At Home in Rome

Arriving at the tomb of St. Peter in Rome, after walking 150 miles to get there, was another one of those pilgrim experiences which is hard to put into words. I’m not Roman Catholic. I disagree with the pope on many important issues of our time. But there is something about that sacred ground that transcends the institution of the Church and religion in all its expressions. Standing there in my sweaty clothes, I felt as though I was at an important intersection of the global community. Once again, all distinctions between pilgrims and tourists were erased in that mass of humanity that converged on the square in the late afternoon of a very hot summer day. Nuns, boy scouts, a wedding party, a group of women from the Caribbean, teenagers crowded around their tour leader, priests, cab drivers, and countless others from every age group- all with their own reason and motivation to be there. For much of his life, St. Peter would have had a problem with this kind of diversity. Often, we’re told, he tried to set limits on who could be in the inner circle with Jesus. Even after the radical experience of Pentecost, Peter still imagined a new community in Christ that was primarily Jewish. Then, there was the mysterious vision, given to Peter while he was in a trance. In it, he saw that God had destroyed all boundaries that separate the “clean” from the “unclean.” So, before his death here in Rome, Peter joined St. Paul in joyfully welcoming all people into the family of God. I took comfort in that as I stood among the diverse crowd of people gathered in the square named after this saint. I thought of myself as a pilgrim, but I knew that there were many others there who had spent much more time in prayer and spiritual reflection along the way. For some in the crowd, the journey to Rome had involved great suffering and sacrifice. This was not the case for me. Yet, as it was throughout every stage of my own journey to that sacred place, I felt no judgment. In all the towns and villages along the way, no one questioned me when I said I was a pilgrim, and that had helped to confirm this identity within me. Honestly, I still wasn’t sure what this journey was really about for me, and I was feeling a kinship with those who say that the term “pilgrim” is so overused that it runs the risk of losing any real meaning in our time. But none of that really mattered as I walked into St. Peter’s square. I was there, and it felt good. Over time, I will know much more about the significance of this for my life. In my work and in my daily life, I will draw from this whole experience again and again. But, there, in the late afternoon sun, it was just nice to know that I was part of a much larger reality and a much greater community than I could ever imagine. Maybe that is my small link to Peter. If so, I pray that my heart and soul will continue to expand, as his did, throughout every stage of the journeys that lie ahead.

Siena

I have to hand it to the people of Siena. In the past, and in the present, they draw few distinctions between the sacred and the secular. Look at the sculptures that adorn the entrance to the main cathedral in town and you will not only see St. Paul and St. Peter, but also Plato and Aristotle. Walk into the stunning interior and observe not only a picture of Catherine of Siena, but an elaborate floor mosaic that recounts the Roman myth of the wolf that nursed Remus and Romulus. It might be fair to describe this as unabashed syncretism, but at least it’s transparent! Most people of faith pretend as though they are walking on a much narrower path. Here in Siena, however, the so-called sacred and the secular intermingle freely. One of the clearest expressions of this comes every year during the days that surround the historic horse race known as the “Palio.” The whole colorful event, filled with drumming, dancing, singing, drinking, eating, flag waving, parading, competing, and countless other medieval traditions is dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The Roman Catholic church not only blesses the jockeys that ride, but each one of the horses as well. In fact, each horse is led into a neighborhood church before the event and blessed in the name of a patron saint that is revered by the people who live there. I stood in the main square of Siena on the morning of Palio and heard the Catholic Archbishop talk about the “liturgy of the Palio” before he presided at a special communion service that is held in conjunction with all the other activities of the day. In the days after the race, I watched people from the winning neighborhood march through every part of Siena with not just drums and flags, but with pacifiers in their mouths. When I asked about this, I learned that they were celebrating the joy of being “born again”, just as one is born again in baptism. You may judge all of this however you wish, but I found it to be an honest representation of something that is found within all of us who seek to live out our faith from one day to the next. Personally, I think the transforming power of the Gospel is lost when it becomes too closely linked with our own cultural and ethnic traditions, but whenever we throw out the pacifier-sucking baby with the bath water in our efforts to separate the sacred from the secular, we devolve into a self-righteous community of believers who miss much, or even most, of what God is doing in the world. Being in Siena made me more aware of that, and I take it as a gift.

