Pilgrimage Journal

March-September 2001
Lady Lake, FL to Denver and back

	3.18
	Walking away from that church last night, I thought I should have introduced myself as "the least of your brethren." (Mt 25, the sheep and goats) It was after dark on my first night out, when I found the church at a convenient spot. It looked quiet enough. So I curled up near the front door, with plenty of shelter in case of rain. I just got to sleep... when a couple drove up at 9pm. She rolled down the window. I quickly got up and tried to explain myself, but as I took a step forward, she rolled the window halfway up. (I should have said, "Don't be afraid, God promised to protect you, didn't he?") Either they hadn't heard the terms "pilgrimage" or "the kingdom of God" before, or they just didn't believe me. He said people were coming for some activity. And also that the police routinely patrolled the area ("We've had some break-ins"). So I apologized and offered to move on. That's when I should have reminded them of the least of their brethren ("I was a stranger and you did not welcome me"). Maybe God will remind them later.
	----------

	Thinking back, I'm sure I helped that couple be suspicious, by my nervousness. I was shaky all day and most of the night. Even after I found another place to sleep. It was a feeling of vulnerability, of being exposed, out of place, a stranger. (It fits well with the book I just started, "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter," by Carson McCullers. About outcasts. One character describes himself as "a stranger in a strange land.") I can see how others see me that way--a pilgrim seems always to be a stranger. But I must not accept that judgment. I'm not really a stranger to any place (all nature is God's, and is made for us to dwell in), nor to any person (everyone is the neighbor to be loved). I'm only a stranger in the minds of others who are limited in love. They may see me as a threat, or a trespasser, or an undesirable--but that's because their heart is too narrow, too hard. I need to try to help them open up. And the first step is to be comfortable in whatever place I am: God's place, where God has put me. Not out of place, in place.
	Found a mass this morning; now I'm just trying to keep out of the rain.

	3.20
	From "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter":

	The rain continued, gray and bitter and cold. 
	"Mick," Bubber said. "I come to believe we all gonna drown."

	That was yesterday. Rain non-stop from 9am to 6pm. I didn't like sitting all day, but I read my book and the rest was good for my feet. And I got to the next town before the rain started again at 9pm.
	This morning, the sun came out. I saw seven vultures sitting together in a tall, dead tree, spreading out their wings in the sun. And I read in Mark (4.11):

Jesus said to them, "To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside everything is in parables."

I had been thinking about trying to be more direct in speaking the gospel. But it's not easy to approach someone with a message so deep and intimate and revolutionary. People have to be open and ready for it, like the good soil in the parable of the sower. Diogenes went around in the day time with a lamp, looking for an honest man. How do you find someone who is ready for the truth of the kingdom of God? Jesus used parables. People often think the parables were easy-to-understand teaching aids. But Jesus himself said (and the disciples demonstrated) that the parables were usually not understood (Mk 4). It actually sounds like Jesus was intentionally trying to confuse people. But the parables were a way of teaching that sought out the ready hearer, while leaving everyone else scratching their heads. I think pilgrimage serves the same purpose. It's a lived parable--misunderstood by most, but precious and powerful to some. To those who have glimpsed the secret of the kingdom of God.
	One way I can be more direct, maybe, is in answering those Christians who treat me (or anyone) in an un-Christlike way. Like the laundromat owner who yelled at me today for rinsing my socks in the sink. I used his dryer, but he wanted me to use the washer, too. Very humiliating. And the place was overflowing with Christian magazines, pamphlets, and bibles. I should have asked him if he read them. But I was confused and embarrassed, and apologized, leaving quickly. With experience, I think I could give an answer that would be respectful and yet firmly point to the example and words of Jesus. We should be able to do that, as brothers and sisters in Christ.
	(But I have to make sure I'm not doing something that deserves being yelled at!)

	3.22
	The night before last, as I dropped down next to a church way out in the dark, I asked myself: Isn't there some nicer way to do this? It was very cold (40s) and my feet were very sore. Then all day yesterday I thought about that. Why couldn't I serve just as well with a safe, warm bed, plentiful food, maybe in an office, among people that understood and supported me?
	Because those things, while good in moderation, tend to weaken us. Both physically and spiritually. The physical part is obvious: just sitting, eating, and sleeping make us soft and fat. But the spiritual part is worse. Security and comforts (not as an occasional respite, but as a standard of living) make us more fearful. We panic when our accustomed security is threatened. We cringe when our comforts are taken away. We dread having to leave our safe bubble; and we're suspicious of any outsider who wanders in. All of this limits us, binds us, and makes us more easily manipulated. It's just not fitting for someone who's trying to be a witness of the power of God and his kingdom.
	Not that we need to specifically design a hard life (like the ascetics, for example). Simply following Christ in the world will get us into a hard enough life soon enough. "The disciple is not above the master. If they treated me this way..." But it's nice to understand a little of God's wisdom in giving his children hardships. Just as exercise is good for they body, a life of poverty and exile is good for us physically and spiritually.
	----------

	Last night I went by a place called "Isaiah 58:6,7 Ministries." I continued into town, then looked up the verses as I ate dinner:

"Is this not the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?"

I was impressed, so I went back for the evening bible study. A little unusual. Many Jewish elements drawn in, like celebrating Sabbath and Passover. And they kept calling Jesus "Yeshua." But pretty solidly Christian, I think; and the pastor let me sleep inside the church. Another cold night.
	Overall, the experience made me feel better about the silent preaching of pilgrimage. So much talking last night, and I couldn't follow most of it--even though I think I know what they're talking about. So much religiosity; if it's not doctrinal authoritarianism, it's wild-sounding sectarianism. As opposed to Jesus walking from town to town, speaking in parables. I'm not so good at story-telling, but I think I might be able to live the parable of pilgrimage.
	Also, I was thinking about Jesus' preaching. He expounded and explained more fully to those who wanted (and were ready) to hear. I'm ready to do the same thing. But society today is so glutted with religious/motivational speakers and quasi-religious talk shows that people's ears get backed up. Or they're looking for PhDs to tell them the "official" answer. So I think I'll just keep preaching without words--until someone's interest (or irritation) asks for an answer. Then I'll be happy to oblige.
	And I'll keep writing.
	Incidentally, I'm spending most of the day in a state park in the sun. The Ichetucknee Spring forms a river here, clear and gentle and green, edged with cypress and Spanish moss; flowing to the Suwannee River, I think. It's quiet here; practically deserted.
	----------

For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.
	
	I quoted that passage (Eph 2.10) back at the abbey, last June. But I think the translation then was "God's works of art." I've returned to this again and again--pilgrimage symbolism/imagery, preaching without words--and I think I'm really starting to believe it. Seeing my walk as art. Maybe a form of "performance art," a living expression of the artist's vision. I'll replace words with physical imagery, a more universal language, which can speak to people on whatever level they're at. Not creating a piece of art, then abandoning it; but being the art. And in this case, I am not the artist. God is the artist, the potter molding the clay. It's God's workmanship, to communicate God's message.
	As strange as that may sound, this description doesn't make pilgrimage more unique, but rather more universal. We are all God's works of art. We are not meant to create something in life, but rather to be created, to be made into something good and beautiful in the world. To be witnesses for God and his kingdom by being ourselves--God's workmanship. Only we must not create ourselves, or create a life for ourselves. We must open ourselves in faith and let God make us a new creation.

	3.24
	I had to let go of my trusty hat. It was coming apart around the brim, so I got a new one at a small army surplus store the night before last. I'd had that old hat since 1995; I got it when I was hiking in England.
	Took a nap yesterday under some tall pine trees. I liked the way they teetered slowly, brushing the wind. Later, this passage came to mind (in connection with 'silent preaching'):

	The heavens are telling the glory of God;
	And the firmament proclaims his handiwork.
	Day to day pours forth speech,
	    and night to night declares knowledge.
	There is no speech, nor are there words;
	    their voice is not heard;
	Yet their voice goes out through all the earth,
	And their words to the end of the world. (Ps 19.1-4)

Nature preaching quietly, by example. Perfect obedience to God, a witness to the unseen Creator and Sustainer (and Destroyer). It's interesting: some of the same things I see in the witness of nature--dependence on God, detachment, simplicity, patience--these are also part of the witness of pilgrimage. (Pilgrimage also can witness to faith and freedom, aspects unique to human free will.) Together, simple yet harmonizing, these offer so much of the good news of God's kingdom--without a word being spoken.
	A seventeen-year-old single mother picked me up and drove me ten miles into town yesterday. She actually stopped and came back to get me. And called me "sir" when she offered me a ride. So gentle and trusting. Despite the fact that she's already experienced many of the darker moments in life.
	----------

	I got a good start this morning. Getting in early yesterday gave me time to wash clothes and buy some food. And I took a motel room to get cleaned up for Sunday (plus the nights have been pretty cold). A real breakfast at a restaurant this morning finished up the money Mom and Dad gave me. But I feel good.
	A nagging objection to this 'silent preaching' stuff: Why can't you be like regular missionaries? Like the Apostle Paul, or John Wesley, really preaching and drawing crowds and starting churches. As least people could understand that. Then you'd be doing something, not just wandering around.
	I think there're many ways to answer this complaint (not the least of which is Jesus' own life). But the simplest response is that we don't need more crowds and more churches. We don't need more loud-mouthed preachers. There're so many churches bickering and competing for members and money, with the 24-hour televangelists competing for what's left. We're glutted with religion and Jesus-talk. What we need is less talk--silence rather than sales pitches. And less churches and less lukewarm church members wouldn't hurt, either. We need to purify; to practice the gospel, not just talk about it. To find a Christianity that means something again. And I think pilgrimage can be just the quiet sign we need, pointing in the direction we need to go.
	Sitting here next to the Suwannee River makes me want to pipe for awhile. Though I don't know that song...

	3.26
	I ran out of water shortly after the last entry, when a town on the map didn't materialize. But I soon came upon a deserted construction site (it was Saturday) and found an obliging water truck. That's happened once before. It was a bit of providence that foreshadowed the next two days.
	Saturday night, I found a church, but something was going on inside. "Boldness," I reminded myself. So I stepped in... and ended up with a motel room and an invitation to lunch the next day. Tom, maybe the most easy-going man I ever met, took care of me. I also played an instrumental at the early service (they were short on music). Rain that morning, but I walked to the next town that afternoon. It threatened to be very cold that night, and I had no money or food left. I found a church after dark, with a couple stragglers left from the evening service. Looking ahead, I saw that this was my only option. So I went up to the men and asked if I could sleep outside the church. Instead, I got a couch inside an old section of the church (without heat, but much warmer than outside), where they could lock me out of the main church ("Liability" again). The pastor wasn't too interested in me, but he did offer some money. So I slept well and ate a satisfying convenience store breakfast (hot chocolate, milk, oatmeal cookies, and a granola bar).
	I walked all morning today, stopping several times to work out some medleys on the recorder. Just in case I get asked to play again (I was very shaky Sunday morning). When I was almost to town, a van pulled up, an older couple who had passed me more than once over the last few days. We talked a little, then it came out that they were Mormons. They went into full proselytizing mode, so I couldn't say much except a general objection against institutional religion and denominationalism. Then he says, "Well, when you decide to get serious..." And I burst out laughing. More serious?! That laugh was probably the best response I could have made to the whole situation. A response worthy of a Zen master. But that couple was kind and sincere, and the man gave me money, too--right while I was trying to make a point! It almost made me lose my train of thought. Not that my thinking was doing much good anyway; only the laugh was good.
	The road was pretty this morning. Between the trees, the shoulders were dusted with tiny yellow balls, and tufts of deep maroon (similar to clover). Also spires of little blue trumpets, a whole field of these. And many large azalea bushes, swollen with color, a bright fusia. Sunny, too, if not quite warm. And lots of hawks and vultures.

	3.29
	It was truly a happy moment when I saw the sun yesterday morning. The cold (37F) shook me up and on my feet by 2:30am. I did find a truck stop for a hot breakfast around 4am, but it was a long, dark morning. When the sun appeared, I crawled up off the road under some pines and fell asleep with the sunlight warm on my face.
	The long walk in the morning shortened the evening walking and I got to town before 7pm. In time for Wednesday evening worship. The church was all-Black, very loud, very friendly, and the bible study and worship lasted three hours! There was a good focus on love in action, not just words. James 2.15-17 was mentioned:

If a brother or sister is ill-clad and in lack of daily food, and one of you says to them, "Go in peace, be warmed and filled," without giving them the things needed for the body, what does it profit? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.

But I got the impression that that church was a little bit too important to the people (a source of pride in itself). And the pastor and other leaders got more honor than any servant of God ought to.
	I'd been thinking about honor, or rather the lack thereof, in relation to Jesus' life. He's such an honored figure now (at least honored with the lips). And the Gospels tell his story from the point of view of adoring followers. But the crucifixion is still there, and Isaiah's prophecy of the "suffering servant":

Who has believed what we have heard? And to whom has the word of the Lord been revealed? For he grew up before him like a young plant, and like a root out of dry ground; he had no form or comeliness that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not. (Is 53.1-3)

We don't get honor by following Jesus and speaking his truth; we get what he got. Yet many preachers do get honor (and power and money) for their words and services. How do they manage to find glory where Jesus found scorn and rejection?
	I talked to several young men after the service. One drove me to a nearby church to sleep (more sheltered there). And just when I was thinking that the pavement was a little cold, he returned with a blanket. But, for all the talk about love in action, he was the only one who offered anything. Friendliness was abundant; but I leave here, in the rain, with no food or money. I boldly told several people that God always provides for me, and I guess they took me at my word. Apparently, they assumed God would provide through someone else.
	I have to remember to pray especially for those who disappoint me.
	----------

	Wait--I have to get this straight, because it's often not straight in my head. I'm not disappointed in any person because I didn't get food. If I lack anything, if I ever go hungry, that's God's doing; I shouldn't blame anyone else. If I have a complaint about daily bread, I need to take it to God. The feeling of disappointment must be for others, not because of them. I am disappointed for them when I see by their actions that their words are false, or that their faith is little, or that their hearts are hardened. Especially after hearing that "love is action, not just words," it's disappointing to find out that these are just more words. Disappointment for the spiritual immaturity of others. But not because of food, shelter, laundry, etc.--that's God's work. And he can take care of it whenever he wills, with or without the good will of others.
	----------

	Fasting for the afternoon, and I've had a bit of revelation already. I was reminded that many of my encounters have been with Christians, often in churches, and that I get most worked up when Christians don't act much like Christians. I've wondered if focusing on Christians so much is the best witness (not that I had so much choice in the matter). But now I'm convinced it is. Jesus went to the Jews, and specifically told his disciples to preach to the Jews (who supposedly already knew God). And I think Paul, the missionary to the Gentiles, even visited the synagogues first when he was preaching. I see many Christians today are like many of the Jews were then: supposedly God's people, but really lost sheep of the (spiritual) house of Israel. And if the Christians aren't Christlike, what kind of witness is that to those outside? So I'm happy to witness to Christians first and foremost. To remind them what the kingdom of God is supposed to be about; to sound the call for repentance. Quietly, of course. Sticking to the pilgrimage symbolism--and who better to understand that imagery, than Christians?

	3.31
	Yesterday was just about perfect. After a breakfast of trail mix and oatmeal cookies, I walked 20 miles and wasn't even hungry. I felt so alive and liberated. Doubts only reached the edge of my mind before they were snuffed out. And I was able to think about more important things than "Where's my next meal coming from?" Because isn't life more than food? (Mt 6.25)
	When I found a church last night, I wasn't worried or worn out. My body was tingling with energy. Though there were people at the church, I marched right up and asked to sleep on their porch. Pause. Then the man I talked to went to see the pastor, and came back with excuses: liability, "a lot going on," etc. But then came the best part. The pastor told him to send me away (to the police station)--but he couldn't do it! I could see the struggle going on in his mind. He deliberated, and I said I would wait, until after their meeting. Sitting in the parking lot, I thought, "Woe to the pastors who send their flock to do their dirty work. Woe to the pastors that are stumbling blocks rather than shepherds." A smelly black dog was out there waiting too, and he came over to be friendly. We waited for over an hour.
	But when the man came back out, he had decided to help me himself. He offered to buy me a sandwich, put me up in a motel, and gave me $20 as well. I think I felt as good for him as I did for myself. He rose above his pastor's poor example. I was all prepared to say, "For the future, you know the story about the sheep and goats, Matthew 25; well, 'the least of these my brethren' usually look just like me." But it seems he already got that message. I took a badly needed shower, and enjoyed the food. All the more because of how God provided it.

	4.2
	I'd like to always write entries like the last one. But, more often, people don't respond like that man did. Usually, it's a fearful two steps back, or eyes that follow me suspiciously. And if they do inquire, with a sweet smile, it usually dissolves into a puzzled grin before we're done talking. (Or they lay into me with some sort of evangelizing, that sounds like they're reading from a pamphlet.) Simple imagery, yet even Christians do not understand. I comfort myself by remembering that Jesus taught his disciples for, what, three years? And he was constantly saying to them, "Still you do not understand?" Right up to the moment he was arrested and they all fled in confusion and fear.
	One thing has become more evident to me lately, and maybe sharing this with others might help. I've often liked to see pilgrimage as an ideal life, real freedom, true humanness, life in the kingdom of God. And it is--but the purpose is not personal bliss. I'm no Buddha, walking around proclaiming, "I've found the end of sorrow!" The message is supposed to be "Repent, for the kingdom of God has come near." Repent. That aspect has come out more as I visit churches and meet Christians and see how far we are from being the body of Christ. We do not understand Jesus' words; we do not imitate his life; and we do not recognize him when he approaches us as "the least of these my brethren." I've ranted about this again and again, but I think I should also include this aspect when I meet people. Be more up-front about it. I'll say I'm on a "pilgrimage of repentance"--repentance for all of us who call ourselves Christians (but who are not much like Christ). Or something like that. A pilgrimage of repentance. 
	Thinking about this, I recognized that the biblical repentance preachers--Jesus, John the Baptist, the prophets--all assumed the role of penitent themselves first. They shout "Repent!" but they are the ones fasting in the desert, wandering with nowhere to lay their head. They are the first ones to take the path of humility and suffering. So when they say "Repent," they say "Follow me." They show the way to new life that comes through repentance. Life in the kingdom of God, not just for bliss, but for the love of God and one another.

