talking with a man in his eighties the other day when I noticed a tear forming in his eye. I knew that this was one of those moments.

One of those times where you mustn’t rush past. There was an invitation to a stop and be quiet.

It was a tender moment. A time of standing on what I call ‘sacred ground’ where the other drifts, ponders and reflects on the storied waves of life.

I dare not interrupt where Spirit was dancing him into.

It was only for about 10 seconds, maybe not even that, but then he spoke about loss—the loss of deep friendships and relationships. Opportunity lost to connect with at least one other man. To have a friend.

He talked about his observation that women seem to have more friends and deeper relationships. There was grief and that he had not had this.

And then we moved on. Perhaps we will come back to it one day.

The sacred ground of us

I have been to many places that might have the term ‘Sacred Ground’ attached to them.

It might be a place where some act of religious significance occurred. It could be a place of pilgrimage. Maybe even be a sports arena or stadium where someone achieved some great sporting feat.

We connect ‘Sacred ground’ with the words  of ‘This is where … happened.’

But I also believe that there can be ‘sacred ground’ moments within our conversations. A moment in a conversation where we could say ‘This is where … happened.’

Moments where a space opens up for silence and listening. An invite to intimacy (In-to-me-see) is quietly given.

Have you noticed these?

People are scared of sacred ground.

But people often are scared when they touch the outskirts of a sacred space. ‘Shields up’ and alarm sirens wail.

They back off, divert to other topics.

Avoid, avoid, avoid.

The brain, in all its hardwired self-protective goodness, shouts ‘This sacred ground feels like quicksand that could swallow me up.’

But sacred places are the places where the pivot of change happens.

The warmth of a burning bush

There is a story in the bible about a sacred space conversation.

It happened around a fire.

A desert bush was ablaze, but the strangest thing was that the bush wasn’t turning to ash.

It was fully alive with fire, and this drew some attention from a wandering shepherd called Moses.

Moses was shepherding the flock of Jethro, his father-in-law, the priest of Midian. He led the flock to the west end of the wilderness and came to the mountain of God, Horeb. The angel of God appeared to him in flames of fire blazing out of the middle of a bush. He looked. The bush was blazing away, but it didn’t burn up.

Moses said, “What’s going on here? I can’t believe this! Amazing! Why doesn’t the bush burn up?”

God saw that he had stopped to look. God called to him from out of the bush, “Moses! Moses!” 

He said, “Yes? I’m right here!” 

God said, “Don’t come any closer. Remove your sandals from your feet. You’re standing on holy ground.” Exodus 3:1-6

I think of my conversation, and the desire in me to come closer, dig deeper, ask questions and push the story on. Yet the best choice was not to come closer but actually to remove my sandals and be silent.

You need to take your sandals off.

Many people have conjectured as to why Moses had to remove his sandals. Sure he was instructed to because this was ‘Holy Ground,’ but why?

I want to offer a suggestion.

I wear footwear all the time in the garden. Boots, shoes, sandals are all worn to protect my feet from connection to the earth. Without that layer of material my feet would get dirty, and possibly harmed by thorns and stones.

I wear shoes to protect myself, to keep something between myself and potential harm.

I wonder if God was saying …

I don’t want anything to come between yourself and the dirt and dustiness of this place. I want you to connect fully with the earth of this experience. Have no crafted, man-made structure that ac