Rice and Beans

Wednesday, September 17         San Giovanni Rotondo to GinvinazzoI felt more at peace today than I have with the whole pilgrimage thus far. The post I sent this morning titled, “This One’s for You” seemed to clear away any of the clutter about why I felt nudged to take this pilgrimage. The presence of ongoing challenges regarding my technology and communication finally did its clarifying work. If this was a personal pilgrimage I needed to take then, with the technology challenges, I could have dug in a little deeper on the pilgrimage part and let all you know that I would check in when I could. But, that wasn’t going to do it for me.This morning when I posted I was relieved to discover to discover the deeper agenda of this pilgrimage. I will explore that a little more here and then share some about this casual day of riding, enjoyment and rhythm.Here’s the deal. The pilgrimage destination is Konya, Turkey where Rumi’s Tomb is located. But, this is not really about Rumi. The “Rome to Rumi” journey is symbol for every one of us who has experienced a movement, a growth, an evolution from the faith the we grew up with to the highly experimental, exploratory, and emerging spiritualities that most of us now embrace, to one degree or another.Rumi is one of many spiritual influences. So is Jesus, Reinhold Neibuhr, Morrie from Tuesdays with Morrie Dan Fogelberg, Annie Lamott, Henri Nouwen, and a whole host of others. In the end, I hope to get to Rumi’s Tomb, but what I more interested in providing a model and a metaphor for all of us.  What is your Rome? Where did you start? Was there some institutional or structured faith that you felt an obligation to?And what is your Rumi now? Is it Joseph Campbell’s Power of Myth? Is it the Four Agreements? Might it be something more secular such as the Beatles, “All I Need is Love” or George Lucas’ presentation of the Force? Is it Native America spirituality or a movement more toward seeing  God in nature that is represented in Celtic spirituality, paganism and panntheism?I have been in ministry long enough to know that most of us are exploring and are on a journey of an ever-expanding faith or spirituality. I have also been in ministry long enough to have seen how much we each individually protect the institution of church by keeping our own spiritual evolution close to our chest and hidden. There is a problem with that. One, our own soul suffers when we can’t share safely with others the commitments and values that make us who we are. And, in the end, if we aren’t sharing our own authentic soul eventually the soul of the Church will die. If all we ever do is protect the Church eventually all that will be left is an empty shell—a museum piece.This morning it became clear to me that what I am doing is beginning to build my own pulpit, but this one in not a wooden box, but a blog, a website, and a presence. And what I most want to do now with this pilgrimage is begin to give people permission to name their own Rome to Rumi pilgrimages. Where did you start? And who and what is deeply touching you today.I am sure that this clarity had something to do with the way I was driving the pedals today. I still don’t have my bicycle computer re-attached. But, my map says that I completed about 110 kilometers (70 miles). The miles seemed effortless—partly due to the fact that there were no hills at all. The worst hills I encountered were the overpasses crossing busier highways. I once again felt as if I was riding in Idaho and would have mistaken it for that state if it wasn’t for the Italian style villas kept reminding me that I was a few thousand miles away.A special treat was reaching the Adriatic Sea. I remember on my last pilgrimage how I would be too driven by the miles and the rhythm of the cycling that I would often pass by places such as hot springs and a field of flowers that begged for me to stop. I didn’t let that happen this time. I took off my cycling sandals and waded out into the sea collecting perfectly shaped shells of different colors and hues to remind me of this moment.The funniest event of the day came when I stopped at a Tabacchi stop for some more water and a Coke to wash down a salami sandwich I picked up earlier at a deli. Sitting there was a middle-aged man hunched over a brown rice and navy bean soup that caught my attention immediately. It looked delicious and any cyclist will tell you that beans and rice are a perfect meal for the road. Full of protein and digests easily.I pointed to the soup to the female clerk and said, “You have that! I want some of that soup.” She burst out laughing, the man looked up and shook his head with a hint of resignation, and after some language boxing, she retreated to the back and dished up the soup. Once I put the pieces together I realized what had happened. This was a husband/wife team that ran the store. This was their lunch that they had made special. It wasn’t one of the usual offerings of the Tabacchi store.Nonetheless, she served up a bowl that was almost too much to eat. I noticed her bowl seemed a little thin. It was as good, even better than it looked at first. I was so glad to not have to eat another piece of bread with salami on it! I gave her a big tip to say thanks and before I rode off she handed me a bag with a farm ripe peach for my journey.Tonight I am in Ginvinazzo (still checking spelling on that) about 20 kilometers north of Bari. I am set up in a tent about fifty feet from the Adriatic Sea and where the waves can serenade me to sleep tonight. I had anticipated riding to Ostuni tomorrow, but received an email that my two night reservation at the monastery has been cancelled. A large group is coming in and their money is apparently greener than my money. So, once again I’ll make it up as I go.

This One's for You

My frustration over being able to connect consistently has exposed something important: this pilgrimage was never really about my own personal discovery. Of course, there will be plenty of that. At some level I knew this, but never said it out loud. If I can’t communicate what is going on in my head, heart and soul, there is no need to do this pilgrimage.In my earlier post, “Rumi and Ecclesiastes,” I offered that about the time I began doing hospice work, my orientation toward life and the sacred world shifted. In many ways hospice was the transformational event, not the poetry of Rumi. I am not riding to Konya to discover a new world, essentially. I am riding to capture an unfolding story.I chose this pilgrimage because I felt that it contained the elements that allowed me to reflect and write about the shift that I had already experienced and that I believe much of our culture is also experiencing. As a pastor in a traditional congregation I have always had to strike an uneasy balance. There are those who are just itching to explore the broader world of spirituality and the mystic traditions; there are also those for whom the possibility that their pastor is flirting with other traditions shakes up the foundation of their faith. This pilgrimage was partly an opportunity to share what’s really been going on in my head without the need to censor.I also believe that the structure of this pilgrimage contains the elements that mirror the transformation taking place in the West (being Europe and America). As a student of religion it appears that what we are going through is not all that new. We very well may be returning to the mystical expressions of our traditions. The attraction in the last two decades to figures such as Hildegaard of Bingen, Teresa of Avila, Walt Whitman, Rumi, and St. Francis of Assisi tell us that we seem to have a resurgent interest in mystical forms of religion or what we today would call “spirituality.” Much of our language has also shifted from “believing in God” to “experiencing God (or the term I like is, “the Sacred”).” Mysticism is the language of direct experience.If I can’t communicate with you, I will lose the momentum and impetus for this pilgrimage. I don’t personally need this pilgrimage. What I need is to act as a catalyst to get this conversation started. The “Rome to Rumi” shifting has been taking place inside most of us for years. It’s time to start talking about it, owning it, and celebrating it with each other. My need is not for the pilgrimage itself; it’s for the pilgrimage and the conversation about it to launch us into a new conversation about the obvious shifts that are taking place. As I have said before something is dying; something new is emerging and being born.With that said, today was a good day on the technology front. What the first computer store in Terracina couldn’t fix, this one did this morning. My blog site is functioning again (although it has several little bugs). Plus I was able to activate a hotspot on my phone which means that even if I am camping I can still sit on a rock, download my pictures, write a blog, and send it under the light of the stars if I want. If this holds, I’ll really be onto something!Then I spent the evening on the San Giovanni Rotondo grounds that are dedicated to Saint Padre Pio. I still don’t have a good picture of his life. Most everything is written in Italian here (go figure!). I have discovered that he patterned his life after St. Francis who he considered to be his spiritual father. I did buy a little booklet that gives a history of his life (in English). But, what will stick with me forever is the modern Upper Church of St. Pio of Pietralcina that was only consecrated in 2004 with 30,000 pilgrims on hand to celebrate it. For nearly an hour I walked, I sat, I stood in different places in the sanctuary. This is not a Catholic Church like I have ever seen. The sense of hierarchy has been replaced by an architectural design that lends itself to community, inclusivity and participation. The place where the priest and others (I imagine) speak is fully one-third of the way into the semi-circular pews so that much of the congregation is actually to the side and even somewhat behind the speaker. The pillars leave one feeling like you are inside the ribcage of God, almost womb-like. What most impressed me however was the energy they were able to create around the death and resurrection of Jesus. Most of the building speaks resurrection—it is open, bright, colorful and with lines that expand out to the heavens.It reminded me to some degree of designs of mega-churches. However, one thing that mega-churches often do is that they dismiss the place of suffering. It is often “feel good religion” and architecture. In the midst of this marvelously open and bright sanctuary, the bleeding, crucified Jesus is placed front and center. Most Catholic churches do this, but the energy of the crucified Jesus overwhelms the place at times (in my Protestant estimation!). What this new sanctuary does is just reminds the worshiper that resurrection doesn’t come without sacrifice, suffering and death. Resurrection is not “sugar and spice and everything nice” theology.I sat there and thought, “I could preach in a place like this.” It is a masterpiece of sacred space architecture. I am SO glad I rode up that profanity-producing hill to get here!Today I start making my way down the east coast of Italy.  I have another Monastery Stay set for Thursday/Friday in Ostuni. Tonight I hope to halve that distance.