	4.4
	I spent last night on the porch of a one room shack, with a small kitchen built on the back and the toilet and shower in a shed next to it. I was on the porch because there were already four other people sleeping inside. But they had invited me for dinner. I'm glad I didn't eat too much, because I later learned that they had recently pawned an air compressor for food money. But I was even poorer than them. It was warm enough for a good sleep, even when the rain pounded on the roof. Their dog curled against my legs, and when I woke up, I found their cat curled at my head.
	The poor sheltered and fed me, then an alcoholic gave me money. She yelled out to me as I was passing a bar this evening. When she gave me $5, though I was hungry, I decided to wait until I found a real grocery store. Instead, I found a church where some people were just arriving. I forgot food and went in, to see what the ELCA was preaching around here--and discovered a Lenten potluck dinner! We ate well together. And two 6-7 year-old girls asked me many questions. They tried to invite me to their house, but I could see mom wasn't too excited about that. Then they invited me to stay in the church, but the pastor wasn't too excited about that. The worship was nothing, dishwater, but those girls were delightful. Not afraid at all. And their generosity shamed both their parents and their pastor (though I was allowed to sleep outside). The poor, an alcoholic, and children befriended me today.
	But the churches, the pastors, are a tragedy. I've been to four this week (for various services) and they make me want to cry. I don't know what to say. I walk with grief for the churches.

	4.5
	Psalm 119 has great pilgrimage metaphors. But this morning, this was my prayer:

	I hate the double-mindedness of men,
	    but I love your law.
	You are my hiding place and shield;
	    I hope in your word....
	Uphold me according to your promise, that I may live,
	and let me not be put to shame in my hope! (vss. 113,114,116)

	And this, Mark 8.32: "But [the disciples] did not understand [Jesus'] saying, and they were afraid to ask him." Fear is really at the heart of the misunderstanding. Fear that we will discover the truth about ourselves; fear that the falseness of our lives will be revealed; fear of the gaze of God. The book I'm reading now, "All the King's Men" (by Robert Penn Warren--excellent), has a good part about our not being able to bear the poor, the oppressed, looking at us. Their meek eyes condemn us. So we claim ignorance, and are afraid to ask.
	----------

	Again from "All the King's Men" (here, "the Boss," the governor, the master-politician, philosophizes):

What folks claim is right is always just a couple of jumps short of what they need to do business. Now an individual, one fellow, he will stop doing business because he's got a notion of what is right, and he is a hero. But folk in general, which is society, is never going to stop doing business. Society is just going to cook up a new notion of what is right. Society is sure not ever going to commit suicide. At least, not that way and of a purpose. And that is a fact. Now ain't it?

It is also a fact that "folks in general" are individuals first.

	4.6
	Last night, the town of Elsanore, Alabama, didn't seem as beautiful as the name sounds. No churches for miles. So I crawled up onto a flat semi trailer, abandoned in a gas station parking lot. It didn't rain, and I slept pretty well. No one knew I was there.
	Prior to that, yesterday was a happy surprise. I got 4lbs of food for the $5 in my pocket, so I ate well all day. Even met another homeless guy on the road and offered him a meal. I don't often have that opportunity and it felt good. We talked as equals, too; he wasn't my "charity case." Actually, he had more than me: tent, bedroll, and 80lb pack. But no food until I showed up. I remember at one point in the conversation he said, "God helps those who help themselves"--words I'm sure he's been scolded with again and again (he's been on the road three years; but recently he discovered a murder victim in the woods, and decided to head home). I told him "helping ourselves" is not what God told us to do. That's the world's morality, not God's. God told us to love our neighbor--help others--and he'll take care of us. And that's the truth.
	Later, as I crossed into Alabama, over a clear, dark river, I had the urge to get wet all over. So I braved the water that was too cold for alligators. Then sat in the warm grass and read. Yeah, yesterday was all right.

	4.8
	The Lord has given me a well-trained tongue,
	that I might know how to speak to the weary
	    a word that will rouse them.
	Morning after morning he opens my ear
	    that I may hear;
	and I have not rebelled, have not turned back..

	The Lord is my help,
	    therefore I am not disgraced;
	I have set my face like flint,
	    knowing I shall not be put to shame. (Is 50.4-5,7)

	I was speaking a "word to the weary" to myself all day yesterday (though there were also several rebellious arguments going on in my head, too). A long stretch under the sun, well over 20 miles, with a crushingly long detour around a tunnel closed to pedestrians, and over two miles on a screaming interstate. Oh yeah, no food, too. Because of the detour, I couldn't get out of the city by dark (I didn't have the time of the strength), so I knocked at the first Catholic church I found, to get permission to stop there for the night. The priest was out, but I met a sister that lived there. A little chatting, and I found out she's a Dominican, who was at Aquinas Institute the year before I was. She gave me some food (as did the priest when he returned), and I slept well back behind the church.
	I'd been praying about that "let me not be put to shame" all day as I struggled down the road. I was attacked by a needling "If you're working for God, why doesn't he feed you? Why are you exhausted and helpless in the dust and blazing sun?" It was a pretty good question, I had to admit. But somewhere on that screaming interstate, more than a day after my last meal (and that was two granola bars), I had a bit of a revelation. "Is not life more than food?" What is the life God provides for us in his kingdom? Food and drink? God does provide all we need for physical life; but then, at some point, he doesn't. We all know God has not promised to sustain that life forever. What we are promised is that God will always be the source of life for our spirit. That spirit, which is our essential self, does not need bread, does not grow old, does not die. But it can grow hungry and tired apart from its source of life. Its will can weaken if it is starved. So it must have food--and that food is the love of God. If our spirit is to live fully, it must be filled with the Spirit of God, his will strong in us, his love inspiring us. That is the food Jesus spoke of when he said, "I have food to eat of which you do not know... My food is to do the will of him who sent me." (Jn 4.32,34) that food is all we need to do good, to love others. And that food is always given to us, if we only have faith.
	That food, life for my spirit, did not fail me yesterday, of any other day of fasting. It carried me here, feeding me like manna in the desert. And I believe it will continue to carry me until I see the kingdom of God in all its glory and power. I will not be put to shame.
	----------

	In mass this morning (Palm Sunday, by the way), I remembered the Jesus prayer: "Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us sinners." A variation on the prayer of the publican, who would not lift up his eyes to heaven (Lk 18.9-14). This was also the prayer of the pilgrim in "The Way of a Pilgrim," a classic pilgrimage text. I haven't thought about it much before, but now, recognizing that I'm really on a pilgrimage of repentance, it seems very appropriate. I'll remember it.
	The bible class after mass was well-attended and stimulating. Their view of the bible was refreshing, too, especially after visiting so many fundamentalist churches. The view of the bible I've been getting over the past few weeks (in the "Bible Belt") makes me think of a small, cold, airless room, painfully bright but without windows. And every surface is covered with bible verses (always with their references) that threaten you with bold, black letters. Here, it was much better. And I talked with several people about my walk and the gospel, getting some good responses. I left with half a loaf of date bread, too. So I'm not hungry as I leave the city.
	I am grateful for that. And the fact that I was fed without asking does indicate some genuine care and generosity, from several people. But I can't help being a little sad, too. God must be saying, "Is that all?!" Like Jesus watching people giving at the temple: most gifts were worth less than the widow's two cents, because they were such a small amount out of such an abundance. I don't mean to complain, for I am satisfied. But here's how it looks: Both the sister and the priest knew I had nothing to eat. The sister gave a 12-inch package of crackers, a few ounces of cheese, an orange, and a can of Coke. The priest gave two slices of bread, buttered, with one slice of bologna in-between, and two Ho-Hos. I'm sure that's not what they ate for dinner. And they both knew I had nowhere to sleep. Each of them lives in a huge building, with many unused rooms. The sister (who was a Dominican and knew many of the people who knew me) said she couldn't invite me in without the approval of her housemate, who wouldn't be back until late. That's understandable. But I never heard back from her. And the priest offered me the choice of an empty room, which turned out to be full of cockroaches, or the covered sidewalk outside (he did let me use the bathroom, though). I chose the sidewalk. Now, how does that compare to the generosity of Jesus to the hungry and tired 5,000? It's not exactly 12 baskets left over.
	Again, I am physically satisfied and thankful. But saddened. Because those are the generous Christians. Of all the rest I met today, many of whom also knew my situation, only one gave the leftover date bread and most gave merely good wishes. Which immediately makes me think of James 2.15-17. So I am saddened. Jesus Christ, have mercy on us sinners.
	Is this judgment? No--judgment is final; this is just a brief glimpse into the soul. But the situation is serious. In Matthew 25, Jesus' "I was hungry and you did not feed me, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me" are the last words some people hear on their way to hell. And what do the priest and Levite in Jesus' parable of the Good Samaritan demonstrate, when they pass by on the other side? That they do not love their neighbor. But Jesus said, "By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." Love. Not doing our pharisaic duty with two slices of bread and a slice of balony, but love. As we love ourselves, or better, as Christ loved us. That's seeing the needs of others and responding generously. Love doesn't make a suffering person beg from us. Love sees and gives, sees and gives, like a reflex. And there's no limit to the power and generosity of that giving, because love is from the limitless source, love is from God. Love is God in us.
	God is among us, because there is some love among us. I'm glad about that. I was also happy to recognize two things this morning, having received very little. First, I was able to be a witness, and an encouragement (I think) to several people, without receiving anything. The gospel without charge, which is good. And second, I realized that God may be giving me less now (I used to go weeks without missing a meal, or get money enough for a whole week at a time) because I need less now. Not because he's not paying attention to my needs, but because he knows my needs. Better than I do. I missed my shower this week, too. But found a beautiful, shallow, sandy stream to wash in yesterday. I walked away feeling clean inside and out, like it had been some kind of baptism. All of which makes me feel happy.
	(Happy only because of what God is doing, I remind myself. Happy about God's work, not my work, not even God's work 'through me.' 'Me' gets no credit. Only God is good. 'Me' prays, "Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." And rejoices in God's love, whenever and wherever and through whomever it appears.)

	4.9
Jesus said, "Truly, I say, to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or lands, for my sake and for the gospel, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions, and in the age to come eternal life." (Mk 10.29-30)

	That's true. My brothers and mothers and children are everywhere; and how many houses have I found! I came to this church just as the evening service was starting last night. A communion service. So I communed with the Baptists yesterday evening, after communing with the Catholics yesterday morning. An older couple offered me some canned food and crackers from a donation box. And the pastor said I could sleep outside the church, though he warned me that this was a rough area (drug trade). Several, including the pastor, gave me the usual "Good Luck!" as they smiled and went about their business. Suppressing my irritation, I replied casually, "Oh, I've got more than luck on my side!"
	Then I met "The Doorkeeper." He wore a full beard and shaggy long hair, and was making the rounds to lock up all the church buildings. He approached me and we talked. "I don't really work here," he said "but somehow I got the keys to the kingdom." He'd been homeless himself, at one time. Maybe that helped him to be more sensitive to my needs. He saw that the mosquitoes were attacking me, and knew that this was a dangerous area, so he opened up one of the buildings and let me sleep inside (despite the fact that he had gotten into trouble doing this before). There was a bathroom, and cushions to sleep on. And time to give my socks and shirt a good washing. I commented on how I often found generosity in the strangest places, like from an alcoholic at a bar rather than a pastor at a church. He said he had stayed out of churches because of the hypocrisy. "I'd rather be a doorkeeper in the house of God than dwell inside with the wicked," he said, then admitted "that's my own version" of the psalm (84.10). He gave me $5 and took off. Now, I don't agree that the people inside the church are "the wicked," but they sure made a poor showing compared to The Doorkeeper.
	Not that helping a poor person is the all of virtue and love. Often most of us don't even meet a poor person, because society pushes the poor out of sight. But the poor, because they are vulnerable and easily ignored, are lightning rods for bad treatment (or mercy). So they usually bring out the tendencies in us that otherwise remain hidden. It's not only about how we treat one poor person. The way we treat the poor shows how we also treat our family, co-workers, neighbors, etc.; though with them, we probably use more diplomacy. Because they can retaliate. What an encounter with the poor offers us is a glimpse into our own soul. Which is exactly why they appear so often in Jesus' parables and sayings--they give us a glimpse into our soul.
	----------

	I was thinking of parables where the poor appear as a "sign of contradiction," making the secrets of the heart known (like Jesus, also a poor man). The Sheep and Goats, and The Rich Man and Lazarus, obviously. But also The Good Samaritan; the man left by the side of the road is poor and wounded. And The Unmerciful Servant, who has been forgiven much, yet demands repayment from another who can't pay the small sum he owes (a relatively poor man). All good examples.
	And I saw an oddity this afternoon. A raccoon hunting in a shallow pool, in broad daylight. That's surprising, but the reason why is more surprising. It was blind. I noticed the clouded-over eyes as it was feeling in the water for something edible. Then I clapped once. It froze and looked right at me with those opaque eyes, but it didn't run. I guess you can't run if you're blind. It just turned and felt its way back into a nearby culvert, gently bumping its nose on the twigs and branches in its path. I'm surprised it can find food. But it looked almost full-grown, so it must be getting fed somehow. Like me, I guess. It made me think of the story of The Man Born Blind (Jn 9.39):

Jesus said, "For judgment I came into this world, that those who do not see may see, and that those who see may become blind."

	4.11
	Leaving the library yesterday, I greeted a man as we passed. His eyes lit up as if he recognized me. But it was several seconds before he turned and called out to me--and promptly invited me to his house (because "it seemed like the Christian thing to do"). At that point, I didn't need food or a bed. But I desperately needed a bath and a washing machine, both of which he gladly provided.
	It turned out that "John" had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals for the last 20 years (since he was 19). But I was stunned to discover how well he knew the bible and how well he understood the evils of society (one of the chief evils being, in his opinion, the psychiatric hospitals). We talked long into the night. He was struggling with alcohol, depression, and thoughts of suicide, driven mainly by a terrible fear of being readmitted to the hospital (he is on a type of monitored probation). But, in many ways, he was more sane than most people I've met. He's the only person I've encountered who I thought might be able to join me as a partner in pilgrimage. So much wisdom from God, only lacking focus. But he has to face his present situation first. I could really see it, though; we are very close on many things. He said I was the only person he could "agree with." And didn't they call Jesus a madman, too?
	I stayed here last night and all day today. There was plenty of cleaning to do, and I cooked (food he bought). Now I'm clean, my clothes are clean, and John's place is much cleaner. He loved the food, too (and didn't drink at all). Now he's out witnessing: he'll approach people on the street, in public buildings, anywhere. And he also plays the piano, classical stuff, mostly self-taught. I hope he makes it through this year of probation. I'd like him to go with me now, really, but he has to go through this trial. It made me think if my returning to the Navy from being AWOL, and facing prison time. We talked about that. It's by going through out deepest fears, by faith, that we find the freedom of the kingdom of God. That may be the only thing he lacks. He is definitely close to the kingdom of God, no matter what the psychiatrists say.
	Oh, I finished "All the King's Men," and it was so good I thought about reading it again. But the library here had a book 'swap'--just trade one paperback for another--which is something I've never seen anywhere else. It was a delight to find. Partly because I didn't even have 25 cents in my pocket.

	4.12
	I fell asleep last night with John playing Mozart, and left there this morning. As I think about him, I'm struck first by his utter transparency. "A man without guile," I called him. Actually, I think that's how it might be with many of the people we label "mentally ill." They're not that different from the rest of us, but somehow they lack the ability to hide their anxieties and look "normal." As Thoreau wrote, "Most men live lives of quiet desperation." So the mentally ill are not so different, it's just that their desperation is a little noisier than most people's. We lock them away (or sedate them) because they make us uncomfortable. They remind us too much of what we know ourselves to be--the part of us we're hiding from others and from ourselves.
	Coincidentally, I read Robert Lewis Stevenson's "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" yesterday. He was obviously influenced by the Calvinistic view of depraved human nature, but he also described well the dark, pleasurable illusion of unbridled freedom. I think that's really the source of sin. Not some instinctual, uncontrollable, physical urge, but our lust to BE uncontrollable. The free will rebelling against God. That's the debasement of human nature; because the will that would be free of God always ends up in slavery to something else, something low and unworthy. But the will that freely gives itself to God (or submits to be taken by God) is the glory of all creation.

	4.13
	On the day I called, you answered me,
	my strength of soul you did increase. (Ps 138.3)

	That line in the Psalm this morning reminded me of "I have food to eat of which you do not know." (And I also had regular, old food this morning.) I hit downtown Biloxi (good name) just before dark last night, and thinking I wouldn't make it out that evening, I looked for a Catholic church. I didn't have to look far. Holy Thursday mass was just beginning, so I slipped in the back. Afterwards, I asked the priest if I could sleep outside the church, and he asked me all about what I was doing. He said the little chapel near the door would be open till 10pm, then he would show me where I could sleep.
	I noticed no one was in the chapel, so I went in with my recorder. It was a round, high room, excellent acoustics. Some people came in and I stopped playing, but they urged me to continue. So I did Precious Lord, Were You There, Amazing Grace, and What Wondrous Love is This. It really sounded good in there. They thanked me as they left, and I turned to read some Good Friday passages.
	But when I came out, that couple was still at the church, talking to the priest. They had heard some of my story, and asked some more questions. Then the priest offered to pay for a motel room, and the couple drove me there, leaving me with $5 and a hug. I slept well. And then, on my way out this morning, the man shows up again, picking me up on the street and driving me to a grocery store. Gave me two maps too, good ones, because he knew my intended route. "Thank you for your gift," he had said as he left the little chapel last night. Then they gave me a gift also. That's how it should be.
	Breakfast on the pier, where I had a long conversation with a local (Peter), an agnostic--though I never quite believe people when they claim to be that. Now a walk along the beach. On my left, the Gulf stretches away forever, and the wind shares the cool of the sea with the land.

