Pilgrimage Journal

May-June 2000
Appalachian Trail to Holy Cross Abbey (Berryville, VA)

	5.1 am
	The birds started just before sunrise. I feel good. Nine miles my first day, helped some kids, and woke up on top of Springer Mt. I’ll pray with the birds until the sun gets up some more. (Ps 139)

	5.2 pm
	Second day was tough (but saw an owl coming off Springer). Better today. Tried to rely less on good preparation and more on Providence. I’m not a hiker. I’m a pilgrim.

	5.3 pm
	I never knew a shower and a microwave burrito could make me feel so good. If anyone asks, I think I’ll use "Monk" for a trailname. For now, at least.

	5.5 am
	My sleeping bag finally dried after the ‘mishap’ the night before last (leaky tent). Stayed with some ‘gung-ho’ hikers last night--really the first I’ve met. It’s all about trail knowledge, how things are done, the Experience. First time I felt a little self-conscious about ‘doing something wrong.’ I kept to the periphery. Realized that not cooking spares me the customary gathering around the firepit at dinner and breakfast. More monklike. Also experienced the forced march/mule train of a string of hikers yesterday. Perfect metaphor for conformity. When we (Jeremy/ "Hollywood") broke out of it: beautiful lunchtime rest.

	5.6 am
	Big hills yesterday. But got here in time to rinse, shave, and have a little fire. "Best campsite in miles," says a local. Watched the sun come up orange over misty blue hills. Can’t help feeling good.

	5.7 am
	Left the group yesterday (Hollywood, TnT, Viking Fork), pressing farther than they wanted to go. On my own for at least a few days now.

	5.7 pm
	Beautiful Sunday. Twelve miles not too tough, especially after the 15 yesterday. Even stopped to play the recorder a couple of times. Got in early and found an incredibly nice campsite near a winding stream. In a little valley, everything green, with tiny yellow flowers near the tent. Being alone helped clear my head. I’m not vacationing, I’m in training. Brought focus back to the present. Also: Saw someone had signed "The Monk" at the Ga-NC border. Started thinking and came up with a new trailname: Monk’s Knees (because my knees have been aching since day one, like a monk who prays a lot). I like it.

	5.9 am
	Passed 100mi mark yesterday. Into town for wash, food, and half day off today.

	5.9 pm
	Resting. Got a new mini-stove and non-cotton shirt to try [cotton takes forever to dry, and is very cold when it’s wet]. Letting my poison ivy dry out and my knees recover. Finally got through to Mom and Dad. Clean; eating hot food; piping, reading, relaxing. Maybe have a campfire tonight to offer up incense of thanksgiving.

	5.10 pm
	Alone again today (after an interesting conversation about Christianity with a hiker I met this morning). I guess I lost the others. I thought more about pilgrimage. All the world is God’s, so the pilgrim is at home everywhere though no place is ‘home.’ The world is my hermitage--with visitors, though. Mt 10.39-42 might be good to pass out on the way.

	5.11 pm
	First hot breakfast this (cold!) morning--excellent! Now I’m a half-day outside of town and there’s ten people here tonight. As I lay in my tent, I overheard one young guy mention Peace Pilgrim. He seemed strangely open, talking about spirituality, diet, fasting, God. Didn’t get much response from the others, but he seemed unfazed. Seems to be his normal mode. But I felt angry, listening. Does spirituality have to be so weird? so dreamy? Does it have to sound like a delicious fantasy?

	5.12 pm
	First restaurant since I left, then a long climb back into the hills. Guy at the restaurant called me "one of those drifters," but it seemed everyone else there were drifters rather than me (big tourist spot). Also thought today about false prophets (thinking more about ‘spirituality boy’ from last night). The false prophets of the Old Testament were not Jim Jones or mad doomsdayers. They were respected and popular. They told people what they wanted to hear. Easy spirituality and good feelings. Which made the real prophets’ job harder. Jeremiah hated them.

	5.13 pm
	Long day, so I’ll be close to town for tomorrow. Saw a big dog alone going the other way on the trail; it didn’t show much interest in me. The deep scar on its haunches makes me think it might be a lost hunting dog. Lots of thoughts today: three years with Dominicans like Jonah’s three days in the whale (both ‘spit out’ to finally go do what God wanted; wilderness time facing temptation; learning obedience through suffering; only true freedom is in full obedience to God--life of faith, full of love. Thought I would be alone here tonight, but two other guys showed up later.

	5.14 pm
	Fontana Dam: most beautiful spot so far. Met a few hikers; older couple (Tom and Teresa/"TnT") caught up this evening, but are taking tomorrow off [they also introduced me to "Geezer"]. Got clean and loaded with food. Good, good day (called Mom, too--for Mother’s Day). Into the Smokies tomorrow, across the dam. Wondered if I would be able to start pilgrimage tomorrow--impatient with the hills and the weight of my pack [35-45 pounds, depending on food weight]. But I’m still too self-willed, looking at maps and straining to ‘get there.’ I’m not patient enough with myself or others.

	5.15 pm
	Guy this morning exposed his film trying to rewind the roll. He almost cried. And then he said he should start over (redo 170 miles!) because "the people, the views" were all gone. As if it didn’t happen if it wasn’t on film.
	Started the Smokies today--nice easy grade so I could think about pilgrimage. Here’s what I came up with:

faith --> obedience --> give up security and agendas
	                        accept God’s guidance

hope  --> poverty   --> ‘give freely’; no ‘deals’
            	             depend on generosity of others

love  --> celibacy  --> ‘willing one thing’
       	  (purity) 	clear witness

	obedience frustrates politics
	poverty frustrates business
	purity frustrates false identities/idols

	Cool, sunny day, and short. Thought I saw a bear--I heard a crash in the brush, then, way back in the woods, a dark head peered around a tree before it scrambled up. It wasn’t too big, maybe a young one. Or maybe my imagination got carried away. Got into camp early, before dinner, and got set for a cold night.

	5.16 pm
	Lunch today in a sheltered area on the way up Rocky Top. Beautiful view of Fontana Lake, some trees in flower, others colored red, orange, and yellow. The trail wound up through the grass in the sunshine. Followed a white-tail down, too. Got frustrated because the map wasn’t so good and the trail seemed long. I’ve just got to follow the trail. Stay on the path. Get away from the map and just follow the trail--a good metaphor for pilgrimage. I don’t think it will be as cold tonight. A little longer day tomorrow, over Clingman’s Dome [highest point on the southern part of the trail].

	5.17 pm
	Tired tonight and excited about sleeping. Up and over Clingman’s Dome today. Overcast and misty so only the tops of the mountains were visible. Unearthly. Except that the place was crawling with tourists--it bugged me. Since when do you get to the ‘mountaintop’ by expressway?! Brought back into focus on the way down. What do I care about views or mileage or tourists? I’m following Jesus. For once in my life, I don’t feel frustrated--like I’m holding back. I’m following Jesus, and it happens to be down this trail.
	A young buck, with four velvety points, danced and snorted around me this morning. And a quiet rabbit nibbled past my tent screen tonight. I’m tired, but I’m where I should be.

	5.18 pm
	Charlie’s Bunion and the Sawteeth--fabulous. The mountain itself at Charlie’s was beautiful: red and black exposed rock, decorated with moss and heather, and phenomenal drops below. Best since Rocky Top. My trusty walking stick broke, so I made a new one. Much better, even--strong and straight and light. Got some praying in, too. Focus on being a witness without ‘selling’ anything. Say so much with your life that words are only needed to clarify when people want clarity. Patience and purity. Did better not looking at the map, even though this was my longest day yet (16mi).

	5.19 pm
	Piped this morning from Eagle Rocks--with a sunny morning view into the valley that seemed to drop straight down from the rocks I was sitting on. Exciting, almost scary. The pines smelled good, too. Decided on a retroactive promise for these wilderness days: No bed, no roof, no days off. Like something from the Psalms: "I will not sleep in my bed until the Ark of the Lord...," or something like that [Ps 132]. Seemed like a good idea to prepare for pilgrimage--tent dwelling, sleeping on the ground, keep moving. Tomorrow makes three weeks and I’ve walked every day.
	Thought about blind guides a little, in relation to witness. I can’t be ‘guiding’ for me, just to be guiding. The witness is better if he’s transparent for God--not stumbling over himself. Purity. For God’s Love.
	Out of the Smokies tomorrow; maybe get cleaned up (though I’m definitely staying cleaner) and definitely food. It’s been pretty here, and not too tough.

	5.20 pm
	I’m clean! Plus cheeseburger, fries, BLT(!), and ice cream. Rainy day, but it missed me.
	I was drawn into contemplation coming down out of the Smokies. First, focusing on "The one who finds their life will lose it, and the one who loses their life for my sake will find it." (Started writing this in the hiker registers [located in each shelter along the trail, about every 10 miles]). Mt 10.39. Then: "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life." Good to quiet down and hear God. Being present means more than being focused on the physical here and now. It means being in touch with God Who is Present. Only that is to truly touch what IS.
	Restful day. Slugs crawling all over the tent. Some friendly hikers, older guys [Geezer again, now walking with Half and Half]. Tomorrow: pancakes!

	5.21 pm
	Gouged my finger, blood, passed out and fell off the picnic table. A new hiker saw it happen and rushed to my aid, exclaiming, "Maybe you’d better take another day off!" Rain all day. That’s the bad news. Good news: great pancakes; I charged up the mountain in the rain; and my stuff has almost dried out. Almost.
	With the rain, it seems like ‘Phase II’ temptation. It messes up plans and there’s nothing you can do. "The one who loses their life..." (punctuated by BIG thunder). More prayer today. ‘Ubi Caritas’ works well as a walking chant. [‘Ubi caritas et amor; ubi caritas Deus ibi est’: ‘Where there is charity and love; where there is charity, God is there’]
	Thought about Jesus’ insistence that his disciples tell no one that he is Messiah. He would demonstrate what Messiah is first. Pilgrimage should be the same. Not trumpeting some great Vocation or Calling, but demonstration with an answer--that’s witness. Live it clearly before you proclaim anything. No propaganda. No hype. Just an answer for those who really want to know.
	Marching up the hill in a torrential downpour, drenched, I felt hot and strong. Like steam was coming off my body. Now too, isolated in the wilderness--it’s still raining--I feel like a burning presence. Ubi Caritas. Where love is, there is God. The fire of the Spirit burns here.

	5.22 pm
	Out of the rain. Lunch today on Max Patch Mountain, a grassy bald [no trees] that reminded me of Scottish highlands. Sitting in little yellow flowers, I looked down on a rolling grassy valley with patches of woods. All surrounded by mountains. Clouds rushed through the sunlight, and I piped "Beautiful Savior."
	This morning, I connected Conrad’s "Heart of Darkness" with the rainy woods and "lose your life." The wilderness humbles us. We build, carve out a life, but eventually gravity and decay pulls it back into the earth. Our lives are overgrown and forgotten. Thought of the retired insurance salesman and the just-graduated biology major. Will their lives amount to anything enduring? Will they come to know He Who Is? Nature doesn’t have a heart of darkness, but it does flow from an awesome, unyielding, eternal Source. ("It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." Heb 10.31) Do we know him? Mostly, we don’t. The best we do is imagine a beastly power that is only a reflection of our own darkened hearts. That’s nothing, really. Nothing.