Waiting

Grape vineyards and olive orchards are the most common things one sees along the Via Francigena as it winds its way through the beautiful hills of Tuscany. It is important, therefore, to taste the wine and the olive oil that is produced by the people who live there. On one occasion, a local wine producer talked with us about the unique process of making Brunello wine from a special variety of Sangiovese grapes that are only cultivated in a small area around the hill town of Montalcino. “To be classified as Brunello wine,” she said, “ it has to age for at least five years before it can be distributed or sold.” She also said that it is good to open a bottle of Brunello several hours before you plan to drink it so that it can interact with the environment in a way that enhances the flavor. Someone then asked about storing an unfinished bottle of Brunello for one or more days, since he had the habit of only drinking a little at a time. He wanted to know if it would start to lose its flavor, like other wines. “That is no problem,” the wine producer said, “because the Brunello is used to waiting.” Of course, I immediately began to think about this as a useful metaphor. It does seem true that patience is less of a natural gift than a developed one within each one of us. We don’t get to the point where waiting is easy and normal for us without doing it over the course of many years and allowing this slow process to define our character. In the Pilgrim Credo that I often quote, there is phrase that was reinforced within me as I tasted wine in that cool basement of a farm in Tuscany. It is, simply, “I am not in a hurry.” May it be so with me, today and every day!

G.P.S.

One of the experiences that every pilgrim has is that of being dependent on others for help. Even if you are traveling alone, you still need assistance from people at countless points along the way. On our journey to Rome, one of the biggest needs we had each day was to be directed toward our destination. Way markers for the Via Francigena were quite clear in most places along the way, but there were many times when we had to stop and ask people to point us in the right direction. Soon, we began to make references to our new GPS system that was proving to be invaluable. We weren’t referring to the one on my smart phone that showed us waypoints all along the path. Rather, given the average age of most people who happened to be sitting on porches, in squares, at cafés, and in plastic chairs in front of their homes during the hours that we were walking, we were talking about the “Geriatric Positioning System” that worked well throughout Italy. Of course, this was the generation that was least likely to speak English, so this also gave me many opportunities to practice the little bit of Italian I had learned before the trip began. On one occasion, a old woman pointed us in a direction that was very different from the one indicated on my map and in my guidebook to the Via Francigena. We hesitated at first, because we were hot and tired and we knew that we would have to retrace our steps if she was wrong. By trusting her, however, we discovered a shorter and more scenic way into the city that had been established since the guidebook was written. This route also avoided some busy streets which are always undesirable for walkers. So, to all you elderly people out there who show us the way each day, in more ways that we can count, Grazie!

Water

When planning our pilgrim walk along the Via Francigena to Rome, I looked at the average temperatures for Tuscany in early to mid-June and determined that this would be a good time to make the trip. It most years, it seemed, the really hot days occur in July and August. By the third day of our walk, however, it was clear that June of 2012 was an exception. Each day, the temperature rose a bit more, until it settled in the high 90’s. This meant getting up earlier in the morning to begin our walk. Even more importantly, it meant that we needed more water than we were able to carry in our backpacks, and that it was led us into many encounters with homeowners, shopkeepers, innkeepers, farmers, gardeners, and anyone else who looked like they might be able to help us stay hydrated. In short, the need for water led us into relationships. The same was true whenever we arrived at one of the historic water “fountains” that had been placed along the path for pilgrims. Shortly after we took off our backpacks and sat in the shade near one of these water sources, a group of Italian pilgrims arrived and engaged us in lively conversation. When one of them heard we were from Washington, he said: “Oh, I am going to Olympia next month.” As we were taking pictures together, a couple from Belgium came walking up and joined the expanding group of fellow pilgrims. We learned that they were not only on their way to Rome, but ultimately to Jerusalem, which they to hoped reach by Christmas. More pictures were taken and more email addresses exchanged, along with links to blogs that several of us were posting. The time together was short, but it was enough to feel very connected with one another. For people who belong to religious traditions that baptize with water, this should sound familiar. In my own tradition, we say that baptism is all about relationships. The font is a gathering place, like that font along the Via Francigena, and our baptism is a rite of welcome into community with others. It isn’t just about our relationship with God but with the whole people of God. It was nice to have that image renewed for me as I continued my journey on the road to Rome.

Bridge of Care

Like many of the oldest buildings on the pilgrim roads to Rome and Santiago de Compostela, the place where we slept after our first day of walking on the Via Francigena was originally built as a hospital for pilgrims. The rooms were large, and it was easy to imagine a time when they were filled with people in need of special care. When I read stories of all the attention given to pilgrims at places such as this one at Ponte de Cappiano, I remember that our English words for hospital and hospitality come from the same Latin root. True hospitality, it seems, never overlooks the physical needs of the ones who are being welcomed. In many cases, this was a long-term commitment for the people who ran hospitals such as this one. Recovery from illnesses sometimes took months and even years. If children were orphaned, the hospitals would often take care of them until they reached adulthood, helping them obtain education and equipping them for jobs. If the orphans were female, it even meant finding them spouses and providing money for the dowery. For us, there was the very simple need of a bed and a shower, but it was nice to know that a long tradition of care existed in that beautiful building which also served as bridge from one side of a river to the other.

