The Iona Community: Justice and Joy

I was not expecting the church service I experienced today.

I had prepared myself for it. I was thoroughly gobsmacked by what I experienced.

I think I saw and felt what 'church' can be when it concerns itself more with the Gospel of Jesus Christ than it does with the Institution of the Church.

I'll try to give you a sense of what I experienced.

Here are the Opening Prayers:

Leader:  

With nature in its power and beauty,
With rain and wind and sunshine,
with the ancient rocks and the budding flower

All:    we gather in praise of God 

Leader

With believers and seekers the whole world wide,
with people in every land,
and speaker of every tongue

we gather in praise of God.

Leader

With the angels and saints in heaven,
with Columba who built community here
and with all who have worshipped in this place,

         we gather in praise of God.
 
Leader:

With Jesus who promised his presence
and the Spirit who showers her blessings,
we gather in praise of God.

        we gather in praise of God. 

Leader:

Here let heaven and earth embrace.

here may God's people find home. 

Source: Iona Abbey Worship Book

And then, if that wasn't clear enough that we are the church catholic - universal, one with each other and all of creation - the communion of saints past, present and to come, we then sang, "For Everyone Born A Place at the Table".

If you've been around LGBTQ worship services, you may have heard it or even sung it. In case you haven't, here are the words:

For everyone born, a place at the table,
for everyone born, clean water and bread,
a shelter, a space, a safe place for growing,
for everyone born, a star overhead,
                and God will delight when we are creators
                of justice and joy, compassion and peace:
                yes, God will delight when we are creators
                of justice, justice and joy!

For woman and man, a place at the table,
revising the roles, deciding the share,
with wisdom and grace, dividing the power,
for woman and man, a system that's fair,
                and God will delight when we are creators
                of justice and joy, compassion and peace:
                yes, God will delight when we are creators
                of justice, justice and joy!
For young and for old, a place at the table,
a voice to be heard, a part in the song,
the hands of a child in hands that are wrinkled,
for young and for old, the right to belong,
                and God will delight when we are creators
                of justice and joy, compassion and peace:
                yes, God will delight when we are creators
                of justice, justice and joy!

For just and unjust, a place at the table,
abuser, abused, with need to forgive,
in anger, in hurt, a mindset of mercy,
for just and unjust, a new way to live,
                and God will delight when we are creators
                of justice and joy, compassion and peace:
                yes, God will delight when we are creators
                of justice, justice and joy!

For everyone born, a place at the table,
to live without fear, and simply to be,
to work, to speak out, to witness and worship,
for everyone born, the right to be free,
                and God will delight when we are creators
                of justice and joy, compassion and peace:
                yes, God will delight when we are creators
                of justice, justice and joy!

Words © 1998 Hope Publishing Company, 380 S Main Pl, Carol Stream, IL 60188  

Yeah, so if you can believe it, it actually went UP from there. Especially since, sitting right next to me was a young man with Trisomy 21 (AKA "Down's Syndrome"). He was singing this hymn at the very top of his voice and from the very middle of the middle of his heart and soul. 

I was absolutely reduced to a puddle.  

And then, came the sermon. Oh, my. Oh, my, my, my, my, my.

The preacher - the only male worship leader - preached on "The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us." 

He pointed out that "Mr. Trump" used words that were violent, words that were brutal, words that were vulgar, words that were disrespectful of the human condition . . . 

And, he said, since Mr. Trump has been "POTUS," (that's the word he used) our world has become more violent, more brutal, more vulgar, more disrespectful of the human condition.

He urged us to consider what he called "the resanctification of language". Because, he said, The Word was made flesh and we have a choice to embody The Word or enflesh the words. 

You could have knocked me over with a feather. 

His sermon has stayed with me this whole day as I've walked around this island in the rain and the wind and the cold, troubling the baptismal waters of my life in Christ in the best possible way that sermons are supposed to do.

I've been thinking about the words I use and how I embody them. 

I've been wondering about the words I use and how they reveal my relationship with God and how they may shape and form my relationship with others

I've been meditating on some of the words I've used and how they have shaped and formed my understanding - my perspective - of the world. 

And, because I am a leader in communities of faith, I've been wondering how others might see the world through the words I speak. 

Words matter. They do. We know this. I've been saying this, mostly in terms of "inclusive" or "expansive" language used in our liturgies. I've even spoken about it as a matter of justice.

Today, however, I heard the words I've spoken in a new way.  I felt convicted by the Gospel not only because it was preached so powerfully, but because I heard it prayed and sung in the words of the liturgy. 

Even more importantly, I saw it lived out in the way the liturgy was performed. 

No one wore a liturgical garment, except the priest who wore a stole over her coat (it was cold today).

The huge, ancient, thousands-year-old altar, was presided over by five women - one priest and four Eucharistic ministers, each of whom took a portion of the bread and a chalice of wine. Then, they passed the bread and the wine to the rows of the congregation, and we fed each other. 

The priest didn't feed us. 

The ministers didn't feed us. 

The priest and the ministers distributed the bread and wine which were, as we say, "the gifts of God for the people of God," so we could share it among ourselves and feed each other.

It was the Gospel story of the feeding of the 5,000 lived out in miniature in the midst of the church.

I left that wonderful ancient Abbey Church feeling refreshed and renewed and with this insight:

When the Word becomes flesh and dwells among us, we become creators of justice and joy, compassion and peace. And, God is, indeed, delighted.

I'm going to leave you with that and the prayer which ended the service and began the work of the mission of the community: 

Generous and faithful God
you have fed us at your table.
May the nourishment we have received
enable us to enrich the lives of others
wherever we may go from here.

Whether the future be dark or bright,
the road be smooth or rough,
whether our cares be light or heavy
our song be strong or weak,
keep our hearts warm
and our hands open,
our lives ever embracing
and ever embraced by your love. 

Amen.                

Iona!

Iona is the island to the extreme left.

Well, as they used to say when I lived in Maine: You can't get there from here. Not without a lot of patience and more than pinch of courage.

It's quite a trip from Oban to Iona.

You've got to take a 90 minute ferry to the the Isle of Mull, drive an hour or so across the Mull on a one lane road with two-way traffic - and most folk driving on that road don't know the meaning of S.L.O.W.

Our coach also didn't have any heat and it never really got above 9 degrees Celsius all day. And, it was raining. Well, it varied from annoying drizzle to pouring down rain. And the driver's defrosters didn't work.

Did I mention the wind? No? Well, that made for a ferry ride that was rather . . . . interesting.