This is a Real Pilgrimage!

Sunday and Monday, September 14 and 15Okay, this is becoming a real pilgrimage now. You’ll remember an earlier post titled, “Training for Enjoyment,” where I indicated that a key to this adventure was to find a pace that allowed me to enjoy the experience rather than just successfully complete it.Three years ago I embarked on a very personal pilgrimage through the Western United States that covered over 4,000 miles and routed me over five mountain ranges and one fairly imposing Nevada desert. During that pilgrimage I averaged 65 miles a day six days a week. As I began planning this pilgrimage I wanted to make sure that I allowed more space to enjoy, ponder and allow the experience to come to me. So I intentionally set a timeline that would require only 80 kilometers (50 miles, essentially) a day, six days a week AND I allowed a full extra two weeks of flex time. Easy-peasy, right?With the exception of one butt-kicking climb yesterday the riding has been very enjoyable. I have not arrived at the end of the day exhausted and wishing I had a personal nanny to attend to all of my needs. But, what I did not account for is how much energy it takes to be in a foreign country. I have mentioned the logistical issues which continue to plague me (the attachment to my bicycle computer broke the first day and I haven’t used it since, and my WordPress site is almost non-functional at this point which is why no pictures have shown up in recent posts).But, I have still have not found a way to get the proper rhythm to my diet. I am all for appreciating another culture, but the rhythm of their social life has not fit the rhythm of my cycling. Dinner places don’t open until 8:00 p.m. and don’t actually fill up until 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. In Benevento there was a party scene in the piazza below my window until nearly 2:00 a.m. The next morning I asked if it was a special holiday or if it was like that every Saturday night. The man who had just enough English to communicate with me replied casually, “No, after 10:00 p.m. people tend to come out.”The same was true last night in the pilgrimage destination town of San Giovanni Rotondo. I was beat after a particularly brutal finish to the day up a four kilometer switch-backed grade that averaged between 8-11%. I went to bed at 10:00 p.m. I know when my body is about ready to shut down when I begin getting chills and a tingling sensation throughout my body. I hit that point just 500 meters from the top (which was still a ten minute ride at 5 kph) and crawled into the Tabacchi (not “Tarrachi” as I spelled it earlier) where I gorged on Italian style-Gatorade, potato chips, an ice cream sandwich and water to propel me the last two kilometers into town.The convent where I am staying (through Monastery Stays) advertised a breakfast in the morning. I now know not to expect much by American standards. Breakfast in the hotels consists of a cappuccino and pre-packaged toasts (like our Melba toasts) and in some places, a glass of juice, yogurt and a piece of fruit. Again, this is not a diss on Italian culture. With their late night, every night party scene who wants a Denny’s Triple Ranchers’ breakfast at 8:00 in the morning? Answer—only a foreign tourist riding his bike through the country burning 5,000 calories a day!On my last pilgrimage I developed a routine of three pancakes, two eggs, two pieces of bacon, lots of water, 16 oz. orange juice and a few cups of coffee to begin my day. That way I could snack the rest of the day on fruit and Power Bars without having to stop for a full meal that wouldn’t sit well on my stomach later in the ride. Here I am starting on snack food and eating snack food all day until my one full meal in the evening. And with that I often have to wait until after 8:00 p.m. to get and, if I show up right at 8:00 p.m. I am the lone soul in the restaurant. It doesn’t usually fill up until I am about ready to leave. And that’s not much fun!Which brings me back to my first point—this is really becoming a real pilgrimage now. Konya now is not just my final stop, but now is becoming the summit of a mountain. With negotiating my way by bike in a foreign country being more challenging than I anticipated, I am a little sobered by the fact that just as I get used to the Italian ways, I will do this again in Greece. And then once again in Turkey. Phew!It felt good to share that with you.Now to the riding itself. Wow! I wished I could duplicate Sunday’s experience repeatedly. I left Benevento late in the morning (remember that was the day I just HAD to blog in order to connect). Because breakfast consisted of a one ounce espresso, a box of juice with a sippy straw, and a packaged preservative-laden croissant, I stopped at a bar and doubled my breakfast with an Americano caffe, a fresh bakery croissant and another juice. No protein anywhere!Getting out of Benevento was much easier than getting into it. My first stop would be Pietralcina, the birthplace of Padre Pio. Padre Pio is as big in this part of Italy as Vince Lombardi is in Wisconsin. The whole town of Pietralcina is essentially a monument to Padre Pio and his life and ministry. Today I hope to do more reading in English so that I actually know what the big deal is. I have been following his influence all the way from the west coast of Italy as there are statues in town squares and pictures in the windows of homes. A few people have asked me, “Are you on a Padre Pio pilgrimage?”I arrived there on a Sunday and unlike my experiences in Rome, the church was packed for Mass. The town has taken on the character of the usual tourist destinations with curio shops and little pizzerias. But, the two churches seem to hold onto their sacred character as attendees are informed of appropriate dress, protocol, and behavior once you enter the sanctuary.After leaving Pietralcina, I spent the day climbing, climbing, climbing. This part of Italy does not have mountains like Colorado, but there are a series of hills to propel oneself over in order to cross from western Italy to the eastern coast. The hills were not taxing. In fact, they lent themselves to a really nice assertive rhythm. That, combined with the almost non-existent traffic (maybe one car every three to four kilometers) and the rolling countryside feel left me feeling like I was in a bit of biking heaven. I could do this every day!I had one massive hill, the worst (or best, depending on how one feels at the time) of the day to finish in San Bartolomeo de Galdo. I met an older couple walking who waved me down with smiles on their faces. We negotiated our way through our language barriers. It was clear that I was to go looking for the Hotel Michelango. It was just what I needed. With its name I was anticipating a 200 year old historic relic. Instead, it was only recently constructed and the manager treated me to a beer while he worked with my passport and arrangements. Plus, the price was the same I had paid the night before for what was something less than a college dorm room.I awoke the next day to the promise of another Italian breakfast, but this time there was the usual fare, plus a plate of cheeses, Italian meats and a few boiled eggs. I am sure that I ate more than my share as I was thankful that I could start the day with some real substance.Monday was a day of different stages. I immediately descended a hill that was too steep to really enjoy. I had to constantly keep my brakes on to negotiate the corners and keep my heavy load from throwing me side to side. “What goes down must come up” and at the bottom of the steep grade I was met with an almost equally steep incline that took me nearly an hour to conquer.I wasn’t yet to the top when I encountered my scariest monster of the trip. I should have been thankful that the engineers didn’t make me climb another twenty minutes to the top, but the sight of this tunnel made me shiver. It was long. I could barely see the light coming from the opposite side of the mountain. There was no shoulder and only a very thin walkway just wide enough for a body, but certainly not a body and bike. Plus it was dungeon-like dark, wet and smelly.I was thankful that I was only seeing a few vehicles every kilometer. So I surveyed the scene, put my blinking tail light on, waited until no vehicles were coming from behind me and made a run for it. It was freaky scary! The tunnel had a few lights but they were inconsistent, lighting up maybe 50 meters and then going completely dark for 100 meters. I did make it, but not without some trepidation. As headlights appeared behind me at the beginning of the tunnel I would dismount my bike, hop over the guard rail so that my body was protected and leaving my bike sticking out three feet into the lane. I just hoped and prayed that every vehicle could see my two inch blinker. I did this several times and emerged alive, but with scratches and bruises on my legs from negotiating a guard rail that I could feel, but not see.“What goes up must come down” and so I cascaded down another not quite so steep grade that took me into the plains of Italy. It reminded me very much of riding through western Idaho with the exception that it was not quite as dry or hot. I was reminded how much I love cycling in open country. I once again hit long stretches where I didn’t see vehicles for many kilometers and just pedaled easily through tomato crops, tilled plots, lazy little towns, and around tractors. At one point I sat on my bike ten feet from open pasture sheep and goats standing on their hind legs shredding small trees of their leaves.I suppose the day ended the way it should for a pilgrimage site. San Giovanni Rotondo is nestled in the cleavage between two mountains and is not obvious except from the air. My legs were already tired from the earlier grade at the beginning of the day, from one of my longer days, and a headwind during the final kilometers. I looked at the switchbacks that were still awaiting me and just said, “Shit! This is going to hurt.” I hadn’t hurt that much since Trail Ridge Road in Colorado in 2011.I made it and today I will take care of logistics (yes, again and still and forever…) and I will take some time to get to know Padre Pio and his mysticism and influence on the people of Italy. And my butt really needs a rest!

Rumi and Ecclesiastes

I think I came to Rumi through Ecclesiastes. Many of you may know the poetry to which I am referring: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die, etc.” The verses were popularized in the 60’s by Peter Seeger who wrote the lyrics to “Turn, Turn, Turn”.

