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.