After we drove through Mull we had to catch another ferry over to Iona - only about a 10 minute ride, but by then it was pouring down rain and windy.

Once we got off the boat, we had to wait for someone from St. Columba's Hotel to come fetch our luggage.

Well, two of us did. Outside. In the rain. And the wind.

One of the glacial island leaving Oban to the Isle of Mull

And then, it was a fifteen minute walk uphill. In the rain. And, the wind.

I'm not sure what this all means, actually. And, because we're on pilgrimage, everything is supposed to take on some significant, symbolic, magical meaning.

Because, after all, we're in a "thin place".

Someone suggested that our will to be here is being tested.

I don't know about that but I checked the weather record in this part of the world at this time of year and it seems like this is pretty much what happens.

So, between the rain and the fog, the wind and the bone-chilling cold, I didn't get that "magical, thin-place" feeling  everyone talks about when they first land on the shores of Iona.

The feeling I got was more like the urgent need to get my wet clothes off my body and get my body into a hot shower and then into some warm clothing and then in front of the fireplace with a hot cup of tea.

Which, I admit, did have a magic all its own.

We had a bit of a gathering before supper - just a few bits of information we'll need while we're here - and then it was off to a lovely supper. The food here is excellent and the portions are perfect.

I confess, I couldn't bear the thought of walking out in the rain to the Abbey for prayer. Or, for that matter, Bishop's House for Compline.

I really just started feeling warm and human about 30 minutes ago.

My prayers have been answered and I have sent prayers of deep gratitude for warmth and heat, food and liquid, a comfortable bed and a lovely shower in a warm room with a great view.

I mean, seriously, what more can I say to God and the Cosmos that isn't already known?

Tomorrow's day begins at 8 AM. Mass over at the Abbey is at 10:30. I'm looking forward to an Ecumenical Eucharist.  I've read the Iona liturgies but I've never experienced one. I'm glad I have read them so that I can just go and immerse myself in the experience.

It's supposed to rain off and on again tomorrow but then the forecast for the rest of the week looks pretty clear.

The view from my bedroom. That's Bishop's House. And, beyond, Iona Sound

Or, as the woman I met at Inveraray advised, ""Doonya pay na attention to ta weather man. You just pull ta shades ta tha sidee and loook oout ya winda and bring a sweatah anyway."

I am sooOOOoo glad I brought a thick sweater. 

I'm going to go check out a wool shawl this week. I saw some in one of the shops in town for 12.00 pounds. That might be for a children's size - if I can get one for double that amount it will still be worth it - but it's worth my going in to check it out anyway.

I'm really excited to know from one of the locals that, despite the wretched weather, we're here at just the right time. 

"Nevah minde tha rrrrain," he said. "Tha Puffins is here. Saw 'em meself this mornin'. Come see me Monday mornin' and I'll take ye there." 

I understand that when you see one up close, it's like watching a stuffed animal come to life.

It's an answer to a prayer. Well, one of them, anyway.

I canna wait!

Glasgow to Invarary to Oban

 What is it about travel that is so exhausting?

I mean, when you think about it, you're not doing anything physically exerting.

Mostly, I spent the day sitting in a bus from the hotel to the airport where I met my group. Then, I sat around for an hour or so waiting for the group to gather.

Then, we got into the coach and drove for 90 minutes to Invarary where we could stretch our legs and empty our bladders and put some grub into our gullets.

From Invarary we sat while the coach drove us another hour or so to Oban. We had about 40 minutes to get settled before we gathered for introductions and then dinner and then I went for a stroll around Oban Bay and I'm back in my room and I'm done in. Pooped. Exhausted.

Why is that?

Why is waiting and traveling so exhausting?

I'd rather have walked here from Glasgow. Seriously. I don't think I'd be this exhausted.

Tired? Absolutely. Weary? No doubt.

Exhausted? Like this? My experience proves otherwise.

Well, one thing I can say for certain: The beauty of this place is breathtaking.

Intoxicating and exhilarating, all at once.

Our coach driver says that God created Scotland on the last day of Creation because God wanted to save the best for last.

I suspect there is a Central Casting place for coach drivers who transport people to places like this and they all learn the same lines.

The fellow pilgrims I have briefly met tonight seem to share my exhaustion. I think we're tired of waiting. I think we're ready for this pilgrimage.

Maybe it's not exhaustion I feel. Perhaps this is like that moment a woman in labor experiences as her time of transition ends and she is ready to give birth.

There is that moment when she knows the hard work is about to begin.

I think that's what this moment is about.

Let it begin.

I am heading to bed with this prayer on my heart:

Saint Patrick's Creed (excerpt)

God of Heaven and earth, sea and rivers,
God of sun and moon, of all the stars,
God of high mountains and of lowly valleys,
God over heaven, and in heaven, and under heaven/
God has a dwelling in heaven and earth and sea
and in all things that are in them.
God inspires all things, God quickens all things,
God is over all things, God supports all things.
God makes the light of the sun to shine,
God surrounds the moon and stars, and God has made wells in the arid earth,
placed dry islands in the sea and stars for the service of the greater luminaries.

 Amen.

Oh, PS: I wanted to make sure this wonderful moment today doesn't get lost in the dust bin that is sometimes my memory.

When we stopped at Inverary for lunch, we were told by Stephen, our coach driver, that Mr. P's Fish 'n Chips was the "best in all of Scotland". So, when you're served up a steaming hot plate of Scottish hyperbole, you have to take at least a bite.

He was right. So light. So utterly delicious. Best fish 'n chips in all of Scotland. 

Of course, it's the only fish 'n chips I've had in Scotland, but the bar is now set. High.

It was also lovely to get out of the coach and stretch and eat and poke around. I wish I could have walked from Glasgow but maybe next time.

Mostly, I gasped at the water and the vibrant colors of the flowers and played with a few old pups who begged some of my chips while their mommy kept sayin', "Say thank you, darlins. There's mommy's good pup."

She also blessed me with this wisdom: "Doonya pay na attention to ta weather man. You just pull the shades ta tha sidee and loook oout ya winda and bring a sweatah anyway."

Best advice in all of Scotland. Perhaps, the whole world. 

Now, it's off to bed with me.

Namaste

I was supposed to take the train to Edinburgh today.

Apparently Spirit had other ideas.

Through the 'magic' known only to social media, a friend in New York saw that I am in Glasgow. She contacted a colleague who had moved to Glasgow about 5 years ago who contacted me.

