At Our Best

Along the pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostella, images of Santiago (Saint James)are seen everywhere. The two most common ones are of "Saint James the Pilgrim" and "Saint James the Moor Slayer". Often, the two images are even seen side-by-side, like at the entrance to a church. To me, it is a symbol of how people of faith can take something as sacred as pilgrimage and turn it into something as profane as a crusade. I thought about this when I was asked to write an article for a local newspaper in response to the question: "What does your faith tradition teach you about interfaith relations?" At our best, we are Saint James the Pilgrim and at our worst we are Saint James the Moor Slayer. It is sad to acknowledge that the two often exist side-by-side within us and within our religious communities, like those two images above the same church door. However, whenever Saint James the Pilgrim emerges to the forefront I am given profound hope. I guess this is another way of saying what I wrote in the article for the newspaper. Here is what I submitted:

When we are at our best, Christians follow Christ’s example of radical inclusiveness and unconditional love and grace for all people. At our best, we remember his loving way of interacting with people of other cultures and other faith traditions and we seek to do the same. At our best, we live in the promise that God desires all people to be saved and we let that shape our lives in profound ways. At our best, we follow our baptismal calling to work for justice and peace in all the earth. When we are at our worst, Christians turn Christ’s inclusive promises into exclusive claims about who will be saved and who will be condemned. At our worst, we use select passages from the story of a non-violent Messiah to justify our own violence and our own addiction to retributive justice. At our worst, we even take the cross, a symbol of the world’s violence toward God, and we carry into battle as a sign of triumph over our enemies.
When we are at our best, Lutheran Christians put the Gospel of grace alone above everything else. At our best, we join Martin Luther in challenging every system of hierarchy and privilege that places some people above others while assuming its own special favor with God. At our best, we are leaders in the movement toward interfaith dialog and understanding that is gaining momentum in many parts of the world today. When we are at our worst, Lutheran Christians succumb to the same human frailties that burdened our leader. At our worst, we look like an aging Martin Luther who wrote the “Treatise Against the Jews” and who cringed at the thought of a Moslem presence in Western Europe. At our worst, we have taken these signs of human weakness and used them to justify our own xenophobia or our complacency when this finds expression in acts of hatred and violence.
A Lutheran way of understanding all of this is to say that we are, at the same time, saints and sinners. In other words, we are all, by nature, sinful and we are all, by God’s grace, made holy. In this abundant grace, we are also turned outward to the world around us. We are set free from the fear of judgment so that we can commit our whole lives to loving and serving our neighbor and to proclaiming this Gospel of grace in word and deed. Personally, I find this to be the most helpful and hopeful thing that we can bring to the question of “What does your faith tradition teach us about interfaith relations?” In every circumstance, it is a way of seeing that takes the focus off of who is in and who is out, or who is right and who is wrong. When Martin Luther died, some say that a piece of paper upon which he had scribbled his last words was pulled from his pocket. It simply said “We are all beggars, it is true.”

Tour Saint Jacques

The "Tour Saint Jacques" (Tower of Saint James) rises well above the trees on the right bank of the Seine river in Paris. It is all that is left of a church that was built long ago on the site where pilgrims gathered to begin their journey to Santiago de Compostela. The inscription at the base of the tower traces this tradition back to the tenth century, when news first spread through Europe that the bones of Saint James the apostle (Santiago) had been laid to rest under a field of stars (Compostela) in western Spain. As we sat beside these words etched in stone, a deep feeling of connectedness came over me. I likened it to the feeling pilgrims have when they place their hand on the marble pillar of the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela in the same place where millions of others have put theirs over the centuries. For us, seated at the base of the tower in Paris, these companions could not be seen. But, it was enough to know that we were now joining the endless procession of those who have gone before us and those who will come after us on this road. Buen camino, peregrino!

Simple Pleasures

As I enjoy my morning croissant at the Cafe du Rendez-Vous in Paris, I feel like announcing to the people all around me that this is what a croissant is supposed to taste like- perfectly crusty on the outside and wonderfully soft in the middle, with just the right amount of butter. I don't do this, of course, because I would just be preaching to the choir. To others in the cafe, a croissant such as this is the only thing one would expect. I'm sure that they would all agree that it is nothing to blog home about. It's just a croissant. C'est tout! But, to me, it is the highlight of my morning. Fellow pilgrims would understand. Very often, the highlight of a pilgrim's day is a simple, small thing that is common to others but special or new for us. And, learning to say that this one thing is enough for each day is the key to every journey we make in life.