I don’t know exactly how I came to Rumi. In fact, I only have a sophomoric understanding of him, if that. But, I say that I came to Rumi through Ecclesiastes because somewhere in the last ten to fifteen years, the lens through which I looked at the world began morphing into something new. I began seeing the world more through the lens of our Ecclesiastes poet.

I grew up believing that there were good experiences and bad experiences. That there were some things in life that were to be sought after and other things to be avoided at all costs. There was success and failure.

I am not sure exactly when it happened, but I am quite sure that the shift took place during the years that I worked as a hospice bereavement specialist. The easiest way to explain that period is that if I held any simplistic views of how the world worked, they were all challenged and shattered by this work.

Hospice simply dissolved away the lines that separated good experiences from bad experiences. Life and death got thrown into the same pot until I couldn’t distinguish between the two. Letting go became as rich as holding on. Saying goodbye at the end of life became as deeply profound as saying hello at the beginning of life. All of it seemed infused with a divine, sacred Presence.

No longer was life to be sought after and death to be avoided. No longer was acquiring things more important than letting go of things. No longer was happiness the preferred emotion to grief. No longer was there a hierarchy of laughter over tears.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” The mystics will tell you and Rumi will confirm that God doesn’t just show up for the good stuff. In fact, the mystics will tell that what the Divine Presence is best at is just plain showing up. Period.

The Logistics!

Friday and Saturday, September 13 and 14I will admit up front that I feel caught between writing a post this morning and getting right back on the road. It is 9:30 a.m. I am sitting at a small desk in my miniature dorm room overlooking a piazza (plaza) in the heart Benevento. I slept at least an hour longer than I anticipated. I obviously needed it. I was tired last night and I woke with leg cramps twice during the night (the effects of diet and hydration). My dilemma is that given the logistical issues of riding through the heart of Italy, I should really be in the saddle already to make sure I give myself enough time to secure a place to sleep at night.The last two nights played it too close to the edge without intending to. Friday night I had intended to stay Grazzanise, but a wrong turn landed me in the quaint village of Cancello ed Arnone. After sitting in the back of a Mass already in progress and determining that there were no camping sites or hotels nearby, I returned to my original plan to stay in Grazzanise. I arrived there and after a couple of conversations using hand motions and broken Italian, limited English, and a few words of German, it was clear that Capua, another ten kilometers up the road was going to be my answer—at least, I hoped.I put my blinking tail light on. There wasn’t much traffic on this rural road, but there also is no shoulder and the less traffic there is the faster the vehicles go. I watched closely in my rear view mirror for vehicles that weren’t giving me a wide berth and, on a handful of occasions I just pulled off into the weeds to let passing vehicles have as much room as they wanted.I arrived in Capua close to 8:00 p.m. Again, with only two or three words we could agree on, I found a local shop owner who pointed me toward a hotel. I found it, the price was reasonable (honestly, at point anything would have sounded more reasonable than riding around an unknown town on my bike looking for a place), and by 8:30 I was out looking for food.I felt like I had learned my lesson, so I booked a place for Saturday night ahead of time in Benevento, just about ten kilometers from Petralcina, where I plan to spend some time getting a feel for the life and the impact that Padre Pio has had on this part of Italy. All went well. Finding the place was a near impossibility as it is a “B and B” inside of a larger building. My GPS had me right on top of it, but I went in circles for over an hour until I finally found the 2 X 2 sign mixed in with other signs on the front of the building.Again, all went well, except it wasn’t made clear to me that they only accepted cash. I had just enough cash leaving me with only four euros—enough for a gelato and a bottle of water! I suddenly imagined finding myself in a real pickle. I had arrived on a Saturday night and my only experience with foreign exchange was in Rome where there are numerous places open all hours of the day and night to accommodate the tourists. I couldn’t stay here another night waiting for banks to open as I didn’t have the cash. Attempting to get to the next major town relying only on VISA-accepting establishments seemed foolhardy. I was trying to trust, but I was also nervous.Again, I felt very lucky. I was looking for some place in town that might be open to exchange foreign currency. My hosts had no knowledge of a place that might be open nor did the first Tarrachi shop. The second Tarrachi shop pointed to the bank right across the piazza. My card would not open the front locked door, so he came over and used his card. I had not used my debit card yet in Italy and thankfully on the first attempt the machine spit out the euros that I woud need to get all the way to San Giovanni Rotondo.My dilemma, you ask?! Given all of this I should really be on the road already so that I leave a few hours each day just to address the unknowns, which are many. But, I really need to connect. I really need to feel like I am not just some wandering pilgrim lost and alone in some foreign land. I need someone who can understand my language and hear my story and appreciate what I am experiencing. Thus, a quick call to my girlfriend this morning, and taking the time I need to post. With this, I believe I will have enough connection to sustain me through today and tomorrow. On Monday, I should only have 25-30 kilometers to ride and Tuesday, I will stay put for a day. This should give me some time to gather myself and recover from the constant logistical challenges.That’s what’s going on emotionally. Friday was a spectacular day. Most of the day was riding south along the Italian coast. I know for sure that I will remember forever the beauty of the small village of Sperlongia—a perfect, little resort town that appeared to have been designed by a movie director. I sat on a bench on the walkway just above the umbrella-lined beach eating an Italian roll with salame and cheese I had bought from the deli. Off in the distance over the sea, two tornadoes formed and slowly danced with each other, until they merged and finally dissolved away. No one else seemed concerned, so I just watched.Much of the day was spent pondering this attraction to Rumi that is serving as the catalyst to this pilgrimage. When I have more time this week I hope to write a post just dedicated to that. Until then I can say that rode along meditating and repeating over and over again his famous poem, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field; I will meet you there. When my soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’ doesn’t make any sense.” Ten years ago I would have gone, “Huh?” Today, I can feel those words mirroring something deep inside me.Yesterday, I rode from Capua to Benevento. The best way I can describe the area is that it reminded me very much of a combination of Napa County, California and the Central Valley of California. The terrain and weather was similar—rolling hills planted in vineyards, humid air, and that mixture of the wealth of the wine culture with the farming culture that supports it. I alternated between small county roads with no shoulder to near freeway conditions with lots of shoulder.Off to visit with Padre Pio today. If all goes well I will land in Lucera or Foggia tonight. I am so thankful that you were all here today to listen and be part of my community. I just couldn’t ride off today without knowing you were there.Peace, my friends….

"Breaking Away" Revisited

Wednesday and Thursday, September 10 and 11I was lucky to fall back to sleep at 4:30 a.m. on Wednesday.  The camping spot I was given was actually just a living room-sized square of sharp edged pea-sized gravel. There are a number of these places on the Italian coast where a large arrow points one off the road and closer to the ocean for camping. But, this is not camping in the way we think of camping in the West with a picnic table, campfire pit and pine needle bedding. These are rectangular cities where Europeans drive their small trailers down, plant it on a site, and then build a holiday retreat with porches and living spaces attached. Tents weren’t what they had in mind.Anyway, I brought my lighter-weight backpacking pad knowing that I would feel the ground beneath me, but have two fewer pounds to carry up any mountains that might be in my way on this trip. I woke up at 4 a.m. after just four hours of so-called sleep and almost decided to pack up, put my lights on the bike and enjoy some early morning riding before the traffic started. I didn’t have quite enough energy to do that and thankfully fell back to sleep.Despite the restless night I had a glorious day on the road. I alternated between cycling south right along the beaches and the coast with meandering through small villages and the famous Italian rivieras perched on the sides of mountains above the sea. At one point I found myself grinding my way up a narrow cobblestoned alley and imagined myself in the Tour de France. I, of course, quickly remembered where I was and changed my image to the Giro d’ Italia and thanked Andy Hampsten for bringing Italy to America.The cycling highlight of the day was temporarily being passed by an Italian cycling team decked out in their matching red and white jerseys and riding in a paceline.  Seeing that they weren’t blowing by me, I quickly accelerated and hopped onto the back of their train taking advantage of the draft that five of them produced in front of me ( For the uninitiated, a group of cyclists can produce a vacuum of air similar to what you would feel behind a semi trailer. If you can stay in that invisible draft it can carry you along for miles with minimal effort.).For 14 kilometers I let them do all the work while I lifted my speed by 10 kph and enjoyed the free gift. I am not sure how they felt about it. It must not have been good for their egos to have an old man with fifty pounds of gear hanging on to the back of their echelon. I felt like it was “Breaking Away" Revisitied as I joined the elite Italian team like Dave Stohler did in the film so long ago.  It’s been interesting to visit the smaller and more community-based Catholic churches along the way. I haven’t researched them and gone looking for them, but in many of the towns they are catching my eye. If the basilicas of Rome seemed to elicit a feeling of glory and holiness, the local parishes seem to nurture a feeling of intimacy—something about the balance between holy relics and icons and walls with nothing but wood or paint to allow the spirit to focus inward. While the Vatican experience was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (unless I decide to lead others on pilgrimage….hmmmm), I do know that I felt most at home in the places where the energy wasn’t awing me, but redirecting that energy back to my own soul.I arrived in the town of Terracina, snuggled between the sea and a range of mountains. After visiting another camping site, I decided it was worth checking out a hotel (I had discovered that my sleeping pad had a hole in it and the thought of another night like that was tough to stomach). I was lucky that I did. Just before bed, the thunder and lightning started and rain punished this little town. I might have just thrown in the towel if I had been in my tent at that point. I awoke this morning knowing that the sore throat that has been nagging me had finally climbed into the category of a cold. And my computer had become almost non-functional in recent days, making me feel that maybe the gods were trying to send a message to me.The good news was that the hotel staff at this quaint, sparse and lovely little inn took charge when they heard of my computer problems and cold. I had offered to handle finding a place on my own and they politely rejected that saying, “No, you’re American. It’s better if we make the call for you.” With all the logistical issues I have faced it really felt good that someone was trying to take care of me. There is grace, after all!I rode off on my bike to deliver my computer to the fixer uppers in town not two kilometers away. Two hours later I arrived completely soaked after the rain doubled, tripled, quadrupled and left literally streams of water running through the streets. I promise I am not exaggerating just to hold your interest! It was ironic because the minor irritations that I had had were frustrating me (the bike not arriving with me, punctured sleeping pad, getting out of Rome, etc.), but when the Noah-like rain started I could only laugh and enjoy myself. I will always have the crazy picture in my head of trying to deliver a virus-infested computer while riding through what was probably the biggest river in Terracina that day!The good news is this. My computer is fixed and in the short time I have had this evening I have planned my route through the rest of Italy and have reserved four nights at local monasteries. I feel like I am getting this under control now (don’t laugh).  Rough plan (subject to change if Mt Vesuvius blows again):