So, she's not just a colleague. I am delighted to call her a friend. She's a hero to me and to many.

Her name is now Sr. Helena Barrett. When I first knew her, her name was Ellen Barrett.

Yes, that Ellen Barrett. The first woman ordained in the Diocese of New York after General Convention approved the ordination of women in 1977.

Oh, and the morning of her ordination, she was also on the front page of the New York Times - and, later that day, the San Fransisco Chronicle (I think that's right).

She attained that notoriety because she dared to speak the love that dared not speak its name.

It was bad enough that she was a woman being ordained in The Episcopal Church. She was also the embodiment of the worst fears of the misogynists who were opposed to the ordination of women who believed that the only possible reason a woman would want to be ordained is that she really wanted to be a man.

Yup: Any woman who wants to be ordained must really want to be a man.

Because, I mean, doesn't everybody?  Isn't that what a lesbian is, anyway?

In his book, "Take a Bishop Like Me," her ordaining bishop, Paul Moore, stated that of 42 letters he received from other bishops, ten were supportive and thirty-two were critical.

Bishop William Frey of Colorado stated that there were better ways to minister to homosexuals than to "bless that which God offers to redeem".

Moore related his belief that it was not so much Barrett's sexual orientation that his fellow bishops found disturbing, but rather her candor as a lesbian.

Oh, but it didn't end there. Like so many of the women who were first to be ordained, a high price was to be paid for women who chose to live into their vocations with authenticity and integrity.

I mean, who in the church wants to hire a controversial figure as their rector? So, while white men - straight and gay (but deeply closeted or practitioners of "don't ask, don't tell") - were being hired and earning their pensions and are now living well in retirement, many of those women are living on pensions that place them well below the poverty level.

Sr. Helena has been more than faithful to her vocation and vows of ordination. She has worked as a supply priest and an interim rector. She has her doctorate in Medieval History and has taught at universities and colleges. She has also worked as an Office Manager and a Libraian. Whatever helped to pay the bills.

She is now living out her vocation faithfully as a Sister of the Companions of our Lady and St Mungo, Diocese of Glasgow and Galloway. She was married six years ago to Sr. Alison Joy, also of the same religious order. Together, they offer retreats to parishes in the diocese and beyond. And, of course, they do not charge for their services.

Sr. Helena helps out at St. Mary's Cathedral, where the Provost is Kelvin Holdsworth. Perhaps you've read his blog: "What's Inside Kelvin's Head?". I certainly read it daily during the days of the struggle to allow women to the episcopacy and Lambeth 2008. He was also a great source of information during the fight for marriage equality in U.K. 

So, today, I hit the "Spirit Trifecta". 

I not only got to celebrate the mysteries with 16 other souls at the 11 AM Eucharist at St. Mary's Cathedral as Sr. Helena presided, I also got to meet her spouse, Sr. Alison Joy and Provost Kelvin. 

Yes, I got to see what's inside Kelvin's head. 

Well, and didn't we just have us a regular chin wag in the Synod Room of the Cathedral! We had tea and some biscuits and shared a giggle or two with the faithful souls who gather there. Believe it or not, I met a woman who has and adult child and grandchildren living in Mississippi.  

It's a small world, after all. And, an even smaller church.

I had absolutely no intention of attending church today or any day, actually, while here in Scotland. This is all about spirituality for me, not religion. 

Seems like Spirit had other ideas about that. 

I did get me some religion but more importantly, my spirit was richly nourished by visiting with old friends, two of whom I had never met in person. 

We told stories and re-told old stories and laughed and giggled and gasped and snorted. You know, the way friends do when it seems as if the conversataion never really ended. You just pick up almost exactly where you left off the last time you were together.

And then, it suddenly dawns on you:  The richest, deepest luxuries are often delivered on the wings of serendipity.  

This is why Mindfulness has become so important to me - much more important than planning and organizing a spiritual pilgrimage. It's all about intention and focus, balanced with openness and wonder. It's about "living from the Center".

As I begin my second intentional pilgrimage, I am reminded of practicing the important "mindful leadership" skills I learned from Valerie Brown, the spiritual guide and anamchara on my Camino Pilgrimage: 

to turn to wonder,

to inhabit the moment,

to slow down,

to practice opening,

to practice listening,

to find the beauty in moments of quiet transformation,

even when those moments are not apparent.

This was one of those moments.

Namaste.

It's not just a greeting. It's a way of life.

A Conversation in an Uber

A bit of my conversation with my Uber Driver, Mr. Patel from South India.

M.P.: I am Hindi. Our 'big thing' is karma, you know.

Me: I understand. I am Christian. I guess our 'big thing' is sin.

M.P. Which is not the same as karma.

Me: Yes, I'm sorry. I made a bad joke.

M.P.: Yes, but it is true. Christians talk a lot about sin, but usually, it is about someone else's sin. Not their sin.

Me: Yes, I'm afraid that's true.

M.P.: If Christians were more concerned about their own sin rather than worry if someone else is sinning, the world would be a better place, you know?

Me: Indeed.

M.P.: And, Ma'am, if you don't mind me saying, I think if Christians stuck with the basics of their religion, and taught the basics of their religion, they would be better Christians.

Me: How do you mean?

M.P.: Stay with the basics: God is Love. Jesus is love incarnate. The Holy Spirit will guide you in Love. Judge not lest ye be judged. Love your neighbor as yourself. When you sin, when you fall short, repent and God will forgive you because God loves you. Forgive as you have been forgiven. And, be thankful. Always. Always. Be thankful. If you have thanks in your heart, you can not help but love others as God loves you. To forgive others as God forgives you. To worry more about your own sin than if someone else is sinning.

Me: You speak such truth it warms my heart and brings tears to my eyes. I think you are a better Christian than I am.

M.P.: Well, I went to Christian school in South India. I know about the teachings of Jesus. But the brothers and sisters who taught me cared more about nourishing my mind and feeding my body and my tending soul than whether or not they could convert me to their beliefs. So, my way of life is Hindu and I try to practice the basic teachings of Jesus. He was a good man. A very, very good man. He knew the Ten Commandments and the Sanatana Dharma. You can hear it in the prayer he taught his disciples and the New Commandment he gave them. If some of the people who say they are Christians would actually follow his teachings, well, it would be good. It would be very good.

Me: Hmmmm . . . . Less sin, more Dharma.

M.P.: Ha! I think that would make a good bumper sticker.

Me: Indeed. I'm so glad I came here to Glasgow. I was supposed to go to Edinburgh today. I think part of why I'm here instead is to meet you.

