Coming Home to Each Other

What if the greatest prison isn't made of concrete and steel?

What if some of the walls that keep us separated—from ourselves, from one another, and from the possibility of a greater life—are walls we have learned to build in our own minds?

For over 15+ years, Rev. Nicole and I have had the opportunity to participate in prison ministry, sitting with incarcerated people and exploring principles that can help transform the way they think, live, and see their future.

We cannot change yesterday. But we have the freedom to choose the meaning we give to yesterday.

We can change the thoughts we rehearse, the beliefs we accept, and the vision we hold for who we are becoming.

That is the power of spiritual practice that we teach at Ahiah.

And it is not just a message for people behind prison walls.

It is a message for all of us.

Because sometimes we imprison ourselves with grief. Sometimes with shame. Sometimes with disappointment, fear, loneliness, or the belief that our best days are behind us.

Science of Mind reminds us that there is something greater within us than the circumstances we are facing.

There is always a greater yet to be.

But here is what I have come to understand even more deeply:

We were never meant to discover that greater yet to be alone.

We Belong to Each Other

Our theme this month at Ahiah is Communion.

Communion is not simply something we experience at a table. It is something we experience when we recognize our sacred connection with one another.

It is the moment when my healing becomes connected to your healing.

When your joy becomes something I can celebrate.

When your struggle reminds me to reach out rather than turn away.

When we stop asking, “What does this have to do with me?” and begin asking, “How can I be here for you?”

That is communion.

And that is what I believe we are building at Ahiah.

Every time you volunteer for a service project, help with Bingo, serve at the Fall Festival, participate in a healing circle, or simply welcome someone who has walked through our doors for the first time, something sacred is happening.

We are coming home to each other.

Last week, we experienced this in our Visioning Circle on healing from loss and grief.

People came together carrying experiences that cannot always be fixed with words. Grief doesn't always need an answer. Sometimes it needs a witness.

Someone willing to sit beside you.

Someone willing to listen.

Someone willing to say, “You don't have to go through this alone.”

That is community.

That is communion.

That is coming home.

A Spiritual Community Center

I believe Ahiah is being called to become more than a place where we gather on Sunday mornings.

Ahiah is a spiritual community center.

A place where spiritual seekers can come together to heal, discover, serve, question, grow, and reveal their greater yet to be.

A place where the person walking through the door for the first time can feel, There is room for me here.

A place where someone who has experienced loss can find companionship.

Where someone searching for purpose can discover possibility.

Where someone who feels disconnected can experience belonging.

And where someone who has forgotten their own divine potential can encounter people who see it in them until they can see it for themselves.

This is the deeper meaning of communion.

We don't come together because we have already figured everything out.

We come together because we are still becoming.

The person sitting next to you may be carrying a story you know nothing about.

The newcomer you greet may have been searching for a spiritual home for years.

The person volunteering beside you may be healing from something they haven't yet found the words to share.

The person who seems to have it all together may secretly need someone to remind them that they matter.

You may be that person.

Come Home

So this week, don't just come to Ahiah.

Come home.

Come home to connection.

Come home to compassion.

Come home to service.

Come home to possibility.

Come home to the recognition that your life is not separate from mine—and mine is not separate from yours.

Welcome someone.

Make the phone call.

Join the service project.

Sit with someone who is grieving.

Help at Bingo.

Serve at the Fall Festival.

Invite someone into the circle.

Or simply look someone in the eyes and say:

“I'm glad you're here.”

Because every act of welcome tears down a wall.

Every act of service builds a bridge.

Every act of compassion creates communion.

And every time we choose connection over separation, we remember something that may be one of the most important spiritual truths we can ever know:

We belong to each other.

And perhaps that is what coming home really means.

Not returning to a building.

Not returning to a place.

But remembering who we are—and remembering that we don't have to remember alone.

We are surrounded by the Blessings and Light of one another,

RevMichael (Kisumma)