	5.23 am
	Rain this morning. I found in Hebrews an excellent passage about faith and pilgrimage: Heb 11.1,8-16. Abraham as a faithful pilgrim, and his descendants "strangers and exiles," "seeking a homeland." It concludes, "Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city."

	5.23 pm
	Good clear day. Charged up and hobbled down some nice hills. Now in the middle of a terrific thunderstorm. Got the tent up during a pause in the rain. Really didn’t get wet today, though. There’s a crowd here, three miles from Hot Springs.
	Again in Hebrews (13.13-14): "Let us go forth to him outside the camp, and bear the abuse he endured. For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come."

	5.24 am
	Still raining. But the birds started singing right on cue, anyway. Woke up early and prayed by ‘candlelight’ [flashlight]. Psalm 55, about escaping to the wilderness from the "tempest" of oppression and fraud "in the human city." That’s a threat much more than a little rain (or a lot). The real difficulty of bad weather is how it frustrates our plans and desires. Isn’t this just revealing the tempest within? Our arrogance that erupts in oppression and fraud, in a vicious, lying struggle to have our way. Contrast this with Jesus in the Gospel pointing to a little child and saying, if you don’t become humble like this, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. This is the heart of faith--obedience in the best sense.

	5.24 pm
	That was a day! In town: two breakfasts, wash, groceries, package from Mom. Then my clean body sweated up the hill (cliff!) and out of Hot Springs. But I found a pretty ridge pasture ringed with woods, and mountains in the distance. Parked snugly between two massive oaks. And the frogs and crickets have taken up the chorus. Even managed to sniff out an unmarked spring nearby (thank you Jesus!).
	I had to drag myself out of town. The human city was enticing. It offered security, society (the people I’ve been with--I had breakfast with Tom and Teresa--all stayed in town), and ‘silk sheets’ (the usual luxuries). But I’m glad I moved on. Not just for my little vow, but because security, society, and silk sheets smother pilgrimage. I’m alone again (almost; one guy even here, believe it or not), without roof or restaurant, but I feel honest. I’m moving. And not aimlessly, either; but in the right direction. Better yet: I’m following.

	5.25 pm
	It’s late--I was reading my new book, by Edward Abbey. Ferocious wind and thunderstorms this morning, then dry until about an hour outside camp. Crowded here, too. But the blackberries are blooming; and the tiger swallowtails showed up again today. I did well in the rain.
	I didn’t stop at the Jesuit place in Hot Springs, and it’s probably just as well. I met some Catholics today, who talked about their bishop, of all things. Irritating. They seemed so proud of the very things that seem so false to me. I got away quick. But I thought about forgiveness, from the gospel this morning. I’m going to have to forgive people their lies and their arrogance, or I won’t be able to talk to them. Not ignore, forgive. [Here it would also be good to remember what others have to forgive in me.] The lies are at the heart of the problem, but I have to isolate it and forgive it so I can converse without anger. Now, it still takes me a while to sort out the falsehood. But I think I’m getting better.

	5.26 noon
	Lunch in a grassy pasture overlooking mountains and a hazy plain scattered with houses and farms. Busy this morning, as the sun returned. I’m in good shape again. (A tiger swallowtail floats by in the sun...)
	Looks like ‘spirituality boy’ is off the trail. I’ve been reading his entries in the hiker registers--kinda interesting. Found out he’s pretty young, been traveling a lot (living out of a suitcase for years), trying to find himself. Not a bad place to be in; but no good trying to teach others at that point. It’s more for self than for others. I hope he’s ok.

	5.26 pm
	I went just a mile past the shelter to get free of the crowd (someone still camped nearby, though--I’ve never camped alone yet!). After rinsing, airing out, hanging the food: best looking camp yet! The sun and dry is so good after days of damp. By the way, the recorder is now my ‘peace pipe.’ I piped strongly today. Since Springer, I’ve learned "How Great Thou Art," "Morning Has Broken," "Beautiful Savior," Peace Is Flowing Like A River," the beginning of "Morning Song," and "Bright Sunshiny Day": a feeble attempt to drive away the rain. I know about twenty songs now.
	I was reading this morning where the Pharisees ask about divorce. Jesus says no. They say, "Then why did Moses allow it?" They’ve got him. But he replies, "Because of your hardness of heart." Perfect. I think that’s also the answer for so many other less-than-loving actions that are not explicitly forbidden by Biblical law. Like violence, many economic injustices, and others. "Because of your hardness of heart." Many things are not forbidden, but what does love call for?
	Sounds like someone’s hunting not far from here. Dogs--lots of them--baying their fool heads off.

	5.27 noon
	The reading this morning finished up yesterday’s thought. When the rich young man asked "What must I do?," Jesus recited the commandments. But when he persisted, Jesus said, "Sell all, give to the poor, and follow me." Many, like the young man, turn back at this point. Not from weakness--unable to "be perfect"--but from "hardness of heart." If we’re willing to follow, God provides the strength, through faith.
	Passed through a cow pasture laced with daisies this morning. The two tan cows were enjoying their breakfast too much to notice me. Also passed more graves. Lots of people buried on the trail--trying to keep their hiker identity even after death, it seems. Which reminds me: I’ve said I’m not a hiker, but a pilgrim. But lately I’ve written more about ‘pilgrimage’ rather than ‘being a pilgrim.’ That’s better, I think. It describes an action rather than an identity. I don’t want to ‘find my life,’ even as a pilgrim. Pilgrimage is just what I’m doing now, as I follow Jesus, my true and only identity. I’ve also spoken of pilgrimage as a future event, one that I’m "in training" for. But that’s not quite right. The pilgrimage is ongoing, and has been really obvious to me since the whale coughed me up onto the streets of St. Louis. It will change after Holy Cross Abbey, but it’s clearly pilgrimage already. I’m happy about that.

	5.27 pm
	Seemed like a lot of climbing today, but I got in early for a good camp. I’m alone here for the first time (basically--two guys are up the hill, pretty far). I like it tonight. Today I felt much safer in the woods than near roads, houses, and tourists. I’d emerge, then sink back into the cool greenness. Tomorrow is Sunday; I’ll be one-third of the way to the Abbey.

	5.28 am
	After dark last night, the sky lit up in the north, announcing an approaching storm. I hoped it would pass, but it hit suddenly and violently. The wind attacked the trees with a roar like the voice of God, that "strips the forests bare" (Ps 29). But the forest is still here this morning. And so am I, with the birds.
	"The wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, without uncertainty or insincerity." (James 3.17) It’s from God; it’s reflected in the wilderness. Pure, fruitful, certain, sincere. Not the heart of darkness, but God’s heart. That’s how I want my heart to be. The heart of the wilderness, the heart of the monk, the heart of holy, fierce, loving wisdom wherever I happen to be. "If any of you lacks wisdom, let them ask God, who gives to all generously and without reproaching, and it will be given to them. But let them ask in faith..." (James 1.5-6)

	5.28 noon
	Damp morning. And the wind almost pushed me off the top of Big Bald (actually bald, even!). Nice view: small wispy clouds skimming though the mountains, under a low, flat ceiling. And the distant peaks as ghosts in the haze. Saw a deer on the way down, hidden from the wind and munching contentedly, unconcerned about me.
	OK. After a month (almost) and 333 miles, here’s what I see: Most people I’ve met fall into one of two groups. The Conquerors--all about mileage, what they’ve seen, taking pictures, loud and bragging. They seem to have come to defeat the wilderness and carry off booty. Usually the young, gung-ho hikers, but also some older ones, who seem to be trying to prove something. They pass quickly and are forgotten amidst the ancient hills. Thankfully. The other group is more sophisticated. I’ll call them the Claimers--more into nature and a nature philosophy. They want to drink in the experience and be changed, healed. Often the result seems to be a greater awareness of nature’s beauty and a sense of oneness with it all. More in touch with themselves as ‘human animals,’ and glorying in it. (The early Edward Abbey seems to be like this.) They ‘claim’ their own nature and ‘claim’ the wilderness as theirs, since they recognize their oneness with it. Others, the unenlightened, don’t deserve it. The most dedicated ones sacrifice time and work to protect or restore nature--giving back to Mother Earth for all she has given to them. Lovely. But it seems that God would look on this as he looked on sacrifices of rams and bulls. "What can you give me? It’s all mine: the forests and the cities, the wildlife and even your own bodies. It’s not yours to claim or glorify or protect. It’s mine." God shares nature and our human (animal) nature with us briefly; we can hardly call it ours. Even the nature enthusiasts, the body philosophers, the claimers, will lose it all when nature takes their lifeless bodies to itself. "The one who finds their life will lose it..." I don’t want to claim or conquer anything here. But the God that sustains all this life around me also sustains my life--that life I relinquish for the sake of Life itself. "I am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life..."
	I took advantage of a moment of sunshine to write this. I notice I’m writing more and more. It’s not so important, really; but someone who loves me may appreciate it. I love them, too, so I’ll continue to write with them in mind. I hope they’ll get a chance to read it.

	5.29 am
	After getting drenched on the way to the shelter yesterday, a rainy night, and a damp morning, I started thinking about ‘Phase II’ temptation again. The other campers here have left to go into town, for a day or two off (Nice town--Pizza Hut, even!). So I’m alone. I won’t go into town, though--‘No bed, no roof, no days off.’ It’s a little struggle, but not too bad. A warm breakfast helped, and I don’t want to get wrapped up in the human city rigamarole again. I’ll stop at a campground for lunch, a shower, phone call, and maybe supplies; that’ll be enough. Should be crowded--Memorial Day. Still rainy, though.
	I’ve noticed: the Ubi Caritas chant is sinking in. I pray it almost unconsciously as I walk. Cool.

	5.29 pm
	I heard the distant train whistle as I left camp, and again as I neared the town. It seemed like I was descending straight down on top of the place from the cliffs above. Got a shower. Even ordered a pizza! But the place left a bad impression. Maybe it was the dreary weather, or the muddy brown river running through it. But from the shop owner nervously protecting his merchandise from dirty fingers, to the hiker washing buses to save up enough to continue up the trail, to the pizza guy hesitantly asking the rafting place about future business, it made me think of sweaty, crumpled dollar bills. The anxious penny-counting. The helpless need of money. To not have and be content, trusting the Provider, that’s holy poverty. And that’s beautiful. This was not beautiful. Climbing out of there was like rising from a dark, damp and chilly hole.
	I ascended into bursts of mountain laurel. They’re everywhere: trees with clusters of small, upturned umbrellas with red flecks in the points. Faintly sweet. I’ve enjoyed them. Also the lilies: white, facing up; red, facing down; and white with red streaks. Also white with black hearts. Other favorites: the tiny wild lavender irises, and the pink lady slippers. (Mom asked about flowers today.)
	At the shelter last night, I discovered an interesting older man. We talked for hours about spirit, relationships, oneness, Jesus. I really needed and enjoyed the conversing. When I saw his bushy gray beard and reading glasses with one lens missing, I knew I was in for something.
	Got a new walking stick, too. My ‘perfect’ stick broke yesterday (breaking my fall), then I found this one in town. It’s a little heavier and a lot stronger. A staff, really. I’m betting this one lasts to the Abbey. [It did--it lasted all the way to Florida!]