More or Less

As we walked along the Via Francigena toward the small town of Ponte a Cappiano, we encountered a group of people on bicycles. “Are you pilgrims?” we asked. One of them replied: “More or less.” I knew, right away, that he was speaking the truth. It had nothing to do with the fact that they were peddling and we were walking. For me, the biker’s answer underscored the fact that none of us could claim to be purists when it came to our pilgrim identity. Even before leaving home, I came to this conclusion after reading and discussing an essay by Doris Donnelly called “Pilgrims and Tourists: Conflicting Metaphors for the Christian Journey to God.” When the author laid out clear distinctions between the orientation of a pilgrim and a tourist in the way we make our own journey through life, I kept thinking about how the two co-exist within me every day. Even on this very intentional pilgrim journey to Rome, I am still acting like a tourist in many times and places along the way. And, the flow of this can go in both directions. In Maggie Dawn’s book, “The Accidental Pilgrim,” she talks about what it is like to embark on a journey as a tourist and then discover that you really are a pilgrim. For her, it happened on a trip to Israel. The discovery that she was really a pilgrim along with the others in her group was, at first, unsettling. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to be referred to as a pilgrim,” she wrote, “but then I remembered that Chaucer’s entire company of pilgrims, including – or perhaps especially – the professionally religious ones, had mixed motives.” All of this brings me back to that brilliant answer the biker gave to our question. It will serve to both inspire and humble me on the road that lies ahead.

Bread for the Journey

After many months of planning, it was a good feeling to put on our backpacks and actually begin walking on the Via Francigena to Rome. The first way marker we saw gave another strong sense of affirmation. We were on the right track! The most important affirmation, however, came from the people we met along the way. After walking for a short time, we stopped at a small bakery to buy some bottled water. When the owner saw that we were pilgrims, she refused to take any money for the water. Then, she reached up on the shelf and took down a large, round loaf of freshly baked and handed it to us. It, too, came with words of blessing and encouragement. A little while later, when we stopped to buy some tomatoes to eat with our sandwiches, the store owner went out to her garden to cut some fresh basil to go with them. As we sat and ate our lunch in the shade of an old oak tree, we felt blessed in many ways. And this was only the beginning. Throughout the journey, people would relate to us as pilgrims rather than tourists, and this continued to have a big impact on the relationships that evolved. It would be good, I think, if all of us were to do the same with the people we meet along the paths we walk in life. Seeing others, even total strangers, as pilgrims on a journey is something that inspires us to show kindness and hospitality. It can also lead us to be more generous in the way we offer material and moral support. Right now, I am on the receiving end of this, but I can already feel myself wanting to turn around and do the same for others.

Peaceful Walls

The Tuscan town of Lucca, where our pilgrim journey to Rome begins, is surrounded by ancient walls that were built to defend it from hostile enemies. As we walked through a narrow entrance and emerged into the heart of the old city, we could see that the fortified walls which were built for military purposes have now become a beautiful park. As soon as we got settled in our small hotel, we took a leisurely stroll along the top of these wide walls and enjoyed the peace and calm that they provide to people of all ages. Grandparents pushed children in strollers and young lovers embraced in the shade of old trees. Remembering the prophet Isaiah’s dream of swords being hammered into ploughshares, I took this as a new image of the transformation that God can bring about in a hostile and violent world. Of course, threatening forces still prevail inside and outside of cities such as this. As we have discovered in our own country, the age-old weapons of economic injustice still make Italy and all of Europe a very vulnerable place to live. But this first image of fortified walls being turned into a lovely park makes me want to look for signs of hope all along the Via Francigena which now lies ahead.

No Fixing

The bell tower of the main cathedral in Pisa, Italy has always been unique. Even as it was being constructed in the twelfth century, workers noticed that is was starting to lean. Many efforts to compensate for this were made as the additional floors were built, but this only served to give it a slightly curved shape in addition to the lean. In the end, the finished product was unlike any other building in the world. Not surprisingly, this uniqueness continued to be a subject of great concern. In fact, over the last seven centuries, countless people have tried to fix the leaning tower of Pisa by using the best knowledge and technology of the time. While passing through Pisa on the way to our starting point for a pilgrimage to Rome, it was amusing to learn that every attempt to fix the tower has made it lean even more. Finally, at the beginning of the twenty first century, a means of simply stabilizing it appears to have worked very well, but when this success led to further plans to correct the lean, local and national Italian officials got very nervous. In addition to being an iconic symbol of Italy, the tower also draws millions of tourists to Pisa and to the surrounding areas every year. With that in mind, these leaders made it very clear that the leaning tower must never be fixed. It may be a stretch, but I like this as a metaphor for our own human relationships. In my blog posts, I have often referred to the “Covenants of Presence” that we often use in my Lutheran congregation. One of them says: “No fixing. We are not here to set someone else straight, right a wrong, or provide therapy. We are here to witness God’s presence and movement in the sacred stories we share.” Yes, skilled therapists and psychiatrists can help us find a path to healing when we are ill, but when you and I try to fix the people we journey with in life, we are often trying to change what makes them wonderfully unique. It is better, perhaps, to simply do what the latest engineers have done with the tower in Pisa and direct all our energy into keeping our loved ones from falling.