	4.15
	One thing have I asked of the Lord,
	    that will I seek after,
	that I may dwell in the house of the Lord,
	    all the days of my life,
	to behold the beauty of the Lord,
	and to inquire in his temple. (Ps 27.4)

	I found a church to hide in on Good Friday. The sanctuary was cool and dark when I crawled in out of the wet furnace of the afternoon. An hour without the howl of traffic. And then, again, on Saturday afternoon I found a church to sit and wait for Easter to arrive. Now it has arrived, and I am still here. But that's getting ahead of myself.
	Friday and Saturday, I walked along the beach with the sand and concrete blazing. I stepped in late to a Good Friday service Friday night, at a handsome new Catholic church. At first, I thought I might stay there for the night. But the priest, while initially sounding sympathetic to the poor, ended up sounding so patronizing that I didn't even want to ask for a place on his porch. That happened once before, a week or so ago. The pastor then seemed so proud of what (he imagined) he was giving to the people, that I didn't want to inflate him any more by accepting even the smallest favor. They both seemed so generous--the priest, urgently consoling the crowd: "You're good people." Apparently so they wouldn't be too distressed about all this 'way of the cross' stuff. But the "generosity" of such leaders is all emptiness and lies, flattery to tease the ears. Anything to keep the people dependent on the leader who suckles them with such sugary and unnourishing milk. No, they're not good people--God alone is good. And the way of the cross is very real. What we need is not flattery, but forgiveness, and the yoke (of the cross) that is light, because Christ bears the burden for us.
	So I walked away from the church Friday night, and soon found another. A good place to sleep, but the night was humid, and there were mosquitoes and biting gnats (sea gnats, I was told). I slept OK, but woke up with maybe 100 red bites, over 50 on one arm (which must have been exposed). Big deal. I still don't regret for a minute leaving that handsome, hollow church.
	I found another church Saturday, Catholic again (thanks to the very Catholic French settlers), in a complex which used to be a seminary and now is a retreat center and retirement home for missionary priests. A great place to spend the day. The church is older, in need of repairs, but attractive. All rounded with roman arches. In warm, subdued colors, tan and gold, with carved wood everywhere. I sat in there for hours, and piped and sang, and was as glad as the sunlight that poured though the windows. I forgot that my food had run out at breakfast; I didn't care if the liturgy that night might be disappointing. I sang a melody I remembered, "One thing I ask, this alone I seek, to dwell in the house of the Lord all my days..."
	The Easter liturgy that evening, however, was not disappointing. The service began in candlelight. Good, joyful music. And when the church filled with light, the gold accents shone. A diverse crowd, too: young and old, different races. All good. OK, the preaching was weak; but the excellent scripture selections made up for it. One passage especially, Is 55.1-11: (1-3 here)

	Ho, every one who thirsts, come to the waters;
	    and he who has no money, come, buy and eat!
	Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.
	Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,
 	   and your labor for that which does not satisfy?
	Hearken diligently to me, and eat what is good,
	    and delight yourself in fatness.
	Incline your ear, and come to me;
	hear, that your soul may live.

	And God chose to feed me what is good, and delight me with fatness. As I left the church, I meant to ask for a place on the porch this time, but the rector here anticipated my need. He saw me and immediately asked if I had a place to stay. Soon, I did. A clean, private room, with shower, and air-conditioned. And he sat with me over a late dinner, inviting me to spend Easter with the missionaries here (SVDs--Divine Word missionaries). Of course, Easter is a big religious feast day. So today, after another beautiful worship, we ate turkey and gourmet dressing and drank wine, and there was plenty of Easter chocolate. Fatness.
	Now the classical music has come on again in the dining room in anticipation of another meal. At breakfast, one of the priests heard about my travels and remarked, "You must be a rich man" (to afford such a trip). I quickly corrected him. But now I wonder if he didn't unwittingly speak the deeper truth. Just as life is more than food, wealth is more than money. The one who only has money does not understand this. "Hearken diligently to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in fatness. Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live." "Seek first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well."

	4.16
	The water lilies are blooming here, white crowns on a shallow pool in the woods. Dragonflies hover. I left the missionaries this morning, after breakfast, but I did not leave empty-handed. The rector urged me to take some food, so I did (including two colored Easter eggs). And he gave me money. Another priest there, Peter, who still spoke with the accent of his native Germany (born there 85 years ago), also gave me money. He actually impressed me more than the rector. I spoke with Peter several times. He served in many very poor places, for many years, and knows the value of a holy poverty. Good sense of humor, too.
	I leave feeling invigorated and bold. This Easter will not be soon forgotten, and I recognize a subtle change in myself. One thing, it came to my attention that my attempts to explain my pilgrimage have still lacked something. Or have had something they shouldn't have. I've mentioned the kingdom of God, and repentance, but I think I've tried to be too "relevant," or too precisely explanatory. And people still fall back too easily to their own prejudiced conclusions. One man even said (when I mentioned repentance), "Yeah, I'm like you, I know God forgives me but I have a hard time forgiving myself." Which is not what I want to say at all. So, with my new boldness, I boldly surrender to the simplicity of Jesus' own words. From now on, when people ask why, I'll say "Just this: 'Repent, for the kingdom of God has come near.'" Some how, I feel like I wasn't ready for those words before, though I hinted at the message, and circled it cautiously. I am ashamed of that now, and don't want to waste any more words stuttering and mumbling. My tongue has been loosened a little. By faith, it is the Lord's: "Repent! For the kingdom of God has come near!"
	----------

	Well, that was some boldness just now, though not with a very comforting conclusion. The Catholic priest in this town, an older man, invited me in immediately. But his warm reception cooled quickly as we discussed the poor, and my pilgrimage. He urged me to do something more vocal; he just couldn't understand the symbolism of pilgrimage, and didn't especially want to understand much about it. So I just asked to sleep outside. Here's his reason for saying no: He didn't have the "facilities" to put me up for the night (though there was a house and church and fellowship hall), and the mosquitoes would be bad, so it would be "cruel" to let me sleep outside. So he sent me away! At the same time, he was admitting that there was really nowhere else to go near here (motel, shelter, etc.). So "stay warm and well fed" is what his smile said--but somewhere else! I reminded him of Matthew 25 as I left. "Yes, yes," he said, and smiled. Thank God I got to write about my Easter experience first, so this disappointing priest is balanced by better Catholic examples.
	This is perhaps my most upsetting encounter. I found another church immediately (with a pastor glad to let me stay); it's not that I needed to sleep there so bad. But his hypocrisy infuriates me. Feigned interest, only to lecture me; mock concern, only to send me away. I think I understand something of Jesus' anger towards the Pharisees. Lord Jesus, have mercy on us sinners.
	Otherwise, it's been a beautiful day. All woods, with swallowtails everywhere, fluttering as they balanced on the thistles in bloom. All through Mississippi there have been thistles: sturdy, spiked scepters in the grass, topped with soft crowns of ivory and magenta. There has been honeysuckle, too, blooming and smelling up the place. And the bayous have already appeared, though I'm not quite in Louisiana (tomorrow I will be). They seem to be rivers that have nowhere to go, winding around aimlessly in the reeds and tall grass. Lazy in the sun. Hey, I'm feeling better already...
	You know, that might be the first time I was sent away for something I said (and I believe I said the truth). There's some comfort in that. Of course, he may have intended to send me away from the moment he saw me--but he got an earful, anyway!

	4.17
	"I can respect a man's solitude, but the bugs down here, they don't." That's what the Methodist pastor said as he came over last night. Then he invited me into the church for the night. He told me the story of his unusual path into the ministry, the whole story. Long, but encouraging. It's nice to know the church can still be flexible to get a good leader into the pulpit. He finished by emphasizing that he had "found his niche." That was his message for me, I think (Ugh! I'd just been thinking that people had finally stopped throwing that stumbling block in my path!). But it's a little late to tempt me with a "niche."
	Everyone seems to want to find their niche. But that's because the world they live in is a fearful, savage place. And a niche provides security and stability. But if you grow any, the niche becomes tighter and tighter, till you are forced to crawl out--or die in there. The kingdom of God, on the other hand, is peace and trust and freedom. The children of God's kingdom have been given the whole world, so why would they want to squeeze into any niche? Serve God and love one another, yes-- but we don't need any manmade hole-in-the-wall to do that. All creation is the Lord's. And if we are his, all that is his is ours.
	I left a note for the priest as I left this morning. The last line was "Above all, brother, beware of hypocrisy." For whatever it's worth. Leaving town, I walked by a store just being opened, and the owner called out, "You wanna Coke for the ride? Take one for the ride!" So I took one--for the ride.

	4.18
	This is a story about how a little old lady showed the men of the church what a Christian is: Last night, I found a little Lutheran church where I needed it, but there was a meeting going on, so I waited. When I asked the first ones out about sleeping outside the church, they sounded doubtful. One went back to ask the pastor. When he came back out, he shook his head. "I know this doesn't sound very Christian... I know this sounds like we're sending you away...," he said. But I called him on it. "It doesn't just sound unchristian; it doesn't just sound like you're sending me away. You are sending me away." He talked about insurance and the sheriff, and something vague about vagrancy laws. I said I would leave, but reminded him of Matthew 25. Then he got defensive and said that Paul told us to obey the authorities, which are instituted by God. His knowledge of scripture was weak and his position was indefensible, but I didn't argue with him. These words just popped out: "It seems God has put you in quite a quandary, hasn't he?" "Yes, he has," the man said quietly, as he walked away with his head down.
	But there's more. As I was gathering my stuff to leave, the pastor came out, with several other people. "You understand the situation..." the pastor began. He also mentioned insurance, and what the sheriff would do if he found e there. "What the sheriff does is up to the sheriff. I'm more interested in what you will do," I replied. A bold man stepped up, claiming to be in charge of church security, and was eager to take full responsibility for sending me packing. He mentioned laws and vagrancy, saying, "I don't mean to insult you..." And again a reply jumped out of my mouth: "Jesus was not ashamed to be homeless--and neither am I."
	Then the old lady, the pastor's wife, stepped in. She had finally sized up the situation. "Do you need a place to stay? We can take you down to the place down the road..." She looked at her husband, "You know, the motel down there..." And the pastor immediately assented. The church "security guard" was struck silent and seemed to fade from the scene. Peace. Then we were at the motel, with the room paid for, and I was thanking the pastor's wife. "He's really a good man," she said. "Sometimes our advisors lead us astray," I replied, "I'm just glad for him and for the church that he has you for an advisor." The leading men of the church were stupefied by talk of insurance and laws, so a little old lady had to step in to see through and do right. And show them how it's done.

	4.19
	Last night I went to church with a big group of people in a rehab program, and talked to several of them. Today, walking though the city, I ran into a couple of guys who needed a rehab program. But I don't think they were interested. One solicited a nice donation from me before I realized he was making up the whole story.
	That made me feel bad. I didn't want to think about what that money would buy--something not too healthy, I'm sure. But that's not the worst part. And losing the food-money isn't the worst part, either. The lie's the worst. He probably thinks the lie is just a way to get what he sees as most important. And we tend to think the drugs are most important, too. Drugs seem to be the big, ugly evil; lies are much more commonplace. But the father of lies has different priorities. A drugged body may be impaired, but it is still basically functioning, participating in life. A lying soul has abandoned the truth. And it's much harder to find our way back to the truth than it is to sober up. Lies are eternally addictive. We simply cannot find the truth anymore, the Truth has to find us. So I feel sorrier about the lies today than about anything else. I wonder if I can somehow address that the next time this happens.
	Long day today. I woke up at 4:30am, cold, and hobbled along for an hour on prickling stumps (it was 40F). Stopped for something hot at sunrise. Then it warmed up and was beautiful for walking. Twenty-five miles later, I found this Baptist church, where I'm listening to a full gospel choir practice. The pastor welcomed me, and asked if I needed a room or food, but I'll be fine sleeping outside. It's supposed to be quite a bit warmer tonight.

	4.20
	Last night, as the choir was shouting "God will..." "SHOW UP!" "GOD will..." "SHOW OUT!" (I'm not sure what "show out" means--maybe "take care of things"?), I read Mark 1.15 in the Contemporary English Version. It said: "the kingdom of God is coming soon." But the footnote said: "or, is here already"--a big difference. I think the interpreter chose the wrong sense of the phrase. Everything about Jesus' proclamation, "the time is fulfilled," "good news," miracles, plus his later words (in Luke) "the kingdom of God has come upon you" and "the kingdom of God is in your midst," all point to "the kingdom of God is already here." Of course, the kingdom of God is coming in power at some later date, but Jesus wasn't announcing that. He said no one knows when that will be. And the Jews had already been anticipating that for centuries (we're still waiting, too). Jesus was announcing the good news that the kingdom of God was available to us now.
	I thought about that today. When I say "Repent, for the kingdom of God has come near," people usually hear "is at hand" (older translation) and automatically interpret "is coming soon." Maybe that's how that passage has been taught. Or they've seen too many hacks with sandwich boards that say "Repent! The end is near!" What I'm really trying to say is what I believe Jesus was saying: Repent, for the kingdom of God is already here. I'll try to be more explicit about that.

	4.21
	An unusual day. Before noon, two different people offered me food. One gave me two large apple fritters (excellent), and the other gave me a Cajun barbecue chicken dinner (also excellent). Then, later in the day, a young man (with a pure New Aww-lins accent) offered me a ride, yelling out to me as I crossed at an intersection. He didn't ask me much, but within a couple miles he suddenly offered me food and a shower. I'd been looking for a chance to wash. So he turned around and drove several miles back, to his apartment, so I could get my shower. Then he drove me all the way back again, and a few miles further. Wow. And I don't think he was a Christian or especially religious, either. I asked him why he did it. Pause. "I was just being polite," he replied. He was certainly very polite.
	Actually, all of that wasn't so unusual. But this: After dinner, I'd just started walking when I saw another walker going the same way. I recognized him from an article I'd read in Florida. Walking from Miami to somewhere, to raise money to fight diabetes. So I asked if I could join him. He was in a hurry, trying to get to some checkpoint by a certain time, so we walked fast. And he talked fast. Said people weren't helping him much since he left Florida--not enough publicity. He was pulling a heavy cart, all adorned with fluorescent tape, his name, his cause, and his sponsor. Turned out it was full of food, mostly, and a tent, I think. Within a mile, he had to turn off and make a long detour because the bridge over the Mississippi had no shoulder (and the cart was even too heavy to lift into a truck--if we could find a truck). So we parted. But I told him a little about my pilgrimage first, especially about how God provided for me without publicity, without a sponsor, and without begging. He was silent for a moment, looking off into space. "Maybe I'm walking for the wrong reason." I don't want to lose any money for the diabetes people, but I do think there is a better reason (and definitely a better way) to walk. I wonder if I'll see him again. Oddly, he's planning to take the same route I am, though he expects to go past Denver and on over the mountains. I hope he lightens the cart before then!
	As for the perilous bridge across the Mississippi River, I was warned again, at a gas station, not to try to walk it. A pick-up drove up just then. I told the driver my situation and he hauled me across. No shoulder--at all. With four lanes (divided) of highway traffic. really not walkable. But I'm across and here's a church. Next to a massage parlor, a bar, and a place promising "Girls, Girls, Girls."

	4.22
	Oh, how sweet to walk in this pilgrim way
		Leaning on the everlasting arms
	Oh, how bright the path grows from day to day
		Leaning on the everlasting arms
	Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms
	Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms

	I heard a good, up tempo, gospel version of this song last Wednesday night, and I looked up the lyrics again yesterday. Of course I like this verse best.
	I had to walk 15 miles yesterday morning to reach the next church. But one of the deacons invited me to lunch afterwards, so I got a good rest. He was very talkative, telling me all about this part of Louisiana (how the Acadians became the "Cajuns," and about Governor Huey Long--the inspiration for "All the King's Men"). He turned out to be a policeman, too. But he seemed to shy away from talking about his job. I had a very good talk with him and his wife, and their girls were all friendly. One gave me a hug and another gave me some gum when I left.
	I made it to the next town to catch the end of the Sunday night service at a Baptist church. Very emphatic preaching, with lots of amens; a young man "got saved" at the altar call; and several baptisms. It made me think of the Catholic-Baptist contrast. Which is important, because most churches fall somewhere between those extremes. The Catholics, with their reverence for the sacraments, and the Baptists, with their sacred moment of conversion. Both versions seem to provide some comfort when existential dread (deep, inner self-doubt, guilt, fear of death) threatens. And both claim biblical support. The Catholics quote John 6.54: "He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day." And the Baptists treasure passages like this: "'Men, what must I do to be saved?' And they said, 'Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved... and he was baptized at once..." (Acts 16.30-33) These two versions certainly sound different, and look very different in (religious) practice. But are they so different?
	They both claim to offer forgiveness of sins and eternal life though fairly painless religious exercises. Go to Eucharist every week; or pray with the pastor, get baptized, and then come back every week to remember the experience. Nice concrete, physical assurances (both versions are quick to give assurances) to calm the existential dread. But is that the "eternal life" that Jesus promised? At best, I think they offer 'non-death.' Or at least an "assurance" that we will not die, that we aren't the walking dead--those other people. But life? Jesus taught and lived life in the kingdom of God: freedom from fear of enemies, freedom from anxiety about our needs, freedom to serve each other always (and only) in love. If that kind of life is ever preached, in Catholic or Baptist churches, or any in-between, it always sounds like make-believe. Like the preacher wants everyone to believe it, but can't quite believe it himself. Which makes sense, because who lives such a life? Like everyone else, we Christians hide behind police and armies, lawyers and insurance policies, savings accounts and investment funds. We serve one another--when we're paid. At least, that's the standard procedure. 'Non-death' might even be a little too optimistic, I don't know. But eternal life, life in the kingdom of God, is way beyond religious "assurances." You don't need to be reassured that you're not dead, that you're not going to hell, when you're really alive. Alive in the kingdom of God.

