Fear Can't Win
A little over a year ago I rode into Turkey on my loaded down bicycle on the same day that protests broke out over the country. ISIS had fought its way into the largely Kurdish town of Kobani, Syria and much of Turkey exploded in anger and frustration over the timid response from the Turkish government. I wasn't sure what I was riding into. I made the decision that I would rely on the reception that I could intuitively feel from the people of Turkey. Warm greetings would keep me pedaling forward. Cold and wary looks would have me rethinking my route.
Not two hours after watching the news of protests, tear gas, stores windows smashed by rocks, and gun-yielding police pushing back mobs I was waved over by a road crew taking a break for lunch. I have posted about this before, but it bears repeating again. Without knowing what I was getting into I had been invited to share part of the Muslim Feast of Sacrifice, Eid al Adha, that commemorates Abraham's faithfulness to Allah (or Yahweh or God for those who need translation).After the initial religious festivities of Eid al Adha the sacrificed goats and lambs are consecrated for three different purposes--one-third goes to immediate family, one-third is given to distant relatives and neighbors, and one-third is reserved for the poor and the stranger. I didn't even know that I was playing a part until later someone told me that the Muslim men were looking for opportunities to share their sacred meal with the poor and stranger. I just happened to ride by at the right moment.
We shared what was at times an awkward meal as I was already full from a hotel breakfast and they could not allow for the sacrificial goat to be wasted. Once I finished the meat portion of the meal we all lightened up, took pictures of each other, and watched as one man made a humorous attempt at riding my bike in his work boots, tar covered pants, and with a cigarette hanging from his lip. I parted with the traditional embrace and Turkish double kiss with men I had only known for an hour.I write this as America reacts to the suicide bombings in Paris and the growing number of Syrian refugees fleeing for their lives from their beloved homeland. And I am sad, very sad. I get all the rational, common sense arguments for shutting our borders to Syrian refugees in the hope that it will also close the borders to potential terrorists. But at what cost? We may save a few dozen lives or maybe even a few hundred lives. But will we have lost our soul and our way as Americans?
Will the Statue of Liberty need to be dismantled and placed in the Smithsonian as a relic of our past? On the placard it will read, "1886-2015: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free..." Will the Statue of Liberty still stand tall in her harbor while we avert our eyes too ashamed to look directly at her proud face and torch of freedom?One year ago I had every reason to turn back from Turkey. ISIS was looking for Americans to kidnap and hold as ransom to fund their brutal tactics. Protests were breaking out in twenty cities in the country. People had warned me that it was too risky of a time. And I was as vulnerable as could be riding a bicycle in foreign territory with my Swiss Army knife my only weapon. But I decided that fear couldn't win.Were there risks? Yes. But the greatest risk was to wither up in the face of danger and live my life in fear.The greatest risk was to let terror win.We can't let terror win. I don't think this is a battle between terrorists and peace-loving people. This is a battle between liberty, freedom, compassion and fear. One year ago I was the poor and the stranger in a foreign land and a band of Muslim brothers welcomed me and shared a religious feast with me. We have to open our arms to the vulnerable and the stranger. We have to keep our borders open because that is who we are. That is who we always have been. That is what it means to be American.Fear can't win. Fear can't win. Goddamnit, we can't let fear win.
This is the Islam I know
Three months ago I was riding my bicycle fifty kilometers inside of Muslim Turkey when a construction crew waved me over to share a meal with them. It was a wonderful, awkward and, at times, humorous time of shared communion. Only one man had a handful of English words to his vocabulary and I had no Turkish words to rely on. Our communication came almost completely in the form of hand motions and subtle messages with our eyes.It was only later that I discovered what I had been invited into. The Feast of Sacrifice (Eid ul Adha) had just concluded the day before and Muslims were still carrying out the ritual forms of their religious observance. During the feast a lamb or a goat is slaughtered. Strict observance requires that no meat goes to waste and that it is shared with others: one-third is eaten by the family; one-third is shared with friends; one-third is given to the stranger or the poor.
Turkish citizens told me later that I had been invited to share in this meal as part of their religious practice. I was the poor stranger living out of four bags on my bike who rode into their lives just as they were contemplating how to share their feast. It was, at times, an awkward meal as I didn’t want meat in my stomach while riding and they were kindly adamant that to leave an unfinished meal as their guest would have violated the unspoken contract that I had signed by accepting their offer to share a meal. As I prepared to leave the one man who had made the initial invitation embraced me with both arms, planting two warm Turkish kisses on me, one for each cheek. The other men smiled and quietly cheered.It is only now that I am realizing how important and remarkable our shared meal was. With the terrible disturbing events in Paris this week, I am aware that the spirit of fear, mistrust, and anger is in the air. The Muslim population is 1.6 billion and represents about 23% of the world’s people. Yet, radical Islamic fundamentalists dominate the media and the stories about Islam. I think most of us work hard not to paint the totality of Islam with the same brush stroke that we do the terrorist organizations of ISIS and al-Queda. But, without actual evidence it is natural for people to wonder just a bit.Before I left on my pilgrimage I was warned by a handful of Turkish citizens and American acquaintances not to take the risk of cycling through Turkey just as things were heating up. ISIS was looking for opportunities to kidnap western hostages (primarily Americans and Brits) to fund their jihadist activities. I decided that I would not cancel my trip, but that I would rely on my experiences and reception from people on the ground. I didn’t want the media-induced fear to determine my decision; I wanted to make my decision based on my actual experience of the people.I can’t speak for all of Turkey. I can’t speak for all of Islam. I am not an expert on terrorism. But, I can tell you what I experienced. From the day I entered Turkey I was invited to drink tea with Turkish citizens—some practicing Muslims, some more secularized. I was invited by a farmer to sit on a log while he split a watermelon in half, gave me a knife, and instructed me to eat as much of it as I wanted. I shared in the feast of a sacrificed goat for the Feast of Eid ul Adha, a major Muslim holy day. And, I was embraced and kissed by a Muslim brother as a blessing for my journey.This is the Islam that I experienced. These were the Muslims with whom I shared my days. I know that ISIS also lays claim to the name of Islam and pledges allegiance to Allah. But, I don’t recognize their god. And I don’t think my new friends do either.
A starry-eyed, Starbucks Moment
In the movie A River Runs Through It Norman McClean writes about his Presbyterian preaching father, “I never knew whether he believed God was a mathematician but he certainly believed God could count and that only by picking up God's rhythms were we able to regain power and beauty. Unlike many Presbyterians, he often used the word ‘beautiful.’”It’s New Year’s Eve and I am sitting in a comfortable chair in Starbucks while I wait for a prescription to be filled for a cold that has turned into bronchitis. I am sipping on my usual “Venti chai tea latte, no water, 180 degree” treat. I am not sure what has happened, but a brief five-minute window of beauty has opened up before me. Every where my eyes land I see a visions of beauty playing out:
- The man in a corner reading a book with a soft smile on his face getting pleasure from the words on the page;
- Just outside the window to his left, the vested parking lot attendant is expertly guiding a train of forty carts back into the Fred Meyer store in an act not unlike making a U-turn with a semi-truck;
- A woman walks in to the coffee shop with wide, large brown, penetrating eyes that reveals just a hint of mystery and intrigue behind them. I want to know more.
- Three young men strut by stiff and erect—like roosters—carrying the anger of past abuses and hurts; They belong as much as any.
- A father and son—connected by love and separated by a generation—pass by the young men, the father trying to engage in conversation; the son toying with his smartphone. So lovely, so typical;
- An old man, burdened by years of weight gain, labors toward his car using the grocery cart to keep him stable and upright.
- A middle-aged couple, well-established, stroll up hand in hand as if they were teenage lovers on first date.
- Finally, the shaggy man walks into Starbucks, finds a seat close to me, flashes a warm, welcoming smile, lets out of sigh of relief, as if he has been waiting for this moment all day, winks, and then asks me with his toothless grin, “How are you, man?” I melt. Was I not supposed to be his host, rather than the other way around?
In a magical five-minute window, the day turns to dusk, the blue sky turns to rusty orange, and the year that is past gives way to something new and unknown.In this sacred window I witness the playing out of our lives, the unfolding dramas. I am invited into a magical rhythm, a heavenly play. On this stage I see in the eyes of the actors and in their distinct gaits, the gifts that we have received and the burdens that we have carried. There is no hierarchy of values, no good and bad. It all (and we all) belong to this divine scene. It is bathed in beauty.
The mystic poet and Sufi Muslim wrote eight centuries ago, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”For five minutes in Starbucks on the last day of 2014, I sat in that field. And then with the ring of the phone, (a friendly prescription reminder), it evaporated like a rainbow. Was I dreaming? Or did I finally wake up--just for a moment!Happy New Year, my friends!
A Sacred Reminder
I was sitting in a presbytery meeting a month ago—one of those meetings that ranges from heated and passionate debate at one moment to dreaded, deadly boring reports at other moments. In the midst of it we paused for a short bit of worship. In the midst of the liturgy we found ourselves repeating the familiar leader/people response:
L: Bless the Lord, O my soul;P: And all that is within me, bless God’s holy name.
As I repeated those words I felt my soul enjoying this brief moment of reminding me what was essentially sacred. It surprised me. As one who resonates with many of my contemporaries who have abandoned the Church, I often shy away from liturgies that sound overly religious in tone. I often write my own liturgical responses when leading worship to make them feel fresh and new.But, I appreciated this moment. I have repeated those words probably hundreds of times since my introduction to the Presbyterian Church as a seven year old (nearly 50 years ago. Geez!). Rather than being bored with yet another rote religious recitation, I actually found comfort in the words—more so than I had in the recent past.I wonder if my heart was more prepared for this moment because of my experiences in Muslim Turkey. Still resounding someplace deep in my heart and soul is the sound of the five times a day calls to prayer that ring out all over Turkey from the loudspeakers of the minarets. It is so pervasive that from the moment I entered Turkey (actually, even a day or two beforehand) to the day my plane took off three weeks later from Istanbul, my day was marked by the rhythm of these calls to prayer.
It didn’t matter where I was. In the cities, sometimes three and four calls were competing with each other as each mosque broadcast their prayers within seconds of each other. In the countryside when I was cycling between villages, the calls floated out over the softly rolling terrain and I was personally invited to prayer several kilometers away from the calling mosque. I still can feel the sacredness of those moments riding through golden hills while the prayers caressed me like a gentle breeze.During the first few days I was overwhelmed by their presence. My only introduction to them had been seeing newscasts, usually related to violence and war, with the calls to prayer ringing in the background. It was unnerving while I slowly separated my Western perceptions from the actual reality on the ground.By the third week I had come to appreciate and look forward to the calls to prayer. They provided a rhythm to the day. More than that, they served as reminders that my deepest identity was rooted in Allah (or God or the Sacred Presence). In America we are reminded at least five times a day (more like 500 times!) that we are essentially consumers—TV ads, billboards, signs, etc. constantly blaring, “You are a consumer! You are a consumer! Buy! Buy! Buy!” I appreciated the physical and auditory reminders that at my core I belonged to God and that the advertisement from the minarets exclaimed, “You are a child of God. Love! Serve! Live!”
I am back on American soil now. I can tell you this. I will never become a Muslim. I will never become a Turkish citizen. But, I miss the calls to prayer. I miss the daily reminders that my deepest identity is rooted in God or the source of the soul. I miss standing with strangers at a crosswalk where we all are bound together by the same call and voice in the air. I miss that waking sacred moment when both the sun peeks above the horizon and the imam sings his first note like a bird welcoming the day. I miss the sacred rhythm of Turkish life.“Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me; bless God’s holy name.” I am not sure what that means. But, I do like how it feels. Amen.