Spiritual Fishing

Some things never change. When Father Junipero Serra became acquainted with Californians in the sixties (1760’s), he wrote: “One thing about these poor people that causes misgivings, and that a person has to be on the lookout for when he goes among them is their intense desire or mania for clothes or trinkets.” As I walked from Ventura to the mission that Father Serra's compadres founded in Santa Barbara, I noticed that Californians not only love clothes and trinkets but really nice homes. My coveting heart made me want to interpret the ten commandments very literally so that I wouldn’t have to count these homes among those belonging to my neighbor. Maybe it’s because I, myself, am a third-generation Californian. Or, maybe it’s because I am a human being. And, if Father Serra was anything like the other Franciscan friars who helped establish the missions here, even the vow of poverty was not a radical renunciation of all wealth like that of St. Francis of Assisi. In essence, they still had access to the immense riches of the Church, even if they didn’t own any of it themselves. Back in Spain, they may have been looked upon as paupers, but here in Alta California, the Chumash people were bedazzled by all that the friars brought with them. It was tempting, then, to use this material wealth as a means of getting local people to cooperate, or even to convert. In one document from that era, Father Francisco Pangua referred to this wealth as “ the means and the bait for spiritual fishing.” Another Spanish Visitor-General wrote that he wanted well-adorned churches “so that by this means they might be induced to embrace our Holy Faith.” Their assumption, it seemed, was that the Chumash people could be bought. I guess that isn’t so surprising. In many ways, the Franciscans, themselves, had been bought by the king of Spain do his work of colonizing California. And, if truth be told, we all have our price. Is it not the case, for example, that we all have some kind of “intense desire” within us that leads us to compromise our ethics or even our faith in order to get what we want? It might not be clothes or trinkets that attract us. It might not even be material things or monetary wealth, but all of us, I believe, can be bought if we are not given the wisdom and the power to resist. So, I end the day with a simple prayer: “God, help us!

They Received Us in Peace

“They received us in peace, thanks be to the Lord.” When Fray Juan Crespi wrote this in a letter to his superiors in 1769, he was describing the first encounters that Franciscan padres had with the native people of Alta California. Being received in peace was a great relief, I’m sure, since Spain’s whole plan to colonize this part of the new world depended on the hopes of being peacefully and hospitably received by the people who had lived there for thousands of years. In hindsight, it makes one aware of how vulnerable any group of people is when they nurture a culture of openness and trust. Remarkably, Spain only needed to send one to three padres and a few more soldiers to each of the twenty-one missions that were established in the late 18th century. At one of the missions, there was only one padre for the first fifteen years. Of course, he had to trust the people, as well. But, for the Spaniards, who were used to centuries of conflict over a multitude of social, political and religious differences, that trust had to grow over time. The same padre who expressed thanks in his letter for being received in peace went on to say: “So far there has been no trouble, but strict care is necessary, since they are great thieves.” As I start my pilgrim journey at Mission Buenaventura, I marvel at the fact that many descendants of those native Californians are present at the morning mass. After all that has happened to them over the last 230 years, they are here giving thanks to God at the start of the day along with a diverse group of people who seem to represent the modern city of Ventura. I suspect that the Church is no less dependent on their openness and trust than it was on the day when the first padres arrived. My guess, too, is that many things have had to happen over time in order to re-establish that trust when it was exploited and abused. In truth, I guess the same thing could be said of the Church everywhere in the world, and of all the relationships that matter to us. Being open and trusting will always be a vulnerable way of life, but it stands above all the alternatives!