• Friday                   Cycle as far as comfortable (about Caserta)
• Saturday              Arrive in Pietralcina (birthplace of Christian mystic, Padre Pio)
• Sunday                 Cycle as far as comfortable (about Foggia)
• Monday               Arrive in San Giovanni Rotondo (home of Padre Pio Shrine)
• Tuesday               Another day in San Giovanni Rotondo
• Wednesday         Cycle about halfway from San Giovanni to Brindisi
• Thursday             Stay in monastery in Ostuni
• Friday                   Stay in monastery in Ostuni and begin planning Greece route and stays
• Saturday              Enjoy the ferry from Brindisi to Greece

Off to bed now.  The rain comes and goes still.

Safely Out of Rome

Safely out of Rome tonight. It was about what I expected. I had set my sights low for the day saying to myself, “If I just get out of Rome that will good enough.” The part that I thought would be the worst was actually the part I enjoyed the most (except for getting to the coast, of course). The traffic in Rome is crazy by American standards. But, I did learn that there is a method to their madness and as long as one plays by their rules it actually seems reasonably safe.I had about a 30 minute trek through the inner sanctum of Rome with buses, mopeds, taxis, and cars weaving their way on major thoroughfares as well as what we would call back alleys, but are actually the heart of the local culture. I finally realized that I had to act on the bike the same way they did—that I had just as much right to the road and, as long as I claimed my space with authority they respectfully found their way around me. What confuses the Italian drivers is hesitance and uncertainty. That’s a sure way to create havoc among this ever flowing, fluid movement that is very much like watching a school of tuna fish move in rhythm despite what appears like random chaos.I am safely on the coast of Italy on the Tyrrhenian Sea in the little town of Lido Dei Pini.  But, first a little peak at yesterday’s final visit to the Vatican. The only must see that I still had on my agenda before leaving Rome was to visit the Vatican Museums and the Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. No doubt because most of what I saw was advertised as a museum and thousands of people were filing through it like cows heading to feed, I wasn’t expecting it to be something it was not.I had two reactions to the sheer volume of paintings, sculptures, and hieroglyphics. The first is that I wanted to spend thirty minutes, sixty minutes or more at many of the displays. So much of the art tells stories and I wanted to take the time to exegete the art in the same way that one pulls a scripture apart before preaching. One could literally spend a lifetime in the Vatican Museums and still barely scratch the surface of the history. Which leads to my second reaction—there is so much there that it becomes completely overwhelming. Half way through the mandatory line that one gets pulled along by I simply quit taking pictures of it all. I would come across a completely stunning set of statues and walk by because I hardly could be awed anymore. If you’ve seen one pyramid you’ve seen them all, right? How much can one take in?I made my way through dozens of rooms that I thought might just be the Sistene Chapel. These rooms, one after another, were completely painted floor to ceiling with the unfolding Biblical story and the history of the Roman Catholic Church. I was prepared to be let down by the time  the line finally entered into the womb of the Sistene Chapel. It lives up to its reputation. It is difficult for me to grasp that this is the idea and the work of one person, Michelangelo. Each group was only allowed about ten or so minutes and once again, it needed one full year of a person’s life to fully grasp and digest.If I could have changed any part of the experience I would have counseled the security guards on a way to invite the hundreds of visitors who were stuffed into the sacred space. On three occasions one of the guards used the microphone to scold the group saying in his most authoritative tone, “ATTENION. SILENCE!” It reminded me of the reputation that Catholic nuns have gotten in parochial school. It also occurred to me that maybe his tone was a reflection of the ongoing authority of the Church and a theology of authoritarian God who demands obedience.I looked for an occasion to talk to a guard, but then thought better of it. It really was not my place. But, if I had stepped forward I would have suggested that the guards first ask that we enter in silence, as they did. But, keeping a few hundred people, including the tour guides who continued to instruct their groups, quiet is near impossibility. I would have suggested that once every one settled in that the guard replace his scolding with an invitation along the lines of, “This is a sacred space and we want you to experience the power of it. I am going to count to ten and then I am going to ask that all of us fall completely silent for two minutes. You’ll be amazed by the energy and spirit in this room.” If only I were the pope! What an ego I have.I have a few technical issues to take care of so I am hoping to arrive in Naples on Thursday where I will take whatever time I need. I discovered today that the cord to my bicycle computer was severed during the series of flights and abuse that it might have endured between Portland and Rome. The phone situation is still confusing. I have now paid for an international plan with my American carrier and a European plan for the countries of Italy and Greece and, at least for the moment, I have no phone service at all.Glad to be out of the city of Rome and on the bike now. It was great to feel the ocean air massaging me as I made me way down the coast. More of that tomorrow, I hope.

And How Old Are You?

Sunday, September 7It was a slow-moving day—which is just what I needed. The sore throat has continued to nag at me and after a leisurely morning of writing I fell asleep in my lower bunk bed in the hostel room I share with five others. That gave me just enough energy to work on my bike in the afternoon. Of course, I was hoping and praying that I would not open my bike bag and discover a wheel warped out of shape or a bent fork. I was pleased with the limited amount of damage.I was told when I bought this bag that it wasn’t foolproof in terms of damage. Its advantage is that it allows a cyclist to carry the bike on one’s shoulder rather than having to lug a bulky bike box around an airport. I remember doing this thirty years ago when I flew to the National Cycling Championships in New York. After being let out by the taxi in downtown NYC, I still had three blocks to walk to the Port Authority for a bus ride. I can still remember the awkward trek with luggage in my left hand while dragging the box with my right hand. Never again!The bike only sustained some minor cosmetic damage—slightly torn handlebar tape, a shattered spoke protector, and a scratched up water bottle cage where the gear cassette must have rubbed for hours on end. Today I’ll find a bike shop to buy some grease before fully attaching my seat and pedals again. I am relieved.As I was putting my bike back together one of the hostel residents, a young Japanese woman, asked if I had just bought a new bike.“No,” I said, “just putting my bike back together after flying it from the USA to here.”“What are you doing,” she puzzled out loud knowing that I wouldn’t just fly a bike over to ride around town.“I am cycling from here to Turkey on a spiritual pilgrimage,” I informed her.“Really?  How far is that,” she wondered.“Only about 3,000 kilometers,” I replied trying to downplay just how far that would sound to her.“Oh my gosh, how far do you ride every day?” she further inquired.“I plan to ride between 80-90 kilometers per day,” I concluded.Her eyes became wide and she shot back with a slight hint of incredulity, “And HOW old are you?”I told her I was just a youngster at 54.  She shook her head, walked off, and I wasn’t sure if she was impressed or wondering why I never grew up.I spent the evening casually walking through some of the districts close to the hostel. But, I was tired and wasn’t interested in pushing myself like I had the previous days. One of the delights of Rome is that they have fresh fruit stands on corners in the same way that Americans will put up a hot dog stand. I stopped for a large slice of cold watermelon and enjoyed watching the pigeons fight over the seeds as I spit them out on the pavement. I enjoyed another amazing Italian meal—toasted bread with an artichoke paste, an amazing vegetable soup, a rich, soft lasagna that I’ll never forget, and the beer, always the beer. I swear, there is no bad food here. In fact, I am not sure there is any average food here. It’s really, really good!My late afternoon walking time gave me enough room for some reflection and at one point, shortly after the watermelon, I had a realization about the struggle I have sometimes had in the Church as a pastor. It suddenly occurred to me that I could write a chapter someday on the reasons I value the “Power of the Pulpit” over the “Promise of a Paycheck”. While those two realities can work together, and often do, 95% of the time, there are those times when they seem to be mutually exclusive. It has been during those times that I have chosen the power of the pulpit and have sometimes lost or had my paycheck in jeopardy doing so.  It felt good to at least name this and admit to myself that when faced with a choice I will always land on the integrity of the pulpit over other competing interests.I have begun my planning for the next stage—crossing the southern third of Italy to the town of Brindisi on the east coast where I plan to enjoy a ferry ride to Greece. While I don’t have a definite route yet, it appears that I will include some favorite cycling terrain in the Puglia region, visiting towns with noted monasteries, and a definite stop in either San Giovanni Rotondo or Pietrelcina, sacred sites for the late Christian monk and mystic, Padre Pio.But first, a final Rome excursion to the Cistene Chapel and Vatican Museums and finding local help in planning a safe exit out of the city.  Soon I will be on my bike where my soul feels so alive and so at home.