M.P.: I am so grateful that God has put you in my path. I am so grateful to the Christians who gave me an education. You make me think that maybe Christianity has a future.

Me: Well, there are some days when I worry about that.

M.P. Worry less. Be more of who you are, more of the time. Let your light shine. Others will follow. That's how it worked for Jesus, right?

Namaste.

Scottish grit

A city - any city - has many facets.

Unless you live there for awhile, all you really have are impressions based on what you've had an opportunity to experience and from that particular angle.

Perhaps if I had taken one of those tour buses, riding around high above the city streets, I'd have a different perspective. I've only observed Glasgow for a day and a half. And, at ground level. Just the areas I could access on my feet as I walked around the city.

So, that's my perspective. No one to show me "the sights" or tell me of the significance. Just what I observed and heard with "the ears of my heart" as Benedict would say.

My Apple watch says I walked 6.5 miles today. That was a slow day on the Camino but then again, I'm not on the Camino.

There's a lot of Glasgow that reminds me of Brooklyn. As in New York.

Behind the obvious tourist attractions - the city parks and the Art Galleries and Museums, Universities and Colleges - beats the heart of what we Americans would call a solid, "blue collar" town.

There's a lot of grit here.

You can hear it in the accents.

Besides the Scottish lilts and Irish brogue - and the interesting if not thoroughly incomprehensible combination of lilt and brogue - you can hear what one Scotsman called a "tossed salad" of humanity.

Or, as one 'table steward', a woman who dressed and looked for all the world like she came from the Caribbean but spoke in a straight-up Scottish lilt said to me,"We're a fookin' Tower of Babel, 'ere in Glasgow."

Which is to say, there are a lot of immigrants here. In fact, Glasgow is the one city in all of Scotland which had the largest number of non-UK born people in its census. Indeed, in the past 8 years, the non-UK population increased by 5.4%.

Believe it or not, the #1 country of origin for immigrants to Glasgow is Poland.

I know, right? Who knew?

Besides a large Indian, German, Irish, South African, American, Pakistani and Nigerian community I heard Italian, and French accents.

In fact, the increase in the immigrant population the main reason for BREXIT - and, they are keenly aware of it. Indeed, all anyone could talk about today - in the parks and the restaurants - was the fact that the Tories rejected PM Theresa May's final attempt at a BREXIT deal.

It is said that Mrs. May's resignation is on her desk, but the failure of a BREXIT plan pleased those who are immigrants because it meant that as long as there is no plan there effectively is no BREXIT - a scheme which has, at its core, a racist, xenophobic ideology, hiding behind "concerns about the economy of our country".

Stop me if any of this sounds familiar to Americans reading this in 2019.

Which is why lots of people are very keenly interested in America and what we're doing to "get rid of that bawface  (big, round face) gallus (arrogant) coo (cow)."

I had lunch at a lovely Greek restaurant which does very well, I'm told, because there's a large selection for vegans and vegetarians, apparently a growing demographic in UK.

The young woman who waited on me had apparently lived in the US but she and her parents moved last year to UK to live temporarily with relatives because they were very concerned about the current administration's immigration policy.

"ICE," she said. "Very bad. Very bad people.We leave Greek to get away from them. They are in America, now, too. And, BREXIT, too. But, they will lose. We will win. Fascist pigs!," she spit.

"We go back to America after they get that Big Pig out of DC and send him back to New York."

Can I just tell you that her eyes were flashing and she was twisting her dish towel when she was talking? And, can I say that I knew whose neck that dish towel represented?

The restaurant was slow and she actually sat down at one point and had some tea with me.

She's very smart. She's beautiful in that wonderful way Greek women are beautiful. She's at University. Wants to become an accountant. "See Pee Aaa," she said.

She'll do well in business. Although I hope she never loses her fire.

America would be a better place with her in it.

So, I do want to close with one last impression. I spent a little time walking around George Square by Queen Street and the train station there. I thought I should at least find my way to the other train station in town.

Yes, there are two. In the City of Glasgow. This IS UK, after all.

I did have myself a good chuckle watching the sea gulls and the pigeons "having their way" with all the statues of all the Scottish and British

There is one of Albert, Prince Consort, who was married to Queen Victoria and is much loved for his work in the abolitionist movement as well as the reform of child labor laws. He died a very young man and Victoria wore only black to mourn her loss. There are more "Albert" somethings - halls, theaters, statues, streets, alleys - in UK than anyone can number.

There is another statue to James Watt, inventor of the steam engine which inadvertently sparked the Industrial Revolution.

There they are, immortalized in iron or steel, looking grand and glorious along with all the other statues of brave or intelligent men in ages past.

I was thinking today that if anyone should consider immortalizing me or anyone I know and love with a statue for something inspirational, I only have one request.

As I considered these statues in George Square, rising on pedestals above the hoi polloi and hustle and bustle of a city life they could not have asked for or imagined, and far removed from the tourists and the parents with babes in strollers and the workers who’ve stepped out for coffee in a paper cup and a few puffs on a cigarette, or the poor folk who have hustled enough money to have purchased a piece of pie in a cardboard box and a steaming Styrofoam cup of tea (who offered me a bite, if I cared, and broke my heart with a kindness and generosity perhaps rarely shown to her); there, where only the sea gulls and pigeons can reach them and cover them in their excrement; I only ask that you please do take note of the . . . .work  . . .of the winged-ones and, if you would be so kind, take proper precaution with my statue or that of a loved one. 

A bit of netting, perhaps? An umbrella of sorts? 

Or, perhaps, an ingenious use of a traffic cone or two.

That would be, as they say here about almost everything, lovely. 

I was heading for Edinburgh first thing tomorrow morning but I discovered a dearly loved American friend of very long standing who is living here in Glasgow.

Last I knew, she was living in Morristown, NJ. And now, here she is, living in a convent in Glasgow.

Small world. Smaller church.

She is presiding at the 11 AM Eucharist tomorrow at St. Mary's Cathedral on the West side of the city. 

I figure it should take me about 45 minutes to walk there.

So, despite my best intentions, it looks like I'll get a little religion while I'm here in Scotland. 

Ah, the things we do for Jesus! And, old, dear friends!

We'll also do lunch after mass and get caught up on life.  I'm very excited to see her again.

And yes, of course I'll take pictures and post them.

Then, it's off to Edinburgh, the capital city of Scotland. 

On Friday morning, I leave for Oban and then the pilgrimage to Iona begins in earnest. 