Father Serra

Near the mission of San Buenaventura, where I begin my journey along the Camino Real, an immense statue of Father Junipero Serra recalls the influence he had on church and state history in California. Actually, the statue is situated between the mission and the city hall of Ventura. This seems fitting, given the powerful alliance of church and state that paved the way for the establishment of twenty one missions along the California coast around the same time that Americans in the east were fighting for their independence from a king who lived in a tiny country across the sea. In a letter that Father Serra wrote from Monterey in 1770, he described how things typically began: “After the service has been concluded with the Te Deum the officers performed the formal ceremony of taking possession of the land in the name of the King, our lord, whom may God keep.” It’s no surprise, then, that the road which eventually linked all of these mission outposts became known as the Camino Real, or the “King’s Road.” Historians say that this rush to establish a Spanish presence in California near the end of the eighteenth century was inspired, to a large degree, by the fact that Russians were hastily claiming land on the west coast of North America for the Tzar, with their latest fortress located just north of San Francisco Bay. We look back at all of that today and see it for what it was: a race between arrogant, powerful people to lay claim to something that didn’t belong to them, or to anyone! But how did followers of St. Francis of Assisi, like Junipero Serra, get caught up in all of this? Some say that the Spanish royalty saw the Franciscans, with their zeal and compassion, as the ones who would be most likely to endear themselves to the native people of California. This was important, because Spain wasn’t able populate a new colony such as this with her own people. I am offended by all of this! I denounce it as arrogant and unjust! The question is, do I dare to consider my own story in the light of this one ? Can I take the risk of being honest and objective when it comes to my own habits of laying claim to things that don’t belong to me, or to anyone? Am I even able to peel back the layers and see the unholy alliances that still characterize our engagement as people of faith in the affairs of this world? My aim is not to compare my life with Father Serra’s or anyone else’s. I just want some clarity, and to be open to where that leads.

El Camino Real

Henry Miller once said: "If we are always arriving and departing, it is also true that we are eternally anchored. One's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things." These words seem to be written for my sake on this day when I depart from the Pacific Northwest and arrive in California for the next stage of my sabbatical journey. It is here in the Golden State that I first learned about Father Junipero Serra and the establishment of twenty-one mission outposts between San Diego and Sonoma that were linked by a road called the “Camino Real.” I was in fifth grade when the story was told to me in history class, and it all sounded good! Now, forty-four years later, I come here with a keen awareness of my need for a new way of looking at things. As an adult, I have gone from admiring the Christians who started these missions to feeling embarrassed that I belong to the same faith tradition. But, in the end, I know better than to assume that any one group of people is all good or all bad. I know that pure motives do not exist, then or now. I know that people from all walks of life are easily corrupted by money and power- and that this often happens to you and me in ways that we fail to see or comprehend. So, I want to walk and drive the Camino Real for the next two weeks with eyes wide open to both past and present. I want to take what I learn and connect it with the modern world I inhabit. And, if what I see and hear challenges me to change, I want to create space in my life where I can explore that. Of course, I am hoping that this won’t conflict with my desire along the way to eat good food, drink good wine, and fall asleep on the beach a time or two. That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?

Sabbath

During my visit with a Spiritual Director at the Vancouver School of Theology, I had some time to reflect on the importance of Sabbath. Having just come from a rich conversation with a rabbi who directs the Iona Pacific Inter-religious Center, I was mindful of how Sabbath is observed by people of Jewish faith- especially the holy rest it provides from all forms of labor. As a Lutheran preacher, I am always obliged to work on the day we Christians call the Sabbath. In Martin Luther’s Small Catechism, he says that the commandment to keep the Sabbath day holy means that “we are to fear and love God so that we do not neglect God’s Word and the preaching of it, but regard it as holy and gladly hear and learn it.” So, on our Sabbath day, I’m booked solid. However, if I want to experience Sabbath, rest, I can follow Luther’s advice and designate another day or time for the receiving of that gift. In his “Pastor’s Guide to Spiritual Formation,” Luther says “the spiritual rest which God especially intends in this commandment is that we not only cease from our labor and trade but much more-that we let God alone work in us and that in all our powers do we do nothing of our own.” That sounds good to me! I admit that I rarely create space in the week for this more radical observance of Sabbath, but I guess that is part of the change that I am seeking in my life. My Spiritual Director recalled the way in which another rabbi had explained his own strict observance of Sabbath rest. In my paraphrase of what I heard, the rabbi said: “Ceasing all labor for twenty four hours each week is something I must do. And, if I manage to do this every week of every month of every year, until the time I grow old, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to graciously step away from my life work without fearing that things will fall apart without me. And, maybe, I’ll be able to come to the end of my life remembering with joy that God’s world will go on without me.” I like that perspective! It inspires me to let this sabbatical journey lead me toward some form of weekly observance of Sabbath rest that honors words of wisdom such as these.