	5.30 am
	Invigorated by last night’s conversation, I was awake to hear the first birds. Ate oatmeal and peanut butter some ‘foiled’ hikers gave me, and cooked with fuel that older guy gave me. Shook his hand before he left, heading south. Our passing in the woods was quite beautiful, I think. The sun seemed to agree, beaming brilliantly through the leaves.

	5.30 pm
	Today: Water rushing unseen under broken rock; sunlight filtering through, and sparkling on a hillside of dewy ferns; a scorched mountainside, still smelling like soot, where only the larger trees survived--though moss and fresh shoots were greening the forest floor; a morning of solitude, meeting no one for six miles (except one sharp-eyed van driver who apparently felt it was his duty to honk at hikers sitting quietly in the woods); lunch by an old log fence.
	Pondering last night’s conversation: At one point he said, "If I see God, I will grab his beard and give it a friendly tug." Very Eastern (he said he is Buddhist; goes by the trailname Yogi B). In that tradition, individuality and sin are illusions. Fits in well with nature philosophy’s focus on oneness, and modern psychology’s denial of personal guilt (he’s also a psychologist). But it seems that a denial of sin and the individual human spirit (soul) also necessarily denies the reality of true human freedom. He seemed to believe in some kind of freedom, though, when I reminded him of it. Great talk. (But pulling God’s beard? We’ll see about that.) As for me, my individual free soul (sinful as it is) is all I really have to offer God--and all he desires of me. I offer it up in faith to his eternal embrace of love. And I really enjoyed praising and confessing Christ passionately to a gentle, thoughtful, and compassionate man.

	5.31 am
	After reading Edward Abbey last night, I fell asleep and awoke thinking about writing. Abbey embraced writing as a calling. But as I read him, and reflect on other experiences of vocation/calling, it seems that usually the foremost consideration is self-fulfillment. ‘Finding yourself,’ being happy, identity. It becomes a ‘paradigm’ with its own unique values and agendas. And, in that, it is false. I do not want to be a writer; I don’t want to be anything. A person, yes; a follower of Jesus, a child of God, yes. And I may write, or walk, or preach--but I’m not a writer, hiker, or preacher. I’m not anything; Christ is everything, and I am only what I am in him. "Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing upon earth that I desire besides you." (Ps 73.25) The sun keeps peeking into my tent--time to go out.

	5.31 noon
	Lunch barefoot in the grass. More on vocation: It usually involves the question "What am I good at?" I’ve often asked myself that. But ‘good at’ is a poor measure of value. It compares us to others, measures us according to some humanly determined standard or paradigm, like artist, athlete, scientist. Seeking what we’re ‘good at’ is usually seeking self-fulfillment, self-esteem. It’s self-seeking, promoted by a worldly wisdom that would make us more useful social commodities. Forget ‘good at.’ Be good. That has absolute value; and we can’t really be good at anything without being good as persons. The trouble is: only God is good (Jesus said, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone." Mk 10.18) We must be good with God’s goodness--his love shining through us--through faith.

	6.1.00 am
	Warmer morning, sun silently streaming through the woods. Today Jesus asked the Pharisees about John and they could not answer. They argued among themselves, but not about John, rather about the consequences of their answer. Politics. They could understand popular opinion and political authority, but not the authority of Jesus--which was Truth, Absolute, God’s authority. The authority of reality--What Is--that very few recognize because they are lost in illusion. Aimless nomads rather than pilgrims following the fiery pillar through the desert.

	6.1 am (still)
	I need a break. I think I’m at least half-way up Roan Mt. (elev. 6300 ft). Steep and long. It’s cool, but sweat glistens on my arms; it drops on my neck; it’s running down my temples; and it soaks the red bandanna I use to mop my face. The Appalachians are always moist, I hear. Apparently that’s what gives their misty (smoky) appearance. It gives me a sweaty appearance.
	More from this morning: Without the pillar of fire (seen through faith) as guide, we have only each other as landmarks to gauge direction and progress. The blind leading the blind. It’s obviously relative (apparent) direction/progress, but it seems to be all we have. This is clearly seen in politics and business, especially. It’s all about: What are they thinking/doing/about to do? Its ‘substance’ is popular opinion and rhetoric (advertisements). It’s getting the votes, the sales--figuring out what people want (or telling them what they want). The power depends on the continued support of the people. Even money has no fixed/absolute value. Religion tries to rise above this by establishing laws/dogma; but a ‘divine’ law is still not God, the Absolute, the ‘Spirit of the Law’ that Jesus spoke of. Dogma, too, shifts with popular opinion (though this is fiercely denied). And religion (at least institutional religion) is ultimately overwhelmed by political and economic concerns. This is the human city. But it is not a lasting city. It has no firm foundation, only opinions, rhetoric, lies.

	6.1 pm
	Coming down from Roan, I walked over three grassy balds with valleys dropping away on both sides. I felt a strange urge to fling my arms around, singing "The hills are alive...." Too tired, though.
	Absolutely beautiful campsite. At sunset, the hills are shades of blue in a soft pink mist.

	6.2 am
	My tent faces out over a long luxurious valley (the ‘sunny valley’ from "Shadowlands"). Perfect clear blue overhead. The sky last night was unbelievable: countless stars flaring and flashing like tiny glowing embers, with the Milky Way splashed across the blackness. No moon. Various hoots and wheezes from owls, too--echoing. More birds this morning than I’ve ever heard at once, a regular menagerie. I had breakfast before sunrise, with four white-tail does watching from the pasture below. And, at its leisure, the sun slid above the crest to my left. It filled the valley inch by inch with its brilliance, lifting the heavy dew from the grass--and my tent. A wondrous place.

	6.2 noon
	Hiked a long, high ridge with no trees on it, only wind rippling the tall grass and a few picturesque rock outcroppings. Also a small picturesque herd of cattle, with huge black-tipped horns. Some horns were at least four feet long (each!) and six inches in diameter at the base. It’s amazing they can raise their heads at all. Now lunch in a field of gold.
	I’ve been thinking about writing friends as I near the halfway point. Becky, Tim, Rick, and the Michaels Wentzel and Kyte. About what I plan to do once I reach the Abbey, and to give them a chance to write me there. I think I’ll also start talking to Mom and Dad about it a little more. I’ll write: "Paul has arrived in Damascus!", since I’ll be in Damascus, VA, then. Then, my sketchy plan: to continue walking, but with only my ‘pilgrim bag’ [purse-sized, with shoulder strap] (designed for military use, ironically), and beg food along the way. Stick to the minor roads. And stay as long as I’m useful, generally moving north in the spring and south in the fall. That’s it. Also (and more importantly), I’ll try to explain why. The ‘Why not something else?’ is basically what I’ve been writing here. The oppression of politics and business, with all their lies. They play a major role in every profession: dictating values, goals, and standards for success. At best, these will only confuse and cloud a person’s compassion and Christian witness. But they will consistently work to smother love wherever it is found. At worst, the role of business and politics will become an obvious contradiction to the gospel of Christ. I’ve seen it everywhere, even in professional ministry. It’s an intrinsic part of ‘the institution.’ So that’s the negative part of the why. More tomorrow.

	6.2 pm
	Revelation today. And I’ve got no one to tell because, for the first time since Springer, I’m all alone. Really alone. No one for miles, probably. But they probably wouldn’t understand or care much anyway. And I like being alone with the aspens here.
	I’m getting off the trail in Damascus. Paul arrives in Damascus, after forty days in the wilderness, and... then what? I’m going to take my pilgrim bag and hit the road from there. I still plan to go to the Abbey, but without backpack and on the pavement; I’ll probably get there a month earlier. And I will take the rest of my money with me. To buy food--and lodging if necessary, though I plan on sleeping outdoors usually. Another step towards the type of pilgrimage I wrote about earlier today. The idea just came to me.
	I wondered if getting off early was impatience, if the idea itself was really a temptation. But I think this way will actually be more difficult, not easier. The trail from here north is fairly easy (I’ve heard). I’ve already been through the highest, coldest, steepest parts. And I’m in good shape; the physical challenge is getting less and less. So now I shift to a greater psychological and spiritual challenge: re-entering the ‘normal’ world and continuing the pilgrimage. Also, hitting Damascus at 40 days gives nice closure.
	As I was feverishly contemplating the rightness of this choice, I encountered some strange symbology. It’s a spiritual journey, so I’m free to assign symbols and grant them meaning, you see. The first was a dead dog. A black dog, with all its flesh gone, so the teeth and claws were exposed and the skin hung over the rib cage. Still very much a dog form, though. I looked at it--since it was right on the trail--and moved on. Then I saw the second: a black snake. It was the biggest I’ve seen, and I only saw the last two feet of it, fleeing quickly into the deep grass. It must have been at least twice that long. Big and black. Like the dog, I thought. Like evil, devils, or temptation, dead or fleeing. I looked for a third symbol. Alert for black, I paid no attention to the white flowers until there were so many around me that I couldn’t help but notice. Blackberry bushes in bloom everywhere, in big mounds, hanging out on every side. The thorny vines bore tiny white flowers, slightly fragrant, sometimes with splashes of pink. Symbology of Christ’s Passion if I ever saw it. Perhaps I’m reaching, but I found it all rather comforting. Next I passed "Isaac Cemetery." Isaac--the life sacrificed that was not lost. "The one who loses their life for my sake will find it." It all seemed to fit for me, but of course I was a little feverish at the time.
	I still am excited, really. Not about the symbols but about following Jesus. I feel close and aware of his leading; and I’m ready to drop my plans when he shows me what is right. The first plan was a start, but this is better. It helps prepare me more. It makes the transition more gradual. And the time is right.
	I feel excited, and good. Peaceful and hopeful. Suddenly it’s time to change direction and I’m ready--because I’m poor and free.
	In the few days before Damascus, I’ll try just using my flysheet [tent cover] as a shelter, no tent. And I’ll lose the sleeping bag, too. Then, in Damascus, I’ll get a room for a couple of days (the ‘vow’ is over!) and call home and write my letters as planned. I’ll call the Abbey, then set out on secondary roads. It’ll be shorter, and a lot quicker, though I might have to make side trips for food; I don’t know what kind of towns I’ll run into. We’ll see.
	But first I need to buy food and get cleaned up tomorrow. After that, five days to Damascus. God is so good. I hope I can sleep tonight--maybe a little peace pipe first. Long day tomorrow.

	6.3 am
	Laying awake in the dark last night, I glanced out and saw a light. In the pitch black of the woods, a single tiny glow. I watched it come closer, then turn away... and it was gone. Darkness again and silence, only the rushing of the stream nearby. Then another light, a floating, bobbing candle that approached then went out. Suddenly dozens of fireflies were streaming from the woods. They came at me, then turned aside or sailed over my tent. I sat up and watched for a long time, enchanted.
	This morning I piped with the birds until it was bright enough to write. Yesterday was overwhelming. I’m still a little shaken by it all--humbled and thrilled and eager. It could rain for the next five days and there would still be a burning in my forehead. And a tremor in my gut. I’m free-falling--faster and faster--into the hands of the living God.
	The reading today: "Give unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s." To Caesar: worthless trinkets, paper and cheap metal that men drool over and have ulcers about, but which have no lasting value. To God: all. Our mind, our hearts, our strength. "Vahavta eth-Adonay Eloheka bekol-levavka, uvkol-naphsheka, uvkol-meodeka." (Deut 6.5)
	Fifteen miles into town today.