The Wind Blows Where it Wills

In the second leg of my pilgrim journey, things did not go according to plan. It had to do with "the volcano who must not be named." When I arrived at the airport in Boston, the electronic reader board reported that all flights to western Europe were "delayed." When I asked for more information, I learned that everyone was waiting to see which way the volcanic ash cloud would blow. And, as Jesus himself said, "the wind blows where it wills, and no one knows where it is coming from and where it is going." (John 3) My first thoughts were of my scheduled rendez-vous with my daughter in Paris. But my worries were nothing compared to the man beside me. He was responsible for a group of about twenty people who were just starting their journey. Like Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, he could see that his anxious travelers were already longing for the fleshpots of Boston. To his credit, he remained calm as he explained to them that he no idea when they would leave or how they would find a new connecting flight in Paris. Remarkably, his non-anxious presence was contagious. I watched as the group adjusted to this new reality, accepting the fact that these were circumstances beyond everyone's control. Like pilgrims of every time and place, we all took a deep breath and waited- waited to see which way the wind would blow and how it what effect it would have on our plans. This is only the second stage of my journey, and, already, I have been called back to two of the most fundamental realities of life: 1. I do not journey alone. 2. I am not in control. When the person at Gate 8A finally got on the PA system to make an announcement, I was also reminded that life can often bring unexpected surprises. Those of us who arrived early were being put on another flight which was actually expected to get to Paris ahead of our current schedule. Que Bueno!

The Middle Seat

When given the choice, I will never pick the middle seat on an airplane. It isn't just a question of comfort. It is also about independence. My first pick is always the window. Beside it, I can gaze out and let my mind and spirit enter another environment. Knowing that no one will bother me when they want to get up and use the bathroom, I can also settle in and try to get some uninterupted sleep. My second choice is the aisle. It does connect me a bit to the needs of my neighbors, but I also know that I won't bother them if I am the one who needs to get up. And, psychologically, I just feel less boxed in. So, what am I being taught when my seat assignment for the first leg of my Spring pilgrimage is right in the middle of row 29 on the flight out of Seattle? As the plane takes off, I reach for a favorite book and read Father Murray Bono's opening words about journeys such as this. He recalls that pilgrimage is not about "I" but about "we". I am forced to admit that the middle seat is perhaps the most fitting place for a sojourners such as I. Seated between two strangers, I remember all the people I have met along pilgrim paths like the one I am about to take to Santiago de Compostela. I remember what it feels like to walk through people's back yards and down the main streets of their towns and villages. And, above all, I remember what it feels like to be interdependent- to rely on others along the road and to freely share resources and wisdom with people who were complete strangers only minutes before. So I settle into my middle seat as I begin my journey, knowing that this is a fitting metaphor for all of life and for all of my encounters with the world around me.