	4.24
	More on yesterday's thought: I don't mean to shrug off the sacraments. We have some beautiful Christian rites, especially baptism (for initiation) and communion (to recall the Passion of Christ). And I thank God for them (despite the fact that we have made them such points of contention). But we distort the sacraments if we try to make them into proofs or assurances of salvation.
	Jesus left us no physical proof that we are God's and that God is with us. We don't get a little ichthus (fish) etched on our forehead when we "get saved." And neither is the wafer our assurance nor our conversion experience our proof. The only assurance we have is the continuing experience of a lived faith. Through faith we encounter God himself, and thus experience God with us. But that is not something we can carry in our pocket like a charm, or take a picture of, so we can point to it again and again and say, "Look! I'm God's!" Faith is only now. Just as God is always now. So our faith must be new and fresh every moment--that's life with God. There is evidence: when we love one another, we bear witness to God in us. But our only assurance (the only assurance there is) is the touch of God himself, experienced though faith. That touch is divine love. His Holy Spirit.

	4.26
In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely and without a passport; whereas virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers.

	That's from Father Mapple's sermon in Melville's "Moby Dick." I thought of it because I've been stopped by police so often lately. Monday I was checked twice by city police (two different towns). Then Tuesday, a state trooper stopped me on the highway out in the middle of nowhere (I seem to pass through Nowhere again and again). "You're cleaner than the ones we usually check out," he said, with a big smile, "but I thought I'd make sure you're legal before you leave my area." How very conscientious. But yesterday was the worst. I was eating lunch at a small church, in a tiny town by the highway, and a sheriff's car pulled up. He said he had an "eyewitness" that saw me jump from a passing train. And they wanted me out of there. As I packed up, he mentioned the crime in that area, and I asked the reason for it. "I don't know why they do it; I just arrest them" was the prompt answer. Then he warned me that if I stopped again in his parish (county), he would arrest me. As it turned out, it was an idle threat (it was less than a mile to the county line). But nasty. Particularly nasty to someone on foot, since it pits fear against exhaustion.
	And all this after a Baton Rouge police officer invited me to lunch at his house on Sunday. Obviously, police officers can do kind deeds and be friendly to poor strangers. I've seen that many times. But I cannot reconcile their occupation with the gospel. At first, I thought it was just their tools (guns, clubs) that I couldn't accept. But I've come to realize that they have sold themselves to be tools as well--tools in the hands of worldly society. Certainly, God uses them, as he uses the actions of all people. But God is not the one dictating the laws that they enforce, with violence. (I know, Romans 13. But Paul said "submit." That's a lot different from being an armed enforcer.) Jesus sent his followers out as sheep in the midst of wolves. And the police are the teeth of society's wolves. Obviously, I prefer a relatively merciful policeman to a cruel one; I know they're not all the same. But I thank God for every time any officer puts down their badge and gun, and never picks them up again.
	On a somewhat related topic, I was just finishing up the Gospel of Mark, reading about how the soldiers reviled (beat, spit on) Jesus. That was some of his most degrading persecution. Yet the soldiers most likely knew nothing of his teaching on spiritual issues. They weren't attacking his doctrine; they were simply mocking him because he was an outcast of society. I imagine the crowds yelling "Crucify him!" were pretty much the same. Of course, Jesus got to be an outcast because of his teaching. That's what got the leaders mad at him, and that's what shaped his life into something that most people rejected. But the worst persecution was not Inquisition-style. It was the angry, muscular mob pummeling someone who chose a path very different from theirs, and who "arrogantly" claimed that God was on his side. That was Jesus' "blasphemy." Not blasphemy against God, but blasphemy against the Great Beast of society. That Beast was, and always will be, the chief persecutor of Jesus' followers.
	----------

	A beautiful morning. And yesterday was good, too, after the sheriff. The wind through the trees sent soft, white fluffs sailing down like bubbles blown by a child. And a man I had met at a choir practice the night before recognized me on the road and gave me a ride into town. There was a quiet library there. Then the church I went to was so welcoming. One woman invited me to the spaghetti dinner before their Wednesday night service, and many people were curious about my journey. They even asked me to bless the food. And twice I answered questions about my "ministry" in front of a group of people, once announcing "Repent, for the kingdom of God is already here!" to a whole roomful. Many asked about my finances and where I slept. But no one offered anything, until one generous man arranged for me to stay at a nearby motel (he was part-owner). Then I met the humble but talkative maid at the motel, who impressed me the most. Small, and a bit stooped, with black hair pulled back. She was delighted to hear of my walk, and even gave money (I was down to about $1). She made it seem like her privilege to have me stay there, welcoming me as she might welcome Jesus himself. There's the hardened sheriffs of this world, then there's the friendly, comfortable church-goers, and then there's God's lowly maids.
	----------

	Walking through fields of young sugarcane today. I notice the magnolias are just starting to bloom here. And all along the road are these simple, pretty flowers: four white or pink-white petals, forming a cup, raised to catch the sunshine. Up ahead, cars sail out of the distance on a road that seems glazed with ice, though heat radiates from its surface, distorting the approaching vehicles. I pass a cemetery, slowly, respectfully. All the graves here are very shallow, with thick, white slabs protecting their contents. A train shakes the earth as it passes. And, way across the fields, I can see the busy interstate. I'm glad I'm not on it.

	4.28
	Yesterday was kinda grueling, and not very satisfying; but today's been good. The first town I hit this morning looked like it was in decline (and had been for awhile). But the little library was new--and perfect. I love small-town libraries. Usually, I end up alone there with the librarian, who asks questions about my walk or putters around with the books. Big city libraries are OK, too. They offer a nice private anonymity, and plenty of good services. It's the in-between libraries that bug me: too many librarians with not enough to do, so they end up standing around imperiously, making sure no one gets too much use out of their public facility. But this morning was perfect. Just me and the librarian, plus some good books for 10 cents (I finished Agee's excellent "Death in the Family," and bought "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues," by Tim Robbins). And internet access: I read the transcript for the latest new "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" episode. I even got to shave. Then a long walk through the woods, shaded by tall oaks and firs.
	I haven't mentioned this, but over the last few weeks I've been having a pretty intense e-mail exchange with a good friend. One thing she said recently was rattling around in my head this morning. It was that she felt I wasn't very open to "being taught" by her, and others, too, she'd observed: my seminary teachers, some relatives. At first, I took this to mean that I wasn't a very "teachable" person. But I've learned a lot from people she doesn't mention, especially from a wide variety of writers. So am I prejudiced against the people she mentions? I think I am. One thing that comes to mind, in al the examples she gave, is that I consider those people to be--to some extent--comfortable and conformist. Those characteristics go together. When we conform to society's standards, we are rewarded with money and acceptance (material and social comfort); and to maintain that level of comfort, we need to continue to conform. Not that I consider these people to be more comfortable and conformist than most people. They're pretty much like most people. That's the problem. When I look to someone as a potential teacher, it makes a big difference how they live their life. And 'comfortable' and 'conformist' are not adjectives that indicate 'wise teacher' for me. I see Jesus and his gospel as the polar opposite of comfortable and conformist. 'Comfortable and conformist' describes "the world." And Jesus and his kingdom are "not of the world"; they are scorned and persecuted by "the world," as he promised. So I guess I really don't expect some people to teach me much about life, or about God (though I suppose God can speak through whomever he chooses). I love them, I enjoy being with them, ,I am happy to converse with them--but I don't look to them for the wisdom of God. Show me the lived truth, however, and I will sit at your feet.

Do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that you may prove what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. (Rom 12.2)

	4.30
	Nice morning. Lots of open grassland. And the thick green of the shoulder laced all along with purple: tall stems dangling with rows of tiny, violet trumpets. ('Vetch,' I found out.) Pretty. Actually, most of Louisiana has been pretty. Except for the water--it's just plain muddy. It must be the soil; every river and pond is always murky brown and ringed with the stickiest mud (I tried it). Either that or the water is plastered over with bright green algae. I saw some rice fields this morning, too. And a big Brahma bull, its hump leaning back lazily. Gray, with short, sharp horns and big ears hanging down. And a thin, deep flap of soft skin from the chin to between the forelegs. Its eyes were large, and looked like they'd been painted with eyeliner. Like a figure in Hindu artwork. Impressive--I can see why people might worship such a creature.
	Yesterday turned out to be a Pentecostal Sunday. The church I stopped at in the morning was quite small; no sign out front, even. But the people were kind country-folk, with good music. Gospel; yet with a distinct country twang. Three people pickin' guitars up front. The preaching wasn't bad, though the pastor managed to condemn both the Catholic church and Billy Graham. I tried to talk to him about that a little, afterwards, pointing out that I'd seen the Spirit (the Spirit of Love) moving in all kinds of churches. We had a good, long talk; he and his wife drove me 20 miles to the next big town, and took me out to lunch. That was Natchitoches (the locals pronounce it something like 'Nack-i-tish,' but I'm guessing the Indians pronounced it more like it looks, maybe 'Natch-i-taw-chiss'), the oldest town in the Louisiana Purchase. It's very well-groomed--for all the tourists.
	I have to say, there's something I admire in the Pentecostals. Not the speaking in tongues; that often turns into another 'proof of salvation' thing, like I wrote about last week. But they do respect the freedom of the Spirit to "blow where it pleases." And they recognize that the conformity and complacence of the mainline churches is not fitting for the people of God. Also, they hunger for the power of God, which is not present very often in most churches. It was surprising, how open they were to my "mission." The pastor asked me many questions in front of the whole group, and even asked me to give the closing blessing.
	I visited another, larger, Pentecostal church yesterday evening. They had a guest evangelist preaching a revival ("'Revival' sounds strange," someone once said to me, "it sounds like something was dead"). Lots of gesturing and pounding and amplified shouting, without much content. But when he pushed up into the voice-pinching range, he suddenly reminded me of Sam Kinison (a screaming comedian), and I started to enjoy myself. He did highlight something for me, though. He used the imagery of the Israelites shouting to bring down the walls of Jericho. And that was really the perfect image for what I saw yesterday. Uninhibited shouting against the various "walls": Catholicism (the religious majority around here), personal fears, financial limitations, etc. Let us in to the blessing! Which is good in that it recognizes that all that popular society and popular religion offer is nothing compared to what God has promised. But yelling at the walls (or the devil) does little more than make us light-headed and out of breath. The promised land is not behind these walls. As Jesus said, "The kingdom of God is in your midst." We're not locked outside, beating on the stonework; we should be inside, where there is true peace and power--the love of God. We shouldn't be beggiing to be let in; through faith, we are the kingdom of God. It's the devil who has to shout against us, and (through others) beat on us, because he's the one locked out. Oh, how close these people are to all they cry out for, and more. If only they had the faith to see. The kingdom of God is already here--repent, and it's yours. And this means much more than gifts of tongues and healing. It means perfect providence for all our physical needs, the hand of God to lead and protect us, freedom from every so-called "necessary evil," and the power of God's love to motivate and guide our every action. Love--not fear, not money--LOVE. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be yours as well."
	Incidentally, I started yesterday with 37 cents. Last night, I went to sleep on the porch of the church with pockets (and stomach) full of food, clean clothes, and $50. I didn't shout (or even ask) for a thing.
	----------

	Other things I don't want to forget: In Cloutierville, some wiseacre kids had blacked out the L and R on the sign announcing the town. So I arrived at "C outie ville." At lunch I enjoyed "cold water cornbread," made from cornmeal and water, then deep-fried. And then there was the beautiful young woman with long, dark curls and a long, black dress, who slid behind the baby grand once the church cleared out. She started playing Beethoven to nobody. But I heard.

	5.1
	I didn't know what I was in for when I stepped up to the little cafe to refill my canteen. Two kids rode up and asked me if I was that guy walking from Miami (for diabetes). They'd found out about him from the internet, and wanted to invite me over if I was him. I told them he might be by in a few days, so keep your eyes peeled.
	Then I stepped in and met Chuck "Radar" Whatley. A true Louisiana man, cattleman, carpenter, and man of God. A man after my own heart, or I'm a man after his heart, or we're both men after Someone's heart. My brother, anyway, though I just met him. But I didn't know all this when I asked for water and glanced at the menu. "We have hamburgers, basically. Or there's some chicken and rice I just made up for myself--that won't cost you nothin'." We talked for the next six hours straight. Then I took a shower the best I could standing in the plastic tub he bought for the purpose (the store living quarters were make-shift), and we slept. He woke up and said, "You like coffee? Just relax, I'll go make up a pot." And he rolled out of bed. Then another couple hours talking, over coffee, then sitting on the porch, then on the drive to the outskirts of the city (40 mi). One of the most spiritually enlightened (and intelligent) men I have ever met. He really knows the true vale of work, nature, simplicity, poverty, and witness. We went from one thing to the next, jumping between heaven and earth, telling story after story. He's only 40, never been to college, but what a human being. It was like God had said to me, "Wait. I've got someone here I want you to meet." And I think he felt the same way.

	5.2
	I stopped in for mass this morning and was reminded that yesterday was the feast of St. Joseph the Worker. Which immediately made me think of Chuck again. I remember his last words to me. He did not compliment or praise me--he simply said, "Paul, you're doing ann extraordinary thing."
	The priest today apparently didn't know the difference between the Apostles' and Nicean creeds (his sermon topic), but he did feebly try to encourage the ecumenical spirit. So that's something. Of course, if he spent more time listening to the living, truly ecumenical Spirit, he would have a lot better things than creeds to preach about. But the church was pretty and the readings were great:

For whoever is born of God overcomes the world: and this is the victory that overcomes the world, our faith. (1 Jn 5.4)
And:
"A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master; it is enough for the disciple to be like his teacher, and the servant to be like his master. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household." (Mt 10.24-25)

	5.3
	I'm sitting on a log, by a church in the woods, honeysuckle crawling all around me, in that part of Louisiana more akin to Texas than to New Orleans. The towns around here have names like Oil City, Plain Dealing, and Hosston (Horse-Town). And I'm feelin' real good.
	The Methodists last night were only having choir practice, so they recommended the Baptists (mighty nice of them). And at the little white Baptist church, with pillars framing its entrance, I found a mountain of a pastor. From first sight, he said, he was convinced I was an angel sent to check up on them. I denied it. But at one point in the sermon, when he spoke about helping a needy member (because love must be action, not just words), the small group in the pews voiced their agreement and he looked at me. "Hear that, Mr. Angel?" the pastor said. "Make sure you tell God about that." I don't think I've ever been in such a laid back, homey atmosphere.
	Then the Penuells invited me home with them. There was a room waiting for me, and a real shower, and the softest puppy I have ever laid hands on. We talked the kingdom of God until about midnight. The next morning, we got up and started again, over coffee. Ralph and Anne are spiritually awake, generous, and open, with a great sense of humor, and a healthy thirst for the wisdom of God. And not just to know it, but also to do it. They offered me everything I could need or want; so I am very full as I leave Louisiana today.
	----------

	Before I do, however, I should mention the bird I've just started seeing around here. A local called it a "scissor-tail." ('Scissor-tailed flycatcher'; I looked it up.) White, with gray wings and a long, long tail, split, like scissors. A splash of yellow-orange on its breast, too.
	And while I'm on the subject, I should mention the other distinguished regulars: The red-winged blackbird, handsome in its military dress uniform. And the mockingbird, which doesn't look like much sitting still, but puts on quite a display when it opens its wings--or its mouth. The crow, on the other hand, can't sing at all, but it's the first of the 'in-flight' standouts.
	Crows, black and raucous (honored as the souls of the dead by some Native Americans), have the softest, smoothest wing motion I've seen. In flight, the feathers of their wing-tips spread like fingers and curl upwards, as they stroke the air. The motion is so gentle, yet deliberate, it's as if the bird is coaxing the wind to lift it higher. Then there's the barn swallows. These appear streaking from under every bridge; they're the jet fighters of the bird world. Not the fighters that really fight, though. The ones you see at the air shows. God's aerial artists, barn swallows are built for maximum speed and maneuverability, with split tails and scythes for wings. I don't think I've ever seen one on the ground. They eat "on the wing" (a bird watcher told me), catching insects in mid-air; and if there's an open stretch of water around, they'd always rather skim a sip at top speed. And, the last of my 'fine flyers,' the ever-present vulture. They're slow and clumsy (and ugly) getting off the ground, but when they get up in the thinner air and start turning, they've got the patience and endurance of timelessness. It's hard not to see eternity in the vulture's circles.
	The hawk's cry, on the other hand, that's death.

	5.4
A sense of urgency had crept into her [hitchhiking] style. Whereas in the past Sissy had kept up her astonishing pace out of sheer exhilaration at being unique and being free, she now kept going because she was afraid to stop. For when biological necessities did force her to stop, time and space, which she had heretofore held in abeyance... fell in on her in a gravitational rush. Time and space fell in on her like a set of encyclopedias falling off a missionary's shelf onto a pigmy. And time brought along its secretary, memory, and space brought its brat, loneliness.

	I quote this, from "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues," mostly for the image of the encyclopedias falling on the pigmy. The book isn't very good; it's often annoying with its adolescent sex-fixation and half-baked spirituality ("Be your own Jesus"). But the author's great with his similes. And he's right about 'being afraid to stop.' If we can't handle sitting still, we won't be able to handle motion right either. Then our motion becomes an escape, a distraction, and the longer it goes on, the more urgent it gets. Until old-age forces us to sit still.
	Days like today, I enjoy the stillness of quiet walking. It's as if time is rushing past with the traffic, the earth revolving under me, and I'm just walking in place. With no one talking at me. (Except that one waitress at lunch, with her smooth Arkansas accent, who made it sound completely natural when she kept calling me "Baby.")

	5.7
	I gaze on you in the sanctuary
	    to see your strength and your glory.
	For your love is better than life,
	my lips will speak your praise.