Bandwidth

As I was enjoying lunch in a sunny corner of a Belgian pub in Vancouver, B.C., I overheard a conversation which included the creative use of a word which I now find very useful. The young adults at the table behind me were talking about a friend who was currently unemployed. Referring to his wide-open schedule, they described the man as someone who has a lot of “bandwidth” right now. I like that! I, too, have a lot of bandwidth during my current sabbatical, so I have been thinking about how this relates to me. Moreover, I have been thinking about how this could apply to all of our lives in a much broader way. Technically, bandwidth describes the speed at which new data can be received on a computer. Could it not also be used, then, to talk about our own receptiveness to new data, i.e. new ideas, new relationships, new perspectives, new knowledge, etc.? Could it not also refer to the openness in our daily schedule for unplanned encounters? Could it not also speak to the capacity within us to connect all of our senses to the physical environment we inhabit at any moment in time? As it is with any living language, I have already taken the word bandwidth and infused it with this broader meaning in my daily conversations. I am sure that others could do the same! In fact, that would be a very enjoyable subject to explore together, perhaps at a Belgian pub with a five page, single-spaced list of available beers. You talk about bandwidth!

Where Are The Lutherans?

Looking for Lutherans in the inner city of Vancouver B.C. is a bit like playing the game of “Where’s Waldo?” After walking vast portions of the city for eight days and talking with Church people all along the way, I didn’t come across one Lutheran congregation. That doesn’t mean Lutherans have always been hard to find in the urban core of this city. Just today, in the oldest neighborhood of Vancouver, I walked past two large church buildings that were constructed by Swedish and Norwegian Lutherans. One of them is now being used by a Korean Christian congregation and the other one is unoccupied and falling into disrepair. The story is so familiar it hardly needs to be told. The immigrants who founded these congregations abandoned them when the ethnic make-up of neighborhood changed and when they, themselves, had the financial means to move on. In the years that followed, that Downtown Eastside (DTES) of Vancouver became recognized as the “poorest neighborhood in Canada.” Sadly, it still holds that distinction today. But, is it and the rest of downtown Vancouver really “Lutheran Free?” If you pay very close attention and wander off the main thoroughfare in the DTES, you will see a small sign on the sidewalk that says “Lutheran Urban Mission Society.” It will not lead you to a church building, but to small rented space in the annex of a low-income apartment complex. In other words, this is not a typical congregation. Rather, it is a holy presence among the most vulnerable people of Vancouver. I spent a few hours with the pastor, walking the neighborhood with him and observing the way in which he has nurtured relationships of trust and care among the people who dwell there. The challenges these people face seem overwhelming to me. But, when I saw how much they are respected and loved by humble servants like him who work among them, I came away thinking: “Where else would I want to find Lutheran Christians than right here, among “the least of these” in whom Christ says he will always be found?

A Story of Hope

As I walked the length of Kitsilano beach in Vancouver today, I understood why First Nations people chose it as the perfect place to establish a village. It is one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in the Pacific Northwest, and it has all the necessary amenities to sustain communal life. When white settlers arrived thousands of years later, they quickly made the same observation. According to a story I heard this week, they then used their superior power to simply round up all the villagers and put them on a huge barge that was pushed out to sea. By providence, strong currents took the barge load of terrorized passengers not out to the open ocean but to the shores of what is now northeast Vancouver. There, they found graciously hospitable people from a clan related to their own, and they were welcomed with open arms. Apparently, this welcoming spirit was part of the culture of that unique place. So, when Catholic priests came to establish a mission there, they showed hospitality to them as well. Across the water, the city of Vancouver continued to grow as more and more people crowded into the small piece of land that is now called Gastown. In fact, the buildings and factories were stacked together so closely that, when fire broke out one day, it began to spread at a stunningly rapid pace. As the story goes, this stirred up compassion in the First Nations village that included those former residents of Kitsilano Beach. Rather than simply watching the drama unfold, it is said that they jumped in their canoes and paddled across the bay to begin the process of rescuing the desperate people who were trapped by the fire. No one had to tell them to do this. It was just a way of life. As they paddled, they chanted songs together, but this unnerved many of the people who were being saved. Some of them shouted to their children: “Cover your ears, because they are trying to curse you.” In reality, they were singing a simple litany over and over again, one that had been taught to them by the priests and then translated into their own language. Perhaps you know it: “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.” I came here looking for stories of hope, and this is one that will hold on to for a long time. For me, it is a beautiful reminder of what happens when hospitality and grace form the essence of a community, from one generation to the next.