	6.3 noon(ish)
	I saw another black snake this morning. But this one didn’t slither off into the grass. I tried to frighten it off the trail; but when I touched it, the smooth tip of its tail started to quiver and it turned to face me, rearing up its head. It was at least four feet long and BLACK black.
	I went around. Nice contrasting symbology after yesterday. Evil’s not whupped yet, I know.
	Speaking of symbology, I meant to write about some of the signs that have encouraged me towards pilgrimage. I’ll get back to the real answer to ‘Why this?,’ but first the signs, since I’m on the subject. The first was when I was in Navy nuclear training in Idaho. I used to drive up to where the mountains started and crawl up this steep craggy monolith. From up there I could look down over rolling fields of various grains--divided by the bends of the Snake River--and out to the town of Idaho Falls. I would sit up there on my day off. It was isolated and quiet; sometimes I would gather sticks for a fire. And there was a man-sized hollow, that looked like it had been scooped out by a giant finger. I would sit in there and pray. I called it ‘the Sanctuary,’ inspired by Moses’ song on the banks of the Red Sea: "You will bring them in, and plant them on your own mountain, the place, O Lord, which your hands have made." (Ex 15.17) I loved that place.
	Near the end of my time in Idaho, I was up there praying about my life, praying for guidance. I wondered if I would get married or maybe become a monk. I had only been a Catholic for two months, but I had been visiting monasteries and admired the Trappists. I was also still close with Becky, however, despite the fact that we were broken-up at the time and she was in Germany for a year, studying. We wrote weekly, and called every two months or so (very expensive). She was to return later that month. So I was praying for guidance or light or something. Give me a sign, I pleaded. But it was very quiet on the mountain.
	There was a peak above where I sat. Not far, but much higher, with a squat, twisted evergreen on top. The heights of enlightenment, I imagined. I looked up to that peak, as I often did when I prayed, and saw a vulture circling slowly. Then another. Another. Soon there were eight vultures soaring around the peak. I counted again (since seven is usually God’s magic number). No, eight. This was my sign, I decided. Eight vultures, eight years. Not an answer, exactly; I would have to wait eight years for an answer. Then I would know. I was satisfied, but I still thought I would either marry or enter a monastery. I started waiting.
	That was the beginning of August, in 1992. Eight years ago.
	The rain’s almost stopped. I should go. Still six more miles to town.

	6.4 am
	It’s 2:30 and I can’t sleep. Got rained on a little yesterday, and the thunder chased me all the way down the mountain. Then a girl (I could barely understand her Australian accent) gave me a ride to this oasis: camping, laundry, showers, store, even internet access! The same girl drove some of us to a big grocery store for food, so I will eat well all the way to Damascus. I’ll eat well here, too. Breakfast in about five hours. I’m staying till after lunch, then walking a half-day. No rush.
	I think all the excitement is what’s messing up my sleep. Too many changes, too fast. I’m not using sleeping bag or tent tonight, just the flysheet. It’s different, but not too cold. Also, I’m still buzzing from a good talk with another older hiker [Half and Half]. He asked all about me, then told about how he’s failed to find spiritual renewal so far. We talked about distractions, busy-ness, and solitude. Creating a ‘vacuum’ for God. But I think he might be trying to put the final piece--spirituality--in order in his life. He’s satisfied with career, family, social life, etc. So now it’s time to think about squeezing God in somewhere. That won’t work. If you let God in, he’ll want to take over. He won’t be satisfied with a corner of our life. He won’t be a visitor, an assistant, a partner--he’ll be Lord or nothing. Good talk, though. At least the guy’s interested.
	And this was the first time I tried to explain to strangers about my pilgrimage plans. Saying it out loud made me even more excited. So now I’m sitting up at 3am, writing, not sleepy at all.
	How about more ‘signs.’ There were three semi-prophetic moments that I remember well. The first was right after I came back from England, I think. I went to see Becky in Chicago, and we were on the topic of marriage. I said that I would never get married. Not because of a vow, but because I would end up on a path that I couldn’t imagine anyone would be willing to take with me. Becky wasn’t so sure. The second was during a visit to New Melleray Abbey in Dubuque. I was talking to the Abbot (whom I met in England) and he said I had the "Trappist spirit." I said I didn’t see myself joining an established order. I thought I would be more of a solitary wanderer, though I didn’t say that then. About a year and a half later, I entered the Dominicans. But I didn’t forget my ‘prophecy.’
	The third sign was during my introductory weekend with the Dominicans. Because of their wealth and security, I felt they wouldn’t be a realistic option for me. Then during the final gathering of the weekend, the reading at Mass was about Peter coming to Jesus on the water. I felt that turning down the Dominicans was like stepping out of the boat: crossing the sea, but not by the usual means. It would be difficult, and I was afraid. But Jesus said, "O ye of little faith...." The words excited and scared and comforted me, all at once. I remember a tear falling to the floor at that moment. Of course, I did join the Dominicans a year later; I didn’t get pushed out of the boat until almost three years after that. When the whale coughed up a repentant Jonah. But I remembered that tear.
	There’s a few more little signs, but I’m starting to feel a little drowsy. I’d better take another shot at sleep before it gets noisy around here.

	6.4 sunrise (Sunday)
	I slept a little, then got up before five to do laundry and shower. Prayed, got a hot cup of coffee, and called Mom and Dad. Maybe, subconsciously, I was worried about the call home--that’s why I couldn’t sleep. Telling them about my plans necessarily led to a talk about my whole pilgrimage plan. I knew it would be a blow to then, even though I’ve tried dropping hints about it. Their first reaction was mostly shock, understandably. But then they were very understanding and supportive. Faithful hearts--I am proud of them. For me it was a great emotional release: my words were often choked, and tears streaked my face. A tremendous release. Now maybe I can sleep some more before I hike out. But first, breakfast.

	6.4 am (again!)
	I said something to Mom that seemed good. Something like: Everything we get in life comes free. The sun, the rain, animals and plants for food, natural resources for building, even the bodies we work with--they all come free. People claim ownership, assign prices, buy and sell. But this is all a fraud. It is not our property to sell, it is a gift for the good of all. we should give of our labor and the fruits of that labor as freely as all good things have been given to us. "Freely you have received, freely give." (Mt 10.8)
	Now back to the signs, since I have time before lunch. The last three are pretty minor, but they’ve helped. First, my hiking in England. I sort of fell into that: I had stuff to carry and a backpack seemed more wieldy. I had time, so I started to walk, on a self-guided tour of monastic ruins and staying at some still-operational monasteries. And I found out I liked it. It was a woman I met on a trail in England that told me about the Appalachian Trail. So that’s where I got my start hiking, when I was just trying to avoid the brig [I was AWOL at the time] and maybe settle myself into a monastery.
	The second sign is Peace Pilgrim, whom I stumbled upon while doing some research at the Chicago library when I stopped there on my way home from St. Louis. She walked with practically nothing, living on what people gave her along the way, for thirty years, until she was seventy, in this century. During the 50s through the 80s, approximately. I was very encouraged to read about her. So that sort of thing didn’t just happen in the first century (Jesus) or the Middle Ages (Dominic and Francis)! 
	And the third sign is simple, but a nice capstone: Pope John Paul II declared the year 2000, the millennial year, a holy year of pilgrimage.
	So those are my seven signs. Not much, but they’ve been little reminders along the way and moments of encouragement for me. Cheerful coincidences. They’re not the Why? for pilgrimage, but they’ve helped. And I am thankful for them. Maybe I’ll write on the Why? tomorrow. Now it’s just about time for a cheeseburger--enough writing!

	6.5 am
	I meant to go only six miles yesterday, but when I got to the campsite, the spring was barely a trickle. So I had to hike another four miles. Nice and easy four miles, however: a gradual descent through clouds of Mountain Laurel, then along a lake. It’s a man-made lake; I’ll cross the dam today.
	Woke up very early, but fairly well rested. Sat up and found that I could doze sitting ‘Indian-style’ with my head bowed. Not too uncomfortable and an easy way to get rest. That might just come in handy later. I slipped in and out, half-dreaming, and listening to the trucks in the distance, down-shifting into a descent. I’ll be on the road, too, soon.

	6.5 noon
	I’m overlooking Watauga Lake, about 1700ft below me. Some clouds hang absolutely motionless at eye level. A cool, dark, drippy morning. Got a show just before I got here, though. I startled a grouse, who fled, then charged back whistling and clucking, with its feathers all fanned and puffed out. Charged me two or three more times, trying to scare me off, so I moved along.
	(Fog rolls in, and I move back to the shelter here to start on Why? Why pilgrimage?)
	First, because I believe ‘subsistence living’--taking just what you need--is simply justice. Jesus said the law could be summed up: Love your neighbor as yourself. To hoard, to place your own security first, is not loving your neighbor. Ownership, property rights, capitalist theory carry no weight against "Love your neighbor as yourself." We should take only what we need, and leave the rest so others can take what they need. Instead of asking "How much can I get?," we should ask "How little do I need?" That's where capitalism fails. Of course, we may not know how little we need, after becoming so accustomed to a certain standard of living. But we should be actively trying, then, to determine what our needs actually are, and how much we can return to our neighbor. That's simply justice. I struggled with this in the Dominicans, where their 'poverty' often failed to even meet the requirements of justice.
	All this is merely to reestablish a just standard, a contrast to the absurd economics of the world. But we are really called to more as followers of Christ. Jesus told his disciples, "Love your neighbor as I have loved you." That's more than simple justice, and its model is the life Jesus lived. He did not simply refuse to steal from his neighbor, he became his neighbor's servant. He sacrificed his life for his neighbor's sake.
	This re-introduces the life ("I am the Life") of faith, hope, and love that I touched on May 15th. But I'm getting chilly sitting here, so I'd better return to this later. Seven miles to camp.