	That's from Psalm 63, and I meant to write it Sunday--but plans change. I was just coming out of Texarkana Sunday morning, on a road that belonged to Texas on the left and Arkansas on the right, when a young man offered me a ride. I took it. Then we talked about generosity and love for the next half-hour, sometimes shouting over the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the radio. He had had some problems with the law, and said he was praying for a good woman to help him stay on the right path. Not a bad prayer. Forty miles down the road, he dropped me right in front of a Baptist church. The message on the sign read: "Exercise daily. Walk with the Lord."
	That was yesterday. Today, I'm 250 miles further down the road. There's been so much between then and now, I can't possibly write it all. I was invited to lunch by Charles Nash (I found out later that he's the acting mayor of that little town). And his daughter and her family (Jack, Tena, Natalie, and Julianna) happened to be visiting at the time--on their way to Oklahoma City. Get the picture? So I ended up talking the kingdom of God with the whole Nash clan all day yesterday and on the 5-hour ride today. I'm winded, though I hardly walked a step. Great questions, a hunger for God, and open, loving hearts. And what a joy to spend a few days with a full family, three generations, ages 8 months to 65 years. Seven-year-old Natalie even took me for a ride on "Old Blue," Grandpa's four-wheeler, her favorite toy. (Don't try this at home!)
	Finally, this morning, at dawn, I cut myself a new walking stick. Sycamore, like Zacchaeus' tree. Because, after almost a year of service, my trusty staff disappeared yesterday (sniff!) from outside the church. Either some kids grabbed it--or God plucked it right up into heaven. In its tired wood, it carried the dirt and sweat of more than 2000 miles. And though it lost a couple inches along the way, it always carried my weight. Now God's given me another good piece of tree to lean on for awhile.

	5.9
	O how abundant is your goodness,
	    which you have laid up for those who fear you,
	    and wrought for those who take refuge in you,
	    in the sight of the children of men!
	In the covert of your presence you hide them
	    from the plots of men;
	you hold them safe under your shelter
	    from the strife of tongues. (Ps 31.19-20)

	The night before last, as I was preparing to lay down beside the tall, red-brick church, I heard chattering above. And looked up to observe the bats leaving the belfry. Dozens and dozens of them began circling the church tower, chirping and squeaking in the failing light. It was like an Indian ritual dance, before they scattered for the evening hunt.
	I went to mass, then was invited to join the circle of old ladies drinking coffee and swapping stories. Of course they asked about my trip. And several slipped money into my hand. When I discovered one had given me a $50 bill, I tried to give it to the old Irish priest, but he wouldn't take it. So I ended up with the luxury of a motel room last night, and a pizza dinner. The 'personal time' felt good, especially after all the hubbub of the last few days.
	In Luke this morning (4.17-21):

[Jesus] opened the book and found the place where it is written, "The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord." And he closed the book, and gave it back to the attendant, and sat down; and the eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. And he began to say to them, "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

	A young Mexican immigrant gave me a 30-mile ride yesterday. He had recently quit a dangerous oil-well job (worked mostly by Mexicans desperate for money), and was looking for a new, safer, occupation. When he asked how I got money, I said God--Dios--provided all I need. Is that not "good news to the poor"? I don't think he understood all that is available to him, but at least he had someone to listen to him tell about the struggles of his people. I wanted to give him money ("for gas," I said) but he offered me money first! We settled for a handshake. And I ambled off to find the library and some new socks.
	I love that incident of Jesus' visit to Nazareth. "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing." The "acceptable year of the Lord" is now. "The kingdom of God is already here!" Of course, the scene ends with the people trying to toss Jesus off a cliff. "But passing through the midst of them he went away."

	5.10
	This is some wide open country. At least it was created wide open; since then, people have attempted to close it off with miles of barbed wire. Yesterday, I walked the shores of many green seas. Endless grass (or young wheat) billowed and shimmered, and even sang like the sea. Black cattle waded in herd. And streams cut miniature winding canyons in the rusty soil. Today it's different. Only sage brush out here, and a hearty evergreen here and there. And those flimsy-looking windmills, all rusted. Like giant twirling daisies with tails, or big arrows bulls-eyed in spinning targets. Real cowboy country, though the cows are scarce. I noticed a few of the cowboys seem to have gone to work for the county, trading in their bent, weathered cowboy hats for shiny, fluorescent orange ones! Yippee-ki-yay and a pylon on my head.
	Another oddity: In town yesterday, I heard a loud "Hey!" And when I turned around, there was a man hanging out of his car window as he sped by. I clearly heard him yell (presumably at me), "You got any Grey Poupon?"
	A couple Mexicans (this area is "full of them," they told me) gave me a ride yesterday. One told me about traveling on foot for days, over open country, to enter the United States. He said wages in Mexico were very low, and prices high. I asked why that was, and he quickly replied, "The rich sonsabitches." (Good grasp of the American idiom!)
	I went to the library and then to a church. But they were having a business meeting rather than the usual service. Since I was already there, the pastor asked if I would share my "testimony"; so I said a few words about Jesus' "Repent, for the kingdom of god is already here!" A few people asked me questions afterwards, and an old man insisted I take $20 (my money keeps going up instead of down!). I turned down the pastor's offer of a motel room, to sleep outside the church last night. Then second-guessed that decision during the terrific thunderstorm that hit about 1am and drove me huddling into a corner. This part of Oklahoma is known for its storms, apparently.
	By the way, that was the first time I've been asked to get up and preach at a church I visited, even if only for a few minutes. Cool.
	----------

	I passed a sign: "Hitchhikers may be escaping inmates." The next two signs could be: "You drivers may be inmates who haven't the courage to attempt an escape"; and "Those who are free put their thumbs down."

	5.12
	With you is the fountain of life;
	    in your light do we see light. (Ps 36.9)

	Walking out here feels like a purifying experience. Though the sage brush is wearing the green tint of spring, it is still very desert-like. It reminds me of southern Idaho, only without the buttes. I like how distinctly the pilgrim imagery stands out: one man walking alone by the road and nothing for miles around. Real 'performance art' preaching. Maybe that's part of the reason people have been offering rides so often.
	Yesterday, it was Doug. He got me to my intended destination in minutes, then took me a three-days-walk further down the road (out of his way). He's middle-aged, an unemployed teacher, and an enthusiastic, growing Christian. Good knowledge of Native American history, too. He told me the Apache word "cimarron" means "wanderer" (i.e. pilgrim); the Cimarron River winds all over the area. And we talked about culture and the kingdom of God, forgiveness and humility. He also gave me a couple new books (after I tossed my last one into a dumpster). And we saw some buffalo (Comanche: "Ta-tonka") in their native habitat. After lunch, he dropped me off on a dusty main street in a small town in southwest Kansas.
	I soon found the Methodist pastor, to ask him of I could sleep by his church. He quickly consented. Then he slowly warmed up--in generosity. Each time I turned to go, he increased his offer. First he said he might come by the church later, to let me inside. Then he was going to let me sleep in his van; then, if it rained, he would arrange for me to stay at the motel; and the next thing I know, he's on the phone to the motel. I ended up with a bed, shower, and a kitchenette to cook dinner. I remember, when we were talking about the dangers of taking rides from strangers, he said, "We have not been given a spirit of fear..."
	This morning, it's on to Dodge City. I've heard it's a good idea to "get the heck out of Dodge," but I have to get there first.

	5.13
	Waiting for church to start, I played some warm-up music in the morning sun. But the meadowlarks outdid me. They were onyx necklaces against their yellow breasts, and sing a complex song, a rushing cascade of notes. Just started appearing yesterday.
	Also yesterday: Spurring the stampeding cattle with a "Yeeee-Hah, YAH!"; the powerful-looking Palomino, whinnying and bounding for attention; my first ride in a garbage truck; and the colony of prairie dogs, sounding the alarm when I approached. I found this church way out on the edge of town and settled down for a quiet night. But I hadn't counted on the cleaning lady, who arrived at 11pm. So I got an introduction to the local police at 11:30pm, complete with glaring flashlight, "Bring your hands out slowly," and an ID check. But after explanations, the officer (a church member here) let me go right back to sleep. Not bad, all things considered.
	And I already have an invitation to lunch, so I don't expect to get out of Dodge anytime soon.

	5.14
	When I did leave Dodge City this morning, I was in no rush to go. The music at church yesterday was great (why do the musicians so often outdo the preacher?), and I ended up spending the day with the drummer, Jamie. We went to lunch with his parents, for Mother's Day, and sat over a long discussion. Then there was the youth gathering that evening, where the teenagers pulled out their electric guitars and made some (pretty good) noise--some familiar praise songs, but at much higher speed and volume. I spent the night at Jamie's, and he drove me to the edge of town this morning.
	I remember mentioning to Jamie that kids often seem attracted to dangerous music and dangerous sports. Something about the youthful thirst for the excitement of life, for the pounding surge of blood and adrenaline that assures us we're not dead yet. And I said following Christ should be like that. That's what Jesus promised: persecutions, "sheep among wolves," and a "follow me" that led to a terrifying and thrilling climax. If kids knew that real Christianity is like that (rather than the bedtime stories they hear in Sunday school) they definitely would be more interested.
	Another 40-mile ride today, which gave me some time to send e-mails and start reading a new book. It's "God's Smuggler," the story of Brother Andrew, who delivered many bibles into communist countries. Right along the lines of "dangerous Christianity." I like the reviewer's remark on the back: "Brother Andrew is living evidence that even in a world composed more and more of sophisticated softies there is still room for evangelical derring-do." And I've already encountered many aspects of his story that parallel mine: lack of enthusiasm for "academic" and "official" Christianity, a physical toughening-up to discover what "need" means, openness to all denominations, and the discovery of God's astonishing way of providing for daily needs. All very encouraging.
	You know, I don't think the wind ever stops blowing here.

	5.15
	"God's Smuggler" is a real page-turner. I read much of it last night and thought about it all day as I walked. A remarkable faith journey. And God obviously used Brother Andrew powerfully. But a couple things bugged me--things that are very important to me, and important for all Christians, I think.
	The first concerns marriage and family. Andrew wanted wife and family. He was lonely. Twice he seemed to receive a negative answer from God, and was directed to these words of Isaiah (54.1): "The children of the desolate are more than the children of the married." He understood this to mean spiritual children; but he wanted a real wife and real, squirming kids. Eventually, he got them. And enjoyed them and praised God for them. But I think he missed something there that God was offering him. Actually, I should address this more to myself--Brother Andrew's life is Brother Andrew's. It seems to me that, just as God offers freedom with abundance in the economic and political parts of life (which Br. Andrew also experienced), so also God offers freedom with abundance in relationships and family life. Paul points out the freedom part in 1 Corinthians 7. And Jesus spoke of the abundance when he said anyone who gave up mothers, brothers, and children for his sake would receive back a hundredfold in this life. Jesus lived this, too. If we only have the faith to see. God grant me this.
	The other thing that bugged me was the feeling I got as I read more and more of the suspenseful story. I felt nervous. Even as he recounted more and more successes, I felt myself feeling more and more nervous. Why? I think because the tone of the story was that of an underground resistance, or a guerrilla war. A war in which the outcome was uncertain. Whenever there was a chance for progress, disaster also loomed; and the greater the possible gain, the greater the threat of loss. Of course, the book focuses on the victories, and claims a part in the eventual defeat of Russian communism. But I get a vague feeling that that kind of victory is really a loss. Because a victory in such a war can only be relative and temporary, or maybe even illusory (Was Constantinian Christianity a victory for the church, or a defeat?). To act like we're fighting an undecided war, fighting for religious rights, for influence, even for the souls of others, is to give up the position Paul described so well in Romans (8.31,36-37):

	If God is for us, who is against us? ...
As it is written, "For thy sake we are being killed all day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered." [But] in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.

The outcome of the "war" is not uncertain. No soul will be lost that has not chosen to be so. If we preach or teach (or pass out bibles), it should not be because we fear defeat, but because we are already victorious. As witnesses, when we give our testimony, the outcome of the "trial" should not worry us. Though the lawyers worry, and the defendants worry, we shouldn't. We should simply share the good news that we have seen: The kingdom of God is real--and it is already here!

	5.16
	I woke up in a Catholic church (the priest let me shower and sleep inside the church), thinking thoughts left over from last night. I remembered Kierkegaard's insistence that we are "the militant church," not "the triumphant church." But he was making a different point. Kierkegaard wanted to stress that all falsehoods had not been banished, leaving most of us as good little Christians, while evil was exiled to some dirty back alley. The world is still "the world." And the church, the followers of Christ, are still under assault, as they were in Jesus' time and ever since. (When Paul writes about "fighting the good fight," he means enduring this assault to the end.) Maybe "the church under assault" is a better term. For the devil still beats on the towers of the kingdom of God, and we are those towers. But (as Paul highlights in the passage yesterday) the only way we can endure such a beating, and turn the other cheek, and love our persecutors, is through the victory Christ has already won. The kingdom of God is firmly established. The gates of hell will not prevail against it.

	5.18
	When the deputy dropped me off just over the Colorado border two nights ago, he said, "Have a nice evening, sir." I assumed he wasn't being sarcastic, but looking around me, I wasn't completely sure. It was dark. The nearest town was four miles away. And the heavy clouds just south of me were putting on quite a light show. As the first drops started to fall, I was thankful the cop at least left me by a rest area. Initially, I thought he was going to really help me. He took me to the station and was arranging to get me a room; but when it turned out that the motel was full, his only other option was to run me to the state line. That's when I realized that this wasn't compassion. This was a professional handling "a situation," clicking through his authorized options.
	That was a tough night. It rained, and blew, and was cold, all at once. Several other people were camped there (in trucks or RVs), so I wasn't alone, just a little damp and cold. And this was after a 27-mile day through lots of heat and road construction. Then more rain yesterday and another cold night. Today I started out with a head cold, and just enough food to last till tomorrow morning. I was dragging.
	When things are tough like this, and I haven't gotten any positive feedback recently, that's when the doubts start buzzing around. "What's the point of this?" "What good is it?" "You're only hurting yourself and helping no one." My head was thick with doubts and mucus all morning. Then it hit me. Because I have nowhere to go; because I can't get food or get clean without money; because no one is offering me a ride, even in the heat or rain; because the police (acting according to official procedure) treat me the way they do--that's why I need to be out here. If we all knew and lived the gospel of the kingdom of God, no one would have to suffer these things. They are symptoms--symptoms of a spiritual disease. And though most people probably misunderstand or ignore me, not all do. Even if everyone did, it would still be good to be out here, as a protest, as an exception, as a possibility. We are called to be lights shining in the darkness. The fact that it looks so very dark around us is only more reason for us to be very bright lights, brightest when it is darkest.
	Today was easier. Another Mexican immigrant gave me a ride into town. He passed me initially, remembering pilgrims in Mexico who refused rides, but then he came back and offered anyway. I finally found some used books here (I'd been looking for the past three days). And, in the library, I found comic books, reminding me of college days. So I plopped down and read a whole stack. I also looked up the Apache word 'cimarron' (wanderer) on the internet, and found out it was adopted by the Spanish as a term for escaped slaves. Presumably enslaved natives, since it literally means "wild," specifying someone who has been "civilized" and then returns to the wild. I like those connotations. Good gospel parallels, plus it's a synonym for 'pilgrim,' and it's a Native American word. Cimarron. Sounds nice, too. Anyway, it's been a pretty enjoyable day. I'm sitting on the steps of a little Mormon (correction: Latter-Day Saints) church where I hope to sleep tonight. There's two big rose  bushes in front, full of pink blooms. And, in a few hours, I should get to watch the sun go down behind the sage brush.

	5.22
We know that joy is the sweetness of contact with the love of God, that affliction is the wound of this same contact when it is painful, and that only the contact matters, not the manner of it. It is the same as when we see someone very dear to us after a long absence, the words we exchange with him do not matter, but only the sound of his voice, which assures us of his presence. (Simone Weil)

	The past three days seem like a euphoric blur, too much stimulation to sit and write. But I should put something down. At least the most powerful moments, that burn in my memory.
	Saturday morning: I was waiting for the rain to stop, not at the Mormon church but at another one that offered better shelter. Some cars pulled up at 6am. One rolled over and asked me what I was waiting for. And within 15 minutes, two of the drivers came over and said, "Going to Denver, huh? Well, we're going to Denver." A youth trip to the amusement park a half-mile from my destination. I had gone to sleep the night before with only enough food for breakfast, and 14 cents in my pocket. As it turned out, that was plenty. Because I was here in Denver by lunch time. It also turned out to be perfect timing to visit Michael here: he arrived the day before I did, and he's leaving tomorrow--for five weeks.
	Sunday morning: In the big, stone church, the singers were the same as I remembered. There she was again, with large, dark eyes and red lips that curled around the clearest, sweetest notes I've ever heard. I'd often wanted to thank her for her singing. Then they sang the Alleluia that I always loved, and she cut loose the second time through. It overwhelmed me. I couldn't sing, tears started to flow, and my knees felt weak. It took the rest of the service just to stop the crying. Every time I remembered the beauty coming out of her mouth, there were more tears. So this time I approached her. She smiled. And laughed when I said her voice almost knocked me down.
	Sunday afternoon: The wind finally drove Becky and me inside the coffee shop, and soon it would be snowing. But the conversation was all-consuming. How pleased I was when I described my ideas about pilgrimage as 'performance art' preaching and she smiled and said, "I like that." Clam chowder and fresh bread in the deli next door. And running back in the snow (in a T-shirt) to get the car and pick her up. She looked so healthy and alive, with a new life bulging inside her.
	Monday afternoon: The snow was still bright on the grass and dripping from the trees when I walked downtown. For old times' sake; and to get new sandals, a gift from Michael. My old ones had worn down to the hollow spaces in the soles, and the right one was cracked all the way through. About 1700 miles on those. And then, when I got back, Becky had called to invite me to come up and house-sit for a week. When they get back, I'll get to spend the weekend with her and her husband. It's all very good--and I planned none of it.

	5.23
	Good readings this morning (Lk 9.12-13):

Now the day began to wear away; and the twelve came and said to [Jesus], "Send the crowd away, to go into the villages and country round about, to lodge and get provisions; for we are in a lonely place." But he said to them, "You give them something to eat."

And Simone Weil again, from "Waiting On God":

	Nothing among human things 
	has such power to keep our gaze fixed ever more intensely upon God
	than friendship with the friends of God.

