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.