The Vatican and other Minor Notes

Saturday, September 7, 2014I thought the image of the tilted bottle was going to become the logistical image for the day. Just before bedtime my bike still had not arrived and after about ten calls and one email I still had not heard a peep from Turkish airlines. I also spent over an hour buying a European-based SIM card as my phone bill was suddenly skyrocketing despite getting an international calling plan and other various attempts to limit my data usage. The short story is that I should use free wifi everywhere I can. Anything else will be costly.I sat down late in the evening to take advantage of the free wifi at the hostel. Water is not served free here in Rome and I really needed a bottle of water to compensate for all of my walking in the warm air. I put my euro in the vending machine, pushed the button, watched as the bottle fell to the bottom and attempted to open the carriage. The bottle had fallen just at the perfect angle lodging itself between the solid bottom and the movable top. It took 30 minutes between the hostel clerk, an Australian engineer-in-the-making, and myself to figure out how to dislodge the bottle and allow the machine to be used again. In the process I got my thumb pinched, immediately drawing a stream of blood.From a logistical point of view I was beginning to think that this little event said it all. What are the chances that a vending machine that has gone through one hundred R & D tests would end up with a bottle that was just the right size at just the right angle to outwit their system? What are the chances that I could have spent four months nurturing a job only to get beaten out by a last minute resume? And what are the chances that the one bag that didn’t arrive from Portland would be my bike which is the one item I spent the most time making sure that I did exactly what the airlines wanted?I was just closing down my computer with the image of the stuck water bottle being the last working image of the day. The clerk burst through the door waving a sheet in my face and said, “Reverend, your bike has arrived!” I think he was almost as excited as I was. I had been bugging the clerks every few hours with the same response, “No. Not yet.” With that I can now start planning the next stage of my journey—how to get out of Rome by bike and feed me into the countryside and through small towns with monasteries and the hidden stories of Christian mystics.But, I whine only from a logistical perspective because I spent the day at the Vatican and the Basilica of St. Peter . Damn, here I go again. Every time I begin to talk about the experience tears well up. I don’t think this is really ready for words yet. In fact, I am not going to try too hard as I think the experience has to ferment for some time before the words will find some sort of palatable richness and subtlety like a fine Italian wine. For now the closest I can come is to name the other times I have had this feeling: standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon being completely overwhelmed and awed by the vast grandeur; witnessing the birth of my children and knowing that I had participated in something far deeper and more sacred than words can capture; and, arriving at the top of Trail Ridge Road in Colorado (the highest paved highway in the world at 12,183 feet) after nearly 2,000 miles of cycling and being awed even by my own spiritual, physical and psychological strength. For now all I know is that it has touched a deep place in my soul for reasons of which I am not yet sure.The other-worldly blissful disorientation that I felt at the Basilica of St. Peter was tempered by two experiences. At one point I was near a German family who was examining the same sculptures and views as I was. At one point, the younger members, probably late teens/early 20’s were analyzing the symbolic meaning of some of the statues. This was not unusual, but what struck me was their tone and their use of past tense. I heard, “I think this was supposed to represent heaven and his outstretched hand was his invitation.”Their tone was the same tone that I heard at the Coliseum where we were clearly reading history and trying to understand the values and myths of a former time and people. It was sobering to hear this young generation speak of the figures of the Basilica of St. Peter in the same way as if they were familiarizing themselves with the myths of our past. This was not their faith. This was a history lesson.This was confirmed to some degree when I made my way through the crowd to attend the Saturday evening Mass in Italian. Thousands of people had filed by this spot, yet a smallish crowd of just more than a hundred sat and participated in the Mass. I was struck by how the history and grandeur of the Basilica drew thousands, but how the practice of the living tradition received not much more than a yawn from the crowds. Why was it that a picture from the top of the Cupola of St. Peter’s Square was a must do, but celebrating Mass was an optional side excursion?The exception to this were the smaller sections reserved for prayer. I watched over and over as visitors who were hoping for a picture retreated respectfully when they realized that the space was limited to those who wanted to pray. The silence, the intention of those who sat and kneeled, and the slow prayerful movements created a truly sacred space. I felt a presence there in the silence that I could not feel through the words and the liturgy of the priest in Mass (sorry, senor!). Of course, I am not part of that tradition and I cannot simply channel some Catholic DNA right on the spot.I spent the full evening making my way back to my hostel and had an equally delightful time meandering through the alleyways, sidewalk pizzarias, and gelato stores. The blend of ancient Rome with modern Rome is something to behold. The closest we Americans come to this experience is living on land that has an ancient story to tell. The culture of Rome runs deep and one can feel it in the pride and spirit of the people. I ate dinner at another lovely pizzeria at the Piazza Navona while watching street performers entertain, lovers embrace, and everyone soaking in the heavenly experience.Today (Sunday), it will be time to put my bike back together and make sure that nothing was damaged along the way. If all goes well I will take it out for a test run and start planning a safe exit from the city. Woke up with a little sore throat this morning.  Hoping it’s nothing more than allergies and tiredness.