	5.31
Whatever house you enter, first say, "Peace be to this house." And if a child of peace is there, your peace will rest upon them... Lk 10.5-6

	I've really enjoyed staying here at Becky and Jared's place. I got used to having the place to myself; it was strange to have these "intruders" move back in. But I am so grateful to them for letting me stay here. Having my own 'space' (if only for a week) was very nice. I realized how precious that can be, since I'm used to having basically no space that isn't claimed by someone else. I've also enjoyed the traffic-less quiet.
	A domestic urge really hit me hard the day I arrived. It is just really pleasant here. Cozy and neat, with a little garden out back, and Becky here, pregnant--it's all very inviting. Then, after she left, there were movies and music, good food, and a little enjoyable domestic puttering. But even before they returned, I realized that my experience was not the whole picture. I was enjoying the pleasure without having to deal with the mortgage, insurance, taxes, and homeowners association. To own such pleasures is an altogether different experience. Ownership costs. And this was underlined when Becky and Jared came back and immediately plunged back into work and meetings and arrangements. To enjoy these pleasures is one thing; to manage and maintain and keep these pleasures is something else. So my brief domestic bliss is a somewhat one-sided experience of home life. It's nice how I got the good one-side, though!

	6.5
	I mentioned some 'costs' of holding onto domestic pleasures, but the more I surveyed the suburban scene, the more I realized that I had only scratched the surface. The biggest costs are not economic or political. The sirens of suburbia, Comfort and Security, present a greater danger to us psychologically and spiritually. Not that these only appear in suburbia; they just have established themselves so strongly here. There's the capitalistic individualism, which is so utterly isolating (even small acts of kindness have to be "paid back"). Almost nothing is shared, so everyone has to crowd their whole world into their tiny, fenced yards (backyards touch each other, but are also not shared). And all perceived threats have been eliminated, "for the sake of the children." Unfortunately, that leaves the parents with no more challenging decisions than which fertilizer to use on the lawn, and who will drive the kids to their extracurricular activities. The worst part is that most people have a pretty good intuition that such a life is all vanity. Real life is something much more. But people press on, bored and lonely, "for the sake of the kids," until the kids get so sick of the oppressive, empty "safety" that they rebel and destroy the tranquillity. That pain is usually a blessing. A slap in the face to wake people from their suburban slumber. God finds some way to send us a wake-up call.
	The suburban worship of Comfort and Security doesn't just sap the life from suburbanites, however. It drains the rest of society as well. There's the huge flow of resources required to keep all these bored, lonely people sedated with "interesting" food and "interesting" diversions (this occurs at the international level too; our whole country could be labeled "The United Suburbs of America"). And then there's the social pressure of so many people "playing the game." Each additional 'player' makes it that much harder for individuals (especially children) to live differently. To live with meaning. To live. But, again, God always gives people a chance to wake up, to open their eyes to life. It's usually quite painful, but so worth it.
	Lest this be seen as a criticism of Becky and Jared, I have to say I had a hard time seeing them as "suburbanites." Maybe because I see them as individuals, and beloved friends, so it's hard to lump them with others. And maybe because they are pretty awake Christians, and are trying hard to keep awake. I thank God for them as I leave today.
	And the reading this morning seemed appropriate:

"Fear not, little flock, for it is the Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms; provide yourselves with purses that do not grow old; with a treasure in the heavens that does not fail, where no thief approaches and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Lk 12.32-34)

	6.7
	I remember talking to Jared and Becky about whether you could live in suburbia without being "suburban." (The question could just as well have been about being part of the military without being militarized, or part of the institution without being institutionalized--or being wealthy without being "the rich," in the biblical sense.) I said I thought you could. I should have added, "But not for long."
	And I don't just mean those environments are dangerous. They are, temptations abound, but temptations may be resisted. I mean that if we gain wealth and power, even if we avoid the internal temptations, we will not be able to avoid the jackals. We might be able to enjoy the pleasures of suburbia (or the institution, etc.) for awhile, but if we want to keep those pleasures, we'll have to fight off the jackals. Fight them off or pay them off. Either way, we've become part of "the game"; we're one of them now, we're suburban, militarized, institutionalized, the rich, whatever you want to call it. We've agreed to pay the cost. And that full cost--financial, psychological, spiritual--will be slowly bled from us, as long as we hold on to the pleasures. If we stop paying, on the other hand, the pleasure will be snatched from us and given to someone who will pay. The jackals keep a sharp eye out.
	That's why it's good for me to go. I have to remind myself. Because as soon as I hit the road, my body starts urgently asking, "What's wrong with a roof, again? Or a bed, shower, refrigerator..." The answer is: "Nothing, except..." There's nothing wrong with enjoying all those things. But to hold onto those things, to keep those things, to keep anything that other people value means fighting them off or paying them off. And they demand much more than money. The pay-off is obedience (What is a job but obedience for money?). Even fighting is obedience, because fighting is a "way of the world" that identifies its obedient sons. Jesus' followers, on the other hand, turn the other cheek and give to those who would steal from them and obey God alone. They enjoy all that God sets before them, then let it go. They hold onto nothing, so nothing holds onto them. They owe no one anything. Except love.

	6.10
	Well, now I've been turned away from a Baptist church, too. Assembly of God, Catholic, Lutheran (though that rejection was reversed), and now Baptist. An unfortunate collection. The pastor here first tried to pin the blame on the police, then on liability, then on the board of trustees. When I reminded him about "welcome the stranger," he sounded shocked. "You think I'm in violation of Scripture?" "It doesn't matter what I think, does it," I replied. I did have a pretty good conversation with one of the members before that, though.
	And the big good news is: Kansas is behind me! (Nothing against Kansas-ites, but those plains are daunting.) I had arrived in Denver to a steak dinner with the Dominicans. Then the prior asked where I was headed. When I mentioned St. Louis, he suggested, "We've got a car going to St. Louis the day after tomorrow, if you want to wait." My feet begged me to say yes. So suddenly 800 miles of walking disappeared, and I'll be in St. Louis Thursday. (I decided to walk the last 80 miles so I would arrive after their big gathering dispersed.) A very encouraging two-day conversation with Michael Monshau, too. What a boost--especially after little encouragement in Fort Collins, and a tough three-day walk to Denver.
	----------

	Another first: The Catholic priest here turned me away, too. I've never been sent away by two churches in a row before. This seems like a town worthy of the proverbial 'knocking the dust from your feet.'

	6.11
	The closing passage from Kurt Vonnegut's "Jailbird" (this scene is based on an actual event):

Congressman Nixon had asked me why, as the son of immigrants who had been treated so well by Americans, as a man who had been treated like a son and had been sent to Harvard by an American capitalist, I had been so ungrateful to the American economic system.
    The answer I gave him was not original. Nothing about me has ever been original. I repeated what my one-time hero, Kenneth Whistler, had said in reply to the same general sort of question long, long ago. Whistler had been a witness at a trial of strikers accused of violence. The judge had become curious about him, had asked him why such a well-educated man from such a good family would so immerse himself in the working class.
    My stolen answer to Nixon was this: "Why? The Sermon on the Mount, sir."

	6.16
	I haven't written in awhile. Hot days; libraries; arriving in St. Louis. I'll try to get back into journaling with a quote from Kierkegaard's "The Sickness Unto Death":

This then is the manner in which despair, this sickness in the self, is the sickness unto death. The despairer is mortally ill. It is, although in a sense quite different from any physical illness, the most vital parts that the sickness has attacked; and yet he cannot die.... To be saved from this sickness by death is an impossibility, for the sickness and its torment--and death--are precisely to be unable to die.
    That is the condition of despair.

And, later, this: "But the opposite of being in despair is to have faith."

	6.20
	Monday, the day I left St. Louis, the readings at mass were some of my favorites. "Turn the other cheek"; and this, from Paul's second letter to the Corinthians (6.8-10):

	We are treated as impostors, and yet are true;
		as unknown, and yet well known;
		as dying, and behold we live;
		as punished, and yet not killed;
		as sorrowful, and yet always rejoicing;
		as poor, yet making many rich;
		as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Somehow, that reminded me of this passage from the Tao Te Ching, maybe because of the last two lines:

	The best of man is like water,
	which benefits all things, and does not contend with them,
	which flows in places that others disdain,
	where it is in harmony with the Way.

	6.24
	It seems I'm getting into the habit of stringing quotations together. This is from one odd character's rant in E.L. Doctorow's "The Book of Daniel" (taken out of context, because in this case it's better that way):

"You've got to put down anything that's less than revolution. You put down theorizing about it, dreaming about it, waiting for it, preparing for it, demonstrating for it. All that is less than being it and therefore not it, and therefore will never be it. A revolution HAPPENS. It's a happening! It's a change on the earth. It's a new animal. A new consciousness! It's me! I am Revolution!"

	7.14
	I thought the amount of rides I got from Texarkana to Denver was strange (most all the way, really). Then the two-day ride across Kansas and Missouri. But from the time I left St. Louis (June 18th) until I left St. Louis again today, I've had rides to Chicago, then to Michigan and back, and back down to St. Louis. I helped a couple Dominicans move to Chicago, spent a week with Tim, then out to see Michael. They were going to visit his parents in Flint, MI, so I rode along and visited Kim and Kevin and Glen and Becky and all the nieces and nephews. Then back to Chicago to help Michael move back to St. Louis. So I've only had to walk seven days in the last eight weeks.
	And all that time I've been immersed in other people's lives. Lots of talking and playing with kids, so the journal writing was neglected. Mostly because I've been focusing on how to respond to the people I visit: trying to understand and address their particular situation. Actually, I was surprised how little we talked about my life and travels. Usually it's the other way around: I meet someone and they are intrigued by my journey and ask all kinds of questions and I only get a few questions in about them. But friends and family are different, I guess. So I ended up jumping from life to life (very different lives) for the last two months.
	All those lives. It made me think of "He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for my sake will find it."(Mt 10.39) I saw lives anticipated--new house, new career, new baby--and lives that hadn't turned out as anticipated. Lives that had become much more of a burden than expected. Lives that seemed to be slipping out of people's hands. And then, the next generation trying (or being pressured) to find their own life. Only the children seemed uninterested in finding their own life. As long as their parents loved them, whatever life they found themselves in was fine. That was beautiful.
	I think the ambition of 'getting a life' is a social thing: achieving or acquiring something that will cause others to respect or honor us. Maybe get us into somebody's history book. Unfortunately, the things that get us social honor tend to be less-than-satisfying, and far from God's way. But the alternative is not simply to please ourselves ("Who cares what they think?") as some preach. Life is real. We don't have to make up our own, or pick one that society deems worthy. It's only when we stop trying to invent or conform to those "lives" that we can encounter Life itself. And live and create and give freely, like children--because we know our Father loves us. That's life.

	7.15
	As I reread yesterday's entry, I think I was mostly successful in hiding the bitterness I was feeling. It only is apparent in the too narrow 'summing up' of my visits. The reality was much wider and much more positive: my friends and family were generous and kind; we shared and laughed together; and I feel closer to all of them. It was unfair to focus only on the "lives" that are being found and lost.
	It's also not fair to compare the lack of acknowledgment and encouragement from my family and friends with the interest and support I often get from strangers. Because my family and friends understand me better. Or rather, they more fully understand the implications of what I'm saying and doing. They've seen and heard enough to realize that I'm challenging their choices and lifestyles. Most people don't seem to grasp that when they first meet me. So it's easier to be supportive and encouraging; if they knew the full message, they'd probably pull back too. I'd even predicted that. Because that's what happened to Jesus: people flocked to him as a healer, a curiosity, but as his "good news" became clearer the crowds backed away.(Jn 6.66-67) Or changed their shouts from "Hosanna" to "Crucify Him!" I have to remember that the response of my family and friends is the informed response, and even the expected response.
	Then again, I don't accept this as a final response. Patience. And in the meantime, I am comforted by their many acts of love and faith. There's much cause for hope.
	And not just among my family and friends. The Lutheran pastor that found me (surprise!) sleeping in front of his church as 10:30 last night didn't chase me away. He brought out a cushion for me. Then, after church, a woman offered to buy me lunch. And a man picked me up on the highway (at almost the same spot someone picked me up last year) and invited me to his church tonight. Also, it's been encouraging to read again about Charles DeFoucauld, whose love for Jesus caused him to try to imitate him, especially his lowly life at Nazareth. And preach the gospel "by example rather than by words, by living it rather than by expounding it."
	----------

	In "Seeds of the Desert," (about DeFoucauld's Little Brothers of Jesus) Rene Voillaume highlights Christ's humiliation, calling it the "mystery of abjection." He says it's a mystery why indignity and humiliation seem to be an integral part of Jesus' demonstration of his love for us (and so also an integral part of our lives if we choose to love as he did). But is it really such a mystery? I think we'll find the explanation easily enough if we look into our own hearts. Jesus was not scorned and humiliated because God demanded it--but because we did. Love itself doesn't humiliate the lover, but we sinners do humiliate those who love us.
	Jesus' case is the extreme, because his love was the extreme. He gave freely and gave everything, leaving himself without income or even a place "to lay his head" (Lk 9.58; the reading this morning, which I found amusing since the pastor found me on the porch last night). He rejected political power and the use of physical coercion, even against "the evil man."(Mt 5.38-39) And he taught his followers to do the same. Then he went around telling people the "good news" that he had arrived to "save" them. It was truly good news, and it was perfect love, but if we look into our hearts we can see why it was scorned. "Who said we needed to be saved? And even if we did, what makes you think you can save us?!" The rich and powerful, especially: "You've got nothing; we've got everything; and you're going to save us!" Can we really say that the humiliation that followed is a mystery to us? It ended up with Jesus hanging on a cross, while people shouted "You who would save others, save yourself!" Are we surprised?
	If we love like Jesus did (loving now with his love), we will live like Jesus did, and accept the resulting indignity like Jesus did. Loving sinners is just asking for it.

	7.16
	Some good lines by Voillaume:

...we are so loathe to admit our emptiness. We always want to have something that is ours to give. But perfection, even where prayer is concerned, lies in being able to accept one's indigence.

	7.17
	Walking this morning, I realized that I was disappointed to be back walking and sleeping outside churches. I realized I had been hoping that things would progress; maybe my journal would be discovered; the invitations would start coming; people would start listening. When things started to change recently (rides, long visits, etc.), I thought maybe I'm moving on to something more... high profile. Then suddenly, I'm back on the road. Nobody.
	This came as I was reflecting on the beginning of John's Gospel, especially verses 9-11:

The true light that enlightens every man was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world knew him not. He came to his own home, and his own people received him not.

(Certainly "his own people" doesn't just refer to Israel. His own people are all human beings, whom he creates and fills with life. Humanity received him not.)
	But first, they knew him not. He was widely misunderstood. Even when the crowds gathered for his miracles, they didn't know who he was. "Some say John the Baptist, some say Elijah..." They weren't sure what his message was, or his purpose, what he would become, or what effect he would have on society. Even his disciples were confused, until some time after his death. And he wasn't rushing to be known, either. Instead he urged the people who guessed right, "Tell no one."
	Because, for Jesus, unlike worldly celebrities, becoming known meant the end. People began whispering that he was the Messiah, then slowly the whispers grew into the loud Hosannas of Palm Sunday, and in a week he was dead. Once the leaders began to pay attention to what Jesus was preaching, they quickly decided to put a stop to it. So, for Jesus, being unknown was... time. Time to walk among the people, talk to them, touch them. Time with the children. Time for God to walk the earth. Jesus wasn't impatient to be recognized and understood, because recognition wasn't the beginning of his ministry--it was the end.
	Of course, for us, to recognize and understand (and believe) Jesus is the beginning. But then as we become like Christ, as Jesus becomes recognizable in us and his gospel understood through us, then we near our own end in the world. Because the world (the people of the world) have no more toleration for Christ now than they did then.
	In love, for the sake of others, I will try to let Christ be seen and his gospel understood through me. I'll try to be as clear as possible. But if people do not understand, and leave me to wander unknown, I won't complain. As I've experienced already, recognition in this case doesn't bring fame and comfort. It brings the cross. And not even Jesus himself was in a rush to endure the cross.