	6.5 pm
	After lunch, I got so drowsy walking I thought about stopping. But the fatigue passed eventually. I'm not sleeping well yet--not used to sleeping on the ground in my clothes, and the emotional stress of these days has been greater than I expected. We'll see how tonight goes. It rained very hard during dinner and my flysheet kept all my stuff dry; as long as I'm warm enough tonight, I should be fine. Patience. And faith.
	Now where was I? Faith, hope, love; obedience, poverty, purity. Faith means offering up a living sacrifice of our will, letting God direct our lives. It's perfect obedience to the One who is Good. Our own plans and agendas must be put aside, our ambition must dissolve. We take the attitude of listening and following. Lord show me the path--where do I put my foot next? Faith means stepping beyond our sphere of security ('out of the boat') to go where Christ goes. And he goes where no one else can go--except by faith.
	Hope grows out of faith, yet does not 'go beyond' faith. For faith is the assurance of things hoped for (Heb 11.1). But those who follow Jesus in faith also begin to demonstrate the spiritual fruit of hope. With the assurance of faith, hope sees love that has not yet become action. Hope trusts in God's providence and relies on the loving generosity of others--on whom we all depend. Hope depends on God and other people joyfully. Thus hope makes a life of holy poverty possible--we can carry nothing with us because of our hope that God will provide through others. Hope also allows us to give to others generously and freely, without worrying about 'getting paid.' We don't have to constantly make 'deals' with others because God takes care of us, and takes care of others through us. There is no hope without faith, and those with little faith seldom act hopefully. Hope is not merely desire: hoping I get what I want. The spiritual fruit of hope is rare and beautiful.
	Finally, love. Love is always present where God is present; there is love in hope and in faith. Through faith, God's love (the only love that is love) shines through, manifested in hope and in the virtue of pure human love. It is pure because it is clear--clearly selfless, clearly self-sacrificing, clearly for the good of others (God's good, that is). Faith and hope produce visible effects, but they are primarily movements of the spirit, within us. Love is always for others, a reaching out, a display of God's goodness. Thus love necessarily points to God who is love. We cannot truly love another without pointing them towards God; love is witness. This witness is always an act of faith; it does not transcend faith. But it is the highest because helping another towards God is the greatest good we can do for them. Love is pure because it is God himself acting--showing himself--through us. And all this through faith. Such love is rare indeed, because we hardly have hope and often do not even have faith the size of a mustard seed. But where there is true faith, love will appear. God shows himself through his faithful.
	It seems to me that all this is clearly seen in pilgrimage. The faith of a life of following, remaining continually open to new guidance from God. Setting personal goals and ambitions aside. Hope is seen in a life of poverty, openly and joyfully depending on the generosity of others. Giving freely, working without worrying about being paid. And the work? Love. Being a visible sign in the world of God's love. Living a life like Jesus; speaking with deeds, answering with words. Openly and clearly demonstrating the reality of God among us. Others can see what wonders God can do because the pilgrimage leads out of the boat, way out into the raging waters. How can this be? The answer comes back, "Through the one I follow: the Way, the Truth, the Life, Jesus Christ." To be this kind of witness in the world, to demonstrate faith, hope, and love for others, that’s why I want to follow Jesus on pilgrimage.
	That's the Why. Additionally, I appreciate the solitude and physical exertion. And I think the symbol of pilgrimage is tremendously rich, theologically. It's been used so much: Abraham, Exodus, the Exile, Jesus, Paul, and throughout the history of Christianity. But the real reason, the reason I believe is good--not just good for mr, but good--is because I see how it can be the setting for faith, hope, and love. Just as it was in Jesus' life.
	
	6.6 pm
	It seems like an eternity since I last wrote. I still can't fathom how this day's events fit together and mean something. Maybe tomorrow. I'm in Damascus, almost thirty miles from where I was last night. It's unbelievable. I'm in a bed with clean sheets, and when I awake I'll go downstairs to breakfast. That's all I know. That, and that the Lord is very good.

	6.7 am
	"...and behold, angels came and ministered to him."(Mt 4.11) There are two framed angels over the bed, needlepoint angels in the bathroom, and a stained glass angel in the window, playing a saxophone.
	Where do I begin? Yesterday was twenty turbulent hours, a fierce river of time. The night before, I fell asleep at once, exhausted from walking after two nights of broken sleep. But I didn't sleep long. The severe rain before dark ushered in an unexpected and eerie cold front, and I awoke at 1:30am thoroughly chilled and unable to get back to sleep. I sat up, with all my clothes on (poncho included), shivering in the dark for four hours. The wind blew water from the trees and when I turned on my flashlight I could see my breath. Finally I said my prayers and stepped out. There was heavy fog, wind, and the temperature was in the low 40s. I ate and left quickly, hoping to escape the cold by descending (we were at 4000ft). But the freak cold (the forecast was for sun and 70 degrees) lasted all day. All day: 40s, wind, fog, dripping trees, soggy ground. I had to walk to stay warm, being careful not to work up a sweat, because I quickly became cold each time I stopped and I needed my clothes dry for warmth. It was the coldest day since I left Springer Mountain. I wore three shirts, including my wool one, and long pants. All day I blew clouds of vapor. And this is June 6th, in Tennessee. Strange.
	I stumbled along for a few hours, greatly fatigued but warmer. When I'd come down about 500ft, it was a little warmer and I was so tired I felt I could hardly go on, so I laid down for a rest. I think I slept about 30 minutes. The cold woke me up, and I staggered to my feet and continued, somewhat refreshed by the rest. I don't remember much of the walking. Only that I thought of Ps 130: "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope...." I was waiting to see how he would get me out of this. There were still about 25 miles to Damascus (at least a day and a half), I had had little sleep, and the cold night ahead of me seemed threatening. I saw that I needed to sleep during the day, if I could, since the chill of night seemed impossible. I also thought of walking at night for warmth, but that didn't seem wise in the dark woods on a narrow, winding trail marred by rocks and roots. I was nervous.
	By lunch, the weather seemed even a little worse. The wind had increased and it felt colder. Still foggy. I made hot chocolate, which warmed me momentarily. And I began to try to think of other options, other ways to get to Damascus. The distance seemed impossibly long (still almost 18 miles by trail). But there was a road in three and a half miles, where I had planned to camp that night. I considered leaving the trail early, even walking at night if necessary. I was very tired and this weather was serious. The five-day, 50-mile "stroll" to Damascus had become the biggest challenge of my 40 days. The rain of the previous weeks had been an inconvenience--this cold and exhaustion were threats.
	When I got to the road, I set up my tent and considered my situation. The weather was no better. It was three more miles to the first town, then maybe 15 miles to Damascus after that. I needed sleep. It was 2:30pm. I decided to nap as long as I could, while I was still warm from walking. I managed about one and a half hours of sleep and woke up shivering. Checked the weather: Cold, windy, no break in the clouds. That settled it. I ate my dinner and braced for a long walk. First get to town, then decide what to do next; but I was getting off the trail right now. I quickly packed my things and started down the road. It was easy walking, downhill, and I immediately began to feel better. I was baffled as to what God was doing here, but the rest and the easy grade allowed me to think and pray about what was happening. My mind raced.
	The first town was Shady Valley, Tenn. It was small, farmy, and pretty. Little ponds ringed with cattails, and a few Canadian geese, even. I came to a store about 6pm. Talked to a local, who was also mystified by the weather, and who claimed it had got down to 38 degrees at his place the night before. It wasn't much warmer there, even though I had descended considerably. And no place to stay. So I took the final step. I grabbed my pilgrim bag, stuffed some granola bars and an apple in my pockets, and dumped the rest. I gave my backpack to some guys there. And I set off for Damascus with my bag slung over my shoulder, staff in hand.
	The sky still threatened (I was worried it might rain), but the walk was nice and I was warm. I didn't think I would make it to Damascus before 10:30pm, and wondered if I would be able to find a room, but in any case walking was better than sitting in the cold dark. I passed sheep, cows, and horses. A grade school softball game. A farmer cutting hay. Then, after four miles of cars whizzing past, a beat-up pickup stopped. My savior was an old, round, grizzled man, complete with dirty cap and a full mountain-man beard. He was half-drunk, I think. But he got me to Damascus by 8pm, and I was showered and in bed at "The Maples" bed-and-breakfast by 9:30.
	I awoke this morning to a flawless pale blue sky. The tempest was past. Then I walked downstairs, and bumped into the two men [Geezer and Half and Half] I had stayed with at the last campground! An extravagant breakfast followed. It's like a dream, really. I'm in awe.
	I think yesterday's twenty hours were a test. Not that God was testing me to satisfy himself; he was testing me for my sake, to show me something. He showed me how I could adapt, change plans, change sleep patterns, cast off needless burdens, and survive. He showed me how I could face threatening conditions and make sound decisions. Think under pressure. And he showed me that if I walk in faith, waiting for his salvation, I will not be disappointed. Also, God took me from the pilgrimage of the trail and, with a firm hand, initiated me into a pilgrimage of the road. Whatever my initial intention, I was all but forced to abandon my pack and take to the pavement. It was an act of obedience, I believe. I found myself walking with pilgrim bag and staff, and it was not my doing. It was most definitely God's act. I still tremble when I think of it.
	The first half of Psalm 116 seems appropriate to close this first chapter. I say it at night before I go to sleep. This is the Grail version:

	I love the Lord
	For he has heard the cry of my appeal,
	For he turned his ear to me
	    on the day that I called him.
	They surrounded me, the snares of death,
	    with the anguish of the tomb;
	    they caught me, sorrow and distress.
	I called on the Lord's name,
	    "O Lord my God, deliver me!"
	How gracious is the Lord, and just.
	Our God has compassion.
	The Lord protects the simple hearts;
	    I was helpless so he saved me.
	Turn back, my soul, to your rest
	    for the Lord has been good.
	He has kept my soul from death,
	    my eyes from tears,
	    and my feet from stumbling.
	I will walk in the presence of the Lord
	    in the land of the living.

	6.7 pm
	Tender, cool evening. Still not a cloud in sight. I rested today, washed, wrote letters. Called the Abbey and (after flustering the Guestmaster) talked with the abbot. After listening to my long explanation, he responded beautifully: I can stay with the monks IN the monastery, pray, work, and eat with them, for up to a month. No donation necessary. I think part of the generosity may be because, technically, I'm still a Dominican. He did ask for a personal reference, but at the end of the conversation he said prospect of my visit "feels good"; I just need to call him a few days before my arrival. I'm not sure how long I will stay. But the prayer, reading, and monkish company should be good. Then west, by faith.
	I'm ready to leave tomorrow, though I'll probably wait till after lunch. The spaghetti [at the local restaurant] sounded good.
	Today was all blessing.

	6.8 am
	When I thought, "My foot slips,"
	    your steadfast love, O Lord, held me up.
	When the cares of my heart are many,
	    your consolations cheer my soul.		Ps 94.18-19

	I can still hear the birds, faintly, through the windows. They woke me up, with the sun rising over the ridge of trees behind this old house. I'm a little uneasy this morning. Today I step into the unknown even more: Where will I sleep tonight? Where will the road lead? Leaving this place is difficult, because it has been my goal for days, and a comfort. But there are little 'cracks' here, same as everywhere else. This is still the human city. It must not hold me. Jesus says today, "Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away." (Mt 24.35) I would like to act in obedience to those words. Not persuaded by the fraud of the human city, not clinging even to the holy beauty of heaven and earth. But following the sound of his voice along the roads of 'the world.'