Homeless

One of the surprising things I am learning about Vancouver B.C. is that only one third of the city dwellers here own the home or apartment in which they live. To a large degree, this has to do with rising cost of real estate. However, many of the conversations I have had with local people have led me to believe that there is more to the story. A person who has recently moved here from the United States shared how surprised she was by the number of Canadians who have no desire to ever own a home or property. “It’s just not a goal for a lot of the people I meet,” she said. Her observation was that Canadians were more likely to spend money on experiences than on real estate. Part of the story might also be that the Vancouverites who do own property are getting more and more stressed about the rising cost of everything related to homeownership and more and more burdened with debt. A pastor who serves a congregation in a relatively wealthy neighborhood of Vancouver told me that the tension level among his parishioners seems to be rising every year, even though the economy here is stronger than most other places in Canada. That tension seems to be contagious, especially when nervous landlords keep raising the rent in just about every place I have visited. Just down the street, a small business owner from China who has leased the same retail space for more than twenty five years told me that he may have to go out of business because of rising costs. The man from Kenya who has operated a restaurant just one block further down for sixteen years told me the same thing. Among those who are less stressed about all of this are the members of an emerging church in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Vancouver. Rather than seeking to own or rent any property, the people who make up “God’s House of Many Faces” gather for worship outdoors for most of the year. In the colder months, they meet in a nearby mission that has offered them space. In their ministry with neighborhood children, they often make use of a public courtyard in one of the local housing complexes. Yes, they have a multitude of problems to contend with, but real estate is not one of them. In my walk home from a visit with their pastor, it struck me that they are the first church community I have encountered that is literally homeless- by choice. Imagine that!

Hold These Stories With Care

When small groups meets in the congregation where I serve, we often use some simple “covenants of presence” that help us in our time together. One of them has to do with story telling. It affirms that “we all have a story” and that we need to “claim authorship and learn to tell it to others.” As we grow in our ability to do this, we also remember how families and communities have sacred stories within them that need to be told. Here in Vancouver, B.C. one of the most obvious signs of this is the presence of numerous totem poles throughout the city. Archeologists and historians confer that people of the First Nations have been carving poles such as these for at least five thousand years, and every one of them tells a story. This should come as no surprise to us. Jewish and Christian communities have also been telling sacred stories for thousands of years, and images have often been a powerful way to share these with the public. In the church where I worshipped on Sunday, one stained glass window told the story of Jesus as the Good Shepherd and another one depicted St. Paul preaching on Mars Hill in Athens. In that setting, it struck me that they were simply Christian totem poles made by artists from Northern Europe. But Christians who brought stories such as these to the Northwest many years ago made a terrible mistake. When they saw the totems carved by people of the First Nations, they thought that the poles, themselves, were the objects of pagan worship. So, they set out to destroy as many of them as they could. Of course, these people who came with sacred stories of their own should have known the difference! And, destroying the poles did nothing to destroy the stories they proclaimed. A descendant of the First Nations people who has started coming to worship in an outdoor church in Vancouver told his new pastor that the most important thing about sacred stories is that we hold them within us in a place where they can’t be erased. In fact, he questioned why she needed to read from the Bible each time they gathered for worship. “Don’t Christians hold these stories within them?” he asked. He went on to say that when one is gifted with a story there is always the expectation that it is held in trust. That brought me to the “covenants of trust” again, where we encourage each other to “hold these stories with care.” I have always liked them, but now these simple covenants hold even deeper meaning for me.

Vocation

Not long ago, I heard a philosopher share some interesting thoughts on the subject of vocation. We kill vocation, he said, when we assume that it is something that comes from within us. His point was that vocation is something that comes from outside of us, something that “calls us out”, as the Latin root for the word suggests. This was in my thoughts today as a gentle man told me the story of the Anglican congregation he attends in the neighborhood of Vancouver where I am staying. He showed me a picture of the first church building, which was built over one hundred years ago in a lower income part of the city where many factory and shipyard workers lived. The parishioners had scant resources, so it was hard to pay the bills. That changed, however, when congregational leaders perceived a call from God to jack up the church building, put it on skids, and move it about one half mile away to a neighborhood of growing affluence. Within a short time, people of means started attending worship, including a local tycoon who had a made his fortune in the sugar business. With his generous help, they tore down the old church building and constructed a new one that looked much more like the ones they had left in England. But of course, over time, the neighborhood continued to change. People with serious money moved on to bigger and better things, and the people that replaced them proved to be more diverse that anyone could have imagined. A testimony to this today is the presence of one of the largest GLBT communities in all of Canada. When my host explained that the congregation was now about fifty percent GLBT, he said: “At first, we didn’t go to them. They just came to us.” He said the same thing when he talked about the relationship the congregation now has with a group of people nearby who are “following a simple program aimed at freeing themselves from their addictions to drugs and alcohol.” On my walk back to the hotel, I kept thinking about how these people of faith were being “called out” in this latest stage of their journey, and how different that was from their understanding of vocation in the days when they moved the church to it's present location.

