What we can't see

Camera seeing is not the same as human seeing.   On vacation, Rick and I went out along the C&O Canal in Maryland with camera in hand.  Rick spotted a night heron perched on a fallen branch sticking out of the green, algae-covered water.  The night heron at a distance was a rather unremarkable bird as herons go, identified by its stubby shape.   Later, we downloaded the pictures, and I saw what the camera had seen, but my eye hadn’t.  The heron’s detail was fascinating.  The colors,  indistinguishable at a distance in the sun, were blues, mauves and lavenders.  White stripes on its breast were delicately squiggled with shorter dabs of white under its beak.  The head of the bird had a crest of feathers which was sometimes flattened, but sometimes fluffed up like a blue mohawk.  The camera could see what we couldn’t—an amazing bird.

God, sort of like the camera, sees what humans can’t see.  God once told the prophet Samuel that humans look on outward appearances, but God looks on the heart. Humans want something that looks important, while God’s work is often hidden because God notices people on the inside.  At the time of this discussion, God was revealing who would be the next king of Israel---a kid, the youngest of eight, out watching sheep in the fields, who loved to sing and was a whiz with a slingshot, yet overlooked by his family.  But not overlook by God; instead filled with God's Spirit.  Name?  David.

You and I were anointed by the God's Spirit at baptism.  We may be convinced that we are rather ordinary and unremarkable.  What does God see in us that others don't see?  In fact, what does God see in us, that we ourselves don't see yet?  And to what does God call us (and our congregations) that we wouldn't dare to dream on our own?  Most likely it is something quite simple, something we like to do like organizing a gardening, music, running a business, teaching, visiting, sewing quilts, cooking, fixing things or being a dedicated grandparent.  That simple activity, along with a heart that loves God and others, is used and multiplied by God for something significant.  God sees into the heart of things and takes something simple about who we are or what we do and makes it bear fruit in the lives of others.   Often we are unaware that anything of importance happening, but, of course, that’s because God sees what we can’t.  If, however, we do happen to catch a glimpse of what God is doing through us, our response will likely be: Amazing! Thanks be to God!

Back to Real Time

For the last number of months I have posted about my thoughts and small adventures on the sabbatical pilgrimage of 2008.   The discipline of reworking my journal has given me a good refresher course in what God had been teaching me back then.  Four years later the walk from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh along rivers and through mountains while learning the gospel of John by heart, offers guidance as I focus on the future walk, especially the walk of the congregation and the branch of the Church that I serve in these changing, uncertain times.  Uncertain from my perspective, not God's. I hope you have enjoyed the walk too.  But now it is time to come back to real time as I follow Jesus into the future while continuing to learn from the past.

I have been thinking about Sunday's text, 1 Samuel 16, the alternate Hebrew scripture reading for the day.  The prophet Samuel is sent by God, who is definitely fed up with the antics of King Saul, to anoint a second and more faithful king for Israel.  Yes, from the human perspective, God and consequently Samuel are committing treason, and it is rather dangerous.  Samuel is directed by God to go to Jesse in Bethlehem; one of Jesse's sons is the one God will choose as a new king.  Seven sons are paraded before Samuel and each time Samuel, although impressed, is assured by God that this or that son is not the one.  God tells Samuel that humans look on outward appearances, but God looks on the heart.

When all the young men have finished meeting Samuel, he is puzzled and asks Jesse whether there are any more sons.  Jesse tells him that the youngest, just a lad, is out in the fields with the sheep.  Samuel demands to see him and, sure enough,  the old prophet has confirmation by God that his boy, David, is to be the next king.  if he had not listened to God, Samuel would not have chosen David as king.  David's own father, Jesse, would not have thought of David as having royal potential.  And yet....

And yet God has other plans, so Samuel takes his oil and pours it over David's head, announcing him as God's chosen leader for the people of Israel.  The text then says God's Spirit came upon David.  God saw something in David that no one else saw.

You and I were anointed by the Holy Spirit at baptism.  What does God see in us that others don't see?  What does God see in us, that we don't see yet? To what does God call us to that we wouldn't dare to dream on our own?  Most likely it is not to be a queen/king or prime minister or president of a nation.  Most likely it is something quite simple like being a dedicated grandparent, or sharing hammered dulcimer music or sewing quilts for Lutheran World relief.