God of the Sparrow
I would imagine sometime in the next four months I will be out in the community sharing my Rome to Rumi experience. It’s hard to tell for sure what form that will take—probably a Power Point slide show, maybe a multimedia presentation, likely a few talks and some Q and A. It’s even harder to guess what lessons might emerge from the sharing of my pilgrimage. I can tell you, however, that one message is starting to surface clearly already.I think the best door to enter this will be to introduce you to the lyrics of a hymn that is included in our Presbyterian hymnals. It was written by Javoslav J. Vajda in 1983 (very modern by church standards!) and is titled, “God of the Sparrow”. The first verse reads:
God of the sparrowGod of the whaleGod of the swirling starsHow does the creature say AweHow does the creature say Praise
Depending on how you read these words, you might hear a pre-packaged answer coming, such as “The creature says awe and praise by singing hymns and attending a right-thinking church near his home.” But, it is also possible that the song is meant to leave us hanging at the conclusion of each verse. Each verse ends with a similar question, “How does the creature cry Woe, How does the creature cry Save; How does the creature say Grace, How does the creature say Thanks.” It is possible that the song is not about leading us down a narrow path to the nearest God-approved sanctuary, but may be actually dropping us into the deep, swirling pool of mystery. Had Vajda put the question first and the description of God second then it may have been a closed riddle. But, he ends with the question. Interesting.I write this because my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage taught me something. Being that I was on the bicycle I had the opportunity to wheel my way up to Catholic masses in progress, cycle along the Tyrrhenian Sea abutting the western coastline of Italy, and share meals and tea with Turks where our only communication was kindergarten-level charades. What became obvious to me was that, as I opened myself to the presence of the Sacred, I experienced those spiritual feelings of awe and praise in numerous and unpredictable places.
Worshiping in Saint Padre Pio’s sanctuary in San Giovanni Rotondo pitched my mind and heart to a place of reverence. That same feeling of reverence washed through me as I encountered the first meters of the climb up Mt. Olympus in Greece. I was overcome by a powerful spirit that hit me like a gust of wind as I entered the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli in Rome. Strangely enough the gratitude that I felt after sharing a spontaneous meal with a road crew in Turkey left me feeling like I had shared communion in a sacred space, no less sacred than Rome’s glorious churches.I have heard that some people (mostly dedicated to the Church) don’t understand my flirtations with Rumi and my obvious infatuation with the spirit behind some of the Greek gods. As an ordained Presbyterian minister, there may be some unspoken rule: like I am supposed to be defending the God of John Calvin and promoting our “decently and in order” Presbyterian way of encountering God.
But, this pilgrimage taught me something. It’s not really about which God we pray to. It’s not about which religious tradition is the most authentic and most right. It’s not about who becomes the object of our awe, our praise and our gratitude. What this pilgrimage taught me is that we humans have a need to have our hearts pitched to a place of awe (in a sanctuary or next to the ocean). We all are healthier, happier and more fully human when we open ourselves to the experience of wonder, praise and gratitude (whether praying with the faithful or laughing with the alien stranger). Our souls crave and lust after the divine Presence (whether standing at the threshold of a church or being lost in the rolling, golden hills of Turkey).This pilgrimage was wonderful because, in the end, it wasn’t really about leaving Rome and arriving at Rumi’s Tomb, as if I was a teenager leaving the fold of family in order to wear the cloak of a new identity. No, it was about opening myself up to the wonderful and awe-some presence of God wherever I might meet her on the road of life—for she was there in certain corners of St. Peter’s Basilica holding the shards of history in her paintings; she showed up as I painfully powered my way up switchbacks to the lovely Greek village of Ambelakia where the sunset and I bowed to each other in a mutual blessing; she was there as I prayed in the Blue Mosque among a handful of faithful Muslims; and she was there as I enjoyed a perfect Greek salad while watching hunters return from a successful and bloody wild boar hunt.
The last verse of the hymn reads:
God of the agesGod near at handGod of the loving heartHow do your children say JoyHow do your children say Home
If my pilgrimage taught me anything it is this: live into the question and then trust, that like a rose in bloom, the Sacred Presence will unfold before your very eyes.Enjoy the journey…
A Step Beyond Spirituality
I had a friend share the observation the other day that my first pilgrimage in 2011 spoke a great deal about spirituality, whereas my recent Rome to Rumi pilgrimage focused more on the soul. I hadn’t thought about precisely in those terms, but realized that she was right. I had experienced a shift in the years between my 4,000 mile Western U.S. pilgrimage and the shorter pilgrimage through Italy, Greece and Turkey of this past fall.
I thought about that a little. What had happened? I am deeply engrossed in the rewrite and editing of my book Dying to Live that shares the journey of that first pilgrimage. I reflect in the beginning of the book on the fact that I chose a profession (or did the profession choose me?) that is having to rethink itself. In the Northwest, a growing segment of the population thinks of themselves as being “spiritual but not religious”. In fact, even if you ask many church-goers you will hear them identity more in spiritual terms than in religious terms.My ten-week pilgrimage in 2011 was partly about coming to terms with what it meant to be a religious leader in a time when religious devotion was giving way to spiritual exploration. A lot of that pilgrimage focused on what I was hearing about the dissolving away of our present religious forms. I didn’t have a clear picture of what was emerging, but it was obvious that it had something to do with spirituality even if the term didn’t have any one clear definition.
I left on September 3 this year for Italy for the beginning of my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage. Strangely enough, this pilgrimage mirrored in some ways the 2011 pilgrimage. I chose the Rome to Rumi theme and route to once again wrestle with, reflect upon and write about this movement away from institutional forms of religion in favor of more direct experience of the Sacred, as seen in the Sufi mysticism of Mevlana Rumi. Once again I was flirting with the issue of religion and spirituality.But, my friend was right. My language had changed. I had gone from numerous references to the growing interest in spirituality in 2011 to an exploration of the soul in 2014. I haven’t completely put my finger on what the transition was, but I think I am close.I think the two pilgrimages represent my own evolution in this tremendous transition that many of us, if not all of us, are experiencing. There is an unmistakable transformation taking place where the seams of our religious institutions are splitting in favor of something that is loosely defined as spirituality. I see it. Others see it. We all feel it. And I am experiencing it both as a person dedicated to my own spiritual journey and as a person ordained to professional ministry.
But, spirituality is a general catch-all term for just about anything that has to do with the sacred world, but doesn’t look too much like religion. My exploration of Sufi mysticism and the Soul is where my spirituality begins to take form. One might say that spirituality is to the Soul as music is to rock and roll. Spirituality and music are general categories. The Soul and rock and roll are the specific ways we live out and celebrate those areas of our lives.I had gone from exploring the shift from religion to spirituality in my last pilgrimage to exploring the shift from religion to one particular form of spirituality in my second pilgrimage. The last pilgrimage was more about what we were moving away from. This pilgrimage was more about what we, and me in particular, are moving toward. That it, mystical forms of religion.Still, this pilgrimage had a surprise for me. I thought I was going to Konya, Turkey (site of Rumi’s Tomb) to highlight the language of mysticism and the soul for my readers and followers. In the end, however, the pilgrimage became about the yearnings and the disappointments of my own soul. I had flown over to Europe under the mistaken assumption that I could use this pilgrimage to invite others to take a journey that I thought I had already completed psychologically and spiritually years before. As it turned out I may have had the language, but I had not yet completed the work.My work in the end was finally to commit to something that I had been talking about for years. I had been dating my soul on and off for quite some time. This pilgrimage was about finally standing at the altar and saying, “I do.”
Roots, Vines and Branches
It was less than a week ago that I completed my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage. As I neared Konya an image began forming in my mind that seemed to reflect the nature of this mystical search for God/the Source of Life/Soul. I almost shared it in the days when I was off my bike and just getting to know the city of Konya better. But it felt like it needed a little more ripening before I plucked it from the branches of my busy mind.
I was thinking about the few concerns that have been expressed by some acquaintances about my continual “searching” as if there was a hope that I would find what I was seeking and finally settle down. As I thought about this I was struck by the irony that if a person decides to return to school for a further degree, it is often lauded as ambitious. Yet, there is something about these types of pilgrimages (like the trips to India in the 60’s) that are seen simply as trying to “find oneself.”Three years ago I was faced with the decision of whether it was time to return to school for another graduate degree as I accepted the reality of the erosion of professional ministry. I was 52 years old at the time. After weeks of discussion and reflection with my therapist I came to a decision. To pursue the degree I wanted (a PhD in mythological studies) would require nearly seven years of my life and tens of thousands of dollars. Financially, it did not make sense. But, more than that, we decided that I would benefit as much from my own endeavors to understand the soul of our cultures as I would from a formal degree program.
As I neared Konya this image began to form for me that mirrored this mystical path that seems to have captivated me. It’s an image that is actually very familiar to Sunday morning Christians. Many communion liturgies lift up the words attributed Jesus as he informs his disciples, “I am the vine. You are the branches. Cut off from me you can do nothing.” I actually was thinking of the image of a tree, but this Biblical image will work just fine.It was this image of the vine that revealed why I feel so strongly that this path that I have chosen is not mere navel-gazing. The mystical path is one of seeking, feeling, and living out of the deep connection that exists between all of us. If, as the metaphor suggests, we are the branches, Jesus is the vine, and God might be the roots, then God is not some foreign entity to try to understand, but literally part of us as we are part of God . I don’t need to get a PhD in world religions to understand the spirit that connects all of us; I only need to look deeply within myself to see the image of the One who is reflected in all of us.The branch contains the same DNA as the vine and the roots. In fact, there really is no difference between the root, the vine and the branch. We only establish definitions for the sake of naming and organizing our world.
As I concluded my pilgrimage this was the growing awareness that swept over me. This apparent navel-gazing does not separate me from the people around me, but rather gives me a deeper appreciation and awareness of the forces that shape all of us. My grief may have its own particular form, but becoming an intimate partner with my grief allows me to recognize and connect with the particular expression of your grief. I follow my particular passions not at the expense of others, but in order to connect the deepest part of me with the deepest part of you.Jesus says, “I am the vine. You are the branches.” Interesting. I wonder just where the vine ends and the branch begins. I wonder if we all are closer to God than we think. I wonder if the Source of life is not to be found in faraway places, but right here in the deepest parts of our souls.
It's Raining...I Must Be Home!
Wednesday, October 24 Heading HomeWell, I am home.
It feels good to say that especially knowing that I mean it in more ways than one. I have beat that theme to death in recent posts as I have increasingly settled into that realization, so I won’t review the process with you once again. I knew for sure that I was coming home when driving down I-5 this afternoon in the rain and thinking to myself, “This is nice.” I’ve lived in Oregon for twelve years and absolutely love it—with the exception of the rain! But, as I got reacquainted with this place even the rain reminded me that I am in home territory and at home with myself.I spent the final day before flying out just pulling together the last details to make my departure. Of course, I had the tear down of the bike which has become routine. I have even looked forward to the slow and meticulous nature of it, getting it just right so that it will be easy to put back together and fit within the bike bag that makes carrying it a possibility. I enjoyed walking through the many gift shops of Konya to bring back a few souvenirs for family and friends. That was a bit of a trick as I had to find items that would fit in the pannier I had half-emptied by leaving behind a few items I needed for the trip, but wouldn’t need at home.
One of the treats of the day was the open air market that I ran across. I couldn’t believe the scope of it. In the middle of it dozens of vendors had their vegetables and fruits laid out ready for purchase. Encircling the produce vendors were another four or five dozen vendors who were selling an assortment of olives, spices, cheeses, meats and dried legumes. I was especially intrigued by one cheese that would have to be a cousin of our blue cheese. But, I swear there was more blue than cheese in the massive blocks and I wondered just how this pungent delight was consumed.It was a short night of sleep as I wanted to get to the airport three hours before departure to make time for complications for my bike. As it turned out they didn’t even start accepting ticket holders until two hours before flight time and so I waited from 5:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. I am not sure why the event that happened as I was escorted to the airport became so important, but it was. The driver of the hotel currier was the same person who helped me get my bike up to my room when I arrived in Konya three days prior. As we departed he gave me a big Turkish hug with the customary left and then right cheek embrace. I think it just symbolized how welcomed I felt by the Turkish people on the whole. Being asked to drink tea and share in conversation had become a routine part of most days. I really appreciated the way they took time to honor their own relationships as well as guests by this custom.