	6.8 pm
	This is the way to travel. I don't know how I'll do tonight, but this is definitely the way to travel. Smooth surface, never more than 7% grade, and less than ten pounds to carry (half of that is food and water). Of course this happens to be a great road, climbing through the Mount Rogers National Recreation Area, with a stream following me all the way, hissing and roaring; it's one long rapids. Sunny, too, but shady and cool.
	Watching the cars passing at intervals, I got this image: little colored cable cars, locked in fixed iron tracks, being pulled irresistibly up and down the road. Little personal cages hurtling along well-maintained ruts. Bored eyes stare out the windows. I've gotten similar images walking past stalled rush hour traffic in Chicago. Or watching cars sitting idly at stop lights. Air-conditioned cages on wheels. A moving zoo.
	I also encountered my first roadway menace, only a half-hour out of town. Bellowing, bright orange, government-owned, roadside weed-whacking tractors. I side-stepped it easily enough, but it dogged me for an hour, keeping me from pausing at all. Who cares if the weeds grow--we're in the middle of no where! (Not that there's anything wrong with that...)
	I had a good talk (pilgrimage, Christianity) with young guy (another hiker) just before I left town. Also spoke with a female hiker who got off the trail there. I'd seen both of them previously on the trail, but now I was ultra-light and headed in a new direction. They seemed to appreciate that. Steamroller and Songbird. Also said goodbye to Geezer and Half and Half. Farewell to Monk's Knees, too. Now it's just Paul.

	6.8 (later)pm
	Finally got to a store (and library!) about 20 miles out of Damascus. Microwave burrito, ginger ale, ice cream bar. And talked to the locals; one called me "touched in the head." Went about 200 yards further and voila! A cemetery! Just what Peace Pilgrim recommended for a peaceful night's rest. So I'll be sleeping tonight with Peter Joseph Luminella III, who died when he was just 31. (Same age as me...) He's been here seven years and seems to be satisfied. The sun's just setting. Maybe I'll read a little--I got Conrad's "The Secret Agent" for 25 cents at the Damascus library. Then try to sleep. It's above 3700ft here--may be a little chilly.

	6.9 am
	First night out and I had to use the micro-thin plastic emergency blanket I brought. It worked pretty well--until about 2:30am. I started walking at 3, in the dark, following the white line of the road, only using my flashlight to read road signs. Four and a half hours later, I'm waiting for this store to open, so I can get a proper breakfast and a lunch-to-go. Pretty morning, but cold.
	I'll have to avoid sleeping anywhere in the vicinity of dogs. They're a nuisance generally, with their territorial bravado, but at night they'll catch my scent if I am near and bark blindly into the dark until the wind shifts. Not good for me or the neighborhood.
	Two recollections: First, one day walking to the library in St. Louis. Feeling the freedom of the road and wondering if I could just keep walking, only to veto the idea before I got downtown. I wouldn't leave--until they dismissed me. Second, the parable of the talents always used to disturb me. Was I burying something by my silence? But what could I do--open attack, rebellion, some great 'refusal'? Now, I read that parable and it doesn't bother me at all. I feel completely engaged--body, mind, spirit--in following Christ. On pilgrimage.

	6.9 noon
	I originally wrote that last sentence, "On our pilgrimage." But that's not right. If I follow, it's in simple obedient faith; and if obedient, then I can take no credit. It's all about the one followed, not the follower. The pilgrimage is Christ's, or it's nothing.

	Hot coffee (spiked with chocolate milk) and baked beans for breakfast, while the sun gathered its strength. Then a nap on a mossy rock by a creek. The meager, but enthusiastically bubbling, Wilson's Creek--which I almost fell into getting across it. I feel much better, and must be about 10-12 miles along this morning.
	Also: I looked up 'pilgrim' yesterday. It comes from roots meaning foreigner/from afar/through + field/country; or more simply, 'a wanderer.' Carries connotations of exile, homelessness. "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head." (Mt 8.20) Following the pilgrim God.

	6.10 am
	Thought I could make it to town by dinnertime, but barely made it before dark. Mostly due to the heat. Slept in a park, on advice from a local woman (good advice, but it was about twice as far as she guessed). It was isolated, quiet, no dogs, and in the woods. Still chilly, but I slept all night. Now I'm watching the locals socializing over breakfast at a little diner. The girl at the register asks all the young people what they are doing for graduation. It must be today. I saw them setting up chairs on the football field across the street.
	When I think about high school, my first response is: "Poor kids!" Forced indoctrination. But the kids have their own indoctrination going on. If they manage to shrug off the false values of canned textbooks, there's still the pubescent fraud of their peers to deal with. By graduation, they know that popularity (charm, good looks--fledgling politics) and money (they know all about business) rule the world. They've come to disdain their teachers because educators seldom rank high in the social order. Yet the kids exude the same worldly perversion of truth that designed their classrooms and gave their teachers their job descriptions. Thus, even in their proud rebellion, they conform to the lie. Poor kids!

	6.10 noon
	Wide four-lane divided highway, blazing sun, no shade. A desert, complete with shimmering mirages. Miles of this and I'm almost out of water; no relief expected for miles more. Then, passing some construction equipment parked on the unfinished road, I think I hear a mirage. A trickle. I look over at this huge tank truck--it's sprung a leak. Water! I can't help but laugh out loud. 
	Experiences like that, plus not knowing where I'll stop each night, plus not having a good map all help shift the focus off the destination and onto the walk itself. "It's not the destination, it's the journey," I've heard people say. But that seems to mean that it's not the objective progress that's important, but the subjective experience of traveling the road. OK. But that 'subjective experience' may or may not have any connection to reality. What counts is neither the destination nor "our" journey, but the Way. More real than any destination, more personal than our subjective 'experience.' A person: "I am the Way..." The one I follow is the way I follow.

	6.10 pm
	My first run-in with the law. Someone called the county sheriff to check me out because I was resting beside the highway. But no problem there, really. The sun was my problem, baking me all day. I had to break down and buy sunscreen; I treated myself to an extra restaurant meal to cool down; and I was tempted to get a room for the night. But it cooled in the evening and I could walk some more, until almost dark. A secluded little Church of Christ looks like home tonight. Up on a hill, with bunnies nibbling in the grass and a garden bulging with big golden wildflowers. I should be gone long before the 10:30 morning service.

	6.11 pm
	Another scorcher. But maybe not as bad as yesterday (someone told me it was 97 degrees yesterday). A guy picked me up around lunch time and took me a couple miles to a store. Closed, but shady, with pop machines. I couldn't find water there until the owner showed up and opened for a few minutes, for some reason. Also got shaved and rinsed clothes today.
	I told Mom today that it's been harder now than on the trail. Longer miles (about 25 a day) and longer days (12-13 hours, but with long breaks). And the not knowing where I'm going to sleep is very strange. When do I stop? How will I know? Somehow I seem to know when I see it. Tonight it appears to be this recreational pavilion, probably owned by the Church of the Brethren across the street. It's a little close to the road, but no houses close by. As long as no one comes and kicks me out.
	There are little churches everywhere. Baptist, Methodist, or some independent, usually; I've seen one Catholic and one Lutheran. And lots of signs about Jesus. But is this place more Christian than other places? It seems that the business and politics, the 'no trespassing' signs and the police cruisers, the new cars and the satellite dishes (digital TV, now) are the same as everywhere else. One farm had a sign in fancy script asking, "Are you prepared to meet God?" Good question. But from the vast fields, the fancy house, and the big police car at home in the driveway, I seriously wonder if that person is as prepared as they might think. God's first question to that person will probably be: "Who is your neighbor?" Devastating.
	I think Jesus is more the culture here than anything else. I suspect people here aren't any more compassionate, just, or self-sacrificing. But it is definitely a 'Jesus' culture. Religion is the communal glue, giving identity to small communities with names that don't appear on the map. Strange how a poor Israeli could become that for people. From a Roman execution outside the ancient city of Jerusalem to four-by-fours painted with the words 'Jesus' and 'Saves' sharing an 's' at the center of the cross. Weird. When someone offers me a place to sleep for the night, then I will be impressed. The Jesus culture isn't doing it for me. It was nice to see "Is 41:10" on a roadside sign, though. "Do not fear, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God." I memorized that at InterVarsity summer camp.

	6.12 am
	"...as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me." (Mt 25.40) This morning's reading follows on "Are you prepared to meet God?" from last night. The judgment scene. The question returns: Who is my neighbor? (And I noticed: "I was a stranger and you welcomed me.") Also thinking about mercy and sacrifice. How much is our worship sacrifice?  We have erected the temples; we go weekly to pay our homage. Is God not pleased, will he not bless us now? But where is our mercy towards one another? We conduct our hard financial 'deals,' we rid our streets (and highways) of undesirables, we honor those who kill foreigners on our behalf. Do we have any idea what mercy means? "I desire mercy, not sacrifice."

	6.12 pm
	Fatigue suddenly caught up on me this morning and I decided to get a room. I showered, and fell asleep immediately afterwards. Washed my clothes in the sink and set them out to dry in the hot sun. Now to get back to the business of laying around.
	As I walked into town (I'm constantly walking into or out of town now), I connected "The one who finds their life will lose it..." with this morning's comments. Our property, carefully marked by fences and 'no trespassing' signs (really big around here!); our communities gathered around a cultural center, like a church or VFW hall; our police cruisers, to enforce the signs and guard the VFW halls; and our collections of luxuries (cars, digital TV, painted animal statuary everywhere) all represent our feeble attempts to 'find our life.' Find it, buy it, label it 'Private Property.' It all gives in to gravity, though. Crumbles to dust and slips through our anxious fingers. "The one who finds their life will lose it"--and it's a constant losing that we can only gnash our teeth about.

	6.13 am
	Another passage that pricks me sometimes: Mt 26.6-13, the woman who anoints Jesus with expensive ointment. I read it this morning, just as I am wondering about all the comforts I enjoyed yesterday. I really do enjoy them--food, shower, bed, sheets, even TV (gasp!). Laughed out loud last night watching reruns of some of my favorite shows. Yet I walked away from it all today. I guess I recognize that, though the things themselves are good, the actions required to keep such things (given the state of our society) are not good. The ends cannot justify the means. Giving money for such things is harmless, as the money is actually valuable only to those who desire it. But, generally, the getting of money is not so innocent. Love must be suspended, people must be made to pay, if we are to get the money we want (to pay others). It's strange how innkeepers (at small, homey places, especially) seem embarrassed about asking for payment. The woman yesterday kept calling it "settling up"; she could find no other way of saying it. It's as if they know inside that hospitality is an act of generosity and should not demand payment. But, like others, they are blinded by the hard logic of business. The God who provides for all our needs--freely--recognizes no such logic. I really needed to rest yesterday. And God provided bountifully. I can only trust that he will continue to provide when my money runs out and people's generosity is tested. But that is hope, holy poverty, an inspiration for others to rise to the level of love. On top of the goodness of things themselves, the goodness of things freely given, in love. This is a goodness not of things but of souls.

	6.13 noon
	I wanted to note: a beagle, perched on top of its house, like a live Snoopy; tiger swallowtails sipping from tiger lilies; and honeysuckles in bloom, almost always smelled before they are seen.
	And found this passage in "The Secret Agent," referring to the inertia of the mass of humanity: "What if nothing could move them? Such moments come to all men whose ambition aims at a direct grasp upon humanity--to artists, politicians, thinkers, reformers, or saints." Some of my commentary sounds like the anarchists and revolutionaries of Conrad's book. But I don't want to overthrow the system. I don't even want to 'move' mass humanity. Repentance might be nice, conversion to love would be great. But that's God's works, really--changing hearts. I don't want to make something happen; I want to be good in the world, that's all. I don't know what response, if any, that might produce in others. But I would like to be a symbol, an act of goodness among and for others. Simply the Body of Christ in the world.