But when God gets God's hands on something quite simple, God can make it into something profound, even if, as is usually the case, we are unaware of it being anything more than the usual. The point is not so much what you or I have been anointed to do, but what God is mysteriously doing in, under and through the simplicity of our given lives.  God may be blessing others through us in ways we can't even see.

Humans see the outward appearance of things.  God looks on the heart of things and there may be a world of difference between the two.  And sometimes, with God's help, we catch of glimpse of what God's up to and what God is seeing in us.

Chapter 25-The finish or the beginning?

This journal entry is from Friday, July 4, 2009 as I reach the end point of my walk from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh.
  
The place where I stopped the previous walking day was in McKeesport in a hot, gravel lot next to the rail yard and steel mills.  Between that location and where we begin today, there is a long stretch where bikers must travel on busy roads with cars and trucks because the old trail has been taken over along the river’s edge by active industry and trains.  The hope of rail trail enthusiasts is that someday the trail will be finished all the way into the city.  But once again we decide the detour is too precarious for pedestrians and dogs.  It takes some investigation this morning to find a parking place in the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center where there is access to the reappearing trail that will lead into the city.  It is no longer marked as the Great Allegheny Passage trail.  One would never know that this city pavement is part of a path leading east over beautiful country, through fields of wildflowers, across mountains, through tunnels, along rivers and right into the nation’s capitol.  Instead it masquerades as an ordinary asphalt walkway along the Monongahela River, good for lunch break exercising, a daily stroll with the dog or an afternoon of rollerblading.

Since my niece Lauren came back from Cleveland with us yesterday, she is joining me for the walk today.  Under a mercifully cloudy and cooler sky, we pray the walking prayer and work on learning John's gospel for a little bit, but soon abandon the endeavor. She is too full of stories about her summer internship working in a women’s shelter.

We only walk an hour before we get to the restaurant district where Rick finds us and coaxes us to join him for lunch.  I can’t say I mind eating something other than a peanut butter sandwich and apple.  But how strange it feels to leave the trail midday and have a choice of a dozen places to eat and be waited on.  Not only that, it is strange that Chester isn’t sharing lunch with me and thumping his tail for a carrot.  We have left him on his own in the truck with his hard-boiled egg.  After lunch Lauren and I fetch Chester again and head across the historic Hot Metal Bridge.  Years ago it used to carry carts of molten steel from one side of the river to another.  Now it has recently been restored for pedestrians and bikes.  On the other side of the Monongahela we find the pathway near the riverbank and head towards downtown. 

After Lauren has told of the shelter's many dramas, we decide it would feel good to sit down again.  We notice a plaza one block off to our right with tables and chairs on marble pavement.  The buildings that surround this space are shiny steel structures with slick black windows and a  castle-like architecture.  It is a bit surreal, some medieval/ space-age combo,  but we are grateful for a seat.  The seat doesn’t last long.  Immediately a security guard appears out of nowhere and shoos us off.  No dogs allowed, he says.   I promptly tell him that this is no ordinary dog; Chester has walked all the way from Washington D.C.  He is totally uninterested, looks at me as if I’m crazy, and repeats again that no dogs are allowed.  Such is the life of a pilgrim; we get up and keep moving.

Crowds of people are in Point State Park when we arrive. This is the 4th of July, after all.  Very noisy speed boats are showing off on a race course on the Allegheny River side.  Loud speakers and amplifiers are blaring music.  At the point where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers converge to form the Ohio,  there is a huge fountain.  This, of all places, is where my prayerful pilgrimage ends.  In some way it seems fitting that, after miles of walking through remote forests and wilderness, after having my contemplative fill of nature, quiet and prayer, after wading through chapters of the Gospel of John, now I am suddenly immersed in the loudest noises of humanity.  The word made flesh again.  The point of the sabbatical walk in the end has been to send me back renewed into the heart of the world.  Well, here’s the world, and here in the middle of the world is water gushing up from the central fountain.  My second and third favorite sayings of Jesus in the gospel come to mind:       

        The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.  (John 4.14)

        Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.  As the scripture says, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’  (John 7.37-38)

The fountain spurts spray toward the clouds, and the two mighty rivers on either side are pushing into the larger Ohio River that flows before me to the west and the Mississippi.  Masses of people around me are yelling, eating, chasing children, holding hands, dropping things.  I pick up a baby’s sweater and try to find its owner.   When I was starting out in Washington, I remember how I wanted to shout to everyone that I was going  to walk to Pittsburgh.  Now that I’m here, I have no desire to announce my arrival.  I am content to sit quietly on this block of cement and let it sink in. 