The flights home went pretty smoothly. I was pleased when my bike showed up at JFK airport in New York as I needed to pick up my own baggage and transfer it from Turkish Airlines to Jet Blue. I had a nervous couple of hours as the plane from Istanbul was nearly an hour late and then when I arrived at JFK the computer system in customs had gone down in the airports in and around New York City. It wasn’t long before a crowd of maybe 300 of us were waiting to have our passports examined as we were re-entering the country. Knowing I still had to find my bike and luggage and transfer it in an airport I hadn’t been in for 32 years made me anxious. I started with a four hour layover and by the time I made the gate for my flight to Portland I only had thirty minutes left before boarding.I do want to publicly thank a few people who made this pilgrimage much easier by sharing their connections with friends and family in Turkey. I want to thank Mary, Nina and Patty for putting me in contact with people “on the ground” and for those who emailed me, talked to me and even hosted me while on the Turkish part of my trip—David and Evren, Shobhana, Kristen, Burcu, TC Yesim, and Pelin and Citin. I also want to thank and acknowledge of group I call “the people of Eastminster”. Your trust in me has fueled this ongoing quest to dig deeper into the soul of our religious communities and culture. Thank you!
Today I am tired after gaining ten hours and having my biological clock tinkered with. But, I do know that once I become coherent again that I will be continuing this journey. My tag line on my website feels very appropriate for what is growing in me: “Exploring the World, Discovering the Soul”. It doesn’t mean that I have to keep taking off to exotic and far off places all the time, although it does mean some of that. Part of exploring the world has to do with exploring our internal worlds. That’s one of the gifts of this particular pilgrimage—seeing how much “my deep gladness” is exploring the internal landscape of the soul. Each post was this combination of describing the external landscape of my days and territory coupled with reflections on my internal landscape.There is an almost paradoxical reality about this that I have discovered. One would think that this almost obsessive preoccupation with myself and my inner life would make me a more selfish person. Instead, what I have discovered is that the deeper I get in touch with my own heart and soul, the more I feel connected to the Source of all life, the more love I have for each person I encounter on the road of life, and the more I appreciate the complex beauty of each one of you.Thank you for sharing the journey with me.
From Rome to Rumi...finally!
Tuesday, October 21 Visiting Rumi’s Tomb(written Wednesday morning)The story is that at Rumi’s death, Christians, Muslims, and Jews filed by his tomb with tears in their eyes. Rumi himself was a Sufi Islamic mystic, but in his writings he found a universal language that touched all. His book was the Quran. His god was Allah. But, his words used the language of connection, union, divine love, ecstatic experience, and a radical trust in Life.
Yesterday I visited both Rumi’s Tomb and the tomb of his spiritual father, Shems (Sems). In both I took time to pray and honor both the space and the lives of these two spiritual masters. The experience at Shems was honestly more profound for me. Pilgrims to Rumi’s Tomb are encouraged to first visit the tomb of Shems or many other “saints of Islam” as part of their preparation for standing before Rumi’s Tomb. It seemed to me that those who showed up at Shems’ tomb were real pilgrims and a large percentage of those filing past Rumi’s Tomb were curious tourists with varying degrees of religious devotion (I certainly stand somewhere in the middle between true devotees and the merely curious).At Shem’s Tomb I sat outside for over a half hour watching the ritual of pilgrims as they prepared to pay tribute to Shems. Some went to the bathing fountain and washed their feet, hands, arms, face, and neck. Then they made their way to the entrance and removed their shoes before going any further. Most, however, just removed their shoes and entered. After feeling comfortable that I wouldn’t do anything that would dishonor the space for the true pilgrims I too removed my shoes and entered.It was a simple space with Shem’s Tomb behind a railing in a space no larger than an average living room. The rest of the building was just a simple square area that could accommodate maybe forty kneeling prayers at the most. While most kneeled and bowed in quicker movements that fit with a ritualized form of prayer, I just allowed myself to stay in the bowed position for one or two minutes at a time feeling my breath. I was relishing this moment that marked the end of pedaling and the luxury of just honoring this sacred space and time in my life. There was a delicious stillness to it. Afterwards, I enjoyed the ritual bath at in the middle of the Sems Park
Visiting Rumi’s Tomb was about as anti-climactic as I had expected which had to do with my “arrival” days before internally and psychically. But, the energy was different given the larger crowds, audio headsets describing what we were seeing, and guards stopping the occasional rebel from trying to take a picture in the sacred space. I am glad I did it. I am even more thankful for Rumi’s words and spirit that continue to guide me deeper into an experience of the Sacred, into the Christ Presence, into that unknown and powerful mystery we often call God and Muslims call Allah and Jews leave unnamed.There is much more to say, but I am now transitioning from the daily reporting of my pilgrimage to beginning to process the meanings and the insights that will emerge from this unfolding and growing narrative. I will still be posting at least once a week from my website. The real breakthrough from this pilgrimage is the realization that this is the gift I have to offer. There may be a livelihood in it or not. The important thing to me is to offer it and allow a spirit greater than I to nurture it and see where the seeds that I may plant grow into something more mature and solid.Today is wrap-up day. I am discarding items that don’t need to cross the ocean with me tomorrow. Once again I will tear my bike down and prepare for airport transfer. I am already taking a big breath as, once again, I have made my request for a special baggage clearance and have not received the confirmation in my email that was supposed to come. It’s been that way from the beginning with numerous calls before I left to make the transfer as smooth as possible, then a lost bike and no word from the airlines as to whether it would come or whether they cared. At this point I will plan to get to the airport extra early and just refuse to go anywhere without my bike. I am sure they will work it out. They took the bike before. I am sure their policies haven’t changed in seven weeks. Still, it makes me nervous!
I am ready for the pilgrimage to be over. I will miss the daily cycling, though. There is nothing like being on the road for 40-70 miles a day with one’s body working like a well-oiled machine in rhythm with the road and the terrain. I will miss sharing the journey with you as well. But, I am convinced that this journey is not yet over. It is only shifting and changing. Just because I am not pedaling doesn’t mean my heart and soul are not working just as hard to bring a little grace, a little beauty, and a little more passion into the world and our lives.I imagine I will post one more “I made it (with or without bike)” blog as I will want you to know that I arrived safely home for this next stage of the journey.Until then, wishing you peace, peace, peace…Brian (a pedal pilgrim)
Shedding, shedding, shedding
Monday, October 20 Sultanhani to Konya, Turkey!!!(written Tuesday morning after a deep, long sleep)I can see it now. It was a year ago almost to the day that I initiated this pilgrimage of shedding, shedding, shedding. Late last October (after also a painful and awkward break up with a girlfriend/close companion of three years) I watched as a St. Vincent’s Thrift Store drove off with 90% of my possessions. I was feeling constrained and boxed in by the life that I had chosen (or found myself in). Over the next ten months I found an arrangement where I could housesit for just a share of the utilities in exchange for watching over the place while it was for sale and empty. The savings from that arrangement allowed me plan for and prepare for this pilgrimage.
Yesterday I arrived in Konya after a day of riding that was, in some ways, harder than it might have been and, in other ways, easier than it could have been. When I woke up in the morning it was freezing outside. I mean this literally, not figuratively. The Celsius register said zero degrees, 32 degrees for those of us in America. Two hours later as I straddled my saddle with four layers of upper body clothing that thermometer had jumped all the way to 36 degrees. Yippee!It was the coldest day on the bike of the whole pilgrimage and I rode hard more just to stay warm by keeping the muscles working than by the magnetic force of seeing the finish line just 105 kilometers away. It took a full three hours before I felt warm enough to relax and just ride. This final day reminded me of the passage in Isaiah where the prophet cries out, “Every valley shall be exalted, every mountain and hill shall be made low, the crooked places shall be made straight, and the rough places shall be made plain.” You get the point. The road was flat and straight and just faded away into the horizon.
Part of the joy today was that the Department of Transportation must have planted signage aware of Konya as a pilgrimage site. Nowhere in Turkey did I find consistent signage telling me how far certain towns and cities were. At certain crossroads there would be some mileage indicators, but I can’t think of a time where the mileage was posted as a courtesy between major intersections. Today, however, every ten kilometers there was the same sign: “Konya 100 km; Konya 90 km, Konya 80 km, etc.).” I had fun stopping at each one and marking the countdown to my pilgrimage destination.
The other joy today was a brief encounter with a shepherd whose large herd was crossing from one side of the highway to the other through a tunnel underneath the road. I stopped to watch the ambling, curious sheep funnel into the tunnel. The shepherd who was receiving the sheep on the other side saw me, waved wildly and shouted what has become the usual question, “Where from?” I answered, “America, U.S.A” and he scooted across the four lanes of highway with a face so full of joy I imagined it going on posters for kindergartners learning words for certain feelings.Language,of course, was a problem, but broad gestures and shared sign language has become routine for me. I folded my arms across my body and shook to say, “It’s cold today!” He nodded and then in English apologized, saying, “Sorry” as if he was responsible for making my ride as comfortable in his home country as possible. Then, in a moment that I will have to store in my memory because a picture would have spoiled it, I said, “Mevlana pilgrimage,” to let him know I was headed for Konya to pay tribute to Rumi. His eyes immediately softened even more with a love that allowed me to see into his soul and feel it also radiating out. Whatever it was about his relationship with Rumi (Mevlana) I felt like I had just said, “I am going to visit your sick mother.” This man knew Rumi intimately and deeply and I wondered how much of that was the source of the joy that was written into every fiber of his face. I rode away wishing I could have taken a picture of his face, but settled on holding onto the memory and the image.
There isn’t much to report about the ride except for the attempts to stay warm, the every ten kilometer countdown, and the straight narrow highway that ushered me right into the center of town. After having challenging and even unnerving experiences with major cities—Rome, Thessaloniki, and Istanbul—I was anticipating having to steel my nerves one more time to get into Konya. It never happened. In fact, it was the strangest experience coming into a city this size ever (Konya is one million people and I was using Portland as my image for what it might be like to ride into a city of equal size).Konya is heavily industrial. Maybe because of such heavy industry the roads were unbelievably wide. Shoulders were anywhere from eight feet to twenty feet wide. Of course, the twenty feet wide shoulders presented a little bit of a problem because cars decided that it constituted a whole lane and then I didn’t have a white line telling me where I should be and where they should be. My Turkey contacts had told me that lines indicating lanes are “suggestions” in Turkey. That is totally true! I have had a number of “What the hell” moments as vehicles completely shift into another lane to take a corner, straddle the white line, and even drive down the shoulder the wrong way. A few times I have looked up to see a vehicle coming straight toward me in what I consider the wrong way down the highway.
But, what I really want to report today is how thankful I am for the way this pilgrimage (which really began a year ago with a breakup and the shedding of most of my worldly possessions) has unfolded. Before I even flew to Rome on September 3, the shedding continued, despite my best intentions. I had written a grant that included some consulting work on my end working with churches needing to think about their legacy in their final years. For reasons beyond my control our presbytery didn’t get the grant and part of the income I was hoping for upon my return evaporated. Then, just a couple weeks later, I reported that a half-time position as a pastor fell through at what felt like the 12th hour! Suddenly, I was leaving for Rome with no job waiting for me, no plan for an income, no permanent home to return to, and only a thin cushion of savings and health insurance coverage.What a gift it was! What an unbelievable, wonderful, and fortuitous gift it was! If I was returning to a pastoral position I don’t believe I would have had the breakthroughs that I did. I either would have censored myself or, more likely, I would have still declared my truth, but there would have been a defiant and resentful spirit to it. I needed to do this for me and the complete shedding of almost everything I could count on (with exception of loved ones) gave me the freedom to find my voice, my passion, my love, my call, my life! What I didn’t shed was shed for me in what has felt like a gift from the gods (or God Herself if that would make you more comfortable!)I have a few things to attend to when I get back to Oregon. But, honestly they don’t seem too overwhelming. There is the matter of having an income and deciding what to do about health insurance. I have a plan for a home (which I’ll keep personal except to say that it has to do with that blossoming love in my life!). I’ll need to attend to all the normal issues associated with moving and setting up a new life in a new place. I’ll need to help my 19 year old cat get re-acquainted with me.But, seriously, after this complete experience of shedding those things really seem minor now. I know the foundation I am starting with. I know my boundaries. I know what I am willing to compromise on and what I am not willing to compromise on. I know what and who is important to me. I know that this path that I chose (actually I feel like it chose me) thirty-five years ago is not going to go away. I know that I will keep writing, probing, questioning, stirring, digging, needling, and loving the people, organizations, and communities around me to settle for nothing less than for the full discovery, enjoyment and expression of their Soul and passion. Life is too short. Life is too rich. Life is too good to settle for anything less than meeting face to face with the Source.And sometimes the only way to get there is to shed, shed, shed.
