Stone Cathedrals: Rocks as Spiritual Practice

It was inevitable, my love for rocks. And, as spiritual practice, they held me through many seasons.

Rocks were an inevitable part of my story, my spirituality. Born on the West Michigan coast, I was always surrounded by sandy beaches made of literal tiny rocks. At seven, I collected the stones I found around my wooded home, on the beach, and on the school playground. At sixteen, I regularly wore a necklace I had made out of an agate. 

But then fast forward about ten years: I was experiencing severe migraine-causing allergies that limited my ability to be outside, as well as to be in older buildings with dusty carpets, open windows, or mold. In the midst of this, I had recently navigated the beginnings of a faith transition and was trying to find home in my new normal—to listen to my long-neglected intuition, to hear the voice of God in the most unexpected places.

In this moment, I found an ultimately unsurprising ally: stone cathedrals.

It started when I began attending evening contemplative mass as a guest in a Catholic cathedral made mostly of stone. I put it all together when, a few months later, I, clad in my beloved combat boots, walked up the stone aisle of a large and interfaith-focused Lutheran church to receive the Eucharist…and felt more spiritually at home than I had in a very long time. Inside an also-stone sanctuary. Surrounded by stained glass windows made of once-sand. In as much nature as I could possibly be in that moment. Experiencing a sense of unity with all people and the whole earth, a celebration of love filling up the entire the cosmos—from the stony ground up. 

It wasn’t long after that I noticed that holding rocks calmed my nervous system and could be useful during my morning meditation. After years of therapy and a long-overdue but then-recent PTSD diagnosis, it was all making sense. My inner child had been pointing me to what she’d been saying all along, “Oh human made of earthy stardust, find connection to the Creator, to all, through the rocks that hold you up.”

Maybe that’s what that old verse about the rocks crying out means.

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Here I am, a pacifist in combat boots,

Steps grounded on the floor of stone,

Receiving a Eucharist given to all.

Here I am praying before my Pantocrator icon,

Holding a thrifted sodalite tower over my heart,

Feeling the love of all who have gone before.

Here I am in a therapy telehealth session,

Disabled but still able to afford a dollar-store jade roller,

Pushing it up my arms to calm my nervous system, my fractured spirit and body.

Here I am writing about inclusive spiritual practices,

Holding space for diverse expressions of faith or no-faith,

Praying through action about liberation for us all…together.

The rocks cry out in hope,

For the earth is a stone cathedral.

Its floor finds cosmic connection

With the heaven of love and inclusion.

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What does this look like in practice?

If the whole earth is a stone cathedral, what does it mean to create inclusive spiritual spaces where all might find their own ways to connect to divine love and community…together? 

And with rocks specifically, how do we learn about them ethically? How do we treat this earth well—for its own sake and the sake of the entire community of creation here? How do we avoid and make amends for current pitfalls of cultural appropriation, of dangerous and ecologically disastrous mining practices, of capitalism’s call to consume and possess rather than invite and share, of a hurried world bent on cutting away the marginalized? How can we learn about the way rocks are made, where they come from in the world, and what they have meant to different groups of people at different times in history? In short, how can we honor this dusty, rocky community called Earth?

It’s always an invitation. And I don’t think there’s one answer. But I do have one spiritual practice that might open one way forward: The contemplative use of rocks reminds us of the ground and the stardust that connects us all. May we take their invitation to connect to our bodies so that we can act together for our shared liberation.

In Wonder,

Kandi Zeller (She/Her)

Instagram: @kandi.zeller

Fiction: Reedsy Blog

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/kandizeller/