At the Dawn of a New Day

My journey today led me into a good discussion of Jurgen Multmann's "theology of hope". It didn't happen along the trail, as is often the case, but in the upper room of a brew pub where I meet with kindred spirits every other week. At our last gathering, we sipped on Reinhold Niebuhr's profound "realism" when it comes to the question of how capable human beings are of making progress in our pilgrimage here on earth. Our friend Andrew shared an article about Niebuhr that he had written for the Christian Century called "This American Mess". In it, he starts out by saying: "As the first decade of the 21st century comes to a close, the U.S. finds itself in a mess of historic proportions." And then he adds: "This mess is profoundly embarrassing because it is of our own making and therefore one that could have been avoided." I went home thinking of my friend Marty's blog, which is called "The Progress of Pilgrimage" and I remembered why I liked that name. If she had called it "The Pilgrim's Progress", followers of Niebuhr would cringe, and rightly so! There is simply no evidence that we, as human beings, are progressing when it comes to overcoming our sinful nature and putting ourselves on the right path. But that does not give justice to despair. Nor does it bind us to this present darkness. In our daily pilgrimage, we are pulled into the future by a force beyond our own. Call it what you may. For me, it is the power of God to make all things new. In God, who journeyed through death into resurrected life, our pilgrimage is one that is always "forward moving and forward looking", as Jurgen Moltmann says in the book of his that we discussed tonight called "Theology of Hope". "Hope does not take things as they happen to stand or lie," Moltmann says,"but as progressing, moving things with possibilities of change." I think this is why I have become so drawn to the metaphor and to the experience of pilgrimage in recent years. Pilgrimage is, by nature, forward looking. And it is, by the grace of God, always progressing! My favorite words of Moltmann come in the introduction to the book. "The believer is not set at the high noon of life," he says, "but at the dawn of a new day at the point where night and day, things passing and things to come, grapple with each other. Hence the believer does not simply take the day as it comes, but looks beyond the day to the things which according to the promise of the One who is the creator ex nihilo and raiser of the dead are still to come." The progress of pilgrimage, indeed!

Thank you!

Two journeys come to mind for me from this last weekend. The first was taken by me and some good friends along the banks of the Carbon River. Amidst light rain and fog, we observed two pairs of mergansers as they let the swift current carry them downstream together. But the journey that really stands out is the one taken on Sunday by a young member of my extended family as she got swept up in the waters of baptism. It lasted about five minutes, but, in hindsight, it seems like a journey that millions of others could understand quite well. Like many stories of faith, it started out with rebellion and defiance. Just standing near the water made her uncomfortable, and when it came time to encounter God face to face in the water poured over her head- she turned away and cried out in distress. Using a shell, not unlike the one that pilgrims carry with them on the "camino" to Santiago de Compostela, I scooped out some water from the font and came to her. She cringed as it touched her hair and her forehead. Then she felt my hand trace the sign of the cross, and more tears flowed! Next came the candle, and something in her began to change. She saw the warm light and she reached out for it. Her baptismal sponsor showed her how they could hold it together, and she listened to words about God's love shining like this light in her life. And finally, it was time to wrap her in a beautiful quilt made by members of the congregation. She heard how this was a sign of the love that all of us had for her, and how she could remember that love every time she felt the warmth of the quilt around her. Now, there was almost a smile. I said: Listen, because all these people also have something to say to you." The message of welcome from the whole faith community came forth, in words that have been said millions of times before. But,in this case, something happened that I have never observed in twenty five years of pastoral ministry. When we finished our welcome, she responded with words of her own for us. In a tender, little voice she said: "Thank you." I will remember that for a long time, and I will think of it as a window into the faith journey of countless others who I meet along the way.

The Good Rain

The walks I have taken in the last several days have been bathed in sunlight. Being it is mid-February in the Pacific Northwest, you might think that I have flown South (as I did last year at this time). The truth is, these walks have taken me along the shores of the Puget Sound and along the banks of a river in the Olympic rain forest. I'm not going to lie. I love this unexpected window of light and warmth in the midst of a typically cold and wet winter. And I'm not alone. The park near our home was filled with people on Sunday. Today, however, the rains have returned and the park is nearly empty. My choice to walk, in spite of the wet conditions, is one that I wouldn't have made a few years ago. But then I walked the pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, and all of that changed. When your vocation each day is simply to get up and walk until you reach your destination, you don't allow the weather to dictate your movements. You just pay attention and dress accordingly. I have to say that I found this to be very liberating. My previous pattern of venturing out only when the conditions seemed favorable kept me from experiencing a big part of the world around me. Yes, it's beautiful to see sun filtering through the trees in a rain forest. But it is a rain forest, and if you haven't had the experience of being enveloped in mist and drenched in showers as you followed a muddy trail beneath firs and cedars you haven't known the half of it. I'm in the process of learning to see my daily pilgrimage in this same way. There is a part of me that will always be a fair-weather pilgrim. I look for conditions that seem favorable and am happy when I can dwell there. But when I venture forth into the day without regard for this, and when I learn to discover the sacred in unexpected places, and even in harsh circumstances, I know I have moved several steps closer to my destination.

Tourist or Pilgrim?