Riding toward the sun
Sunday, October 19 Selime to SultanhaniI am doing well, really well. As I near the end of this pilgrimage I am very aware that this pilgrimage unfolded as a pilgrimage should. I got so me breakthroughs, breakthroughs that I hadn’t even asked for or planned for. I still think back to the post where I wrote in a panicked voice, “If I can’t communicate there is no need for this pilgrimage.” The admission exposed my real and initial intention for the pilgrimage—to launch myself into a new professional career of writing/speaking/consulting. That may still happen, but I had to do a little house cleaning first and look reality straight in the face and come to terms with myself and reality.
The meandering through the museum of the Hellenistic gods in Thessaloniki was the first breakthrough. I had just climbed as high as a bike is allowed to climb on Mt. Olympus and re-affirmed my gift of strength and will and my love of physically feeling the contours of a mountain in my body. This has always been something personal to me, but when I read about a whole culture that had gods that honored physical beauty and strength and tied that to a life of virtue and character, I suddenly had a divine blessing. This thing that I do is not mere hobby or recreation, as we tend to think of it in America, this is spiritual practice!By the time I arrived in Istanbul after a number of days of difficult headwinds and not-too-accommodating traffic, I had gone from feeling understood to asserting myself in non-apologetic terms. I found myself saying, “I don’t need to hide this part of me. I won’t hide it. In fact, I will promote it and do everything I can to help others discover that passion that sets their hearts on fire.” But, my work was not quite done. Reality began to set in and I realized that while I was getting clarity about who I am and what I do it wasn’t necessarily going to translate into a job or provide a livelihood.This was the real breakthrough for me. Speaking as honestly, vulnerably, truthfully and authentically as I can is more important to me than shaping my words and twisting my thoughts in order to sound more palatable for a job or manipulating myself to be marketable. I remember the moment in Goreme when I allowed these two awkward dance partners—my passion and a livelihood—to separate and walk away from each other. No more struggle. No more stepping on each other’s toes. No more figuring out who should lead and who should follow.I will admit that a subtle sadness has followed me the last three days. I was raised in the Presbyterian Church, educated by her in both college and seminary, and have spent most of my working career serving churches in this denomination. Like a child who really wants his parent to “get him” and support him for who he is, I have held out hope that there was some way I could couch my language and share my spiritual values where they would go, “Aha! Now we get it. Why didn’t you say it that way before?”
But, it is easy to let go of counting on my livelihood in the church now. I think even about my posts and how little I even speak of God. I use the language of soul, heart, spirit, and passion much more often. I no longer find the word, God, to be a unifying or even inspiring term for the larger community. There is so much baggage around it and the way you use it can be 180 degrees from how I might use it. As I have said, I believe one world is dying and another is emerging. Even our difficulties with the word God point to that, I believe.This all makes sense to me now, of course. I received a bachelor’s degree in religion, not because I was looking to become a pastor, but because I just couldn’t stay away from it. Then in seminary (again I only went because I loved it so much, not because I had ambitions to be a pastor) any time I had electives I chose theology classes. Theology just means “the study of God.” This has been a passionate endeavor for me for over thirty years now. And, in my own evolution, I am finding even the language to be a barrier to a deeper understanding of the spiritual nature of the universe. If I speak of God at all it is usually in the phrase, “the God within” which mirrors the more mystical direction that my spirituality is taking me. I am still as passionate as ever about my "study of God" but I am finding new ways to express that Presence that seems to pulsate through every part of life, my body, my loves, my passions.Wow! Guess what I was thinking about on the bike today? Theology, spirituality, the nature of the soul, and the journey that institutional religion will need to take in order to enter this expanding conversation.
My head and heart tend to go their when I find myself in certain terrains. And today was one of those days. It’s interesting that when I reached Goreme and met with Jon he began setting up a route to take advantage of all that Cappadocia has to offer. I am so glad he did. He also added, “You’re wise to spend your time here because there is nothing between Aksaray and Konya.” Right he was. Where he was wrong was in not understanding me. I love the sweet nothingness of the Wyoming high prairie and the Nevada desert. I love what it does to me inside. The flat and sometimes rolling terrain of this part of Turkey allowed my body to go mindless (if such a thing exists) and my mind to become reflective and contemplative.
I thought it was going to be a much more difficult day given the weather predictions. It was cold this morning, but not quite as cold as was predicted. But, when I emerged from my hotel it appeared that the storms were about 12 hours ahead of schedule. As I looked west (where I was going) I could see patches of sun here and there. As I looked straight up, the dark ominous clouds were just passing and would only be posing a threat to the land I cycled on yesterday.At one point I even toyed with the idea of riding all the way to Konya in one day (just over 110 miles). But, those thoughts only came when the sun was out and I had a tailwind. As the afternoon arrived so did the wind and because the temperature wasn’t rising at all (it stayed mid 40’s all day) it began to get pretty cold. I was glad when I reached Sultanhani, the only town between Aksaray and Konya reported to have a hotel.
Actually, I was pretty lucky that way too. As I entered town a man puffing away on a cigarette in a little white Renault waved me down and discovered I was looking for a hotel. He drove down the freeway at my bike pace with his flashers on in order to escort me the one mile plus distance to the hotel. But, it wasn’t the hotel I saw in the pictures and this place looked pretty dumpy to me. I went in and surveyed the room and then said I would ride around town and decide what I wanted to do. They wanted to know I wanted the room and was coming back. I tried to say again that I would ride around and then decide, but it wasn’t coming through. In the end I lied and said, “I’ll be back after I see the town.” What I really wanted to do was find the hotel I had seen in the pictures that looked rather modern. Actually, it’s not modern that I want. It’s consistency. With so little time each evening even small surprises can be exhausting. Like last night! I survived but my dinner ended up being my leftover bike food.I ended up riding another three miles west of town before spotting the hotel that was on booking.com. They had closed up for the winter and sent me back to the little dumpy hotel in Sultanhani (actually they don’t call this a hotel; it’s “camping and pansions” which means camping and rooms.)
The most embarrassing thing is that the closed hotel got on the phone to the dumpy hotel to tell them to look for a guy on a bike looking for a room. I tried to say that they didn’t need to call as I knew exactly where it was, but they persisted. Being the conscientious person I think I am, I was slightly worried I would arrive back there and they would scold me for lying with something like, “We don’t lie to each other in our country!” But, when I arrived they were glad to see me.By American standards it is a little dumpy. I have had to play with my light switch a few times as the connection is not good and it goes off occasionally. The towels remind me of ones that my grandmother would give us, thin and stained, but clean. But, to make up for it all the son in the family asked me what I wanted for dinner and personally ran around town picking up chicken, baklava, and beer. He did all the cooking and had it ready exactly at 7 p.m. as I had asked. THEN, after dinner he came in my room, lit the wood stove in the center and I have been enjoying the heat that you only get from stoves that cut right through and take the chill out of the body.
Two other vignettes worth mentioning. I have had the occasional vehicle beep nicely when they go by in days past, mostly in Turkey and some in Greece. But, today dozens of drivers beeped little honks of encouragement. It’s always hard to know exactly what is intended, but I can tell the difference between an annoying “Get off the road” beep, the courtesy “I am coming up behind you” beep, and the “Atta boy” or “Way to go” or “Keep at it!” beep.And then today I did something uncharacteristic. Up to this point when people, vehicles, or children asked me to stop, I did. It always resulted in a nice conversation, fun pictures, or help with directions or food. But, starting yesterday the children who have stopped me immediately go into a “Money, Money” chant. Finally after three of those encounters, some young boys stood right in front of me waving me down and I didn’t slow down, but just waved, and made an arc around the boy furthest into the road. I didn’t expect this to happen, nor did I expect that I would have that reaction.
Well, if all goes well tomorrow I should arrive in Konya. It will be a long day, just about the longest of my pilgrimage at 70 miles. The good news is that it is very flat and I am an old nationally-ranked time trialist and the flats play to my strengths. The bad news is that it is still cold and if the wind plays havoc with me, 70 miles is a long distance to be that uncomfortable and working that hard. But, as I said at the beginning, “I am doing well, really well.” Wind and cold can't change how peaceful and warm I feel inside.
Unexpectedly Good
Saturday, October 18 Derinkuyu to SelimeWell, I am bored, lonely and hungry tonight, but that doesn’t take anything away from an unexpectedly good day on the bike. Because of the weather forecasts I have broken the last leg from Goreme to Konya into four planned sections. Usually, I just ride until I start to get tired and then start keeping my eyes open for a place to lay my head for the night. For this stretch I am setting a definite destinations and then watching the weather forecasts for a potential window for riding.
Last night when I went to bed my iPhone weather forecaster said that rain would likely start about 10:00 a.m. I decided that I would get up early enough that I would be packed before the 8:00 a.m. hotel breakfast. That way I could leave by 8:30 and have at least an hour and a half in drier conditions before the rain started. If I could reach my destination by noon that would give me the rest of the day to get dried out, was my thinking.I got up and checked the weather on my iPhone again. Now the rain wasn’t supposed to start until 1:00 p.m. “Perfect,” I thought. That would give me a little more leisurely start and might give me enough of window to reach my destination before the showers started. I ate breakfast (a really sorry affair of cut pieces of French bread, bologna slices, feta cheese and olives. That was it!), loaded up my gear and headed downstairs to embark on the day’s adventure. As soon as I reached the bottom of the stairs I let out a big sigh. It was pouring outside. I looked at the hotel clerk, smiled and threw up my hands in a gesture that said, “That’s just how it goes sometimes!”It took me a full half hour to adjust, changing clothing, and putting my valuables in plastic bags in case water seeped into my handlebar bag (a lesson I learned three years ago when I got drenched in near flash flood conditions in Yellowstone and drowned my phone as well as other items). As I started it was cold and I had to stop again to add winter gloves. And then…within five kilometers the rain stopped. The streets eventually evolved from a series of puddles to just wet , soppy pavement and then finally to dry pavement. Even though it was windy and chilly the rest of the ride, no rain dropped from the overhead clouds that remained threatening.
I felt like, at moments, I sort of got my chi back as I rode. My whole route for the day was on secondary roads with very little traffic and half of that was tractors and warehouse trucks busy with the potato harvest. I rode by numerous fields where a dozen or so workers (mostly women) were picking up the potatoes that had been unearthed by the tractor’s claw and placing them in white bags to be picked up by the young men. At one field I stopped hoping for a picture of the harvest in action. There was giggling and pointing and soon I was right down there with them, getting my shoes muddy, as I took pictures of them and promised to post them to Facebook. Later I passed by a group of women picking strawberries in a field. As I passed by they all stood up and waved and yelled “hellos” at this stranger passing through their world.
It was there that I was taking a little shortcut off the road I had been on to an even more isolated road. I ended up in the tiny little village of Alanyurt just before noon time prayers at the mosque. Four men out front did their best to direct me at a roundabout and crowded around my GPS trying to figure out where I was going. One of the common miscommunications that I have had is the difference between “from” and “to”. I have learned to use my left hand to indicate “from” and my right hand to indicate “to.” It seems to be working as after two or three attempts they seem to understand.