	6.13 pm
	Twenty-five miles is about right. I'm tired, but not too tired, and I even had time to spend an hour talking with a lady on her porch. First good talk since Damascus. And tonight, my campsite is provided by your local cellular telephone provider. A relay station on the side of a mountain. The station itself is ugly and wrapped in barbed wire (Warning sign on the door: CORROSIVE--I believe it). But there are soft lavender wildflowers at the perimeter, and a great view into the hazy valley. And, best of all, it's where I need it. So tonight I'm trespassing; in this isolated place, I'm pretty sure no one will mind.

	6.14 am
	The sun rose bitter red, but the sunbeams through the broken clouds look hopeful. I feel rested.
	A thought arose about yesterday's noon entry: How can I know I am being a sign or act of goodness is there's not always a good response? By what do I determine goodness? Certainly, if my actions bring forth bad fruit--promoting hatreds, greed, fear--then they cannot be called good. But good actions do not always result in good fruit immediately. On the contrary, Jesus promised persecutions to his followers. So how do we know if we're doing good? Not by our success, not according to some rule or law, but only by faith. For goodness is God's alone. And we can only 'know' that we are acting with God (or God is acting through us) by faith. The encounter in the darkness. The cloud of unknowing. The dark night. Only when we act in faith, abandoning ourselves to the living spirit of God, can we be 'sure' it is God who acts. That's the only absolute measure of goodness.

	6.14 pm
	Found a woman's wallet by the highway on the way into Roanoke. Everything there, but strewn all along the roadside. The cards and papers looked pitiful scattered in the grass. But so much of that woman's life was represented: her address, age, picture; credit/library/bank/video cards; her husband and two children's pictures; plus other dates and personal notes. I'm sure she was very upset about losing it. But by the road, it was just damp papers in the grass. An image of "the one who finds their life will lose it...." I turned it in at a police station when I got into town.
	And an example of the Jesus culture I mentioned earlier: A lighted, scrolling message board at a gas station flashed "Jesus died... for you... PRAISE GOD... Beef hot dogs... only 99 cents" (Alleluia!) I laughed out loud by the side of the road.
	Looking for a covered place to sleep, I almost gave up. It stormed today and is cloudy still, so I put in my request for a roof tonight. I walked and walked. Then, just before dark, I came upon a vacant house (SOLD, according to the sign) with a big covered porch and even a carpet doormat to lay on. It's empty, but someone's been fixing up the place. Nice. And just past a Hardee's, for breakfast tomorrow. "Turn back my soul, to your rest, for the Lord has been good..." Now, if he'd just shut those dogs up...

	6.15 noon
	I looked at a paper over breakfast, and noticed that the Southern Baptist leadership has caused another uproar. They stated officially that women ought not be senior pastors leading churches. But it really amounts to little. There already are women Baptist pastors, and the churches can still ordain and call women (they're not bound to obey church leadership). I see it as another example of the difficulties of trying to control the beasts we create. We dream up corporate 'bodies,' get others to believe, and institutionalize them. But they remain myths. Their only reality is in the minds of their members--and that's hard to keep control of. The endless struggle to rein in the beast. The conservatives aren't happy, or they wouldn't be making such futile gestures. And the liberals are certainly not happy, wanting to distance themselves more and more from church leadership. I'm not happy, either. The whole thing is ugly and way too common in the church.
	But starting all over is no good either. Yesterday I read about the "New Testament Church" (from a pamphlet at a rally). It's obviously an attempt (once again) to escape the errors of denominationalism and return to the one, true church. But already they have defined themselves by the very things that ensure fractures and factions: emphasis on cultic aspects (communion, full immersion, speaking in tongues), centralized authoritarian leadership (a prophetess/apostle who interprets scripture), and 'no salvation outside' their church. It all sounds WAY too familiar. Maybe a little cultish, even.
	Thank God the Body of Christ need not be represented by either of these. It needs no institutional 'incarnation,' because it is already living--and will always live--as Spirit in people. It needs no building, or board of directors, or law to make it real. Neither does it need a 'new start' to make it pure. It's not as real or pure as we make it, it's as real and pure as Christ is. We are his body when we live by faith, when we act in love. When we do not, it is not the Body of Christ acting, rather Christ suffers our arrogance and injustice. We find his Body in every church and yet no church is his Body. We can vie for control of churches, we can start over with churches, but the Body is Christ's. We can only participate in (and so be) his Body through faith in him.
	On a lighter note, I met a woman at lunch who was just thrilled by what I am doing. A good encouragement. She even took a picture of my bare feet!

	6.15 pm
	Here's a new one: Expressway underpass. A possibility of rain sent me looking for shelter again tonight. This was the best I could find. But I'm covered, and pretty well concealed--and not sleeping in the grass with the ticks. I don't think the traffic will let up, though, since it's an interstate. It's almost too loud to write. Every twenty seconds, a passing truck makes it sound like a jet is landing right on me. But it's dark now, so I'm staying.

	6.16 am
	It rained last night--hard. So I'm glad I was in a dry spot, even though it took about an hour after I left before my head stopped throbbing. Constant noise like that is hard on the nerves. But I did sleep. This morning, found a gas station with muffins, cappuccino, a picnic table, and surprisingly elaborate flower beds; I think I'm slowly coming back together. Should be cooler today, too.

	6.16 pm
	I think I got close to heat exhaustion on this "cooler" day. It was overcast early, but muggy, then the clouds broke up when I needed them most. I walked through the afternoon heat to get to town, expecting a package there. Barely made it to the Post Office before it closed. Nice town, though (Lexington). And I got a new book for 25 cents from the library (gave them my old one). Rested a little, then hobbled out of town at quarter to eight under heavy clouds. Needed a roof again. By the way, I noticed earlier that many Kingdom Halls (Jehovah Witness) have a large overhang at their entrance, so a car can drive through and drop people off. And here's another one right here. So, as an ecumenical gesture, I'm visiting the Jehovah's Witnesses tonight. Thank God for their thoughtful architectural style. Nice impatiens, too.

	6.17 pm
	The bell in the tower just chimed four. And the sky answered with thunder, and heavy rain. I'm sitting inside a deep arch, at the top of many steps leading up to the front door of this old Presbyterian church. It's red brick with stone trim; and the door behind me is painted dark green, hung with black cast iron decorative hinges. Somehow, with the rain, it all makes me feel a little ecstatic.
	It's my tenth day since Damascus, and I needed a break. I'm tired, dirty, and TIRED. After a morning of helpful people not helping much, I did find a laundromat and restaurant at lunch time--that was a godsend. Lodging, however, has not been all I hoped for. Since it's summer and near the expressway, the motels are too expensive ($65 and up); and the B&Bs are even more expensive ($85-100). On the trail, I remember one B&B (every bit as nice) was $12 a night. I don't know if it was my frustration or the sun beating down, but I was boiling before the rain started.
	I wondered if I could survive without being able to buy food and get a room when I needed it. But now I'm so disgusted with shop owners and innkeepers that I'd be glad to never look on their smiling faces again, at least as customer to businessmen. (I guess I'm still boiling, a little.) Maybe it's because giving food to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, clothes to the naked, and welcome to the stranger are works of mercy (Mt 25). Yet these are all twisted in the hands of grinning merchants. There is not a trace of mercy in their services. The price of food and drink, clothes and shelter are only loosely connected to the value of the item, the price depends much more on how much people will pay. The need of visitor means nothing, unless it drives the price up. And there is no hope for merciful consideration. Once the price is stamped on the item, the merchants' hands are tied, apparently--even though they are the ones who set the price! One innkeeper was almost embarrassed to quote me a price of $100 a night; looking at me, she could see how ludicrous it was. Then all she could do was send me away with a cheerful "Nice day for a walk!"--with 90 degree heat and storms on the horizon. I think it's the warm smile that hurts me the most.
	Maybe it's just the merchants' habit of being pleasant to customers. Or maybe they really think that they are serving their neighbor. Either seems a horrible self-deception. Perhaps after the bill is "settled up" (or at least agreed on), the visitor becomes human, a neighbor. But before, the visitor is a stranger who must first confront a price tag determined by current market "value." Before that barrier has been breached, there is no mercy. This is a business, after all, not a charity house.
	To put that behind me and deal only in terms of charity--love--I think I can do that.

	(Later)
	I used the word 'disgust.' That's true. Politics, business, and (at times) institutional religion are disgustingly ugly. It's so blatant that everyone has to recognize it, a little at least. But the more I recognize it, the easier it is to let go of public acclaim, economic security, and religious respectability. That's helpful. Disgust, however, cannot promote good, positive action. Only love can do that. And love is from God, the Way I must walk, the pillar of fire I must follow.

	6.18 am
	On my bed I remember you.
	On you I muse through the night
	    for you have been my help;
	In the shadow of your wings I rejoice. (Ps 62)

	Shortly after the last entry, the storm broke. I was almost to town, so I tried walking in my poncho; but soon the rain was overwhelming and I jumped onto someone's covered porch. The street gutters became rapids. By the time I got through town, it was almost dark. Then, a beacon of light: EconoLodge. Please, God! There WAS an affordable room available and I slipped into the shower, before calling home. Pretty incredible--I got my clothes washed, shower, and a bed after all. I didn't expect to have to walk 20 miles for it, though. But I wasn't too tired, and stayed up watching a movie till midnight. I won't leave today until around lunch time. Good talk with Mom this morning, too.

	6.18 pm
	Got to stop early tonight because I found a great spot: a school on a rise, overlooking a broad, hilly pasture speckled with black cattle. Waiting to see the sunset. Earlier, the clouds were bright silver and heavy, and they're still hanging overhead. So I'm glad to be snug beneath this generous overhang. I'm also glad to stop here because my feet aren't so great. They must have been slowly swelling with the longer days walking, because now I have blisters where I didn't before. It's been noticeable for the last couple days, so I ditched the boots and bought sandals today. Much better: cooler, lighter, adjustable (for swelling), and they should work well in the rain. But my feet still hurt right now.
	My money for the monks is dwindling. With lodging (I didn't count on sleeping inside twice) and now sandals, I'll only have about $180 for them. But I think I'll only stay a couple weeks. I might be there in four days; the anticipation is starting.

	6.19 noon
	Anticipation is no good with sore feet. I try to push, but my feet insist we go slow. And it's rainy, too. Thankfully, there's a Burger King where I need it.
	I've been connecting thoughts again. Thinking about the conversation with Mom and part of a book I looked at in the last library. The author was describing God's guidance for her. She was praying about an important decision and the answer "just came." I guess it was a thought or an inner voice. And I don't deny that I've heard inner voices, and even that I've taken that voice for God's guidance. But I'm trying not to rely on such things (This is also what many of the Church Fathers and mystics taught). Guidance like that is peculiar and individual; it can't mean much to others. It can only appear to be an idiosyncrasy, a unique manifestation. Others cannot understand it, even if they choose to believe it.
	That's where the talk with Mom comes in. I urged her to avoid viewing my situation as peculiar or unique. I insisted it couldn't be understood as an individual calling, my own personal 'thing.' It only makes sense in the context of the sinful world, given God's love for his people. That's also the only way Christ's life can be understood--not as a freak occurrence but as a model and example of goodness. So also those who follow him should live lives that exhibit a universal goodness. Not a peculiar call, but the universal call to love.
	Thus following Jesus does not mean straining to hear an illusive inner voice. It means living in accordance with the universal, loving will of God. In this, body and soul are in agreement. And all reality (the really real) can contribute to provide guidance (Aquinas saw this clearly). So mind, body, and spirit all strive together to follow Christ, not 'our own' way, but according to his Way. Our whole being is enlightened by faith in him. Through faith, all things speak of God's love; and all things are truly understood when they are seen in faith. But this is not a unique, personal vision. It is the one faith of the one Lord of all creation.
	Looks like the rain's almost stopped. And, looking across the street... I'm disillusioned. "Shenandoah's Pride," the brand of milk I've been drinking almost daily, has a plant right there. Not an idyllic farm with pastures of plump milk cows. Instead, it's drab concrete and steel, with pipes running everywhere and steam rising here and there in plumes. I might have designed or worked in a place like that as a chemical engineer. The whole image is not very appetizing.