You know, I have always liked my spirituality on the gritty side. 

One of my Anamcharas (Spiritual Directors) called it "Divine Sandpaper". She said we need people in our lives who "rub us the wrong way". 

How else would we get to have our natural shine come forth, she asked. 

I have this feeling that Scotland will bring out the best in me.

Day 1: A Conversation at Breakfast

At breakfast this morning, someone asked in a delightful Scottish lilt if I was American.

Yes, I answered, aware that there was caution in my voice. With equal caution, she asked, "And, would you describe yourself as 'religious', then?"

Ah, said I, nay, but that's b/c I'm an Episcopal priest."

She looked immediately relieved, took a deep exhale as she laughed, and then beamed as she asked, "Ah, then, you're a liberal?"

Indeed, said I, and damn proud of it.

"So then, may we have a chat?" said she as she took her cup of tea, without invitation, and moved to fill the empty chair across from me. 

She was keen to know what was going on in America - and why.

We talked about what it meant to be liberal or conservative, Democrat, Republican or Independent, Catholic or Protestant, religious or interfaith or spiritual.

In the end, we determined that, in the peculiarities of this particular time, we found ourselves to be independent liberal feminists who wanted to conserve the goodness of the Republic of Democracy from an interfaith and multi-spiritual reality.

What a delightful way to start my first morning in Scotland.

Off I go to discover some of the hidden treasures of Glasgow.

Airports, Taxis, Hotels, People

I am actually writing this through a foggy mental haze from my room on the fifth and top floor at the Alexander Thomas Hotel in downtown Glasgow, Scotland.

I slept maybe - maybe, and I'm being generous here - 30 minutes on the flight to UK.

It was a pleasant enough trip, although anything that got me out of the Philadelphia Airport would have been a mercy. Good Lord, what a three-ring circus! And, the clowns are definitely running the show. I've flown in and out of there any number of times but yesterday was the worst!

Anyway, British Airways - in partnership with American Airlines - is a grand enough airlines. My seat placement was lovely, even though they didn't assign my seat until I boarded. If I had chosen my own seat it would have cost anywhere from $50-80 pounds more. Um . .. no thank you.

And, I did take a Melatonin, which usually always works on me. I was sleepy but I didn't sleep. It was that awful in-between-dozing off-not-really-asleep kinda sleep. You know? Ugh.

I did watch "If Beale Street Could Talk". It's probably not good to watch a Barry Jenkins film on a trans-Atlantic flight on a small screen on the back of the seat in front of you. The interruptions on the PA system from the captain and flight crew giving instructions about when to fasten seat belts and what was being served for snacks and such really frustrated the intensity of Jenkins' work.

I did spend another 2 hour layover at Heathrow Airport in London. I remembered why I prefer to land in Gatwick. But it also was a grand time to observe the British in all their particular and peculiar glory.

I took notes like an anthropologist. Here's what I observed:

You may be at Heathrow Airport if you:

See three young men who can't be more than 19 or 20 ordering a pint at nine o'clock in the morning.

The flight attendant greets you with, "And how are we this morning?" and seems genuinely interested to know as you look around to see whoever else she might be talking to besides you.

Someone says - with great aplomb, completely unaware that they are pleasantly participating in a stereotype - "Mind the gap!"

The ticket agent looks over passengers beginning to line up for boarding and says, "It's a full flight to Glasgow this morning. Would anyone like to jump the queue and board your luggage first?" (It wasn't. I didn't. But, 'jump the queue'? It's my new phrase.)

The Baggage Claim Area is known alternatively as "The Baggage Retrevial" or "The Baggage Reclaim" Area.

Snippets of conversation overheard in the boarding gate waiting area:

"Why don't my kids play nicely together like William and Kate's children?"

"I know, I KNOW! Anxiety can be so very crippling, right?"

"Oh, that new solicitor at the firm? Daft as a brush!'

"I'm positively DESPERATE for a wee bit of a lie down, and it's only nine hundred hours."

And, my personal favorite: "Trump is playing rumpy-pumpy with tyrants in Iran and North Korea, and the rest of the world is screwed."

That one did make me laugh right out loud into my Starbucks latte (which cost seven pounds. What the WHAT????). 

And then I flew into Glasgow Airport which looks a bit like a system of prefabricated tunnels.

I did reclaim my bag, only to discover that someone, somewhere from Salisbury, MD to Philly, PA to Heathrow, London, England and then Glasgow, Scotland had lost my wonderful bright yellow strap with my name on it.

Well, I don't know how many other Elizabeth Kaetons there are in the world, so I'm thinking it's in a trash bin somewhere between here and there.

Le sigh.

I did hail a cab, driven by Ian Wright, himself, and discovered that the Scottish have their own version of the English language which is mostly unintelligible to Americans.

Well, between the sleep-deprived fog and my popping ears and his enthusiastic monologue about various places we were passing, I did understand this, "Didya na catch the stark difference there in the architecture of the old hospital an tha new?"

At least, that's what I think he said.  He also gave me lots of advice about where to have tea and to take the Queen's line to Edinburgh tomorrow but it's lost in the dust bin that is my brain right now.

Check in at the hotel wasn't until 2 PM but I must have looked a fright as the young lass at the front desk allowed me to check in at 12:30. I have one of the rooms that wasn't used last night so it was ready for me.

Bless her pale white skin, blond hair and very blue eyes for having mercy on me, a sinner of the American traveler sort.

My room has a flat screen TV with cable and HBO, free WiFi, a hot water pot with some instant coffee and tea bags and a few biscuits, and a perfectly lovely WC and shower, but there is no AC and there's a radiator on the wall.

It's an old building - a very old building - but it's pleasant enough, "well-situated" as they like to stay here, and surprisingly inexpensive.

The window is open (when was the last time you stayed in a hotel where you could actually open a window?) and there's a lovely breeze rustling the sheer curtain. The street noise is fairly minimal and the view is of a scruffy city but if you look up, the green hills are a bit of a piece from here and contrast beautifully with the vibrant blue sky and great puffs of white clouds.

Lovely, as everyone here seems to say here.

I did take a wee bit of a lie down and I've spent the last hour making sure I recorded my first impressions on the "touristy" part of my pilgrimage.

It's off to the shower with me and then off to find a little something to eat before I return to watch a wee bit of the telly and then it's off to an early bed with me so as to arise early in the morn.

Didya na catch how I'm pickin' up tha language already, then?

Tonight, a bit more of Glasgow. Tomorrow, and it's on to Edinburgh.