I just missed an opportunity to pray at the mosque by two mere seconds. After giving me directions I started to take off and they began filing into the mosque. Just before the last man entered the gate, it occurred to me that this would be the perfect occasion to pray with them. I put my bike back up and tried to get the man’s attention by saying, “Sir! Sir!” I might as well have been saying, "Blue! Blue!" It didn’t register and he went in before I could ask whether it would be alright if I joined them. I decided to go anyway. As I entered the area we would call the narthex in a church the last man was just removing his shoes and entering. I followed suit, but by the time I was ready they had closed the door and the iman was already praying. That’s when I stopped. At home I would have opened the door and snuck into the back of the church. But, here in this small village in my biking clothes as a non-Muslim, I was concerned about crossing a boundary I didn't know about. As I left, I vowed I wouldn’t let an opportunity like that pass by me again.
I then found the road I wanted and it turned out to be a dirt road through a combination of a little farming land and mostly prairie land with a backdrop of cliffs and mesas sitting to the southeast. It was a wonderful feeling crossing the plateau with miles and miles of land with no houses, sheds or electrical towers marring the horizon. There I was completely alone crossing from one part of Turkey to another in what felt like a great expedition. That lasted about an hour before I re-connected with one of the main roads again and discovered I was nearly on top of the hotel that I had reserved for the night.
I am staying in Selime known for the largest cave cathedral in Cappadocia. I enjoyed a wonderful grilled chicken lunch right on a small stream at the one restaurant that seemed to be open in the area. The rain was still holding off by mid-afternoon so I bought a ticket to the cave church and monastery and took the hike to see them. They really are a marvel. This one was built in the 8th and 9th century and was used both as a monastery and training for priests as well as a military outpost during more volatile times. One of the things that surprised me is how long these sites have withstood natural erosion. I had put my hand on the underbelly of a wall to get my balance and a small amount of crusty sand immediately fell off. I inspected it more and discovered why these caves could be built. A good stone chisel in the hands of an ambitious person could carve out a space the size of a bathroom in a day’s time. It just crumbles away.I was on my way back to the hotel when the thunder started to crack and boom overhead. For a while the rain came down pretty hard, but has mostly settled into a drizzle for the evening.I did say that I am bored, lonely and hungry. It’s one of the risks of arriving in new territory nearly every day. The village I am in has a couple of little snack stands that I have seen all through Italy, Greece, and Turkey. There is no store that I know of. The restaurant is two miles away from my hotel even though they have the same name and are run by the same family. I booked the hotel after seeing it listed as “Hotel and Restaurant”. I didn’t even think to check to see if they were located in the same building or property. Silly me! And then with it being dark, on my bike and with rain coming down, riding back to the restaurant just doesn’t sound wise or fun. So I am sitting writing with almonds, dried apricots and some left over chocolate for dinner.
Of all the weather days, tomorrow is the one I am most concerned with. So far I have fared very well. Tomorrow, however, is predicted to be nearly freezing (34 degrees) in the morning and raining. If the forecasters are right and I get both of those I will have to make a decision whether to gut it out or stall for a few hours. Either way is fine. I have one full day I can still play with and I only have 110 miles still to go before reaching Konya.Of course, if tomorrow is anything like today I will be presented with a whole new plate of unexpected surprises. It’s all good. It’s all just fine.
Thanks Forrest!
Friday, October 17 Goreme to DerinkuyuI was reminded of one of the most quotable scenes from the movie Forrest Gump today as I dug a little more deeply than I wanted to play a little chess game with the weather. In the movie, Forrest had run across the continent twice over a three year period and had developed quite a following. In this scene some of Forrest’s most dedicated fans, disciples even, are running with him when Forrest suddenly stops. One young man quickly directs the others around him saying, “Quiet, quiet! He’s gonna say something!” Forrest speaks up and flatly declares, “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go home now.”
That line was coming to me today as I noticed that the more resolution I have about the issues underlying this pilgrimage, the less push I have in my legs. I am convinced that our body gives us clues as to what we need if we learn to listen to them. It was clear that until Thessaloniki some unknown force was pushing me forward. That is the difference between a tour and a pilgrimage. If this was a tour I would still have one more stop on my itinerary. But, Konya is now feeling almost anti-climactic and an after-thought. Of course, I am still going to visit Rumi’s Tomb. I wouldn’t miss that for anything at this point.But, like Forrest, there is a tiredness in my bones now and I just want to go home, especially because my heart can see and feel what home looks like now. Before I left I had a number of competing directions I could go, but none of them gave me that feeling of peace that told me I had come to terms with the choices in my life. I was feeling that I had to choose between financial security or family and community. But, that either/or thinking dissolved away during this time on the bike. So, mostly now I am just riding in order to physically get home and slightly annoyed that the weather is not going to allow me to just coast. I have to keep working at this just a little longer.I beat the rain by about an hour this morning into Derinkuyu, a small village that also hosts one of the 36 underground cities in Cappadocia. My original plan was to ride to Soganli, but with weather predictions that are somewhere between fall and winter I took advantage of a route that allowed me to cut 50 km off my distance. It was windy and cold, but I only got sprinkled on occasionally before the afternoon and evening rain showers. Rain is expected through Sunday and Sunday and Monday are expected to near the freezing point in the morning hours and only reach 54 degrees at the peak of the day. In Portland, that is called winter!
At the start of the day I rode up the hill out of Goreme toward Uchisar where I enjoyed the full frontal view of the castle sitting at the top of the hill. I didn’t pause long as I was in a race with time and the weather, but I stopped long enough to take a few pictures of some of the more interesting landscape in the area. One area looked almost as if a hundred ice cream cones were rounded up in a herd with their soft melting texture.It was clear that I had left the more popular resort areas as I cycled through a handful of small villages. Of course, without talking to more of the people, I can’t say for sure, but these areas seemed to be very traditional Muslim communities. In other areas I had gotten used to seeing the mix of people, partly from other countries and, more than that, just seeing the diversity of religious and secular Turkish people. Today, though, I really knew that as I cycled through and stopped at small markets that I was the one person who looked different. I don’t think it was a problem; it was just very noticeable and most everyone seemed to have some response to my presence. Some men were very helpful trying to point me to stores and where they thought I was going. Many seemed curious and a few even wary of me. And the children all waved and yelled hello as if I was Ronald McDonald riding through town. It was a little strange realizing that my riding through town was some kind of event.
When I entered Derinkuyu I had a brief time of wondering if I would just ride on through town. It was the first town in Turkey that looked very similar to the images I had seen on TV during the Iraq War. I am not sure where people live as I didn’t see evidence of houses as I know them. Most of the blocks in the center of town have abandoned buildings and falling rock structures. There are plenty of businesses, but most of them seem tired much like what one might see in a disintegrating rural America. Men were driving rather recklessly around in old Fiats and Peugots. And the energy of the town felt haphazard. It was hard read where I would be welcome and where I would not.
But, I decided that this was a real opportunity to ground my stereotypes in something real. There were three hotels in the town center and I picked the one that looked the most reputable. I settled into a very clean room (although I still haven’t gotten used to the smoke smell in many rooms). I hadn’t had lunch, so I decided to find a little café before touring the Underground City. Immediately a taxi driver wanted to help me. I tried to brush him away so that I didn’t feel pressured, but he persisted and somewhere in there I realized that he was trying to help me. He put his fingers to his mouth asking if I was looking for something to eat. As I indicated that yes, I wanted to eat, he left his post by his taxi and personally walked me over to a kebab solonu and handed me off to the owner.My personal encounters all afternoon and evening have been similar. The café owner offered me Turkish coffee after my lunch and before I left. Later as I had another coffee just to get out of the cold and rain, the owner there pursued my trip a little more after discovering I was American. He was glad to hear that I wasn’t heading east as he said ISIS is a real problem and U.S. citizens wouldn’t be safe there. “Here it is good,” and he shook my hands three times before I left.
My tour of the Yeralti Sehri Underground City was another one of those, “You’ve got to be kidding me” experiences. I paid extra for a personal guide who could describe exactly what I was seeing and answer my questions. We went eight stories down into the bowels of the earth and explored, literally, the sections that would make up a full city. There were living rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, stables for livestock, wine pressing and fermentation rooms, a monastery and churches. In addition, because of the underground nature of it there were elaborate ventilation systems, traps to slow down or disable enemies, and tunnels that connected six other underground cities as far away as six kilometers. The only thing I didn’t see was a 7-11.I went in with the impression that these were permanent cities that people had lived in for decades, if not centuries. My guide corrected me. We would think of them basically as shelters in the event of foreign intruders. The cities could accommodate up to 10,000 people for two months in what we might call the world’s largest and most impressive bomb shelter! I am so glad that I had the opportunity to see this marvel of our ancient ancestors (plus, I really thought this, it was a great place to get out of the rain for afternoon).
I am actually really glad that I have you to write to each evening (or morning, as sometimes happens). My sense of purpose has jumped 10,000 kilometers west back to Oregon. My heart is there with my loved ones, the extended community I have there and those of you I am connected to by blogs, even if I haven’t met you. I don’t even have a good book to read right now. I tried to find something in Istanbul in English, but the choices were William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare, and Turkish-English translators. So, this time that I spend sharing with you is important to me. It keeps me from going into emotional isolation. It keeps me feeling connected in a world I don’t recognize, where I know no one, and where even language is not something I share with the people around me. We connect, but it’s not like home.Tomorrow, I’ll look for a four-hour window in the weather that will get me to Guzelyurt. Despite the less than ideal weather I still enjoy being on the bike very much. That will always be a joy I will have wherever I go. I guess that’s where I differ from Forrest Gump. I don’t want to quit riding. I just want to be riding at home now. It’s time to come home.
You've Got to be Kidding Me!
Thursday, October 16 Goreme Birthday DayThis is the type of post that should be written three or four days hence after I have had a chance to actually digest the number of experiences that came my way. First it was my 55th birthday and while I didn’t think of it all day, I was aware that I was celebrating it on pilgrimage in Turkey unlike past birthdays that were celebrated with family and friends. I wouldn’t want it to be this way every year and I was thankful for the growing number of birthday wishes that showed up in Facebook and email as the day went on. I am ten hours ahead of my West Coast community and pretty much on cue birthday wishes started flowing in about the time dinner started for me here in Turkey.
It was an almost dizzying day of visual and jaw-dropping sights. I spontaneously blurted out loud on numerous occasions, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” as I came upon another natural wonder or stood in awe at the sacred feel of ancient churches that were created by chipping away at massive rock formations. There are Gothic style churches in America that are made of stone that are truly a marvel to look at. But, to walk into a church that is in the center of a rock cone (a really big cone!) literally made my knees go weak. I marveled at the similar design that we have become used to. An altar up front for various rituals, carved shelves for the placement of holy icons, and frescoes of the Biblical narrative that display the faith in story form on the walls and ceilings.
My favorite of the day was the Pancarlik Church in the valley of the same name. There were equally impressive rock churches near Goreme that had much larger crowds, tour buses parked in larger lots, and attendants in the most fragile churches making sure we didn’t take pictures or touch the frescoes on the walls. But, I think part of the attraction of the Pancarlik Church was that there wasn’t the usual build up to it with signs and arrows pointing to it and buildings that signified we were at something important.I found the Pancarlik Church on a dirt road that was suggested by my biking friend, Jon, at Middle Earth Adventures. I spent about an hour on that road, during which time only three vehicles passed me—a tractor, a car with a trunk full of furniture, and truck with supplies. I almost rode by the sign to the church. I had just stopped at another ancient rock church site, but the doors built into the rock were locked. Pancarlik Church was a little off the main road and I wasn’t sure I wanted to ride down the hill and have to come back up it again. But, I said to myself, “I may be in Turkey only once and even if there isn’t much to see I will have discovered that.”