It is, after all,  not the walking 335 miles that is the feat; it is what God has done in between.  And what exactly has God in between?  I know on this long walk I have experienced tiny moments of God’s grace upon grace that when added together are like the gushing fountain I am sitting beside. I do know I have changed.  How?  I can’t put that  into words yet either.   I have a few more chapters of John to learn by heart and a few more weeks before heading back to a pastor’s routine.  Maybe I’ll have things figured out by then.

Lauren, Chester and I sit on the edge of the fountain and wait for Rick to find us.  We have to yell at each other to be heard.  God once again has a great sense of humor.  Months ago when I looked at a map and picked this as a place to end up (since the trail simply disappears in the city), I knew nothing about the park, and I certainly didn’t plan that we would finish here on the crowded 4th of July.  But what better way for God to say: Elaine, the walk is over.  It is time to take what you have come to know back to the people.  It’s time to take the peace and words I have been planting within you back to the restless, thirsty mobs.  The finish here is just the beginning.



       

Chapter 24- A long way from welcome

This is from my journal on the long sabbatical walk from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh while memorizing the gospel of John.  The following took place over June 30- July 3, 2008, at a campground near Pittsburgh.

Entry for Monday evening.  We are camped on a hillside, not surprising since there is nothing but hills near Pittsburgh. At the foot of this slope is a dammed pond surrounded by grass.  This evening a few boys are fishing, and there’s a wooden dock with a rowboat.   I walk my dog, Chester, around the pond before bed and notice a group camped in tents in a field close to the water.  It seems to be a family reunion with lots of celebration and cooking going on.  I head back up the hill to my own quiet campfire.

Entry for Tuesday evening.  Sometime during last night there was a downpour.  This morning's light reveals that the field next to the pond has become a marsh.  There seems to be a lot of commotion among the tent campers as we leave for the trail to continue the hike to Buena Vista today.  By the time we return in the late afternoon, the drenched family has moved to a location up the hill near us.  They have set up their tents again in this new spot, and are drying sleeping bags and clothes over bushes and makeshift clotheslines.  They are located next to a small pavilion and have strung lights around.  The women are busy preparing supper and the men are playing with the children.  In spite of spending the day moving and drying out, they certainly seem to be the happiest group in the campground.  They play games and are talking well into the night, but I am too tired for their laughter to keep me awake.

Entry for Wednesday evening. After walking today, when Rick picks me up in McKeesport, he tells me how one of the young men, Chandra, had invited him down to the family’s site for chai.  He learns that they are originally from India and, in fact, their older parents have just come to America a few weeks ago to live permanently.  Their camping expedition is intended to be a celebration of siblings and cousins and grandchildren welcoming their parents’ arrival.  In the conversation Rick has told them about our daughter, Becca, whom we adopted from the Missionaries of Charity orphanage in Delhi.  A friendly acquaintance has begun, he tells me, as we drive back to camp.

Once "home," I sit outside writing in my journal.  The boys and men in the family start a pick-up cricket game in the gravel road not far away.  There is not a lot a room for the game to get too intense, so it peters out before long.  Chandra drops by, and I get to meet him.  We talk about soccer, and I try my best to keep up with his thick accent.  He invites us to join his family later for dinner.

When the food is ready to be served, Chandra comes to fetch us and introduces us to people.  We all take off our shoes and sit down around the edges of  a mat spread on the ground.  I am one of the few women sitting down.  Most of them are dishing out food or chasing a child or doing this or that. The food is delicious: a spicy tomato-dried pea-onion stew with papad, which is a cracker-like spiced bread.  Tonight the papad is served with a relish of chopped tomato and onion.  More Hindi (?) than English is spoken this night, but Chandra translates and is careful to keep us included in the conversation.  They tell us what they do for work.  Chandra is a jeweler specializing in diamonds.  His cousin is a computer programmer.  The recently immigrated grandfather was a farmer back in India before he sold the farm to come to the U.S.