As I step forward into a new week, I am recalling the contrast that some have made between tourists and pilgrims. Tourists, they say, are travelers who like to have a clear sense of what each day will bring. After reading the guidebooks and mapping out their itinerary, their peace of mind comes from the experience of having everything go as planned. Because of this, any deviation from the anticipated course of events makes them uneasy. Sometimes, it even makes them angry and aggressive. Tourists are also prone to despair when an experience they are having does not correspond with the perfect one they have imagined. Five days of pouring rain in Hawaii or even one of two nights in a hotel that does not resemble pictures they saw on the internet are huge disappointments. Pilgrims, on the other hand, are travelers who wait to see what the day will bring to them. They may have a destination in mind, but their sense of adventure and their openness to change cause them to react in very different ways when things don't go as planned. For them, when change occurs, the first question that often comes to mind is: "What new doors might this be opening for me?" The Pilgrim Credo, which begins with the acknowledgement that "I am not in control", is a gift that creates space in their lives for discovery and trust. Because of this, they are rarely disappointed. I have to admit that in my daily journey I am a one who waffles back and forth between the two. Some days, I am more tourist than pilgrim. On others, I am led deeper into the pilgrim way- and, in this new week, that is where I want to dwell, because that is where I find a much greater sense of peace and well-being.

Beside Still Waters

The path I walked today was gentle and kind. It followed the meandering route of the Deschutes River in Thurston County, and it presented no serious elevation changes or rough terrain. I should mention, too, that the weather was sunny and warm. In this week that is now coming to a close, I have walked with people whose life journey bears some resemblance to this. It's not that things are perfect for them. It's just that they are at a good place in their pilgrimage and the struggles they face seem small in comparison to others. If truth be told, I count myself among them. But I have also journeyed with people in this past week whose path is rocky and steep. In one case, it led to the operating room of a local hospital. In another, it led to a lonely curbside where a man got out of his car and sat down to weep. On that day, it was rainy and cold. A few of us who saw him stopped to sit on the curb with him and to offer companionship. It's what I will do again tomorrow when I gather with people at the graveside of a man brought down by cancer. His family has requested that I read Psalm 23. From what I understand, it is one that had given him great comfort and peace in the last days of his journey. So now I am thinking about the way in which a steep, rocky path can be joined with a gentle, kind one that leads beside still waters and restores the soul. Both are very real, but the mystery to consider is how the second one takes us on a journey within- to a place where we can say that our cup is running over, even when the outer terrain is rough and the circumstances are cold and harsh.

The Place We Call Home

The pilgrims I observed today have wings. Like the migratory salmon of the Pacific Northwest, they love their sanctuaries, but these airborne creatures never travel far from home. They are the resident birds of this region who are kindred spirits with every creature that could be described as "sedentary" rather than "nomadic". With neither the instinct nor the means to travel, they spend all their days in one small corner of the planet. I came across them in my afternoon walk, and they caught me daydreaming of an upcoming trek on the pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostela. That's just who I am. My ancestors were Vikings, and I live for the experience of venturing off and coming home. But the cormorants and the gulls called be back to the moment, to the place, to the rocky shore where I stood. Like many people I know, their daily pilgrimage is not one of displacement. Rather,it is a journey of discovery that connects them more deeply to the environment that has nurtured them since birth. Historically, this form of inner pilgrimage has been misunderstood. In his book "The Place We Call Home", Murray Bodo tells of a small sixteenth century engraving from the title page of "Information for Pilgrims Unto the Holy Land". In it, he says, "a pilgrim strides forth confidently, leaving behind a walled city. Standing half-in and half-out of the gate, another figure watches the pilgrim. His right hand holds his heart, as if to protect and to hold in the desire to follow in the pilgrims footsteps. Then, as now, the pilgrim is the one who dares to set forth; the stay-at-home hesitates on the threshold of his or her safe, familiar world." Bodo goes on to challenge the notion that we have to favor one over the other. "Pilgrimages are not about one place being more sacred than another", he says. I find this to be wise counsel on my winter walk in the place where I live for more than 300 days a year. I can't shut out all thoughts of rioja and manchego after a day of trekking through medieval towns and glorious fields of poppies, but I can journey more deeply into this place that I call home, and I can do as the cormorants who live here all year round- I can spread my wings while standing in one place in order to soak up the precious rays of sun.