I'm thinking I'll definitely be ready for a pilgrimage by then.

As they say here in Scotland, "Lang may ya’ lum reek."

It's off to Scotland, then

Be a bright flame before me, O God a guiding star above me. Be a smooth path below me, 

a kindly shepherd behind me.  —The Prayer of St. Columba

And, it's almost packed and ready for me as I leave on the morrow for Scotland. I'll fly into Glasgow by way of Heathrow from Philly, starting in Wicomico Airport in Salisbury, MD.

Then I'll do "touristy" things to places sacred and profane in Glasgow and Edinburgh.

On the 24th I meet my group and travel from Glasgow to Oban where we'll spend the evening. On the morning of the 25th, we travel to the Isle of Iona by private coach and ferry to and then walk to the St. Columba Hotel.

The rhythm of my days will begin and end with prayer with the ecumenical Iona Community in the historic abbey church.

The leader of our group has her doctorate in storytelling. She will share a sacred story or two about Iona and some of its sacred spots. Then, we are free to walk - alone or together, or weaving 'round each other - to enter into walking meditation and sacred exploration.

This is just my cuppa tea: Start the day with prayer and breakfast. Tell me a story. Let me walk and think and pray, with a choice to be alone or with others.

I'll come back from my walk and get a wee bit of rest and refreshment. Off I go again to walk and pray and explore until supper.

Maybe there'll be some story sharing of the day and, if all is well, some raucous laughter. A little prayer in ecumenical community to end the day and then alone to my room to reflect and read and write and sleep, perchance to dream.

The pilgrimage ends on June 2nd but I've padded the end of my trip with a few more touristy things in the Highlands to see the Loc Ness Monster which has got to be far less scary than the present state of affairs in America.

Besides, there are some distilleries there which are known to serve the finest spirits to ease the weary soul.

Being a bit of a tourist will be a way of re-entry from the sacred time of pilgrimage. And then it will be home-again-home-again-jiggidy-jig for me on June 4th.

I'm not looking for anything in particular. I don't have a Great Spiritual Quest or a Goal or a Plan. I'm not going there to lose weight or get healthy/ier - although that would be lovely and might happen anyway.

I am simply longing for the time and the space to look inward and outward, upward and downward, forward and backward, in a place where millions of others have made the same journey.

Pray for me and I'll pray for you and, by God's grace, we'll get to Scotland together in spirit.

I will carry your heart in my heart.

(Yes, watch this space for reports of my journey.)

Motherhood and The Good Shepherd

The Trouble with Sheep - And, Mother's Day

Christ Episcopal Church, Milford, DE

May 12, 2019

Today is Mother’s Day. It’s also the Fourth Sunday in Easter which traditionally is known as ‘Good Shepherd Sunday’. 

Mother’s Day – like Father’s Day – carries with it its own set of difficulties. For some of us, it is the pain of having lost our mothers to death.

For other’s it’s the pain of having our mothers alive but part of the relationship is, if not painful, less than satisfactory. Some of us live with regret of never having had children, while others are working hard to keep our delight at not having had children a secret so as not to be judged abnormal. 

And then there are those days when we scratch our heads and wonder why we had children at all – until, one fine day, we become grandparents and it all becomes clear.

There are lots of other complicating factors like miscarriage, stillborn, adoption, foster care, etc., but you get the gist. It’s a preaching field loaded with pastoral landmines.

Truth be told, I have never liked ‘Good Shepherd Sunday’, either, but I’m feeling suddenly grateful to have to preach about good shepherds and sheep than motherhood. 

So, then, let’s talk about sheep, shall we? It’s ever so much easier than talking about mothers.

It’s not that I have a problem with Jesus as ‘the Good Shepherd.’  It’s that, if Jesus is the Shepherd, then we are the sheep. 

I don’t know about you, but I don’t much like being considered a dumb sheep. If I’m going to be part of the Flock of Jesus, I’d much rather be part of a flock of birds, thank you ever so much.

Let me restate that: I have never liked ‘Good Shepherd’ imagery – until – I was in England about 20 years ago and had the opportunity to talk with an actual shepherd.

I was spending the summer of 1998 in England, finishing my work on a diploma in Urban Studies at the University of Sheffield, before heading down to Canterbury where I would be attending my first Lambeth Conference.

As you may know, driving in England is a bit of a challenge – they do, after all, drive on the wrong side of the road. I’m here to tell you that they do this knowingly and willfully, having had this pointed out to them many times by both the French and the Americans. The only people the English hate more than Americans telling them how to speak English or how to drive is the French telling them anything (Right, Robert?).

At any rate, while I was at University, I drove a car. The other challenge about driving a car in England on the wrong side of the road – besides the fact that the roads are so narrow and winding and the British drive as if they weren’t – is that, when you drive in the country, you are apt to come to a full stop, right in the middle of the road, for sheep crossing.

It’s not just that you have to stop, it’s that you are at a full stop for quite some time. Ten, fifteen, oh, sometimes twenty or thirty minutes, depending on the size of the herd – and, to be perfectly honest, the attitude of the shepherd. 

That happened quite a bit when I was in Britain that summer, so I often found myself striking up a conversation with the local shepherd. Eventually, over the next few weeks, we developed something of a relationship. In the process, I got to know quite a bit about sheep.

Here’s the thing I learned best about sheep: the problem with sheep is not that they are dumb. They are decidedly not. Sheep have a very keen sense of smell. They can actually smell the new green grass and they can smell where the water is and they know how to find it. They really don’t need a shepherd to find it for them.

That’s not the problem. The problem with sheep is not that they are dumb. The problem with sheep is that they get very excited when they smell the new green grass and the water.

The problem with sheep is that they can get so excited about getting to the new green grass and the water that they don’t watch where they are going. They can trip over each other and hurt each other – especially the new little lambs. They will run into big trees or stumble over rocks. They have even been known to head over a cliff because they smelled the water and grass beneath.

As I considered what my shepherd friend was saying, the whole Good Shepherd thing began to make more sense. We’re not dumb sheep, but sometimes, we do get excited about life. 

Well, at least I do. I have been known to go running off with half-baked plans that were doomed to fail until, in prayer, Jesus sort of tapped me on the shoulder with his shepherd’s crook and said, “Hang on. Wait just a minute. Have you considered every aspect of this idea of yours?”

I was feeling a bit better about the whole Good Shepherd Sunday thing, but a question continued to nag at me. 