The laughter and banter slows a bit when Chandra announces says that the family has been asked to leave the campground tomorrow.  Apparently there have been complaints and misunderstandings. They have been too noisy.  Their campsite is too messy.  They have taken over the pavilion instead of using it only temporarily in the rain to dry out.  When the communication with the owner occurred earlier in the day, none of the men had been there.  The women, who do not speak English well, had been confused.  They are trying to remedy the situation.  They have moved their things out of the pavilion, picked up their children’s toys, and taken dried clothes off the makeshift line.  Chandra is going to try to talk to the owner himself.  What will you do if you have to leave? I ask him.  He tells me that most campgrounds are full because of the 4th of July in two days.  Maybe they will go to West Virginia to a temple where they would be welcome to camp out.  Or maybe they will just go home.  He says all this with a smile and without complaint, but I can sense their puzzlement with their adopted culture.  We all know, but leave unspoken, that the real problem is the way they talk, the color of their skin, the unfamiliar brightness of their saris, the spilling over of their boisterous celebration, even though their celebration is about their family living in the United States and observing the first 4th of July with their aging parents.  My goodness, the campground should be throwing a party for them!

Entry for Thursday evening
Rick and I climb into the truck to go visit his mother in Cleveland for the day, and  Chandra stops us, bringing over two cups of hot chai, thick with buttered milk and the aroma of spice. We thank him and his family, wish them well and share our hope that the situation works out so that they can stay.

We do not tell them of our plan, but on our way out of camp we stop at the office, determined to put in a good word for our Indian friends. When we had checked in the first day, the owners had taken note that we came from a college that their daughter had considered attending because it is a Christian college.  So now we were hoping that some of these faith connections might help in a conversation with them about Chandra's family.

Inside the camp store, we tell them we understand that there may possibly be a problem and difficulty in communicating.  We say that, although our campsite is in close proximity to the family in question, we have not experienced any problems.  On the contrary the Indian family had been wonderfully friendly and hospitable. We have been their guests at a delicious meal, we say. Our acquaintance with them has, in fact, been our most rewarding experience of neighborly camping in our seven weeks on the road.  But there have been complaints, they say. We respond sympathetically: we know they are trying to run a business, but that we believe the family wants to abide by any rules of the campground, and we hope some consideration can be given.

It is long after dark by the time we return.  As we drive up the hill, I look in vain for our new friends. Their campsite is dark and vacant.  We unload our things out of the truck quietly, and I notice an extra bag of charcoal sitting by our picnic table.  I feel defeated, a sadness weighing me down.  I miss the sparkling lights around the pavilion, the laughter around the game of cards on the blanket.  I am embarrassed to be a part of such an ungracious culture, and wish I had at least taught my new neighbors how to roast marshmallows and make s’mores before they had to leave.

The beloved disciple writes that, the night before he was crucified by the authorities, Jesus said to his disciples: “I am giving you a new commandment that you love one another.  If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me before it hated you.  If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own.  Because you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world---therefore the world hates you....It was to fulfill the word written in their law, “They hated me without a cause.”  (John 15.18-19, 25)

This pilgrim prays: I am sad, Lord, that this family, which befriended and welcomed us, could not fit in to the unwritten rules and the unbending camping culture around them.  Their situation reminds me of what you said your disciples might face if we decide to take seriously your command to love one another.  You warned us that your way will never be popular or practical when it is lived out to the fullest.  You noted that your disciples may always be considered foolish and at odds with expectations and priorities of the world around. Your words seem pessimistic, but understandable, seeing how you would be crucified the next day. Still, you remind us that there will be many times when “loving one another as I have loved you” will in no way be rewarded by those around us and can be a lonely pilgrimage.

Meanwhile, for tonight I would feel more at home with my outcast neighbors traveling to an Indian temple than with the people playing patriotic songs loudly in the next campsite. I put on my headphones and listen to Yo-Yo Ma and the Silk Road Ensemble.  My eyes close and I’ll soon be asleep.  Here is a great irony: we, your pilgrims on earth, do not belong to the world, and yet in order to love one another as you did, we still must care deeply about the world, your whole world, and not just our own little corner.