I rode the kilometer down the hill and as I reached the end a older man was tinkering away at his old moped. As I arrived he greeted me and told me that walking the paths to the church and the monastery would be five Turkish lira. He had a small hut with a wood fire going that he stayed in that reminded me of some of the simple abodes from the movieThe Hobbit. I made way down to the church and as I entered I just started shaking my head and saying, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Here was this church nearly a thousand years old being monitored by an kind old man. No one else was there. It appeared that I might be the only visitor all day.Much of the frescoes were still intact, but slowly being chipped away by time and gravity. What struck me the most about it was this sense of how people long ago knew how to shape a space in a way that directed the energy in such a way that made it feel holy or sacred. The energy was palpable and I found myself having to remind myself to breathe. Being that I am part of the priestly class, so to speak, I chose to walk all the way up to the front and stand behind the rock altar, an act I had not seen by other visitors in the other churches, as if that was off limits to them. As I left the site and paid my five lira I touched my hand to my heart and the old man just smiled. He got it. He knows. We shook hands with the more intimate double handshake that is often reserved for friends.
I cannot write about all of the experiences today. I more pictures today than I did at that Vatican six weeks ago. I strolled through one open air museum , as they are called, and was struck by how the villages built into the rock resembled a Turkish version of Colorado’s Mesa Verde. I had to allow myself to accept tea from a gas station attendant as I shifted from Istanbul to the smaller villages again. In Istanbul, at least in the touristy Old Town, the offer of tea is the beginning of trying to seal a carpet deal or a major purchase of cashmere or satin. And I enjoyed some glorious views of the valley from that dirt road with the fall colors starting to show, rock chimneys set up like chess pieces across the terrain, and canyons ripping through the center of it all.I celebrated my birthday at the end with food. I enjoyed a particular Cappadocian custom called pottery kebab. I had a lamb version of it. A small piece of pottery is used to cook what essentially ends up being a stew. The ingredients are stuffed into the pottery, sealed off at the top and then cooked over wood heat. When it is served, it is accompanied by a small hammer. I was invited to give a few sharp taps to the neck of the pottery which causes the pottery to break. The top is then removed and I am able to dish the entrée out in servings. It was quite tasty and what I remember most was how tender everything was. I ended the evening with a latte and deep-fried ice cream just to put the finishing touches on my 55th birthday.
I am very much at home with myself which is a mixed blessing. I am glad that that is the gift that emerged from this pilgrimage. I am also aware that I still have between 200-250 miles still to go and my body and mind are really starting to relax. That is usually a good thing, but a couple of unexpected challenges are going to force me to dig a little more deeply. While I tossing and turning on the bus from Istanbul to Goreme, we had gained nearly 4,000 feet in altitude. I noticed yesterday in the casual riding that I was doing that my chest felt tight and my legs mushy. My body has not yet adjusted to the sudden gain in altitude.The bigger concern, however, is that this early fall weather is predicted to provide a hint of winter over the weekend. The average highs for this time of year here are in the high 60’s. Saturday and Sunday are supposed to have lows near freezing and highs in the low 50’s with three days of rain beginning tomorrow (Friday). If I hadn’t bought my ticket from Konya to home, I could wait this out, but right now I only have about one day of give in my schedule. Not sure yet what this will mean, but I will take it a day at a time and make decisions as I go.
My mind and my soul are feeling very much at home with who I am and with who my tribe is. It’s been an amazing pilgrimage in that way. Finally being able to separate my livelihood from my passion has lifted the angst that I have carried in my bones for years. I now just need to figure out how to drag this old body back home!
One "aha" at a time
I was beginning to think there wasn’t much left to say as I rode the bus from Istanbul to Cappadocia. Like all effective pilgrimages the destination is rarely the end goal; it only serves as a catalyst for a process. Whether one is on pilgrimage to Jerusalem or Mecca or the Church of St. James, the destination only represents something deeper—like one’s faith or a relationship with the world, God or the Sacred or a ideal state of being. Rumi’s Tomb has been my destination since the beginning, but my inner Rumi began to get revealed somewhere between Thessaloniki and Istanbul. The emphasis on the marriage between body, beauty and virtue in Hellenistic culture struck a chord with me. I knew it was mirroring something I felt deeply, but hadn’t seen validated so clearly.Sometime in Istanbul I really began to own that and refuse to apologize for that as I wrote, “This is who I am. This is what I do.” As I began to turn my thoughts more and more toward home, however, the reality of how my non-apologetic, spiritual coming out would narrow considerably my chances of making a living in professional ministry sent me into a mild depression.
I thought I could write my way through that in my daily blog, but then I second-guessed myself thinking my readers don’t want to hear me continuing to ruminate about m place in the world. “Can’t this guy just get his act together,” I heard you saying. So then I thought you’d be more interested in hearing about my activities and the foreign places that I am traveling through that many of you, like me until now, have never been exposed to. But, that sounded boring. Do you really want to hear about the carpet sellers who continually dogged me by calling me James Bond and making friendly with me? Could you really be that interested in the 90 minutes I spent drinking an extra hot, no water, chai tea latte while watching people and catching up with Facebook posts and friends? Would a detailed account of tearing my bike down readying it for transport be worth your time?
In the end, given the all-night bus ride and my writer’s block I said nothing. Instead I took a glorious nap in my rock framed bed at Flintstones Cave Hotel. I kid you not. It is really called “Flintstones” and it really is in a rock cave—part of which is the original natural rock chimney and part of which is added rock construction in order to make it a full service hotel. After a good nap and a couple of Ibuprofen to ease my sleepless night induced headache I took my bike for a quick spin around town and up and down the narrow alley streets lined with numerous small hotels and inns built into and from the rock that puts this place on the map.Actually, I wasn’t even supposed to be in the town of Goreme. In Istanbul I paid for a ticket, including an extra half fare for my bike, to get to the town of Urgup right on the boundary of Goreme National Park. When we arrived in Goreme I was the only one still on the bus when the attendant stepped up to me and said in Turkish, “What are you doing?” “I am going on to Urgup,” I stated. He shook his head and through a series of hand motions indicated that I needed to pick up my bicycle and luggage that was already sitting on the side of the road. With a little negotiation I discovered that I needed to transfer to another bus to Urgup. That stop was 200 meters away and I lugged my bike bag on one shoulder while carrying my 25 pound box of luggage in my arms.
45 minutes later the bus came—a small commuter bus that so full that four or five people were standing in the stairwell. There was room enough for most of my body, but not room enough for my luggage or bike. I didn’t even try to plead my case. I was already aware that something like that could happen and I was prepared to adjust, if necessary. I carried my belongings across the street, spent the next hour putting my bike back together and then searched the town for a bike tour company that I knew existed that could help me plan my next few days and find accommodations for the night.It was this combination of events (the nap, the cave-like hotels, and the bike tour company) that pulled me through my mild depression and writer’s block. I began to believe again that this thing that I do and know so well (life as pilgrimage) does have a place. I talked with Jon, with Middle Earth Adventures, and we discussed the possibility of a cycling pilgrimage where I provided the spiritual leadership and they handled all the logistics. This got me thinking about pilgrimages I could lead in Oregon that help people explore the “landscape of the soul” given that Oregon has so many different landscapes. I thought about working with the theme of “wilderness” and leading hearty and brave individuals across the Nevada desert- a place I am particularly attracted to. But, I also knew that this was not the answer to putting food on a table that I also no longer have.
I began to form a working image that spoke to one of the early catalysts for this pilgrimage—the clear and unmistakable feeling that one world was dying and another world was being born and emerging. This has been part of my angst and wrestling. Like an auto worker who has lost his job to automation, my vocational identity and livelihood has been dependent on the professional ministry. But, I and the vast majority of ministers in my age group will tell you that we don’t believe the professional ministry will sustain us until retirement. Every year there are fewer full time positions and we have to travel further and further from our homes to find positions. We had better be thinking about Plan B!
But, I had an image that came to mind. I have lived a good portion of my life near orchards and it is common to see orchards where older trees are mixed in with younger saplings. I began to think about professional ministry like these orchards. We know that older trees are producing less and less every year. We also know that we cannot expect the younger saplings to replace those older trees until many years of growth and maturity.I began to think about my livelihood. I thought back to one of my favorite lines from author Frederick Buechner when he wrote, “The place God where calls us to be is where our deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” I thought about the orchard. I thought about this internal wrestling that has followed me in recent years. And for the first time I think I saw the picture for what it really is. My livelihood and my need to serve to the community may be and likely will be two different things—at least, until those new emerging saplings grow into maturity.I have a feeling that riding into Konya won’t be the great celebration like one expects after reaching the top of Mt. Everest. It will feel more like relief and one step closer to physical home. If I didn’t want to get home I could have stayed in Istanbul where I had settled in for a few days. I feel like I could do that here in Cappadocia as well. Internally I have been coming home ever since Thessaloniki and arriving at my inner Rumi days before actually arriving at the pilgrimage destination of his Rumi’s Tomb in Konya.
The last two days have taken me just a step closer, another small "aha" in my larger pilgrimage of finding my place in the world. In order to honor “the place that God calls us,” as Buechner says, I may need to divorce my livelihood from my emerging sense of call. A young sapling is peeking through the ground, but I need to give her time to mature and grow before she can produce the fruit to sustain me day to day. To expect more than that will suffocate the sapling before she has a chance to grow up.Tomorrow I will tour through the region around Goreme including the rock chimneys, some ancient church sites, and some very unique landscape that will be a sensual feast for the eyes and glorious terrain for the bike. Ha! And it will be my birthday too, now that I think about it. Happy 55th birthday to me! One to remember for sure.
Lightening Up
Monday, October 13 Istanbul LayoverHow does the leaf learn to dance?How does the bird find her song?Hoes does water know to flow?How does the person become a human? 
This was the little poem that began to write itself tonight as I sat meditatively watching and listening to the music and the dance of the Sufi whirling dervishes. I knew there was no way I could describe what they were doing without it sounding sanitized. Yes, they were twirling in circles. Yes, they had on white robes with skirts that were held tight at the waist so that the bottom half would sail and float as they went round and round. And yes, there was that hypnotic haunting music of Turkey that begins to numb the mind like the effect that a good liqueur can have.But, what the dances really elicited in me was this sense that the spiritual practice of the whirling dervishes has to do with answering the question, “How do we open ourselves to become human in its most realized form?” The arena of philosophy appeals primarily to the mind and our rational selves. Soft religion often tries to take it a step further and appeal to the heart and our emotion. But, the whirling dervish ceremony I don’t believe appeas to either. Rather, like many forms of meditation, it is a practice that nurtures the soul and fans the flames of the divine spark within all of us. It is what our traditions call a spiritual discipline.I can’t rationally tell you how this works. All I know is that the rhythm and repetition of the twirling opens up a place deep within us that thinking can’t touch. I get it at times when I am cycling. After years (even decades) of sitting in the saddle I don’t even realize that I am pedaling anymore (unless, of course, I am grinding my way up a painful hill or trying to outduel a devilish headwind). Joseph Campbell and friends of mine have described the same experience at a certain point running. Practiced meditators confirm that there is a point in meditation where the mind shuts off and a deeper voice takes over that comes from who knows where (the psyche, God, the Universe, Yoda?).There were nearly a hundred of us in the exhibition hall near the subway station in Old Town Istanbul. It was an interesting bunch of people being that most of us probably were tourists and visitors from other places. But, for the most part people seemed to appreciate that this was a religious ceremony rather than a performance. There was a quiet respectful energy in the room that seemed to indicate that one should be in the right frame of mind before the dancers and musicians filed in.I had a brief wave of tears and gratitude just before the beginning of the ceremony. I was reading through the brochure about the ceremony and it was describing the seven movements of the ceremony. The sixth act includes a repetitive reading of a verse from the Quran. Being that my pilgrimage was specifically about the experience the meeting of West and East and the movement from “Rome to Rumi” the verse immediately sent a jolt through me. The verse reads, “The East and the West belong to Allah, wherever you turn, you are faced with Him.” In my Presbyterian tradition we say it like this, “We all belong to God.” Different words; same intention and spirit. It was an unexpected gift.