As luck would have it, I got a chance to ask the question of my friend the shepherd before I left.

My question to him was this: “Why is it that the sheep follow your voice and not mine? They know my voice after all these weeks, I can see that, but they follow your voice. Why?”

“Ah,” said my friend, “that’s the other thing about sheep. Not only are they not dumb, but they have a great sense of smell.”

“Well, yes, you’ve already told me that,” I said, wondering whatever any of that had to do with the price of wool.

My friend smiled and said, “You see, I smell like them. When I help with the birthing of new lambs, or when I sheer the sheep, there is a sort of lanolin that is given off. After a while, that lanolin gets under your skin. You can’t smell it, but the sheep can. They know my smell and they know that I am one of them. And so, they follow.”

And then, I got it. Like a dumb sheep finally smelling the new, green grass, I got excited and said, right out loud, “Oh, I get it! Duh! It’s the Incarnation, stupid!”

My shepherd friend, thinking that I was talking to him and questioning his intellect, got a bit startled and then distressed. I quickly explained to him that, suddenly, this passage of scripture from John’s gospel made sense to me.

We like to say that, “God came to earth and put on human flesh”. God got ‘under our skin’ the same way that the lanolin from the sheep gets under the shepherd’s skin. Ah, see? God in Christ Jesus smells like us, so when God speaks to us in the name of Jesus, we hear and recognize God’s voice. And, we follow. It was a very exciting new thought, I told my friend.

Well, I got so excited about this new insight that I tripped over a rock and fell flat on my backside. I called to the shepherd, “The problem with sheep is not that they are dumb but that they get excited, right, mate?” 

And, I started to laugh. So did my shepherd friend.

Some of the wee lambs and momma sheep came over to check me out and make sure I was okay.

“Careful now,” my shepherd friend called out. “Besides the smell of lanolin, the other way sheep know you is if they pee on you.”

I wasn’t that dumb. And, my mamma didn’t raise no fool. I got up very quickly.

Jesus said,“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

So, happy Good Shepherd Sunday! And, happy Mother’s Day!

Please join me in this prayer:

Gracious God, who got “under our skin” in the incarnation of Jesus and whose voice we hear and know and follow, on this Mother’s Day we give thanks to you for the divine gift of motherhood in all of its diversity and various forms. We ask your blessing upon all the mothers among us today; for our own mothers, those living and those who have died; for the mothers who loved us and for those who fell short of loving us fully; for all who hope to be mothers someday and for those whose hope to have children has been frustrated; for all mothers who have lost children and for those who have mothered the children of others and made for them a home; for all those – women and men – who have been our mothers when we needed mothering most; and for Mother Earth that gives us life and provides our sustenance. We pray this in the name of the Holy Trinity, One God, who comes to us in all the diverse ways we need God: Father, Mother, Brother, Sister, Guide and Friend - and, sometimes, by your grace, as sheep and Shepherd.     

Amen.

Pilgrimage Snob

Everyone, it seems, is going on a pilgrimage.

At least, that's what it seems. At least, that's how they're advertised.

One can take a pilgrimage to Rome, Italy or Jerusalem, Israel; Santiago, Spain or Stonehenge, England; Fatima, Portugal or Iona, Scotland; Machu Pichu, Peru or Oberammergau in Bavaria.

All of these places are identified as having something about them which is "holy" or "spiritual".

Some are connected to an event or events with an established a religious story; others are "thin places" where pilgrims have traveled for centuries, drawn by the way the light dances to the charge of electricity in the air and the way their spirit is called to deeper places of thought or creativity while they are there, in that place.

Other people prefer to make a pilgrimage to places where people have been martyred, like the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, where Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot and killed; or they walk the route from the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, retracing the Civil Rights March on that "Blood Sunday" on March 7, 1965 to Montgomery.

Many Episcopalians take an annual pilgrimage to Hayneville, Alabama, to the storefront where Jonathan Myrick Daniels, then a seminarian at the Episcopal Divinity School and civil rights worker was martyred while saving the life of 17 year old black civil rights activist, Ruby Sales, on August 20, 1965.

These are some of the many, many varied and different ways people make a pilgrimage which is defined in Wikipedia as "a journey or search of moral or spiritual significance. Typically, it is a journey to a shrine or other location of importance to a person's beliefs and faith, although sometimes it can be a metaphorical journey into someone's own beliefs."

Last October, I went on pilgrimage, walking 167 km (103 miles) from San Sebastian to Santiago, the place where the body of St. James (Sant Iago) is interred in the Cathedral build on that site.

That experience changed my life. No joke. It also made me a self-avowed "pilgrimage snob". Or, perhaps it's not as bad as that. Maybe I'm a "pilgrimage elitist".

Nah, "snob" it is.

As I've checked into various opportunities advertised as "pilgrimage" I've come to understand what some well-intentioned souls are actually offering is a "spiritual guided tour".

Which is fine. I'm sure they can actually be spiritually satisfying. Especially for an extrovert.

But, it's not a pilgrimage. Not as I've experienced them. See also: snob.

Well, let me have a run at that again: A few years ago - okay, maybe 15 or 20, actually - I discovered, much to my surprise, that I am an introvert.

I know. Ridiculous. How can an activist and a preacher and a community leader be an introvert?

What I've learned over the years is that I am an activist and a preacher and a community leader because I am an introvert. I draw from the very deep well I am blessed to have. I have a great appreciation for silence and actively seek out opportunities for quiet contemplation and reflection.

It's also why I come home from a day of church or a protest march or a demonstration and find it absolutely necessary to take a full one hour nap. Sometimes, longer.

In order to be a "parson" - a public person - I have to draw deep from my "shadow side", as Jung would put it, which leaves me feeling exhausted and depleted.

What could be perceived by some as a strident stance about pilgrimages, and my need to protect the essential meaning of what it means to be a pilgrim, is probably best understood as coming from being an I/E NF P/J on the Myer's Briggs Scale.

Folks who can flip in and out of their Introvert/Extrovert selves are often perceived at "snobs" or "elitists" or "standoff-ish". I admit, it must be confusing to see someone who appears for all the world as a "bubbly," "enthusiastic," and "engaging" person to suddenly seem quiet and set apart and, as one person angrily described me "all into yourself."

Ah, the church can be such a loving, understanding, accepting, forgiving place. (/sarcasm//).

My first experience of a pilgrimage was actually in Thailand. I was there to visit a friend and to experience something of living in a country which couldn't be more "foreign" to me and my life as I had lived it. I didn't intend to go on pilgrimage. I just suddenly found myself on one.