Chapter 23- Red Bicycle

From my journal of July 2008 as I was walking from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh while memorizing the gospel of John. On this day the trail went through Dead Man’s Hollow Wildlife Preserve.

She rides past me on a bright  red bicycle, pedaling with a slow, deliberate pace, legs pushing in partnered motion.  Under a sun hat, her chestnut skin glistens with sweat, and she lifts her head proudly.  As she pulls in front, I watch how her straight back absorbs and balances with grace the gentle sways of her bicycle. Then I notice that behind her seat, strapped onto the frame, is an oxygen tank.  My miles of walking seem meager before such determination, such affirmation of life.  Red bicycle, red heart pumping, red blood cells crying for breath, red courage.

Fifteen minutes later, I am talking on my cell phone, negotiating at what steel mill parking lot I will get picked up since soon the trail gives way to the railway and industry hugging the river.  Here she returns again, emerging from tree shadows.  The hot afternoon sunlight flickers through the leaves and plays patterns on her hat, then glints red hues off the bicycle.  Soon I can read the name “Jesus” written in large letters across the front of her shirt.  Of course!  Impulsively, I wave and call an enthusiastic, “Hi!”  But I only end up confusing my husband on the phone and raising the red bicycle lady’s eyebrows as she glides by.

True, it was an unusual burst of spontaneity toward a stranger, especially for me.  But the book I have been reading for the last 315 miles, the same book I waved in the air while greeting her,  says we are one, she and I.  Through the name that binds us, I have suddenly recognized that her red bicycle is an amazing prayer.  One pilgrim has overheard  another in passing.  Hindsight, I should turn back around toward her swiftly retreating figure and bellow, “Amen, sister! To Life!”

The beloved disciple tells us that Jesus prayed:

 "I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me.  The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.   (John 17.20-23)

This pilgrim prays: Well, I am acting uncharacteristically extrovert today.  Have I been walking too long?  Lord Jesus, you prayed that the pilgrim on the red bicycle and I would be one.  You’ve connected us to one another in invisible ways.  Maybe that’s why I greeted her before I knew what I was doing.  Maybe that’s why I don’t need a conversation to see her courage and sense her trusting your grace upon grace with each turn of the wheels.  She is my sister, relying on you for every breath.  So this is my prayer: may the world of people she passes on her red bicycle (including myself) see that you have indeed loved us with life, even as you are loving her with breath.

Chapter 22- The roar of my race

From my journal of  

Monday, June 30, 2008, walking from Washington  D.C. to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart.

For the second time today the sky grows heavy.  Rain soon spatters the dirt path at my feet.  I step onto grass to open my pack and pull out the rain gear that is still damp from the earlier storm.  On goes the turquoise-flowered raincoat.  I must sit down in order to guide my bulky hiking shoes through the rain pants.  Then I help Chester poke his head through his bright yellow slicker and adjust the velcro straps under his chest.  He and I both think this coat looks silly, but he hates getting wet in the rain.  Damp fur and a camping trailer’s close quarters do not mix well. Finally, I put the orange water-proof cover over my pack.

Now that we are decked out like a carnival and visible to any interested thundercloud, we continue through open land.  Here shrubs are scattered sparsely amid remnant mounds of wet-slick coal.  Ahead, however, I see that the path leads toward a hill covered thickly with trees.  There, in contrast to the threatening darkness over my shoulder, one wispy, white cloud lingers low along the ridge.  Thunder mutters behind me, but I watch this lone cloud slowly, patiently snake and skim along the tips of the maples that seem to scratch its pale belly.  While the other stormy clouds start throwing lightening to my left, when their rumbles move in circles that echo around the mined cliffs and off the swollen river, this little cloud lowers its soft body deeper into the hillside branches, as if seeking refuge from the fray.  I hurry my pace to reach the hill, but, by the time I arrive, the cloud has withdrawn completely into the dripping, green canopy.  Searching through tree trunks, I think I see its lighter haze among some vines.  Or perhaps its tail is over there, where one ghostly wisp trails from behind a tree.