Good time, good food, and goodfellas

I think I can laugh at my moment-of-terror taxi ride getting into Rome from the airport, but on Thursday night I honestly thought I might end up dumped on the side of road. You have to remember I was working on 3 hours of broken, baby-crying, cramped sleep. I was told by the hostel that because I was arriving at night that a taxi was my only option. “Please only use the official yellow taxis,” they said, “otherwise they’ll scalp you.”I had just left the baggage claim service office where I had spent a full hour trying to track down my bike. Somewhere between Portland and Rome (maybe Houston or Istanbul) my body went one way and my bike went another way. I am still waiting to hear a status report on it. As I emerged from the roped off area separating baggage claim from the public transportation center a handful of taxi drivers hungrily tried to win my attention. It all went down so fast. Two drivers, the brain and the brute (right from a Scorcese movie script) quickly tried to escort me to their taxi while I resisted until I was sure they were legit.Just as I was convinced that they were the real thing they took me straight through two alarmed doors that set off the airport sirens. I stopped, refusing to go through with them. They coaxed me on. I took a big breath and followed. The doors shut. The sirens stopped and no security police came charging toward us. I think I would have been fine if I had seen a yellow taxicab out front. Instead the area was nearly empty except for one van that was packing a bunch of tourists into it like dead sardines. We walked right by them, the brain of the two grabbed my two boxes of bike gear and clothing, pushed the automatic beeper that unlocked the trunk, and stuffed my boxes in quickly closing the trunk lid once again. I was being ushered into a nearly new shiny black Mercedes sedan. No yellow taxi. No lit up sign magnetically attached to the top of the roof. No meter inside the car.The brute got in on the driver’s side; the brain opened up the back door and told me to get in. This didn’t feel like an invitation. It felt more like an order. I got in and almost as quickly got back out. The picture wasn’t right. These two men looked like they should be driving a twenty year-old Chevy Impala with creaky doors, faded paint and an overflowing ashtray. The brain quickly got back out too. “I am not comfortable with this,” I pleaded, realizing that my luggage was already locked away. “Are you sure you are a taxi?”The brain showed me his credentials again, a yellow 3 X 5 card hung around his neck that had large black letters typed onto it, T-A-X-I. I could have forged a better badge than that. He was clearly annoyed with me. I got back in despite my better judgment and began imagining that they had just hooked their easiest prey of the week. I came in at 1:00 a.m., on my own, and clearly vulnerable. They could do anything they wanted with me.My mind quickly raced through a number of options. 1. Bolt out of the car at a stop sign and run like hell. 2. Give them everything I had (they would love the extra bike tire and chamois butter for my butt!) in exchange for my personal safety. 3. Try to get help.I chose #3. I texted my girlfriend back home letting her know that I was on my way to the hostel and would let her know as soon as I got there. It was this moment when I finally began to relax. My two supposed captors seemed non-plussed about me texting in the back as they continued to talk to each other in that Italian way that feels like every sentence begins with “What the hell!” It was the first event that felt normal in the whole exchange. After that the brute driver turned out to be more of the brain as he told me about the ancient ruins we were driving by and described just where we were going. We reached the hostel. They helped me carry my bags all the way the door. I paid the fare we had agreed on and I gave them a 5.00 euro tip. What they didn’t know was that that was my way of thanking them for not hurting me.As I checked into the hostel I described being delivered in a shiny black Mercedes. The clerk looked surprised, but said that at night the regular taxis don’t run and independent contractors step in. A reasonable explanation. Still, what was an American raised on The Godfather movies supposed to think when getting shoved into the back of a shiny black Mercedes by two Scorcese –looking goodfellas?Despite still waiting for my bike to show up I had a remarkably good day on Friday. I spent the day completely on foot touring through the city of Rome. The highlight of the day was the nearly two hours I spent in the Basilica Santa Maria Degli Angeli (The Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels), designed and built by Michelangelo in 1561. If it hadn’t been for the dozens of others around me I would have fallen to my knees and just sobbed. I walked in and the sacred energy hit me like a sudden warm draft of wind. Tears began to roll down my face.It was strange to see so many of us who were visiting as tourist and taking pictures. Toward the front they had a section cordoned off just for those who wanted to pray. I think only five or six of us actually entered that area. It was nice to be aware from the constant clicking of cameras and jostling for the best angle. One woman meandered up front and by coincidence a caretaker or maybe a priest in civilian clothes was passing through. No words were spoken, but he looked at her, shook his head, and pointed toward the exit. She didn’t press him any further.But, I was thinking about the time and the people for whom this would have been a great spiritual and architectural achievement. Today we visit as tourists, but certainly would not put our tax money to such extravagance. We would rather build football stadiums or malls with that kind of money. But, who were these people who would commit so much of their wealth to the building of sacred architecture, commissioned art and religious devotion? What would it have felt like to have entered this same space not as a tourist from future centuries, but as a devotee whose religious identity was as tied to that space as our identities are tied to football dynasties, historic stadiums, and team mascots?The day was much too full to write about now. But, I also visited the Coliseum where Christians were sometimes martyred by the early Roman empire. I paid tribute at St. Paul’s Episcopal and Anglican Church of Rome. I took pictures of the sign where they were displaying the Aramaic and Hebrew letter “Nun”(pronounced ‘noon’) on the front of their property in solidarity with Iraqi Christians who are being persecuted and killed by ISIS. The letter “Nun” is sometimes painted in red on the homes and businesses much in the same way that the Star of David was used to shame and separate out Jews in Nazi Germany.I ended the evening with the best spaghetti I have ever had. It was a large noodle plate with olive oil, tomato and small bits of bacon. I was stuck by the simplicity of the recipe and by the way it brought my senses alive with each bite. That, along with a cold beer and a good book, made for a perfect evening before returning to my hostel of mostly backpack wearing 20-somethings.Still a bike to locate and lots of amazing sites to see and experiences to which to open myself.

Why, O Why?

NOTE:  Written in Houston during a short layover. Sent from Rome 24 hours later after I had wifi connections again.I was concerned that I might arrive in the fair state of Texas saying, “Houston, I think we have a problem.” It took five calls in the month before my flight to get a consistent answer regarding my bike bag and luggage. Upon my arrival at the PDX airport it all went smoothly despite some patient work by the ticket agent to determine that my United Airlines flight was actually an agreement with Turkish Airlines to get me to Houston where Turkish airlines would take over the responsibility for my flight and baggage.I am here in the Houston airport with just a short window of opportunity before settling in for a 14 hour flight over the Atlantic Ocean and into Turkey.  After a lengthy layover I’ll arrive in Rome at about midnight.  I spent most of the flight talking with my seat mate, Hamoud, a young man from Abu Dhabi going to school in Portland.  What a wonderful conversation we had about American and Mideast culture, religion, growing up and family life. He was just younger than the age of my own children and I appreciated his genuine respect for my age just as much as I enjoyed the freshness of his youth.As I took some time to reflect on this moment when I am finally embarking on the pilgrimage, my mind turned to why I was even doing this. I have learned in recent years to follow the intuitive nudges from my soul even when I don’t fully know why. II won’t have time to fully explore this today, but the thoughts came easily as I jotted down notes. I was reminded of the title of a David Gray song, “This Disappearing World”. Every time I hear that song I feel a rich sadness in my soul. Something deep inside of me tells me that we are all participating in a kind of world that is dissolving away. I don’t have all the scientific and historical evidence to prove this. I just feel it deeply. It feels true to me.It is that feeling of grief that prompted this “Rome to Rumi” pilgrimage. I had originally been planning a pilgrimage focused more exclusively on the mystical arms of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Somewhere in that planning the Rome to Rumi route surfaced and I knew immediately that it mirrored the inner soul work that I was hoping to explore. I know that within this journey are aspects of my own unfolding spiritual journey. And I am confident that my experience is shared by many others.So soon I’ll be embarking on a Rome to Rumi adventure. Within the eastern movement of this journey is the story of starting with my own origins in the Church. What better place to start than Rome, the head of the institutional church in the western Christian tradition. Over the course of my ministry, I have followed the emptying of the pews in Europe and the decline of religious affiliation in America.  I can’t help but wonder how long this world of beautiful cathedrals, billions of dollars in property, and an ancient hierarchical order will be able to weather the dramatic changes in our culture. Secularism and individual spirituality are on the increase in the West while institutional forms of religion seem to be dying, at least in its current incarnation.While I can feel the grief of this great passing I also find myself almost titillated by other forms of religious expression that feel very hopeful to me. My heart and soul are attracted to the world of Rumi and Sufi mysticism. It is highly doubtful that I will become a Sufi. That is not the purpose of this. My attraction is to the experiential forms of Sufi practice (whirling dervishes) and the purity of Rumi’s poetry and writing. I am not interested in trading one form of religion for another, but to explore the mystical roots of religion—those experiences of the Sacred that are so transformational and profound that whole movements and religions blossom from them.I don’t want to join the religion of Jesus. I don’t want to become a follower of Rumi. I want to experience the ecstatic oneness and deep communion that both Jesus and Rumi felt with the divine. I want to feel what Jesus felt when he said, “I and the Father are one.”Why am I doing this? Because something deep inside of me tells me that there is a world that is dying while another world is being born. I want to go find out what this is all about. And why should this be surprising? I am pastor. I have spent a lifetime walking with people as they gracefully die and celebrating with communities in that precious moment of birth. I can’t help but to be there when one world slips away and another emerges. That is what I do. This is who I am.I hear the call to prepare to board. I will get a taste of Turkey tonight—at least from the airport. I am glad you are along for the journey. 

Life as Pilgrimage

Well, well, well. As I prepare to set off for Rome this afternoon I have been reminded that pilgrimage is about teaching one to live by the rhythm of being on the road. That is, nurturing an attitude of trust in the face of uncertainty, planning life one day and one stage at a time, and discovering the hidden gifts that we carry within as we face life’s challenges and enjoy life’s blessings.Four days ago I learned that the half time position I was hoping to return to was offered to another candidate. I won’t go into the details. It was a surprise to me as we had been in conversation for nearly four months, but I do believe that they did what they thought was best for them. Nonetheless, I find myself contemplating that, while the Rome to Rumi pilgrimage will end sometime in late October, I will step back into the States practicing life as pilgrimage. At this point I have made no decisions about an income and where I will live. My savings will be mostly depleted and my health insurance will run out in mid-November.I am sobered, but I am not anxious (well, okay, I lie a little bit!). For years I have felt that I am crossing a bridge into a new world. I feel deeply called to the role of spiritual leader and guide in our community and culture. For most of my professional life that has meant serving the institutional church, but colleagues and the larger community have prodded me for years telling me that my voice and presence are meant for a much broader context. So, I am stepping out on the ledge of my old world hoping, trusting and praying that the calling I feel is more than just wishful thinking and idealism run amok.I have just enough evidence to convince me that the world on the other side of this bridge is real. When I downsized and let go of 90% of my possessions last year a homeowner stepped in and offered me free rent in exchange for watching over the property in a house sitting arrangement.  This week four of my friends offered to let me stay in their homes when I returned long enough to figure out my next step.  Two friends and a family member offered to help out financially if I ran into troubles either on the trip or upon my return. Dozens of others are quietly supporting me feeling that I am doing the right thing despite the challenges and risks.I feel like I should be scared or, at least, highly anxious. But, something is driving me, calling me, and goading me to step into this new world. Later today I will board the plane for Rome and let this pilgrimage unfold. One thing I have learned on pilgrimages is that one must let it unfold one day and one leg at a time.  I am not sure what is waiting for me at the end (certainly not the job I had hoped for!). But, I feel secure that just as a pilgrimage unfolds one day at a time I will have to trust that life is best lived that way too.Tomorrow it’s off to Rome. After that, who knows? But, all will be well. Of that I am convinced.