First Thoughts

From my hotel in the heart of bustling Vancouver, B.C., I look out the window and see where it all began. The story is told, first, in the sandstone and basalt cliffs of sacred land that is now called Stanley Park. In them, one observes layer upon layer of geological history dating back to the time when this piece of earth was thrust up from the sea. Beneath the cliffs, stretching into the rich coastal waters, are rocks that tell the story of aboriginal people who were the first to settle in this corner of North America. The wall formed by these rocks served as an ingenious trap for the many species of fish that sustained those first people throughout the year. Beside them today are the beautifully manicured gardens of Stanley Park. The story they tell is of a new wave of settlers from the British Isles who came here centuries later with a desire to tame this land and the people that it nourished. Walking among the flowers on this beautiful Spring day are people as diverse as all the colors and geneses that have been carefully planted. In these present day city dwellers, one observes layers of local human history that are too numerous to count. However, when I think about how they have managed to coexist, despite centuries of conflicting interests and ideals, the metaphor of layers disappears. Instead, I marvel at how the roots of all these people have become intertwined,causing them to grow together into a garden that is beautiful to behold. And, if that is true for communities, it is also true for individuals. At an art museum not far from Stanley Park, curators have put together an exhibit called “Beat Nation” that reflects a generation of artists who juxtapose urban youth culture and hip hop with Aboriginal identity. The poster for the exhibit (pictured above) made me wonder what each of our pictures would look like if they could reflect the many layers of who we are, or, better yet, the garden that we have become.

It Doesn't Hurt to Ask

In my life as a parish pastor, I am always encouraging people to ask questions. “Often,” I say, “having good questions is more important than having answers.” For many, this is liberating. I do notice, however, that it takes time to get past some of things that generally cause us to keep our questions to ourselves. That was the case for me as I stepped off the train yesterday in the center of Vancouver, B.C. There were so many things I didn’t know. Which bus would I need to take and where would I catch it? What route would it follow and how close would that come to my hotel? How much would it cost? Would I need to have exact change? And that was just for starters. Since I am on pilgrimage, I decided to be brave and to pose all these questions to real people and not to the internet. Not surprisingly, what I felt within me helped me understand why so many people are reluctant inquirers. First of all, I didn’t want to bother others or impose. Then, as more things came up, I didn’t want to come across as an ignorant fool. But, as reluctant inquirers at church so often do, I got over it. I asked a stranger on the sidewalk which bus to take and he carefully pointed out the stop on the other side of the street. I asked a coffee shop barista for information about the fare and he helped me get exact change. On the bus, I asked a young, amorous couple what route the bus took and they helped me identify the place to disembark. Moments later, at a back street Japanese restaurant, I asked the waitress to show me the right way to eat the food I had ordered. It actually felt good to depend on others in this way. O.K. It is Canada! I get that. But all this gave me a safe environment to gain confidence as an inquirer. Now, it’s on to bigger questions. And, for that too, I know I need help. In a conversation I had with a rabbi today, I even asked for help in identifying some key questions that I can walk with and pray with over the next three months. I’m on a roll!

Stop. Look. Listen.

Most of my days are filled with meetings and appointments. That’s just the way it is. What I don’t realize, perhaps, is how much I continue to process all of that in the moments in between. I wondered about that today as I sat in a coffee shop. The difference, today, is that I am making the first small step out of work into a three-month sabbatical. Normally, I have one day off every week where I can allow myself to be immersed in another environment. That’s a gift! But, I have to admit that I still allow my brain to be a bit preoccupied on those days. Today, however, it seems to be the immediate environment that "occupies" my brain more fully, and, likewise, my senses. Unconsciously, I take note of the way people are interacting with each other. I wonder how the old woman with the dog has become so familiar with the young barista. I really notice what people are wearing, and not just the outdoor gear which usually gets my attention. I breath in the chemistry of perfumes emanating from the table next to me. I gaze at the art on the walls. Of course, this is how I want it to be every day! I want to be a daily pilgrim who is fully immersed in the thick environment of sights, sounds, smells, stories, and all that “is” around me. For now, I’ll just allow it to happen. Later, I’ll learn how to bring more of that back into the world of meetings and appointments.

On the Road Again

On the first day of a pilgrim journey into the heart of a Northwest metropolis, I am remembering something that historians have written about for centuries. It has to do with the relationship between nomadic and sedentary people. We are told that most civilizations have been deeply influenced by an ongoing struggle between the two. But here’s the deal. Both groups need each other. From one generation to the next, there is an interdependence that can’t be denied. With bag and ticket in hand, I am mindful of that today. I am a nomad going to be among the city dwellers of Vancouver, British Columbia. So, I wonder. What will that interdependence look like? I know I will need them to house me, feed me, guide me, and protect me while I am there. But, what do I bring to them? In many ways, pilgrims appear to be useless creatures. Yes, we put money into the local economy. That’s something. But I want to know what else there is- what else is possible. The way to find out, of course, is to venture forth.