The rest of the day was dedicated to a combination of sitting and preparation for the last leg of my journey. I sat for nearly two hours on the Bosphorus in the late morning drinking coffee, watching people and enjoying the way the sun was glistening and reflecting off the water. I didn’t want to fill my day with too much activity so I did more sitting (and some standing) by getting on the tram and taking it to both ends of the city. It was an easy way to see more of the city without having to walk anywhere.
The most exciting part of the day was putting together a plan for the rest of the trip. I was able to contact a travel company that specializes in bike tours in Cappadocia. On Wednesday morning after I arrive from an all-night bus trip I will meet with them and we’ll plan a three to four day tour through Cappadocia. And I bought my airline ticket for my return trip for next Thursday. The big step, however, was that I realized that I would no longer need my camping equipment for the duration of the trip. I found a discarded box next door at an electronics store, laid all my gear out, and sorted that which needed to stay on the bike from that which could be shipped home now. I was able to let go of half of my gear and go from ten items attached to my bike to four (two panniers, a handlebar bag, and my portable bike bag for airport transfer).I feel like I am definitely entering the home stretch now. My bike is lighter. My heart is lighter. My wallet is lighter. Guess we have a theme going here.
Returning to Normal
Sunday, October 12 Istanbul—Bosphorus River Day(written Monday morning)I had almost forgotten what normal felt like! Yesterday, as I was walking with my host couple, Pelin and Citin (pronounced “Chittin”), down a cobblestoned street I became aware of how good I felt. I hadn’t touched the bike for more than two days. I enjoyed a wonderful and casual tour of Old Town the day before with Burcu. I spent a casual morning strolling, sitting, watching, and snacking along the Bosphorus River. And a slight shake in my body was dissolving away (the result of my nerves firing constantly from the over-stimulation of sights, sounds, smells, uncertainties, weeks on the bike, and by American standards, crazy driving.)
I can feel myself coming home. I am enjoying slowing the pace down here in Istanbul. Yesterday I bought a new long sleeve shirt just because I got tired of being in public in my ratty turtleneck that is fine for camping, but not for dining out. I have four nights in the same place, the same bed, and with the same set of restaurants and stores around me. It feels really good that I don’t have to wake up to a new set of circumstances each morning. I want to enjoy this enough to hold onto this feeling, but not so much that I refuse to budge and not move forward. I don’t plan to stay put and start a Presbyterian Church here!This was the second day that I had hosts from connections that I have back in Oregon. Once again (like Burcu) my hosts treated me to another part of Istanbul and pointed out many places that I might visit in my remaining time here. They picked me up in front of my hostel and drove back to their part of the city in the area known as Ortica. I was really glad that Citin was driving. I knew well enough to trust him, but still found that my eyes widened a few times at the maneuvers that he and other drivers pulled to get where they wanted to go.
They pulled into the parking area for their home and walked by it as their dog peered out from behind a fence hoping that they were returning. We wound our way through a number of little shops, restaurants and cafes through narrow alleys intended for pedestrians only as we made our way down to the river. Pelin and Citin had reserved a place for us on a Bosphorus river boat cruise. The one hour cruise took us up the north side of the river as far as the Black Sea and then made a U-turn hugging the south side of the river for the return trip.From the vantage point of the river it was easy to see the blend of the ancient with the modern all along the shore. Fortress towers still stood high above the river as historical reminders of the Ottoman conquest of the area six hundred years prior. Modern trendy coffee shops were built right into the walls of old castles that had at one time housed sultans. Twentieth century luxurious homes lined the waterfront mixed in with the occasional fifteenth century home.
The water and the air felt great and refreshing. I remember this feeling from my pilgrimage in 2011 when I crossed from the East Bay to San Francisco in a ferry. After riding for eight weeks propelling myself by my own power, it was almost a dizzying feeling to just sit and let something else transport me from one place to another. I had a little of that yesterday as I just sat in the chair on the boat, watched as the scenery greeted me at the pace of the boat, and took the occasional picture. Pelin, Citin, and I managed our conversation pretty successfully. Pelin can still drudge up some English from three years she spent in England twenty years ago. Citin had about five times as much English as I did Turkish which means he had ten words to my two! Not only did we manage, but it was fun using all three of us and the occasional Google search to express what we really wanted to say.Today, I will make the arrangements for the rest of my trip. From the beginning of this I have set Konya as my destination as Rumi’s Tomb is located there. But, I have also known that it was never about just getting there. It was about how this process of going from “Rome to Rumi” mirrors an evolution in my spirituality and in the spiritual identity of much of the culture that I am associated with in the American Northwest.
In that light I could feel myself potentially drifting off the spiritual path that I had intended as I worked through the final route to Konya. After riding into Istanbul and being advised of the challenges of riding the 100 kilometers out of it again, I knew that it was not going to serve me well to try to cycle my way through it again. I was planning a ferry ride to Bandirma on the northwest coast of Turkey where I would then head pretty much in a straight line to Konya from there.But, something wasn’t feeling right. The seven to eight days that it would take was feeling like it was just an area to cross on my way to my destination. Plus, when I have shared with Turkish people that I was going to Konya I often got a furrowed look back, as if to say, “Why would you go there?” When I shared that I was on a Mevlana (Rumi) pilgrimage, they understood. Then I would say that I was also planning a quick bus trip to Cappadocia and their eyes would light up and they would say, “Oh, you’ll just love Cappadocia and you just have to see the old underground Christian cities.” It was clear that the water was flowing another direction.I still have a few details to work out, but if all falls into place I will take a late bus to Cappadocia tomorrow night (it’s an all-night ride by bus. Ugh!), spend three to four days touring through that region, and then cycle the final 150 kilometers to Konya to seal this pilgrimage properly with a visit to Rumi’s Tomb and first row seat at a Whirling Dervishes ceremony.Finally, the last two days have given me a chance to reflect on this pilgrimage and what it means for me when I return home. I finally feel like I am in a really good place in terms of the presence I can offer in the community and my voice in the unfolding narrative of our culture with regard to religion and spirituality. While being a pastor has given me an avenue for many of my skills and passions, I have felt that it was never quite broad enough to allow me to really let my wings expand. I am sure you can see why. Some of what I have written in these weeks would not be welcome in most churches and I have alternated between keeping a lid on my most authentic self and sharing it more honestly at the risk of offense.I feel a sense of relief that this pilgrimage has allowed me to show my real face. This is who I am. This is what I think about. This is what brings me great joy and satisfaction. I am deeply passionate about leading communities through a process of transformation and change. I know how to do that. I have a dogged determination to help our churches understand the new religious and spiritual context in which they find themselves. I will do almost anything to help others discover what makes their soul sing, what deepens and softens their heart, and what awakens the passion within them.I don’t know what that will mean for a job. But, it no longer matters to me now. I can work in a bike shop or mentor juvenile delinquents or clean houses, if I need to. I know who I am. I know what I do. I know what gifts I bring to the community. I will offer them and then trust, trust, trust…
Come, come...
Saturday, October 11 Istanbul Old Town(written Sunday morning)It could not have been more than five minutes, maybe ten minutes at the most, but the highlight of the day was the brief time that I crossed the barrier separating those who were visiting the Blue Mosque from those who wanted to enter the inner sanctum and pray. I was thankful for my host, Burcu, who provided the opening by asking if I wanted to enter and pray. I have been very careful to honor the boundaries of my host country and I didn’t want to trespass in an area that was intended only for practicing Muslims. Burcu picked up on my yearning and eased the transition.
I let go of any expectations that I would do it right and just followed the spirit that the space and energy called forth from me. From an outsider’s perspective it must have looked like a confused and tangled mess of prayers picked up from the smorgasboard of the world’s religions. None of it was planned. In that short space of time I found myself on my knees bowing with my hands stretched forward and my head as close the ground as my tight hamstrings would allow me. I raised myself up and repeated the Lord’s Prayer as I done thousands of times leading worship in Presbyterian congregations. I rocked back and forth as Jews do at the Wailing Wall. I folded my hands in the traditional “Namaste” blessing that I use during yoga. Finally, in the end I made my prayer very personal. “God, please reveal to me the unfolding, unique vocation that you are calling me to.”I think the experience was so powerful because the space called for my soul to speak in her own language. I didn’t have to recite someone else’s liturgy. I didn’t have to follow the movement of those around me as if there were a right way to pray. I didn’t have to prove that I was worthy or had the right faith. I only had to let the two women at the dividing ropes know that I there was for more than just pictures. I was there to pray and that was enough. I left thinking, “May our Christian churches in America be as open to the prayers of Muslims in our space as the Muslims were to my prayers in their space.” I am thankful for this gift of generosity and trust on their behalf.
The other gift of the day came in the form of my host and personal tour guide, Burcu. Back in Oregon one of the cherished members of my former congregation had very personal ties to Turkey. Her son married a woman from Turkey and Evren has guided me by email and phone as I have made my way on this journey. Evren also has a childhood friend, Burcu, who weeks before I left offered to help me any way she could while I was here.What a gift it has been! First, I am amazed that halfway around the world I am seeing people who are connected to my home back in Oregon (later today I will be meeting with another couple connected to a woman my girlfriend and I know from Portland). Secondly, after having the responsibility of planning every little bit of each day resting on my shoulders, it was a complete relief to let Burcu do all the planning and for me to follow her around as if I was on a leash. The heaviness that I have been feeling due to constant organizing eased just a bit.We spent the first part of our time over coffee talking about Turkish culture in general, the nature of this pilgrimage, our work, travel, language, religion, of course, and her connection to those I know in the States. What I discovered is that she was stalling a bit so that I would be able to hear the call to prayer from the Blue Mosque (an American term, not Turkish). I captured that on audio and hope to share that as part of a multi-media presentation later.
We toured through the Hagia Sophia—the magnificent structure that was originally built as a Christian Orthodox Church and was later converted to a mosque when the Ottoman Empire conquered the area. Today, it is a museum where one can see both influences. The Muslims, rather than destroying much of the Christian icons and mosaics, just covered them up. Throughout the museum/church/mosque you can see where work is being done to restore some of the Christian architecture and art as a way to tell the fuller story of this 1600 year old relic.By the time we finished I was starving as breakfast was light and I had survived the rest of the morning and afternoon on two cups of coffee. Her mother and she agreed that sometime during the day I had to go out for meatballs! It was then that I realized why I had had such a light meal three night’s prior at a hotel. In the nearly deserted hotel the host told me I could have a salad and meatballs. I was imagining meatballs and spaghetti or some form of carbohydrate. That meal was literally just cucumbers, tomatoes and six or seven small sausage-looking things. After cycling fifty miles in a strong head wind this looked like just the appetizer to the real meal which never materialized.Anyway, back to the meatballs yesterday during my tour of Old Town Istanbul. I could tell that these meatballs were fresh and real (my last ones were frozen, I am quite sure). I learned to couple each meatball with a piece of bread in order to get the carbohydrates my body is craving and spread a thin layer of ground pepper sauce on each one. Delicious! I ordered a water and a Coca-Cola which is offered everywhere to which Burcu told me that Coca-Cola is the number one import in Turkey. Wow!
We spent the rest of the afternoon in the Blue Mosque and then took an underground tour of the Basilica Cistern, an ancient water tank built by the Romans in the Byzantine period. Now, catfish (I think) swim in the two feet deep water while visitors take pictures of the massive columns, soak in the eerie underground lighting, and enjoy being in this man-made cavern that, at one time, served the city with water.We ended the evening at a section of town called the Grand Bazaar, built in 1455, and is one of the world’s largest indoor markets. I can’t even describe the scope of this place. In fact, I told Burcu that I would need her to re-orient me once we emerged from it as I had completely lost my sense of direction in there. The market covers 61 streets and supports over 3,000 shops. Jewelry, silks, ceramics, sweets, carpets, coffee and teas, it’s all there. Wikipedia says that somewhere between 250,000 and 400,000 people visit it daily! It was like walking into Disneyland and immediately knowing that you had entered another reality. The goal, however, was to enjoy some real Turkish coffee! And I have to say, after having been shocked by the chewable Greek and Turkish coffee up to that point, that this really was a tasty treat. Burcu said that it is made fresh each time and it did seem to take the edge off the bitterness of my prior attempts to enjoy Turkey on Turkey’s terms.