Eat the Grapes

With some I get a puzzled and worried look and others an immediate smile and nod of recognition.  The question from the former is “Why are you doing this?” That answer will likely come a piece at a time during the pilgrimage and show up in my blog. I have been allowed a little peek into the catalyst behind this “Rome to Rumi” pilgrimage, however.My pilgrimage destination is Konya, Turkey, the site of the poet, Rumi, and his Tomb.  Rumi is a 13^th century Sufi, the mystical arm of Islam. Last week I was reading one of his poems and a singular line caught my attention. He was quoting what appeared to be a common Middle Eastern proverb. In his poem Soul Houses he writes, “Eat the grapes. Do not keep talking about the garden. Eat the grapes.” I knew immediately that this proverb mirrored a shift in my spiritual intentions of recent years.Thirty years ago I began studies in the department of religion at the College of Idaho. I followed that a Master of Divinity degree at San Francisco Theological Seminary, part of the Graduate Theological Union, a network of seminaries that cooperate to provide a more ecumenical and broader theological education for their students. Most degrees have room for electives and at SFTS I found that whenever I could choose my own classes I nearly always chose more classes in theology.“Theology” most simply just means the study of God. In the course of my seminary education I studied the Reformed theology of my Presbyterian tradition, of course.  I also buttressed that with Latin American liberation theology, Jewish theology following the Holocaust, “death of God” theology that emerged in the 60’s in America, feminist theology, and the thought and philosophy of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X.If I could have I would have taken nearly all of my classes in theology. I couldn’t get enough of thinking about and talking about God. I wanted a theology that was consistent with the Biblical witness, honored the reality of history, and was contemporary in scope. This set me on a path of a lifetime of wrestling with the question of God. My sermons were often attempts to understand, define and narrow the character of God down to something we could relate to.I am not sure exactly when it happened, but as I recall it was about the same time that I began doing hospice work as a bereavement coordinator. In the course of my work I sat with families who were watching loved ones die. I handled the grief of dozens of people who had lost a family to suicide. I met with the survivors of fatal crashes and murders. It was wonderful, sobering work.I had not heard until last week, the proverb, “Eat the grapes.  Do not keep talking about the garden. Eat the grapes.” But, I have a feeling the spiritual wisdom of that proverb began working on me over a decade ago. Somewhere in there I simply grew tired of talking about God. At the risk of sounding arrogant I discovered that I wanted to spend my energy being God or channeling God’s presence. When sitting with a suicide survivor it just didn’t seem enough to assure the person of God’s presence. It was really important to me that the person felt God’s presence. I wanted to make sure that the person experienced God right there in that counseling room.“Eat the grapes,” Rumi writes. I think he is saying that it isn’t enough to just understand life, define life or even to find the meaning of life. It is better to taste life, to feel joy, and even to savor the grief of loss. “Eat the grapes” and drink wine of life and love.  Less talking. More living.

The Finish Line

The rush to the finish line.Since I last posted a blog on my preparations for the Rome to Rumi pilgrimage, it has been a whirlwind of activity. If I didn’t have the assurance of being able to finally relax when I board the plane (and the pressure to have all loose ends tied up by then), I would stop right now, grab a novel, open a bottle of beer, and recline in pool side chair nodding off between paragraphs.Instead, I have been going full bore morning to night driven partly by the reality of leaving for nearly two months and partly by the fear of leaving something unresolved that will come back to haunt me later. Having taken one 10-week pilgrimage before, I do know that the preparation is worth it. Nonetheless, it feels daunting in its scope.  Here is a picture of the last ten days:

• I completed rides of 50, 34, 34, and 38 miles. Not enough miles to be fully prepared physically, but enough to feel confident that my body will adjust in the first week or so.
• I put all of my belongings into storage, moved out of the house where I was staying, and am now couch surfing for the last week before my departure.
• I made a trial run on packing my bicycle in a bike bag suited for air travel. Requires removing wheels, handlebars, seat, pedals, and rear derailer. The downside is the amount of disassembly and reassembly; the upside is that I can carry my bike on my shoulder through the airport rather than trying to push a bulky bike box.
• Interviewed for a half time church position so that I would have work and an income to come home to.
• Completed the first full write through on my manuscript Dying to Live. I REALLY want to get the book done from my last pilgrimage before embarking on my next pilgrimage.
• Had Skype and phone conversations with Turkish citizens and recent travelers to Turkey including a very informative conversation with a woman who just visited Konya (my final destination) who is working on her PhD in Sufism.
• Felt mildly guilty about not blogging this past week. Sorry faithful readers!

It is a strange feeling to have no permanent physical home at present. This past year I chose to house sit for a family in a mutual arrangement that gave them some security while the house had contractors doing repairs and I was looking for a way to save money for this pilgrimage. So, in November of last year, I watched as a St. Vincent’s truck drove off with 90% of my belongings leaving me with just enough furnishings to fill a 21-foot RV, if it came to that. Now I am couch surfing from one good friend to another. In one week I will be on the road and my home will consist of whatever I can carry on my bicycle: a tent, sleeping bag and pad, cooking gear, clothing, some food and tools.The amazing thing is that I am strangely comfortable with this. Sure, I would feel a little more secure if I had a house to which to return. I would breathe a little more deeply if I had an offer on the table for a job for when I get back. Yet, given the choice I would not give up the opportunity to cycle and explore new worlds in exchange for a little more security.I admit that the preparation for this pilgrimage is, at times, daunting and overwhelming. But, how often do we say from our seemingly secure environments, “Tough week at work” or “The kids are just overwhelming me right now.” Yes, the preparation is daunting, but the finish line is close and soon I’ll be in Rome, putting my bike back together and setting out on an adventure of unknown challenges and surprising delights.

Training for Enjoyment

“Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.”Please don’t stop reading now! I know the language is archaic and it has a distinctly religious ring to it. I promise, I am not going to bore you to tears with a sleep-inducing sermonette.This line is the answer to the first question of the Shorter Catechism of the Westminster Confession of Faith first written in 1646. It was adopted as an official confession of the Presbyterian Church (USA) of which I am an ordained member. (Hang in there!)In 1987 I entered a contest to memorize the catechism. There were three prizes: $1500, $1200, and $900. We were also assured that in the event of a tie for first prize each winning contestant would receive the full $1500. That was all I needed to hear. I went for it.I have fond memories of walking around the town of San Anselmo, California carrying my eight month old son in a snuggly on my back while I went through the 107 index cards that had the 107 questions and answers to the catechism. It paid off. I typed it back perfectly for the judges and was awarded the money I needed to finish that semester.Now, over 25 years later I only remember this very first question and answer to the catechism. Both the money and my memory of it are long gone. But, this one line has been working on me, even agitating me, for the last few years.Three years ago, I took a very personal pilgrimage cycling around the Western US, crossing eight states, five mountain ranges, the Nevada desert and over 4,000 miles (watch for the late fall release of my book Dying to Live: A Preacher’s Pilgrimage to Reclaim his Soul.). Throughout the ten week journey I felt like I was pushing through something and trying to break through some unknown, but palpable barrier. One day in Idaho especially reflected this. I rode by a number of hot springs determined that I was going to reach my destination 80 miles out. I reached my destination, but regretted missing the hot springs.One of my hosts on the trip had asked me, referring back to the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, “What are you running late for?” I never was able to answer that question, but I did know that the first answer to the Shorter Catechism kept buzzing around my mind like an annoying mosquito in my ears.Friends and family will tell you that I know how to work hard. They will also tell you that I am a neophyte when it comes to purely enjoying myself and life. Translated into the Shorter Catechism, “I know how to glorify God; I have not yet allowed myself to simply enjoy God.”Which brings me to last Sunday. I am training for my upcoming pilgrimage from Rome to Konya, Turkey, a distance of approximately 3,000 kilometers. I have not put the miles in this time to be fully prepared for the daily treks of fifty plus miles with fifty pounds of gear on my bike. From a physical standpoint I am really behind schedule.But, I am not worried. There is a curious thing taking place. On Sunday I felt like I was training my enjoyment muscles as much as I was firming up my calves, quads, hams and butt. I decided that enjoying the ride was probably better training for this ride into mysticism than the logging of the actual miles, the average speed, and the vertical feet I had climbed. This is not easy for me. I raced bicycles competitively in my twenties, formed and coached a college team, and placed second in my division in a mountain bike race just a year ago. As I said, I know how to work hard!Sunday, I felt like I was training for a different sort of pilgrimage experience. This time the goal is not to complete the pilgrimage on schedule (as if there were one). It is not to prove that I can climb mountains or cross deserts. It is not to find the Holy Grail somewhere along the way or at the conclusion of my journey. This time it is to enjoy the journey, follow the pace that my soul desires, and return in six weeks or eight weeks or whenever I damn well feel like it.“Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever,” instructs the Shorter Catechism of my faith. This time I won’t be skipping the hot springs. There will be Genoa salamis and Italian pastas to enjoy. There will be Greek beaches and ancient ruins that will call for me to linger and ponder. There will be the famously hospitable people of Turkey with whom to share tea, dinner and broken conversation. Maybe even there will be God, if I can slow down long enough to enjoy Her!