The rain pounds us, and each sudden beat of thunder sends involuntary shudders down my arms and legs.  Unlike the now camouflaged cloud, there is no safe place for Chester and me to take shelter.  On either side of the path, the tall trees or the surging river tempt strikes of lightning.  So we do the only thing we can reasonably do, keep walking straight ahead, sloshing through deepening puddles towards the goal of a park and shelter only a mile ahead.

I understand the cloud’s disappearance.  There are thunderings this year among denominations, congregations, and clergy colleagues about who’s right and who’s wrong in the Church.  I, too, would prefer to hide rather than face the threatening power displays of my own human brothers and sisters, rather than endure their stabbing light shows of rhetoric that accomplish little, rather than watch their self-justified roughness and verbal violence to one another.  Perhaps I exaggerate, and perhaps my withdrawals from these debates are a weakness.  Oh, but at times such is the roar of the religious that I would rather go for a walk down by the creek and sink my nose into the wet, earth-scented fern.  Yes, I would rather turn from brassy, self-righteous declarations of certitude and train my ears, instead, to hear the delicate vibrations of the granddaddy-long-legs stepping gently over the fallen twig. Or focus my eyes to track the slender, viscous trailing that leads to the silent, soft slug.  Such a humble creature it is!

The beloved disciple tells us that after a heated conversation with religious authorities, Jesus said to them:

"Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am.’  So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple.” (John 8.58-59)

And so I find myself in this thunderstorm praying:  O Christ, when I withdraw, it is sometimes to enjoy the outdoors, sometimes to have space to reflect, to enter a wholesome stillness, to talk to you.  But other times I withdraw to ward off speaking, to avoid the painful realities of being Church together, to enter the realm of  protecting myself from chafing debate.

What did you do?  When the violence and the antagonism ran rampant, you withdrew, yes,  more than once.  Sometimes you hid or went into the wilderness for awhile.  Not from fear.  Not from anger.  But for love.  For time to be able to love humanity more.  Then, in the end, at the hour you chose to be the most compassionate, you allowed the roar of the human race to spend its fury and demand to crucify you.  You did not withdraw, not that time, but opened yourself to spill out God’s healing and forgiveness.  Love again.

So when I get back from this pilgrimage, help me discern, like you, the differences of ebb and flow, the times of  withdrawing and stepping forward, that are neither chased nor pulled by the roar of human words, but only by the heart-beat of you, the Compassionate One.  

Chapter 21- Practicing the Pace

Continued from my journal of 2008 when I walked from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh while memorizing the gospel of John.

Yesterday I finished learning John 15.  That is, after we got through our early morning singing session to ward off the bear.  The rest of the day,  Chester, as usual, led the way and I followed.  We do look a little odd.  His leash is often looped through the waist belt of my pack so that my hands are free to hold the book of John's gospel.  I suppose it appears that he is pulling me along, although the truth is we have long since settled into a pace that matches one another.  A few days ago when a group of bikers passed us, one young woman called out to her friends, “Oh look, that dog is walking its person!”  Well, she should have seen Chester yesterday!  We had completed about sixteen and a half miles (of eighteen) when Chester suddenly picked up the pace into high gear.  I was surprised because most days he slows down as the walk wears on. Was he impatient with this especially long hike?  Could he smell Ohiopyle with its outdoor cafes?  Did he have a sixth sense that we were getting close to the car with his own back seat to stretch out upon and rest his paws?  There was no doubt that for the final mile he was “walking his person,” pulling as we zoomed over the last two pedestrian/bike bridges that spanned a loop of the river.

After driving back to the camper, I collapsed into bed, Chester crashed on the couch and we were well into a deep sleep when Rick and my daughter-in-law Tera got back about 1:00 a.m. from D.C.  Everyone has slept in this morning.  We are foraging for our own late breakfasts, carrying food out to sit around the campfire, moving chairs as the smoke shifts and spilling cups of tea in the process.  Increasing scattered storms are in the forecast for the day, so we decide to head up to Adelaide and get four miles of hiking completed before the rain sets in. A short walk is enough to get rid of the stiffness from yesterday, but not enough to be too tiring.