Let me try to explain.

It was Makha Bucha Day, which occurs on the full moon day of the third lunar month. The third lunar month is known in the Thai language as Makha. Bucha is also a Thai word meaning "to venerate" or "to honor".

Makha Bucha marks "the four auspicious occurrences", nine months after the Enlightenment of the Buddha at Veḷuvana Bamboo Grove, near Rājagaha in Northern India, which was 2,500 years ago.

On that occasion, 1,250 Arahta - or "Enlightened Ones" (priests) - without so much as a memo, email, text or tweet much less an appointment - suddenly and spontaneously arose together and came to see the Buddha.

That was 1,250 people. Spontaneously. Let that sink in for just a moment.

When they arrived, the Buddha ordained those Arhantas as his priests and gave them principles of Buddhism - known in Thailand as the "Heart of Buddhism". Those principles are:

To cease from all evil
To do what is good
To cleanse one's mind.

On the full moon day of the third lunar month, devote Buddhists in Thailand make a pilgrimage to their local Wat or Temple. They carry a candle and a bouquet of flowers. They begin with prayers and listen to a "sermon" about the three principles of the Heart of Buddhism.

They begin their pilgrimage by walking in silence or very quiet conversation once around the Wat counterclockwise, thinking about ceasing from all evil. Then, again, they walk in the opposite direction, clockwise, meditating on what it is to do good. A final, third time, they walk couterclockwise and end their journey by cleansing their mind.

In between or at the end of each circumambulation, they spend time in the Wat, reverencing the statues of the Buddha and the Arahta whose teachings have helped people in their journey to the Heart of Buddhism.

I suppose one could liken it to a labyrinth walk, except it is much more purposeful and intense. It's also pretty amazing to see hundreds, if not thousands of people - men, women with babes walking in the darkness with their candles and flowers, everyone quietly focused on how to cease evil, how to do what is good and how to cleanse one's mind.

I made this pilgrimage and had an amazing, powerful Spiritual Awakening which I documented here.

Click on the link and read for yourself. It was pretty incredible. Life changing. Transformative.

I think this was the moment I understood in a place deep in my inner understanding the difference between a "spiritual guided tour" and a pilgrimage. When you've experience it, nothing else will do. You become an unrepentant snob.

I think this is especially true if you have any tendencies toward being an introvert.

Likewise, I suspect that an extrovert might find a pilgrimage more than a bit tedious and pointless.

Where you are - the place you find yourself - is not as important as where you've been and where you are going - because that's what makes this historic or holy place important or sacred.

It's not just what happened there but what has happened SINCE and BECAUSE OF what happened there.  It's the connection to the story - our connection, my connection - from that deep place of knowing that which is unknowable except through the sharing of stories.

The present is important but its importance is not limited by the significance of the place.  You understand, as a pilgrim, that the present is a vehicle through which one can take the lessons of the past to transform and make yourself and the world a better place.

Not perfect. Better. You understand what St. Paul said about: "It is perfected in the doing."

And, that's what makes it "sacred" or "holy".

That's why the travel to and from this place is so important.

When I was on Camino, there was time in the early morning to learn about local history as well as current events - the sort of "tour guide" part of the journey.

But, the bulk of the day - as much as half of it or 12 hours - was spent walking and considering spiritual or ethical or moral questions - or memories that touched joy or sorrow - which arose from walking many kilometers by yourself in a place where you are surrounded by the energy - felt it pulsing up from the very ground on which you walked - of millions of pilgrims who have walked this way before.

I don't know how to explain it - what words to use to describe it - except that it is transformative.

Having felt that, I've not only become a pilgrim snob, I've become a pilgrimage junkie.

I'm totally and completely hooked.

As I write this, I'm preparing for another pilgrimage the end of this month. I leave May 20th for Scotland. I arrive in Glasgow and I've padded the beginning and ending of my pilgrimage with a few days to allow for some visits to Edinborough and the Highlands.

The main pilgrimage will be on the Isle of Iona, where St. Columba reportedly brought Christianity to the island and then onto the rest of Scotland.

Our pilgrimage leader has her doctorate in Sacred Storytelling. The rhythm of the day will be to have breakfast together and then to gather to hear a Sacred Story. We are then free to explore a part of the island on our own or with a small group of friends.

We're on our own for lunch and then we can continue to explore the island on our own or to do whatever it is that nourishes our soul. We gather again for dinner and then community prayer and then it's off to bed - or, whatever it is that brings rest to the mind and the body and the soul.

This, as I have come to know and understand and appreciate it, is the ancient rhythm of a pilgrimage.

A little community with breakfast and the morsel of a story as spiritual food to begin the day.

A solitary walk for miles with, perhaps, by the working of the spirit, an unexpected, unplanned, brief encounter and, perhaps, conversation with an Anamchara - a stranger who becomes a soul friend.

And then, perhaps, the evening of sharing in community: A meal to nourish the body, the stories and laughter of the day to feed the spirit, and the deep thoughts and ideas and revelations learned along the day's path to fuel the imagination with creativity so as to sleep with pleasant dreams.

It's the balance - or the attempt to balance - solitude and community, silence and conversation, sacred and profane, familiar and foreign, present, past and future which makes the journey holy.

It's what makes it a pilgrimage and not just a "sacred guided tour" in another place.

In some ways, no matter where I am, no matter where I go, I'm still on that very first pilgrimage I took in Thailand. I am still working out in my body, mind and spirit, what it means to live a life committed to the three principles at the heart of the Buddha:

To cease from all evil
To do what is good
To cleanse one's mind.

I am drawn to this work. I am called to this work. In some way, it is the most important work I've even done in my life, affecting everything else I do in my life when I'm not actually on pilgrimage.

It's the work of Buddha but it's also the work of Abraham, Moses and Jesus, Sarah Mariam and Mary.

It's the work of the apostles and disciples of holy people, teachers, rabbis, priests, prophets, saints and martyrs of every age and place, ancient and modern, knowing and unknowing.

It's the work of every day people everywhere, no matter their race, religion, or creed.

I am not able to do this work with as much satisfaction or efficacy in the normal activities of my daily life. Neither am I strong enough to do this work on a weekend retreat or a "spiritually guided tour" in another land.

I suppose I'm just a pilgrimage snob.

Pray for me.

And, I'll pray for you.

Together, each in our own way, we'll work to cease from all evil, do what is good, and cleanse our minds so that we may be free to hear where the spirit is calling us next.