Sanctuary

The Pacific Northwest, where I live, is the destination for millions of pilgrims every year. They flock to sanctuaries with names like Duwamish and Skagit and Nisqually- sacred sites where bones lie and where healing and new life occur, They bear names like chinook, coho, sockeye, and chum. This weekend I made a pilgrimage, with friends, to the sanctuary at the mouth of the Nisqually River. Through efforts made by many in the last several years, it is being restored to its past glory. Where barriers to these waterborne pilgrims had been constructed, turning fertile tide lands into dry soil, the water now flows again and with it flow the salmon who are drawn here by a strong force within. Some species will travel as far east as the Sea of Japan before returning home to places like this. Without yellow arrows or any traditional markers to follow, they are guided by smell and by other innate senses given to them by their Creator. To me, it is mystery and wonder. And, in my way of seeing, it is highly symbolic. A Lutheran theologian by the name of Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said that "when Christ call us, he calls us to come and die." We discussed this at the last "Theology on Tap" group that I hosted, and I wondered if the pilgrimage of northwest salmon is a helpful insight into what he is talking about. By nature, their journey is sacrificial. They come to die so that new life can occur. This is a challenging and hopeful image that I want to take with me into the new week. Coming full circle, however, I want to do this within the larger image of sanctuary. We can only live life in this way when we know that we have a spiritual home that is safe and life-giving. I welcome any thoughts you may have on this.

I Have Called You by Name

On her first day in Cameroon, my daughter, Sonja, walked into the center of the capital city. Amidst all the street noise and the crowds of people, she heard someone call out "Sonja!" It was completely unexpected! For her, this was a city of strangers. Then she saw the face of the person who had befriended her at the airport in Paris and who had promised to help her reach her destination. It was a joyful moment! For all pilgrims, the importance of names and faces can never be understated. It connects with our desire to know others and to be known by them. To the pilgrim people of Israel, God said "I have called you by name" (Isaiah 43:1) It was a promise to stay in relationship with them throughout every stage of their journey. This, along with Sonja's story, makes me want to be more intentional about learning and remembering the names of people I meet in my daily pilgrimage. A standard pattern of mine is to ask a person what their name is and then fail to enter into my memory bank. And, then, since I have asked, I am embarrassed to ask again. But today, I am imagining how good it must have been for Sonja to hear her name called out in the middle of that urban wilderness. With that in mind, I will try the practice of saying each person's name at least once when I am speaking to them. It's a small step, but that is how all journeys begin.

Etrangers et Voyageurs sur la Terre

I'm thinking of a French song today. It is one my wife and I learned many years ago when we were working with the international community in Paris. The title, "Etrangers et Voyageurs sur la Terre", is drawn from a passage in the book of Hebrews which describes people who embraced the promises of God and confessed that they were "strangers and pilgrims on the earth". It comes to mind because my daughter, Sonja, left Paris this morning to spend more than three months in Cameroon, the country where we lived when she was a small child. "We go where God leads", the song says. And we never go alone. Even before she boarded the plane, a Cameroonian couple befriended Sonja and pledged to be her companions until she was safely at her destination. Those who cross North Africa by land know that this kind of companionship is essential. Cars arriving at the northen edge of the Sahara always stop and wait until there are enough others to form a small convoy. Before that chance encounter, they are all strangers, but in the journey across the desert they become a band of interdependant travelers who are ready to share precious resources like water, fuel, spare parts, or anything else necessary for survivial. Most passengers on today's Air France flight that crossed the Sahara may not feel the same comraderie, but I am thankful for the ones who do, and for this gracious couple who saw a new pilgrim and chose to walk by her side.

Getting started

Starting a blog feels like stepping onto a well-worn path that has been traveled by countless pilgrims before me. I know that I am not alone in my desire to share my journey with others, because most variations of the words "pilgrim, pilgrimage, and journey" were already claimed when I sought a name for this blogspot. My goal in this venture is to share what I am learning and discovering from day to day in ways that invite reflection and inspire renewal. Buen camino!