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.