Tera joins me and today it is she, not Chester, who sets a quick pace.  I say our walking prayer, and she holds the John book and checks me on how well I can remember chapter 15.  One light shower passes over and does not get anyone too wet.  We reach Dawson in just under an hour and a half, climb into the truck in time to avoid harder rain,  drive back to Ohiopyle,  eat lunch outdoors at the Firefly Grill, and stop by the town park to take photos of the falls.  All of this is done in between thunder showers.  Before heading home, we stop at a short trail that leads steeply down to a creek at the base of Cucumber Falls.  Tera and I stop halfway down at a wooden landing.  Here we are level with the upper branches of a stately hemlock that rises from the foot of the falls and whose limbs stretch over the splashing water and spray.  I am too tired to go any further down, and thunder is rumbling louder than the din of the pounding water on rock.

From our vantage point we spot a bird with striking yellow markings flying from branch to branch.  This little creature moves like a fluttering dart, different from  the relaxed, swooping dips of a goldfinch, a bird of similar color.  We watch carefully as it flits in and out of sight.  Back at the camper, we search the bird book and  guess the bird was a Kentucky warbler.  Apparently they like moist, shady places which certainly describes the waterfall ravine in which we had been standing.  Kentucky warblers are also hard to see, says the book, because they stay up in the branches of the trees.  We were fortunate.  Because we were standing half-way up (or down) the ravine, we were eye-level with the warbler’s territory.

I wish I could say more about the territory of John 15.  I am the vine, you are the branches.  Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit,because apart from me you can do nothing.  This thing about abiding in Christ is for me as elusive as the Kentucky warbler.   On the one hand, the words are quite simple: abide in me as I abide in you. Stay in me as I stay in you. On the other hand, exactly how in the world are we supposed to do that?  Who can explain what Jesus means?  Especially when he goes on to say abiding in him is comparable to his abiding with the Father.  Really?  I can "abide" like that?  What about when I go back at work where there are so many demanding responsibilities in life;  I might go most of a day before I have a chance to think about him. Where's the abiding then?   I had hoped to get some enlightenment after walking with John 15 for eighteen miles yesterday, but I am just as clueless today as I was yesterday morning about Christ's invitation to abide.

At  a loss, I sit on the camp bed propped against pillows with the journal on my lap, writing my questions down. I begin to skim through the journal entries of the last two months.  I read through hundreds of miles of walking, and through that time Jesus and his words were the focus of a large part of each day.  As I turn page after page, I realize this has surely been something of what it means to abide in him.  It is becoming evident that this whole walk has been learning about “abiding in Christ.”  My part has simply been to walk with the gospel of John open, to be watchful and to listen, giving opportunity for the relationship to grow as we journey along.  Nevertheless, this pilgrim (me) is finally beginning to understand that walking the water way is more a practice session than an end in itself.  I have been practicing paying attention to Christ for a number of hours a day.  I have been practicing living with joy, life and courage.  I have been practicing having a friendly conversation with the Christ of John's gospel throughout the day.  I have been practicing having words of scripture wrap around different activities on the trail.  I have been practicing slowing down to notice the small treasures in creation.  I have been practicing matching my pace with Christ as I read andlearn his words.  However, I am sure that in spite of all that, he is forever matching his pace to my wandering steps.  I have been, I think, practicing  what Jesus quite simply calls  “abiding in me.”

But in fact, Christ is always aware of me, always abiding in me, and always working through me, even though I am not always aware of abiding in him.  The times when I am unable to focus on Christ’s presence are times when I simply have to trust in the deeper connection that he is abiding in me beyond my awareness. In fact, he does the abiding for me.  Meanwhile, I practice the pace, match the pace,  keeping the pace with the Christ.


This pilgrim prays:

How can I not abide in you, my Friend?
You surround me.
There is no place you are not;
your encircling assures
I abide in you.


And how can you not abide in me, my Source?
You “knit me together in my mother’s womb.”
You tend the pulses that pace my earthly life’s limits
and know the shadows of myself that I do not.
That I am breathing at all
or can think your name
declares you abide in me


The abiding, yours and mine,
is already doubly done by you.
You abide for me,
both you in me and drawing me in you,
and the abiding thus insured,
I just open my eyes and sing.