I plan to stay in Istanbul through tomorrow night (Monday) and continue on my journey Tuesday morning. I am listening to what my heart and soul really need and am finding myself shifting my attention more toward Cappadocia than Konya. My original plan was to cycle to Konya and then take a bus to Cappadocia, a strange land of rock chimneys and the remains of old underground cities and churches. But, in reflecting on what I am hearing and feeling from the people I meet with it sounds like Rumi’s Tomb is the one isolated site to visit in Konya, but that Cappadocia is a biker’s paradise that would be almost sinful to miss while in Turkey. I have more to research, but it is possible that I may give the greater weight to Cappadocia than Konya. We’ll see. I am using the phrase, “What will make my heart sing,” as a way to make my decision.With my experience of the invitation to pray in the Blue Mosque, I end with one of Rumi’s most famous quotes, “Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come , come.”
A-maze-ing Day
Friday, October 10 Kumburgaz to Istanbul(written Saturday morning)There were many wonderful and amazing sights and experiences yesterday, but what became the over-riding theme of the day was fact the day was committed to finding my way through the maze called Istanbul. I had relied on a website post of another cyclist who had heard the same thing I had about not even attempting to negotiate one’s way into Istanbul by bike. He had done it and found that as long as one used the simple rule of staying as close to coast as possible, one could find a connected series of bike trails, residential streets, and wide sidewalks without having to wheel onto the busier, congested, no-shoulder highways.
Basically, I found the same thing to be true. I did find myself on a couple of dicey sections, but only for a couple of kilometers. And in one spot I ended up walking my bike for a full kilometer on a grassy median between two busy highways until I found a break in traffic large enough to quickly dart across. I walked and waited a full twenty minutes, but with patience my moment came and I took it.I had prepared mentally for this day. I knew that it would be a day of trial and error, backtracking, dead ends, and stopping numerous times to use my GPS to navigate through the urban city maze. What I didn’t anticipate was how long that would take. I was only twenty miles away from my destination so I figured it would take me twice as long as usual to cover that distance—maybe four hours. By 5: 30 p.m., six hours later, I was starting to get nervous that I would be trying to find my way the hostel in the dark, in a foreign city. I did retain in the back of my mind that I could also grab a taxi for the last stretch, if I needed.
My cycling website friend was right. There really is a series of bike trails, wide walkways, and residential streets that one can string together to get into Istanbul, but one should plan to be patient, keep one’s head, and leave a FULL day just dedicated to figuring out the maze. I had two occasions where a wonderful seafront bike trail and walkway lined the coast. On one of those I was rolling along nicely beginning to believe that this was going to lead me right the edge of Old Town, when the trail literally just dropped into the sea. The concrete simply ended. No signs, no barrier, just two blue lines indicating my bike trail going to the edge of the sea and stopping. Two recreational cyclists were sitting on a park bench watching and I could tell that they knew exactly what had happened.The other thing I thing I am getting used to is that the assumptions about the use of the road are different here. I described this in relation to Italy as well. In America we have this sense that we a right to a certain portion of the road. “This is my lane and I get to use as much of it as I want!” In Italy it was more, “We all have to fit on here together so let’s all make this work.” I was told by one of my contacts, Evren, about the unspoken rules of the road in Turkey. It is coming true. The rule is, “The bigger the vehicle, the more rights you have.”
I have learned that if a car is parked on the shoulder and a truck is coming up behind me, that I best just stop and wait for the truck to pass before I proceed. I can’t count on them scooting over just a couple of feet to give me more room. In Italy the truck would have given a little beep, I would have waved, and we all would have threaded the needle together singing Mr. Roger’s theme song, “It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood!”There was a point where I was starting to get a little agitated by the lack of awareness that I actually existed on the road. I was on the shoulder of a one way, two lane street when I construction semi turned left going the wrong way down the one way in front of me. That didn’t concern me. I have gotten used to the “If you can get away with it without anyone getting hurt, why not do it!” attitude. So I just stopped along the curb until he did whatever he was planning to do. Remember, he was bigger than me and so I figured he got to dictate what he wanted to do.He made it part way around the corner and then stopped so that only one lane of traffic was no open. I wasn’t budging nor was he. Finally, after realizing that he was feeling stuck I wound my way around him on the one open lane so he could continue on his path. He threw up his arms and began cursing for being in the way. What he was trying to do was to park his semi along the curb in the opposite direction of traffic. As I accepted his verbal abuse, my blood started to simmer just a little as I was thinking, but not daring to say out loud, “Look buster, you’re the one going the wrong way down a one way street!” I guess as a bike I was supposed to not only get out of the way, but also read his mind as to which way out of the way actually meant (I think it meant I was supposed to evaporate into thin air at his presence!)
By the time I reached my hostel it was dark, but I was fortunate that the last hour and a half were completely on waterfront bike paths and wide sidewalks. Of course, I couldn’t have known that at the time and the possibility that I would run into another dead end and have to backtrack when it was getting so late was starting to make me a little agitated and nervous.But, along the way I did take some time to enjoy a few moments. I stopped at a café in what we would call a suburb of Istanbul and enjoyed a cappuccino while watching all the people pass by in a busy roundabout intersection. While religiously I have only seen mosques so far, it is clear that there is a diversity among the people—some who dress in more western (not cowboy) style clothing, and women who have no scarf on their heads, those who have a scarf but still dress western, those with scarf and full robes, and a few with the whole burqa covering everything but their eyes.
At one waterfront park (I think I passed through about six of them that run from one to four kilometers long) I sat with cookies and a lemonade and looked out over the glistening afternoon sea and a beach that was nearly empty except for a few lovers enjoying the solitude. Now that I know the urban maze a little better I can how enjoyable it would be to head down to the waterfront and have a casual ride along the sea, stop for coffee at one of the dozens (maybe even hundreds) of little restaurants that line the coast line and watch children playing, men (mostly) fishing, and the local entrepreneurs selling cold drinks, freshly brewed hot tea, snacks and roasted chestnuts.After cleaning up last night and feeling human again a number of us from the hostel went to dinner. This part is really fun. At our table were two 20-something brothers from Seattle (almost home!), a young woman from Switzerland, a family of three from Slovenia, and one of the Yusuf, the hostel staff person from Istanbul. Today, I get the pleasure of one my contacts (thanks Mary and Evren for helping) being my tour guide. This is a real treat as the whole trip has either been by bike or on foot and has been completely planned by me. I am looking forward to someone else being in charge, even for a few hours.Today, enjoy, rest, eat, and try not to think too much. My soul is happy, but my body and mind are tired.
The World by Bike
Thursday, October 9 Tekirdag to Kumburgaz, Turkey(written Friday morning)Just 40 more kilometers to go until Istanbul. I plan to keep this short today so that I can get on the road. The wind which gave me that deadened look in my eyes two days ago and tossed me around in the afternoon yesterday, is already teasing the coastal air outside my hotel window this morning. I know the longer I wait, the more intense the wind will get and more it will start howling.
My body and soul are definitely ready for the break in Istanbul. Without realizing it I had laced together eight straight days of riding without a break and I sort of feel like my body is in one place, but my soul is two or three days behind. I plan to spend three full days in Istanbul to get everything back in sync and, of course, visit a handful of places that will give me a good taste of this city that truly is where West meets East. The Bosphorous River is the dividing line between Europe and Asia. Istanbul is on both continents and religiously has a deep and conflicted history with regard to Orthodox Christianity and Islam. Remember, this city was once called Constantinople and many of the Greeks still don’t recognize the new name which just means, “to the city.”I want to share a little bit about danger today. The recent events around the country certainly point to the potential risks and dangers of being in Turkey right now, especially on a bicycle where I am more vulnerable than the average tourist being shuttled around on a bus. While the news two mornings ago was startling and sad to me, I have to say that it has not affected me in any way with regard to feeling that I am in more danger than I was when I entered the country.
One of the gifts of this pilgrimage has been that early on (you may remember!) that I had to learn to live in the moment and trust what was right before me. I had nearly gone into a panic when, at the same time, cell phone issues and computer problems, threatened to isolate me with regard to communication. Over a few day period I worked through those one step at a time to the point that when I arrived in Turkey I felt like an old pro getting my phone data changed over from one country to another.What I have learned is to just deal with what is front of me while keeping an eye on what is likely to be before me. There are dangers, but they are completely unrelated to the political environment. The real dangers are the same dangers that I would be facing in the U.S. They have to do with being a cyclist on a transportation infrastructure built for cars and the efficient movement of goods and materials.Yesterday was a good example. For the most part I felt pretty safe. But, the day was spent stopping sometimes every kilometer, sometimes every few kilometers to check my GPS, find another long residential street, look for a bike path, avoid a freeway and thus stay out of the way of the speeding monsters that are heading into Istanbul. I will get there, but I am not playing political dodge ball here. This has more to do with negotiating my way through an urban jungle.
The saddest moment of the trip took place yesterday. I have seen many dead dogs on the side of the road in both Greece and Turkey. The best way I can describe the situation is that there are feral dogs all over the place, even in the towns just sleeping in parks and wandering around town squares. Yesterday, as I was on a long stretch on the main highway where I had a full eight foot shoulder I saw a dog dip under the guard rail from one side of the highway to the other. I watch them carefully because I never know which ones will be spooked by me and go running and which ones will lick their chops and see a great opportunity for a little prey play.I had just passed the dog, gone another two or three seconds and then “Whoomph!” I heard the sickening impact of a vehicle hitting the dog like the sound of a fist slamming into a pillow. The dog yelped and cried and scrambled around trying to finish crossing the road. The next car and a bus stopped while the dog struggled. Both front legs were broken and he used his back legs to prop himself up and then pull himself forward on his mangled front legs, falling to the ground each time. He finally reached the grassy embankment just off the highway and laid down. We all continued on our journeys.The spring was gone from my legs and it took a little while to catch my breath. If the dog had owners I am sure the legs could be fixed and he would recover if he also had no internal injuries. But, I was sure that this dog was going to die there in that spot or close by, if not during the day by nightfall as he lay helpless. It was sad and disturbing especially because the car didn’t slow down at all or stop after the impact. I can’t imagine that he didn’t know that he had the dog. I kept wondering, “Didn’t he see the dog? Couldn’t he have done more to avoid the collision?” Of course, the dog was behind me and I had no idea whether the driver was already trying to avoid the dog and the dog just kept coming.I was a couple of kilometers down the road when the image finally hit me. The dog was crossing the left lane of a two lane, one-way highway. I was taking up the shoulder on the right side. It suddenly occurred to me that the driver may have been trying to thread the needle between the crossing dog and me and not able to, chose the dog rather than me. I suddenly felt very sad and thankful all at the same time. Still, I wished the driver had stopped just out of compassion.The dangers I am facing are the same dangers all cyclists face in a world built for cars and massive semi-trailers.
The fragile political environment seems to pose no threat to me at all at this point. It is certainly on the mind of the Turkish people. Together we are watching the news in the café’s, restaurants, and hotel lobbies. When I stop, the man selling watermelons is sharing with me his sadness about the war and erupting situation, but it is something we are sharing together as brothers. My U.S. citizenship is not putting a barrier or distance between me and the people I meet. In fact, my bike seems be having the opposite effect. Certainly some are a little wary and puzzled by my presence on a bike, unsure what to make of me. But, most are curious and when they find out that I am from the U.S. and that I am riding from Rome to Konya they smile, shake their heads and laugh and then wave their friends over to join in the conversation of hand motions and charades.
Okay, seriously, I have to go now! Just a little further and I’ll have four nights in Istanbul and can catch my breath. It will be an interesting day weaving through neighborhoods, side streets, and bike trails along parks and the sea. But, I have given myself all day just to find my way through it. At the end I should be in my hostel right in the middle of Old Town enjoying more of the people, the hospitality, the kind gestures and the connection we all share as one person to another.