From Steven Epperson’s sermon on February 17th.

There are two labyrinths on this property. An encounter with them may go something like this: We’re walking along Fremlin Street or taking a short cut through the courtyard out there. Occupied with random everyday thoughts, our attention is diverted by a strange, mazy pattern laid out on the lawn or on the pavers in the courtyard.

There’s an opening into the design, an entrance, and we see that a path ensues. With its twisting turns, a glance tells us that a person can’t walk through it quickly. What to do? Flee and continue on our way; or stop, slow our pace, step inside and follow the path?
There’s something about that entrance—like an invitation to cross a threshold from the ordinary into a different kind of space and time. We sense this as soon as we’ve taken a few steps into the labyrinth. We become aware of our body moving with non-linear deliberateness.
As we tread, step-by-step, the flotsam, flux and cares of random musings and feelings may give way to a concentrated, affective thoughtfulness. And it may come to pass, it’s not guaranteed, that as we wind our way toward the heart of the maze, the maze enters our heart.
For thousands of years, we’ve been laying out labyrinths as symbolic roads of pilgrimage toward…what? There are various answers to that question. But the way I see it, the intent of walking the winding path is to take us out of the everydayness of our lives in order to deliver us to a realm of insight—a place of understanding hidden truths about ourselves and the times and places in which we live. Such is the latent power of a labyrinth.