	7.21
	When the red truck stopped a couple days ago, I didn't even have the energy to be surprised or excited. I had stepped off the road into the woods, exhausted by the heat. Even in the shade sweat dripped from my skin. I fell asleep, then woke with a fierce headache, but decided I had to move to find more water. The truck stopped only moments after I stepped back onto the road. As it turned out, he rescued me from both the heat and the approaching, very severe, thunderstorm.
	The young man, a new Christian, drove me quite a way, and he asked me many questions. Later that evening, I went to his church (for a Pentecostal prayer meeting) and ended up spending the night at the pastor's house. We didn't talk much. But he did bring out Ding-Dongs and a cold glass of milk for a snack. The next morning we went to breakfast with his brother, who is a traveling evangelist (they're both truck drivers turned preachers). Church talk. Behind-the-scenes stuff discussed frankly, as brothers do. So I got a feel for the evangelist lifestyle: making contacts and lining up revivals or other preaching engagements; trying to keep a steady income and still get home regularly.
	The next night I slept outside a Baptist church (after chatting with the pastor). I think the pastor's wife felt guilty about leaving me out there, as she came out early to invite me in for breakfast. A good talk with her over cereal and toast. About 'give freely.'
	I arrived at another Baptist church at lunch time. And there met the 24-year-old pastor, who was driving to Nashville the next day. He invited me to stay at his place and go to the youth revival that evening. I was surprised how young he was (got his own church at 20). And he said he'd actually been a traveling preacher at 15. A natural showman. He seems to have learned the lingo early and got to know what it takes to satisfy the church crowd, not only putting on a good show but also instinctively handling the social obligations of a pastor. He made it seem effortless (in contrast to the two older preachers I met just previously). With the revival and the ride to Nashville this morning, I felt like I got a good feel for his somewhat unusual approach to ministry.
	"It's a calling, definitely," the young man said. And I was initially inclined to agree with him; I guess I've seen the evangelist type as being more purely inspired, more Christlike (in that it seemed more literally like Christ's ministry). More free, too, like the Spirit. But the experiences of the last few days made 'traveling evangelist' seem more like just another profession. With some people struggling to get enough work to pay the bills, and others, young hotshots, who have the luck, talents, and instincts to succeed almost without trying. It all suddenly seemed less than a "calling." Unless calling just means something we're skilled at and interested in; in that case, everyone's got one.
	So I'm disillusioned about traveling evangelists before I even got to be one. Disillusioned about the profession, at least. But I still think there's ministry and preaching that is pure and free; not driven by money, not controlled by popular response. Like the Spirit that inspires it:

The wind blows where it wills, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with every one who is born of the Spirit. (Jn 3.8)

	7.22
	Went to a Lutheran church this morning, then didn't get far in the heat. But I found a great resting place. A Catholic church on spacious ground, with a garden full of wildflowers and bushes in bloom. A fawn strayed out of the woods momentarily. And swallowtails beat their wings against each other, flirting. The evening mass was for teenagers, so very lively, with good singers backed by guitars, bass, drums, and saxophone. The theme was 'hospitality.' The readings: Abraham's welcoming the three visitors (Gen 18.1-10) and Mary and Martha (Lk 10.38-42). And a great song about encountering the face of Christ in the poor and outcast. Beautiful grounds and sanctuary, very well-done liturgy, good music performed well, and excellent theme and readings. Not bad preaching, either. The only thing missing was actual hospitality.
	The young priest agreed to let me sleep in the garden gazebo, but didn't show the slightest interest in what I was doing or the extent of my needs. Which was disappointing. Because everything I'd just experienced had led me to expect generous hospitality. We just read about what Abraham did, didn't we? And "the face of Christ"? So it was a letdown, even though this is really a great spot.
	It reminded me how utterly precious real generosity is. Even just interest in another person. And the willingness to forget about ourselves for a moment to hear what the other person is saying. Mary's hospitality. Beautiful--even if we have no 'thing' to give. Sharing things is good, like food or shelter, musical or artistic ability, medical expertise, etc. But things we share are not nearly as important as the self we share, when we give with utter generosity, giving freely. The fact that it's a gift makes all the difference. That is, as long as it's really a gift, a truly selfless act focused on satisfying the needs of the other. Such gifts are rare. But when people see real generosity like that, they see the face of God.

	7.23
	To you I lift up my eyes,
	    O God who is enthroned in the heavens!
	Behold, 
	    as the eyes of servants look to the hand of their master,
	    as the eyes of a maid to the hand of her mistress,
	So our eyes look to the Lord our God,
	    till he have mercy upon us.
	Have mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy upon us,
	    for we have had more than enough of contempt.
	Too long our soul has been sated
	    with the scorn of those who are at ease,
	    the contempt of the proud. (Ps 123)

	He who comes from heaven is above all.
	He bears witness to what he has seen and heard,
	    yet no one receives his testimony... (Jn 3.31-32)

	7.24
	As if to illustrate my point on the day before yesterday, I had a remarkable encounter last night. I was just leaving town, looking for a church, when a small man invited me into his small house. He was already drunk. And I soon understood that he was a homosexual and very lonely. I told him I would not stay the night (because of his obvious desires), but I tried to explain it so he would know I neither feared nor hated him. I wouldn't leave until he understood. The next thing I know, he's crying and embracing me in gratitude, asking me to pray for him. So we did. He is alone and unhappy, using drugs, and his acquaintances are preying on him. I urged him to return to his family and get help. But he seemed more impressed with my attitude and attention towards him than my words. How do you convince someone they are loved?
	"I'm going to close my door and think about you," he said as I walked out into the night.
	It was very dark already, but I managed to find a church within a mile. Someone was there. They directed me to the pastor's house, where only his wife was home, and she said the police patrol the church and she didn't feel comfortable with a stranger sleeping on her porch, but... I ended up at a very nice motel.
	This morning I woke up clean, dried the socks I had washed, and went down to the lobby for fruit and yogurt, coffee and bagels. And since the ride to the motel had taken me several miles in the wrong direction, I gave up the idea of trying to make it to the next town today. So I'm in an empty university library. There's internet, videos (I watched "Death of a Salesman"), and a deep, cool silence. A great place for a day off. Once the heat passes I'll try leaving again.

	7.27
	Lots of action, but I don't feel much like writing all about it. A three hour Pentecostal camp meeting, to which I was graciously invited, but no gracious invitations surfaced when it was time to leave around midnight. The next night, a little all-Black Methodist church embraced me warmly at their bible study, and even took up a collection so I could get a motel room. Then an interesting encounter last night with a professor who found me sleeping on the front porch of a Church of Christ bible college. The police were called, I got frisked, then we stood there arguing in front of the two policemen and a student. The professor was trying to use Lk 22.35-36 (..."But now, let him who has a purse take it, and likewise a bag. And let him who has no sword sell his mantle and buy one...") to say this is no longer "the time of Jesus"; it's post-apostolic time, or something. So I should settle down, go to school or get a job, maybe get married. I just told him that I'm living in "the time of Jesus," and I really can't see much incentive to return to the kind of life he described. When I looked over at the student, he was just staring, slack-jawed. I waved goodbye to him and smiled as the police took me away. They took me to a homeless shelter--which strongly reminded me of a few of the youth hostels I stayed in in Europe. Not too pleasant.
	I realized I'm getting tired of writing about these incidents. Because, while the incidents themselves are pretty interesting as they unfold, upon reflection it seems like 'same story, different town.' A little boring. Really, it's just the disappointments that are routine; the acts of love and generosity always seem exciting and new. But I'm forced to admit that these external events and challenges cannot be all "the life" that Jesus promised. It may be the fruit of such life, or that evidence of such life that appears for others to see, but it's just not "abundant" enough; it's not enough life.
	For a while, I could dwell on the externals of how a pilgrimage life is so much more interesting or exciting than, say, my previous life choices. The freedom and adventure, the physical and spiritual challenge. But the externals are starting to bore me now, even when there's lots of action. And of course the routine of road, library, grocery store, church porch is not exactly thrilling. So I'm drawn deeper. The externals--even when they include late night encounters and rides in a squad car--are just not enough.
	Jesus said, "I am the life." So I'm drawn to gaze on him for the fullness of life, with the externals of my actions and thoughts being the lesser reflection of that life. Let more and more life be seen in me, but don't gaze on that or depend on that for sustenance. It reminds me of 2 Cor 3.17-18:

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being changed into his likeness from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.

	7.28
	Thinking more about gazing on Jesus, as I sit by this little white Presbyterian church, the rain still dripping from the eaves. 'Gazing' isn't exactly right. The word 'beholding' in the passage above also means 'reflecting.' So the Life that Christ is is not just an object of contemplation, but a participation: Life for me, Life in me. "The Lord who is the Spirit"--in me. Not just the dream of being somewhat like Christ someday, but the reality of being Christ for one another. It is the abundant life that catches us up into itself, inspiring us, moving us.
	This gives new meaning to another 'reflecting' passage, James 1.22-25:

But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves. For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who observes his natural face in a mirror; for he observes himself and goes away and at once forgets what he was like. But he who looks into the perfect law, the law of liberty, and perseveres, being no hearer that forgets but a doer that acts, he shall be blessed in all his doing.

	8.1
	A retired couple, Kent and Le Voss, took me home with them after church and I spent two days with them. She is an artist (watercolors) and he's a musician. Both are very perceptive and spiritually aware. I played a duet with Kent, one by Debussy for piano and oboe (but I was on the recorder). And they live on a lake, where I got to take out their canoe a couple times.
	One morning I was out on the lake praying and I came upon a good response for those who thoughtlessly proclaim Paul's "those who don't work should not eat." In John 6.27, Jesus says this: "Do not work for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life..."
	I left the Voss's clean and well cared-for. And the walking through this part of Tennessee is beautiful (if a little hot). I'm into the foothills of the Appalachians already, and there are many lakes and rivers hidden among the hills. Thick woods everywhere you look.

	8.3
	Walking in the dark away from the little church last night, I seriously wondered if I should have done more. The preaching was on 1 Kings 17. Where Elijah is first fed by the ravens, then goes to the poor widow whose oil and flour never run out. The miracle of bread again, like the manna or the fishes and loaves. It was very encouraging to hear, and I thought for sure there'd be some opportunity to tie it in with what I'm doing. But no one made the connection. As I started down the highway, the minister called me back, concerned about where I would stay. But after about five minutes of hemming and hawing in a circle of six or seven of them, I ended up walking away into the night anyway. They seemed so confident inside worshipping and so helpless and confused out in the parking lot.
	Should I have told them how they could have (even should have) helped me? There were maybe half a dozen possibilities. They seemed dissatisfied about leaving me to wander down the road, but no one could come up with one real act of generosity. Afterwards, I didn't know whether to feel sorry for their confusion or frustrated at their lack of faith. Should I have spoken up to provide guidance--or a rebuke? Would either have done any good?
	But thinking of them going sadly away reminded me of the rich young man (Mt 19.16-22). He came asking what should I do, but knowledge was not really his problem. He didn't "know" what he must do to be perfect because he was not ready (not willing) to do it. When he badgered Jesus, Jesus answered him. But I can't imagine that Jesus really thought the man would go and do it. If the man was willing to exercise such generosity, he would already have done it and there would be no need to ask.
	In my situation, it even seems more clear. The ways those people could have helped me were so many and so obvious, there can be no question of really not knowing what could be done. If any of them was willing to help, they would have. What they really wanted (just like the rich young man) was to be comforted and told they were good people. Their conscience was pricking them and they wanted relief. But instead they went away sorrowful in their impotence. I didn't need to say anything; neither guidance nor rebuke would have added to what their conscience was already telling them. They did not have the faith that the moment called for. But maybe one day they will.

	8.4
	Thinking yesterday about 'gazing on the Lord,' I was reminded that this cannot simply be thoughts about Christ, a review of my knowledge about Jesus. It must not be remembering some image of him in my head. Instead, I must see spiritually, gazing on him as the Spirit in me reveals him. For Jesus is the Word, the perfect expression of God. And the Spirit has been given that we may know him and that he may live in us. To gaze on a concept or an image is to review the past, but to look upon the one who is Life is to live now.
	Of course, that implies an utter dependence on God, from moment to moment. I was reminded of that last night, after I visited the "USA Church of Life." There was lots of talk about Jesus, but I would hesitate to call it Christian; it seemed more like an amalgam of Buddhism and select bible passages and self-help propaganda. People claiming that JJesus showed them their "true identity," which they had been blind to. So now they proclaimed that they were life, even calling themselves "I am." Lots of jumping and running around and shouting. I agreed with some things, but there seemed to be a fundamental lack of humility and dependence on God. Our 'life' is always contingent on his love and mercy each and every moment.
	And I've finally reached the edge of the Appalachians. There's a feel here of brute nature that has not been (and perhaps cannot be) harnessed. Lots of people lining up to gawk, though. The rivers are clear and cold. And the haze that gives the Smokies their name clings to the tops of the trees.

	8.6
	Not thinking about Jesus, but seeing and hearing him right now, reflected in us. It makes me think of the popular "W.W.J.D." (What Would Jesus Do?). In other words, IF he were here or in a similar situation. Which seems to be a failure of faith already, a falling back on our conceptual knowledge rather than looking for his guidance present here and now. It should be what will Jesus do, though me, right now.
	That sense of the presence of Christ came back to me today as I'm slowly climbing into the mountains. Feeling a little ineffective and helpless, an object of pity rather than a source of life. Two kindly old priests took care of me the last two nights. Which was great, though I left feeling more tended to than listened to, like I hadn't been able to give much, though I received much. And encouragement that "you'll find your vocation someday" is always less than encouraging. Then something came to me as I plodded up and up, and now I recall that this is the feast of the Transfiguration, feeling a little transfigured myself.
	What did Jesus give, really, during his life on earth? He did give food and healing and teaching, as an example for us, but above all he gave himself. His good news, his salvation, was not food or health or a new philosophy of life. It was himself: God with us. Jesus made God present to us by coming to us to be and remain with us. That's what he gave.
	So also, that's what I can give. When I live by faith, being Christlike in the world, and not just 'like' Christ but actually making Christ present by obeying his inspiration and living his love, then Jesus is 'God with us' still. Here and now. It can be like the disciples Jesus sent out, who proclaimed that "the kingdom of God has come near to you" wherever they appeared; even if they were chased away, they said "nevertheless, know this, that the kingdom of God has come near."(Lk 10.8-12) Or even when I'm the pitiable person being helped: "As you did it to the least of these my brethren, you did it to me."(Mt 25.40) I offer, not myself, but Christ. Even when I can't give things or even teaching, by faith and love I can offer the presence of Christ.
	It makes me think again of the quote on July 16. And, I suppose, to many people it seems like I give absolutely nothing. The presence of Christ is often not recognized. But, then, the presence of Christ was often not recognized in Christ himself.

	8.9
	And you, mountains and hills, O bless the Lord.
	And you, all plants of the earth, O bless the Lord.
	And you, fountains and springs, O bless the Lord.
	To him be highest glory and praise for ever.

	Though it was Tuesday morning, I prayed the Sunday canticle of Daniel, as the setting seemed to call for it. I was perched up on Charlie's Bunion. A gorgeous spot on the Appalachian Trail, one of my favorites from my hike last year. And this time it was just after sunrise with no one around. I'd stayed in a shelter on the Trail the previous night, then followed another trail down from Charlie's Bunion to the road this morning. Very quiet. No other hikers. Only the rush of waters filling the woods. And just before I came out onto the busy road, there was an 8-point black-tail buck nibbling at the edge of the path.
	A Baptist youth minister, who seemed like he hadn't had much charity experience, took me to a very nice motel last night. So I got a good (and clean) start this morning. Very powerful stuff in John 8 for prayer time; and for some reason I looked at the end of Matthew 10 again. Verse 40 seemed to sum up what I was trying to say in the last entry. These are Jesus' words to his disciples:

	"He who receives you receives me,
	and he who receives me receives him who sent me."

Got to a library, for the first time in almost a week. And, for the first time in almost four months, I ran out of food this morning. My awe at being able to go that long without missing a meal makes it hard to be nervous about my hunger.

	8.14
	The Episcopal priest showed up at about 8pm that night. When I asked to sleep outside his church, he said, "Oh, I think we can do better than that." And I ended up with a motel room (again!) and $6 for food. He was also interested in my walk and very encouraging; as I explained some of what I was trying to get across, he interjected, "That's the gospel, that's exactly it!" So I was comforted.
	But by Sunday morning, I was out of food again. And the large Baptist church I went to was pretty bad--weak teaching, weak preaching, weak hospitality. I went hungry all day. Not a very good fast on my part, though. I was frustrated and confused, depressed to be so needy again. In a rebuking mood. But I didn't know what God was up to; I wasn't even sure he was up to anything.
	Then I read a sermon in the newspaper, by a pastor who had recently lost his wife in a car accident. He assured himself and his congregation that God doesn't will suffering, rather he suffers with us. Using the cross as an example, he described God as a victim who can sympathize with us. A consoling thought. Unless you really start to think about it. If God's a helpless victim too, then who's in charge? Fate? Nobody? I'm sorry for that pastor's loss, but he shouldn't preach such false consolations. Nothing happens outside God's will. Not even suffering. Jesus suffered praying "Thy will be done," with no illusions about who was ultimately in charge. I needed to be reminded of that.
	There was good cause for my fast on Sunday (good reason for God to will it). For one, that church was a mess. I got my first indication before I even got through the door. About 30 minutes before Sunday School, some people entered, so I started to go in. But a man (the head usher?) stepped out just as I got to the door and blocked my way. I asked about Sunday School. "Later" was all he said. When he didn't move, I added, "I would like to come, if I could." He just stared at me and held his ground. So I went a few steps away, sat down, and watched a family walk right in. The rest of the morning wasn't much better. It just made me think of Jesus saying "Why do you say 'Lord, Lord' and do not do what I tell you?"
	So I could have been fasting with Christ, sharing his suffering in sorrow and hope for churches like the one I just left. I guess I did do that to some extent, because I didn't despair and beg for help or lash out at anyone in anger. But neither did I appreciate how close I was to Christ at that moment. In his humiliation. In his pain. In his isolation. So the fasting was for me, too, to bring me back to that appreciation that Christ is in me (most, perhaps) in suffering when it is for his sake, because that's his suffering.
	That night, I avoided the next big Baptist church to go to a very little Baptist church. Only six people showed up. But as I was leaving, the pastor asked where I was staying, then offered to let me sleep in the church. A few minutes later, he changed his mind. "That would be unchristian of me to leave you in there," he said. And so he wrote a check for a motel room and gave me $30. "God bless you," he added. I smiled, "He just did." A former drug addict gave me a ride to the next town, where the motel was, and told me about his recent rehab and conversion. The next morning I had eggs and sausage, hash browns, biscuits and gravy...