A Taste of God

I had ridden the same route numerous times. Having made it a somewhat routine ride, I had become used to the road, could anticipate the curves, and had memorized the steepness of the hills. I knew which areas were exposed to the hot summer sun of Lake County and where I would receive a little respite in the groves of oak trees that covered the foothills around Clear Lake.It was common for me to choose this ride three, four or five times every summer. I usually chose the paved roads where I could use my lighter weight racing bike. But, every so often I had an itch to pull out my mountain bike, head to the hills and grind and gut my way up the Old Toll Road—a potholed, gravelly, dirt road that required a certain grittiness to successfully reach the summit.As I said, I had become used to the experience. I would ride on the paved county roads for the first half hour or so in order to reach the base of the foothills. This gave my body time to get into a good rhythm, loosen the muscles up, and get my lungs breathing more deeply. As I reached the base of the hills the road simultaneously turned to dirt and gravel. For a couple of miles the grade remained fairly consistent and I could settle into a good rhythm despite the fact that I was climbing. But, I knew exactly where that would end.About half way up I began to steel myself for a rather steep section knowing that I would have to stand up on my bike in order to get the leverage needed to keep the bike moving forward. As I reached the top, invariably, sweat would be dribbling down my body, my lungs would be aching for more air, and my legs would be complaining of abuse. Thankfully, the grade would become manageable again and for the next couple of miles I could finish the climb while my body was allowed to recover from the one punishing steep section.I would reach the top and stop at the same place every time. Between the oak trees would be a small clearing where I could look down on the vineyards on the Mendocino County side of the hill. As I pulled out a banana to eat I would take a big breath and then, like a practiced ritual, I would say, “Thank you, God.”Except for this time.Just as the words were ready to escape my mouth, something happened. I got lost in the landscape. Suddenly there was no separation between me and the vineyards. If, in the past, I had offered a thank you to God, this time there was no need to. I was not looking at the scenery from above. Rather, I suddenly became aware and knew and felt that I was the scenery itself. There were no vineyards for me to look at as if God had placed all this beauty before me for my pleasure. No, I could not tell the difference between the vineyards and me, the trees and the dirt, the sky and the land.There was no God to thank because, for this briefest of moments, there was no separation between God and me, between earth and heaven, between the human and the divine. It was a glorious, delicious moment. I wonder if that is what Rumi felt.And then, as suddenly as it appeared it was gone again and my world returned to normal. I was once again standing at the top of the mountain; the vineyards were once again lying there below. I was the observer and they were the observed. I was human and it was nature. I was Brian and God was God.

Falling, Falling into Life...

With the pilgrimage to Rumi's Tomb and the sacred city of Konya, Turkey nearing, I am reflecting more on how my spirituality has shifted toward the world of mysticism--that is, for the experience of the Sacred over simple belief in God.  Here is an excerpt from my upcoming book Dying to Live:  A Preacher's Pilgrimage to Reclaim His Soul that gives a window into my evolving spiritual life.  It was from my 4,000 mile cycling pilgrimage through the Western United States in 2011:"The highlight of the afternoon was standing on the overlook for Lower Yellowstone Falls. I nearly wept at the stark beauty and raw power of this water as gravity forced it over the rocks and sent it crashing down hundreds of feet below. I had the strange experience of wanting to lean into the experience of the Falls as if it wasn’t good enough to just observe it from a distance. I wanted to actually feel its power and soulful, violent movement. Of course, I knew that I could not do that as just a few feet more toward the edge would have sent me pummeling toward the bottom like the accelerating water. I would have gotten the experience, but not lived to tell the tale.I remember the first time I had this experience. It was when we were living in Racine, Wisconsin (remember, the one place I am not visiting!). Our house was just one mile to the west of Lake Michigan. I often took walks over to the lake and along its rocky beaches. When it wasn’t too cold (and it often was!), I would head over to the edge of the lake in the winter. The waves were often four, five and six feet high and would come crashing in against the rocks and the ice that had formed.I remember this strange yearning and deep longing to jump in and allow my body to be carried by the crashing waves. I wanted to experience what the waves were experiencing. At the time my thoughts unnerved me just a little. Did I have a death wish? Was my yearning about wanting to die?I know now that that wasn’t the case.Years later I discovered the world of the mystics and was reminded of Dan Fogelberg’s music where I recognized this language of longing—a longing to be one with the ocean and mountains, to live into the deep intimacy of family, friends and lovers, and to practice the enjoyment of work, dance and good food.I have had that same feeling many times since then and know now that it is not a death wish, but simply a longing for union and communion in its deepest form. I suppose someday death will also stop by my home and I can only hope that I will embrace that experience with as much acceptance and passion as I have for life itself. But, there is no need to hurry the clock.I meditated on the falls before me and felt gratitude for its sublime beauty, power and creative violence and greedily yearned for more, much more.I wanted more. I wanted it all."

Rome to Rumi: Safety First

I was on the phone with a friend this morning and in the course of our conversation she said, “You sure picked an interesting time to ride into Turkey.” Three months ago when I was planning this one friend had just returned from a tour of Turkey and another had been there in recent months visiting family. A cyclist friend of mine had been there twenty years before. All of them confirmed that the Turkish people are some of the nicest, most hospitable people in the world. “You’ll love it!” they and others said.I doubt that the hospitality of the Turkish people has changed at all.What has changed is that the countries bordering Turkey have become increasingly fragile, unpredictable, and violent. Syria continues to be in a civil war and both Turkey and the United States supply weaponry to the rebels. Tens of thousands of Syrian refugees have fled to Turkey and live in refugee camps. In June, the Northern Iraqi Offensive went into full force which included the kidnapping of 48 Turkish citizens and 28 Turkish truck drivers near the Iraqi town of Mosul. Ukraine is 350 miles across the Black Sea. Israel and Palestine have once again exploded 650 miles to the south. Phew!I have a number of people on the ground in Turkey who are giving me their opinion of the safety and the security for an American cyclist in Turkey. So far there seems to be a pattern. Half of those who are not cyclists have concern for my safety and half of them feel like the concerns are overblown and are just reactions to media reports (sort of like a foreigner deciding not to come to New York City because they read about a murder in Central Park.) This has made me very nervous. Yesterday I was feeling a little unnerved by the on the ground reports.So I also checked out the blogs of cyclists who have ridden through Turkey in the last few months. Strangely there is a completely different story from them. Not a single one so far has mentioned any safety concerns beyond the usual trucks on the highway and wild dogs (which Turkey is famous for). There has been no mention of harassment or nervousness. There hasn’t even been any indication at all that cyclists have changed their routes due to potential security concerns. It just doesn’t show up. What has been mentioned in their blogs is how often they are invited in for tea, how drivers will pull of the road and share bread and dates with them, and how on most nights they are invited to either camp on someone’s property or even share a meal and retire to a real bed in a stranger’s home.This is a common scenario for me as a cyclist—non-cyclists having grave concerns and cyclists reporting a wonderful experience. Even here in lovely Yachats on the Oregon coast, if I were to ask the local folks if it were safe for cyclists half of them would say, “Oh no, the narrows shoulders south of town and the big RV’s make it very dangerous!” Yet, I have ridden on those roads dozens of times and every day in the summer three or four dozen touring cyclists pass through town loaded down with gear and full panniers.I think (and I am saying this with some hesitation) that the concerns may be overblown. Still, I am listening very closely and watching very carefully. I have a grandbaby on the way and a whole community waiting for me to return. There is no need to take unnecessary risks. I have a Plan B in progress, if needed.Please stay tuned.

The Invitation

Over my whole adult life I have felt increasingly hungry for the experience of God over a mere understanding of God. In seminary I thought a lot about God and God’s character, but on the days when I could ride my bicycle I could feel God sneak under my skin and fill my heart. It was as if the rhythm of cycling, in the open air, where my lungs and legs propelled me to a deeper, richer experience allowed me to feel the Sacred in my body beyond all thoughts of God.Rumi now invites me into this pilgrimage of discovery, experience, severing, deepening and broadening. There will be little deaths and new budding forms of life. As the September 3 date nears, I can feel the pilgrimage beginning to work on me. There is anxiety and fear, anticipation and excitement. Over next the few weeks I will invite you into the experience as best as I can. I hope that in following me you will also find those deeper places where God is ready to spring to life within you. Here is Rumi’s invitation:Yes, you who've gone on pilgrimage -where are you, where, oh where?Here, on this path you can find the truth!So come, come now, yes come!Come, come, whoever you are.Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.It doesn't matter.Ours is not a caravan of despair.Come, even if you have broken your vow a thousand timesCome, yet again, come...From Divan-e Shams-e TabriziMevlana Rumi (1207-1273)