	8.20
	Sunday morning I stumbled along in the gravel and grass by the roadside and sobbed. Wrenching cries and moans. Though I was clean and rested and fed, I was overwhelmed by loneliness and frustration. God, what am I doing out here?!
	I had run out of food Friday afternoon, but that had been taken care of. Saturday night I came upon a little white church in the woods with someone inside practicing the piano. I was sure this was the person who would help me. "I think the Lord wants you to help me," I said with a smile when she came out. But when she heard my needs she just said "I can't... I can't..." and told me to go to one of the nearby houses. She left. Right then my boldness collapsed and I just dropped down on the church doorstep as the sky darkened. Within minutes, the sheriff's car pulled up. I sat quietly as he drove me to a motel back in town. Then the motel staff gathered together four dollars so I could go get a hot dog at the gas station across the street. I ate and washed and slept. And woke miserable.
	I hadn't had a good connection with someone for two and a half weeks. People had helped me so I hadn't missed too many meals, and a few had offered encouraging words, but no one had time to really listen. No real sense of com-passion. I was surviving but not really seeing the Spirit in people. Getting handouts, but not getting the opportunity to truly share with anybody. It felt like I was shrinking. Shrinking into disappointment and dread.
	Sunday morning I wanted God to get me out of here. Frustration flared out in rage and dissolved into despair. I couldn't despair of God, nor could I abandon the truth and goodness of Jesus' gospel. But I could despair for humanity. Having glimpsed what people can be in Christ, even the recent gestures of charity just seemed so pitiful to me. And most people's response was the fearful "I can't... I can't...."  I moaned in pain. But I think it was exactly that pain that God wanted to use to move me to do something, to continue to do something about it. The discrepancy between what people can be and what they usually are was unbearable. If God's not going to take me away from here, I have to say something--I have to. I marched toward a church.
	A small Assembly of God was just opening its doors as I walked up. Very small; I quickly met everyone there. And then when I met the pastor, he immediately asked me to give a testimonial. I was ready. I got up and focused on Mt 25 and Jesus' "Why do you say 'Lord, Lord' and do not do what I tell you?" As soon as I sat down a woman got up with tears and said she believed the challenge was from God. After the service, though I said I wasn't asking for money, many people gave. The woman who got up invited me to lunch.
	I talked with her and her husband all day. Deep into 'give freely' and love overcoming fear, and even an argument with her husband when I said accumulating wealth indicated a spiritual fault in the rich person (though his couple is far from rich). A good, good, visit. We even played together, me on the recorder and him on keyboard and her on an Irish flute. He is an excellent pianist and she plays too and sings beautifully. And very generous and spiritually alert. Jim and Donna Ball. I spent the night there and woke with a renewed hope for humanity.
	This morning I prayed:

	The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want;
	he makes me lie down in green pastures.
	He leads me beside still waters;
	    he restores my soul.

	8.22
	I've been reflecting on my experience Sunday morning, and found this passage in Jeremiah to sum it up:

	My anguish, my anguish! I writhe in pain!
	Oh, the walls of my heart!
	My heart is beating wildly;
	    I cannot keep silent...

	"For my people are foolish, they know me not;
	they are stupid children, they have no understanding.
	They are skilled in doing evil,
	    but how to do good they know not." (Jer 4.19,22)

	This is not a rebuke, however. It is a cry of pain because of love, a love that cannot bear the degradation of the people. That startled me. I had been trying to rouse in myself a greater love for others, an affectionate love, but I kept falling into disappointment and impatience because of the hardness of heart I saw. Then this anguish Sunday morning. And I realized that this anguish was love. A gift from God's heart.
	"I cannot keep silent." This came to me strongly on Sunday also. Not that I'm going to start shouting from street corners. Or abandon the silent preaching of pilgrimage. But I do think I have been too restrained when I meet people, especially when I meet Christians in churches. I've tried to be so careful about 'not asking' and letting people give on their own initiative that I think I've missed valuable opportunities. That was a good discipline to see how richly God can provide (and to teach humility). But the most important thing is not whether or not I get fed, nor is it my perfect record of 'not asking.' The most important thing is using every opportunity God gives to be Christlike and urge others to be Christlike. Especially Christians. The anguish reminds me that it's not worth it to survive (even somewhat miraculously) if we do not use that life to help and urge people to do good. So we can say with Paul, "For me to live is Christ."

	8.23
	Though I had food and money and there were several other churches nearby, I decided to ask the pastor at last night's church to help me. Matthew 10.11 says that the disciples were to find someone "worthy" in a town and stay with them. So I thought I'd ask the pastor to help me find someone "worthy." He ended up taking me home himself.
	That's where it got interesting. When I entered, his wife looked at me uneasily and called him aside. When they came back, she explained her situation. She was fearful. She said she would accept her husband's decision but she feared for her sons (3 grown sons living there) and couldn't understand why I was living like I was. Several good, challenging questions. And her emotion was visible; I was ready to leave if we couldn't get this smoothed out.
	But I was well-prepared for these questions. We discussed 'give freely,' "those who do not work should not eat," and about taking risks and love overcoming fear. I said if Christians are too afraid to welcome strangers (as the bible tells them to), then something is wrong and it needs to be addressed with them. Her best challenge was asking if I was being generous, putting people in this difficult situation. But I'm sure the difficulty does not come from my request (or God's command), but from their own fear. I told her how everyone who had generously helped me had seemed well-satisfied. Energized, inspired, joyful. Because it was an opportunity for the tremendous power of God's love to flow through them. A chance to feel God's hand working in them.
	When I stopped talking, she smiled and said, "You're very convincing." And they both immediately started asking if I needed a shower, clothes washed, etc.
	I was thrilled. I'd never experienced a change of heart like that, and I believe she was truly comforted and encouraged. We talked more later. About the missionary work they had done, and about how he was trying to nurture greater maturity in his little Baptist church. He felt Baptists were good at getting people "down the aisle," but not so good at bringing Christians to maturity. I couldn't agree more (though I wouldn't limit it to just the Baptists). He really impressed me. And I was also impressed by her, how she sat down and talked through her fear and overcame it. Great to see.
	One of their sons let me use his room last night, then the pastor drove me to the next town this morning. That would have been a long, hot stretch. Now I'm sitting out the heat and savoring thoughts of last night. I think God's finally bringing me around to speaking for him as I should. I remember writing at the beginning of this trip that I wanted to be able to address Christians more openly. Now it seems God is finally bringing forth this sort of fruit. I kept trying to come up with a better wording, a better way of saying it, but what was really needed was a deeper, purer love, an anguish for God's people, to overcome my timidity. To set my tongue free to be a better instrument for the gospel.

	8.25
	Sitting underneath the sycamores this afternoon. On the big ones the outer bark is almost completely flaked off, revealing a soft, wrinkled skin. I keep moving back and forth between picnic tables as the sunlight though the leaves shifts.
	Yesterday in town, a man rode up alongside on a bicycle and commented on my walking. He was from India, with good English, heavily accented. I said I was a pilgrim. And he immediately invited me to the motel he managed, right down the street.
	When I arrived later, Chin Parikh asked me a few questions, then explained himself. "I am not owner here. But I can give you good room; from God it comes through me to you. I like to help people who bring good into the world. This is you. OK?" He told me to rest and then come back. Later, he and his wife asked me many questions about my pilgrimage, and about this country (they are only living here temporarily). They told me about India, their impressions of America, and indicated how my pilgrimage was closer to Indian religious practices than to what they saw here. Lots of pilgrims and monks and meditation in India. For dinner, his wife served me before they ate: curry rice and vegetables, a spicy bean soup, and pickled mangos. And pizza (an American touch). She was very humble, and shied away from my thanks.
	They are Hindu, I gathered. But he seems to have investigated other religions too, to find the truth. And there was really very little I could question or add; their openness and generosity exceeded most Christians I've met. He spoke about grace and divine love, and I could see it. They treated me like a brother. The only thing I would have liked to discuss, if we had more time (maybe I'll write a letter), was something I read in the Bhagavad-gita. About the "way of devotion." Being perfected by devotion or love of God rather than attaining perfection through prayer and good works. Salvation by grace, in other words. At least that's how I read it, and it seems like the best way to describe Christianity in Hindu terms. But they seem to practice 'true religion,' as described in Isaiah 58. I can see many like them (people of other religions) coming before Christ and him saying, "I was hungry and you fed me, I was a stranger and you welcomed me..." When? they ask. "When you did it to the least of these..." So Jesus may recognize many then who do not fully recognize him now. Many of the last will be first.

	8.27
	It's hard to remember the anguish of last Sunday, having found such generosity this Sunday. Judy Carter invited me to lunch after church, though I hadn't said much of anything except a few brief introductions. Her husband offered to let me stay the night too, so I did. And there were some good discussions, a walk in the woods with their four spaniels, laundry, shower, etc. Without my saying a word to him, one of their grown sons marched up and gave me $50 (He also happened to be an excellent carpenter; I saw some of the beautiful, simple furniture he'd made--"Arts and Crafts" style, early 1900s American). They also gave money, and so did their second eldest son. So I left there with $120! So much giving confuses me, disorients me. What's going on? Where am I?
	And this so soon after staying with that wonderful Indian couple. Why are these people being so nice to me? I am glad, though; I'm convinced it springs from their love of God and God's love for the poor, the stranger. That's good. Again, I feel the need to say something, a teaching, a challenge. But these are more spiritually mature people. I'm sure more of their experience of God comes through the living out of what they've already learned, God moving in them to love their neighbor. So I simply spend time with them, be with them in love. It certainly is easy to love them affectionately; I feel very close to them. We approach as strangers and depart as family.
	Anguish to affection, sympathy to indignation. The love of God is so agile. I have a hard time keeping up with it.

	8.29
	From the Bhagavad-gita:

Listen to my supreme word, the most secret of all. Well beloved art thou of me, therefore I shall tell the what is good for thee. Fix thy mind on me; be devoted to me; sacrifice to me; prostrate thyself before me; so shalt thou come to me. I promise thee truly, for thou art dear to me. Abandoning all duties, come to me alone for shelter. Be not grieved, for I shall release thee from all evils. (ch 18.64-66)

	8.31
	In the library in Savannah, I found a picture of the large spider I had seen twice in the last few days. The "Black-and-yellow Argiope." Whitish gray head with bright yellow splashes on its black abdomen and a characteristic heavy zig-zag pattern down the center of its web.
	I got to Savannah early today because a man stopped to give me a ride. He's the only one to stop for me in the whole length of South Carolina. Said he had passed me four times during the last few days--five's a charm, I guess. He talked about a loving God.
	A few things coming together in my head: I recently read "In His Steps," written by Charles Sheldon over 100 years ago. Someone gave it to me, I think because it opens with a poor beggar challenging a complacent church. Really, it's the beginning of the "What Would Jesus Do?" movement that exploded in the 90s. The author wanted it to be a radical call to Christlikeness, but now it seems to be all cliché and mass-marketing. Then there's "The Prayer of Jabez," which was the focus of the bible study at the Methodist church Wednesday. Based on 1 Chron. 4.10, it's basically "The Power of Positive Thinking" connected with repeating this prayer daily. The book is wildly popular.
	But I find WWJD and Jabez (and also the whole pamphlet approach to evangelism) rather insulting. Insulting to people, I mean. As if all we had to do was ask ourselves "What would Jesus do?," or pray the Jabez mantra, or pick up a pamphlet to straighten out our lives and know God. Righteousness is such a snap! Of course, many people want to believe that (making Jabez books and WWJD bracelets hot commodities), so maybe it's not so insulting after all. But such approaches to Christian life certainly make it seem like a joke. Spiritual maturity in a nutshell--here's what you do! Our relationships with friends, spouse, children are complex and grow slowly and subtly, often with great pain. Why do we expect our relationship with God to be so obvious and simple? It's the meaning and purpose of life itself--do we really expect a pamphlet to resolve this for us?
	I guess I am a little insulted, too. Because such approaches trivialize Christianity and make the painful struggle to know and follow Christ seem unnecessary, as they offer their handy spiritual shortcuts. I can see why they're popular. But I struggle to remind myself why I'm stumbling down a back road while best-selling Christian gurus triumphantly lead the throng down the spiritual superhighway. Wasn't there something about the way being narrow and the way hard, that leads to life?

	9.5
	A quick 120 miles and I'm back in Florida. The couple I stayed with Sunday night drove me about 50 miles (stopping to see the smallest church in America, capacity: 13), then a man stopped for me yesterday, and later a woman just drove up outside a grocery store and offered to take me to the next town (with air-conditioned library; I needed that). Her hyper little Chihuahua crawled all over me the whole way.
	So I'm nearing the end of this trip (almost six months now) and feeling the need to 'sum up.' Even though I had more good encounters and spent more time with people this summer, I'm more inclined than ever to be suspicious of "success" labels. For example, I get more excited about deep and lengthy conversations, and moments when people are overwhelmingly generous. But are those encounters the most "successful"? I was frustrated Monday because, although the couple I stayed with was kind and generous, they made small talk about themselves almost non-stop, so I hardly talked with them at all. Then I was furious the next night when a pastor turned me away, after dark, in the rain. (That was strange. First, a church member offered me a plate of food, then the pastor sent me away. I had to give the food back because I couldn't carry it with me. As I left, I told the disappointed young man, "Do what he teaches you, but not what he does.") But are encounters like this failures? They're less satisfying, perhaps, because the people involved are less mature and often seem much less than Christlike. But doesn't that make the encounter more important? What happens may not feel as fulfilling for me, but it may be crucial for them where they are in their spiritual growth. A verse caught my eye Sunday night in bible study, and I remember it now: "Know that in the Lord your labor is not in vain."(1 Cor 15.58) Maybe that's a good way to sum up.

	9.6
	Continuing from yesterday:
	I think this year I have moved beyond focusing on the physical/material success of pilgrimage (surviving, making progress/distance). But I also need to move beyond spiritual "success," if that means some kind of ministerial achievement. It's not selfless love if I'm worrying that people aren't learning from me, or God's not using me enough. Often I feel like a worthless servant. But that's OK, if only I remain obedient:

"When you have done all that is commanded you, say, 'We are worthless servants; we have only done what was our duty.'" (Lk 17.10)

My worth to God or to others is not what's important, but God's absolute worth to all of us.
	Also, it's really become clear how God has worked beyond my efforts or intentions. I planned to beg and teach. But that's really not what happened, for the most part. Instead, the most powerful moments have come when people gave without my asking, and in encounters where I'm simply seen as a poor man and no teacher at all. It makes sense now: What would happen if a poor stranger walked into your church? Can you see Christ in the least of your brethren? But I didn't foresee the importance of this when I set out. The poor are so segregated. They're pushed away by a society that despises them, and they are ashamed of their own poverty and hide. So even when people want to help others, they often have trouble finding a way. How do I interact with someone so far removed from my world? And many times the poor are at fault, too. Their pride and suspicion drives benefactors away, or they may lie and cheat and make people sorry they ever helped them. But when I bring a need to people, humbly and honestly, many people find giving to be a joyful experience of God's love. Or they turn away in fear and feel the pain of their lack of faith. Either is good and helpful. But this is all God's doing--I had no idea.
	Last night, the service was ho-hum. Ho-hum singing, ho-hum preaching. All the usual tired phrases about what it meant to be born again (though the preacher kept saying "borned again"), which didn't clear up anything except that it's not what those Catholics and Calvinists believe. But after the service, a woman (Annette, who was recently widowed) came up to talk to me. She then talked to the pastor. By the end, three people had given me money, the pastor let me stay inside, and someone offered me a ride this morning. At least seven people were involved. And everyone seemed excited and happy to be giving, with eager, beaming faces. I really felt that, for all those people (and me), this was better, more spirit-filled, than the whole prior service. And I didn't say more than a few words. I didn't really do or teach anything there, but I think the movement of God's love was very beneficial to those people. We only really know God when we love with his love. Not theoretically, but really; selflessly; responding to real needs.

	9.9
	Yesterday was interesting. I stopped at a Presbyterian church early to pray, just before the pastor arrived to cut the grass. He asked a few questions. Then, "So is this like... a pilgrimage?" I was amazed that he guessed right; most people say something like "So, are you doing this just to do it?" Which seems absurd to me. But I soon got into an argument with the pastor because he was giving me the old "This isn't a perfect world," saying the kingdom of God isn't here yet, we're building it. I've heard that before. It seems to say that the kingdom of God is evolving; society is slowly improving as we all become better people. Teilhard deChardin and his "Omega point." I think it comes from the influence of Hegel, who spoke of the "world historical Spirit," or God gradually "becoming" himself throughout history. Personally, I don't see society getting better (spiritually, morally) throughout history, and I don't see Jesus teaching about any "evolving" kingdom of God. He announced the kingdom of God here now (to be experienced by faith) and said the kingdom would come in power later, apocalypse-style.
	Later, down the road a few miles, I found a stream. I'd been looking for a place to wash. And here was this shallow stream, back in the woods, clear fast water over a sandy bottom. Perfect. I stripped down and splashed in, the sunlight filtering through the leaves. My skin pinkened in the chilly rush and I never felt better.
	I got to the next town in plenty of time for Saturday evening mass, then I ended up a half hour late. Somehow my clock lost an hour. But just as I was going to leave, someone else arrived late and told me to come in, "all you missed was the sermon." So I did. Nothing special, but nice. Then as I was walking away, about a block from the church, I recognized a man sitting in his car. Wasn't he just a mass? It turned out he had seen me and rushed to intercept. He invited me to dinner with him.
	His name is Leandro; and what a story! Born in Chile, he came to this country after a military coup there, and had to start over. A former lawyer, he had to learn a new language and drive cabs for a living. Then, after working his way up, he was diagnosed with cancer two years ago. I think he's in his late 50s, maybe. So he quit his stressful job and reconciled himself with death. And his cancer promptly went into remission. So he sold his house and started traveling, with this whole new sense of life and freedom and spirituality. One day he stopped in this small town and decided to stay for a while.
	We had a great conversation over dinner. His life, and mine, pilgrimage, the Little Brothers of Jesus (a Brother visited his home town once), Catholicism. I slept at his place, then we had another good conversation over breakfast. A spiritually reborn man. He seems to be trying to find a place where it is easier to be good, away from his old job, his ex-wife ("a toxic personality"), and other worldly pressures. I think that's good, really. That's the basic impetus behind all monastic movements. It's good as an initial step; eventually there comes the realization that the worldly pressures are everywhere, but so is the kingdom of God. This allows us to stop searching and dedicate ourselves completely to serving and loving one another, wherever we are. But a break with the worldly must come first, and this often appears as a flight from the world. With maturity, we learn then what it means to be in the world, but not of it.

	9.11
	I am like a green olive tree in the house of God.
	I trust in the steadfast love of God
	    for ever and ever.
	I will thank you for ever, because you have done it.
	I will proclaim your name, for it is good,
	    in the presence of the godly. 		(Ps 52.8-9)

	When I called home yesterday afternoon, since I was only 60 miles from home, Mom and Dad came and got me. I was feeling very good and strong. Much better than when I got home last year. Now I turn to what I can do here for a while; as I prayed this morning's psalm:

	My vows to you I must perform, O God;
	    I will render thank offerings to you.
	For you have delivered my soul from death,
	    yea, my feet from falling,
	    that I may walk before God in the light of life. 	(Ps 56.12-13)