	6.20 noon
	Tough morning. It got pretty cold last night--the emergency blanket came out again--cold and foggy. I was at a school again, which was good. But the cold still got me up at 4:30am and I was walking as soon as it got light. Then the food wasn't where I thought it would be, and I ended up walking about 10 miles before breakfast. Complaining to God the whole way. I found a church pavilion to take a break in, and slept a couple hours, I think. Woke up thinking it's just not worth it. The cold, the heat, the fatigue, the sore feet, the uncertainty and the anxiety. Just to enjoy some freedom, some scenery, some adventure, maybe a little admiration from people. It's not worth it. It's too much for too little. That woman who thought what I am doing is Oh-so-thrilling!--she was wrong. And she would find that out if she ever tried it, but I don't think she will. There's a good reason why people don't do this: it hurts. I'm glad I don't have to continue like this.
	These days have been helpful, but there's an important piece missing. I've adjusted to the road (though my feet still need a little adjusting) and to sleeping out along the way. But I need to talk to people more. I need the begging to encounter people more. Our interdependence draws us together. And this pilgrimage has to be more for others, because if it's just for me it's not worth it.
	Peace Pilgrim emblazoned her message and identity on her shirt and used mass media to announce herself. Advertise herself, really. That was her way of engaging people, but it strikes me as a rather worldly way. I think we should approach others by humbly appealing to the love within them, rather than 'selling' ourselves. I'd like to introduce the love I (hopefully) represent by drawing it forth from within another. In that love is our mutual recognition and our unity. That love--which is the Way, the Truth, and the Life--is all that matters; I can be completely unknown, anonymous, and yet be at the center of all reality. "The one who finds their life will lose it, and the one who loses their life for my sake will find it."

	6.20 pm
	I'm like a vulture, waiting for the last life to drain out of the Kingdom Hall across the street, so I can swoop down on it. They must have had a bible study or something. I came upon the place as the sun was setting (and my feet were pleading) and people were just starting to leave. So I wait.

	6.21 noon
	I had breakfast in a diner and read about a revival meeting where the tent collapsed in heavy rain. There were 175 people under it and six were injured. A rescue worker at the scene said, "These people were blessed. Somebody upstairs was looking out for them" (because of so few injuries). The title of the story was "A Blessed People," or something like that. Apparently the reporter and rescue worker overlooked the fact that "somebody upstairs" also sent the raid that crushed the tent. They may indeed be a blessed people. But the premise of the story doesn't make any sense--God blessed them by sending rain that only hurt six of them?! Declarations of faith like that really only display a lack of faith. We say something nice about God, almost superstitiously, so maybe he'll leave us in peace to go about our business. To honestly struggle with suffering takes much greater faith. It means coming to grips with a God who both loves us and lets us suffer--because he loves us. That draws us deep into the dark night. That's where the terrible mystery of God's love is discovered. Gethsemene. The way of the Cross.
	I spoke with the abbot of Holy Cross Abbey after breakfast. Everything's set; he was expecting my call. I might get there tomorrow night, but I probably won't get IN till the next morning. They go to bed early, those monks.

	6.21 pm
	On my way out of town, I paused as I noticed a Catholic church, and immediately got invited in by an older woman arriving for daily Mass. I only spoke with her for a minute, saying I was walking from Georgia to the Abbey. Then I peeked in for the readings (from the cry room--I felt a little too 'outdoorsy' for Mass). Nothing too exciting, so I left. End of story. Except--there was this woman with two kids, late for Mass, who saw me walking down the street. She didn't think much about me, and slipping into the cry room to avoid disturbing the others. Now here's the tricky part: After Mass, the older woman comes into the cry room. "Where is he?," she asks. Then she tells the mother the little I had told her, and the mother realizes she saw me on her way to the church. Going about her errands, the mother thinks more about it. Then she sees me on her way home (I had taken a nap, so hadn't gotten far). So she takes a chance. She offers me lunch at her house, tells me about her kids (8!--I met 5), and we talk for an hour or so. Then, after consulting her husband, she offers to let me stay the night! I get a shower, meet her husband, and we talk some more. Very good stuff. These are pretty aware Catholics, home-schooling their kids, spiritually alive. Their oldest daughter is on a bike trip across the country for Habitat for Humanity. I'll have full use of their Amish-built mini-cabin (kid's playhouse), which is good because I hear there's supposed to be heavy thunderstorms tonight.
	Unbelievable, I know. But I realize that I needed something unbelievable like this. It's so encouraging, not just for today, but for the way I'd hoped to live after the abbey. My feet needed it, too. I'll get to the abbey maybe a half-day later, but this is an unimaginable boost for me spiritually. When God gives so much more than I could possibly ask, that can't help but renew and support my faith. Thank you, God, for the McClains. I'm in awe.

	6.22 am
	I lift up my eyes to the hills.
	From where does my help come?
	My help comes from the Lord,
	    who made heaven and earth.
	He will not let your foot be moved,
	    he who keeps you will not slumber...
	The Lord will keep you from all evil;
	    he will keep your life.
	The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in
	    from this time forth and forevermore. (Ps 121.1-3,7-8)

	It is very easy to believe that this morning. Lots of rain last night, but I was warm and dry and comfortable. I had a great talk with Mr. McClain after dinner, about responsibility (of fatherhood) and relinquishing control of our lives to God. Really, we cannot bear the responsibility for even our own life, much less the lives of others. Love, not duty, must guide our actions. God has placed me on much firmer ground to discuss such things.
	And what's perhaps the most amazing about the whole experience is that I met these people just yesterday. We didn't know each other. Yet we talked as I have talked to my family and oldest friends. A sharing of the same spirit. This is everything I'd hoped for, and more. Their children were very friendly; even the dogs were friendly. One daughter (12) told her mother, "I think this was supposed to happen." And the youngest daughter (6) gave me a hug before she went to bed. I was so overwhelmed I could barely get to sleep.
	God bless this house.

	6.22 noon
	Overlooking the "beautiful valley" on the 2nd, another hiker said, "This is what it's all about." Perhaps, for a hiker. But for me, yesterday was "what it's all about." Love flowing freely between people. With our gaze all on God. I had a short talk this morning with Mrs. McClain about things "coming together," in a way that only God could arrange. Then she dropped me at the highway on her way to Mass. Her last words were, "Thank you for... being here." That's what pilgrimage is all about.

	6.23 am (55th day)
	I awoke just as the sky was brightening; of all the stars, only two bright ones remained. Planets, I think. A few silent bats flitted around the little white church, catching insects. The birds had not yet made a sound. Through the trees at the edge of a mown field, a single beam of light pushed through the dark, the train wailing as it passed. Then the eastern rim lit up a bright pink. The birds began their chatter, and as the sun appeared a mass of them streamed from the east, as if released from that blazing yellow portal. Dew shone on the grass as I prayed.
	I should arrive at the abbey around noon today. That means some security and stability, for the first time since I left. But the only true security and stability is spoken of in Psalm 125:

	Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion
	    which cannot be moved, but abides forever.

I am thankful, though, that I am given this chance to rest. And visit with the monks.
	The gospel this morning was one I had used before as an ideal for ministry. Mark 1.35-39. Jesus rises early to pray alone; everyone is looking for him, but he decides to move on. "Let us go to the next town, that I may preach there also; for that is why I came out." Jesus continues his pilgrimage, following God's leading. By God's mercy, so will I--for that is why I came out.

	6.24 pm
	The abbey is set back a mile from a small road that doesn't get much use. Fields on both sides of the drive. I talked with a hired men there, who was harvesting the barley; the monks don't (can't) tend their own fields anymore. But I was given a warm welcome, and other things impressed me. The familiar Trappist quiet and simplicity. Doors unlocked. The common clothes pantry (from which I borrowed some pants more 'suitable' to public worship). Yet the sour, musty odor of the institution is also noticeable (I'm speaking figuratively here; the monks always keep the place smelling fresh). I am not enchanted by such a place as this, like I once was.
	I've been in bed all day, with books. They've got a good library here. So I'm immersing myself in philosophy and literature, two subjects I have enjoyed in the past and wondered at times is they might become my 'life.' But it's not even dinnertime yet, and my eyes hurt and I cannot help but be disappointed. Once, I greedily drank in the words of philosophers and artists. Once, I expected an answer from them. But now they seem to be much less. They write about beautiful things, divine things, goodness itself; but to write such things is not to BE those things. At most they speculate beautifully, write beautifully, but that is all. Yet they are so often given credit for a goodness that they merely describe. To BE good, that is something altogether different. Yet I still love much that they write and I will continue to read. I just can no longer imagine 'artist' or 'philosopher' as a life, except as a life to be lost. "Whoever loses their life for my sake..." The same goes for the life of 'monk' or 'priest.' I do not think it will be difficult to leave here, when the time comes.
	The feast today is the birth of John the Baptist: "the voice of one crying in the wilderness." The first reading was from Jeremiah:

Now the word of the Lord came to me saying, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations." Then I said, "Ah, Lord God! Behold, I do not know how to speak, for I am only a youth." But the Lord said to me, "Do not say, 'I am only a youth'; for to all to whom I will send you you shall go, and whatever I command you you shall speak. Be not afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, says the Lord." Then the Lord put forth his hand and touched my mouth; and the Lord said to me, "Behold I have put my words in your mouth.'" (Jer 1.4-9)

I know I'm no prophet, but these words moved me terribly. I am consecrated to be a man, a pilgrim like all other followers of Christ, an unknown child of God walking the earth. The Lord will put words into my mouth and guide my feet. And I will speak and walk by faith that others may be reminded of him. I will try to be love in the world. I will try to be good. Without forgetting that love is God's alone; and only God is good.

	6.27 Holy Cross Abbey - Berryville, VA
	
And the devil took him up, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time, and said to him, "To you I will give all this authority and their glory; for it has been delivered to me, and I give it to whom I will. If you, then, will worship me, it shall all be yours." And Jesus answered him, "It is written, 'You shall worship the Lord your God, and him only shall you serve.'" Lk 4.5-8

	As I leave from here, on pilgrimage, doing no more than the 'unprofitable' acts of walking, begging, and talking, I expect I will be asked to justify myself. "What gave you the idea that you could spend your life in this way? What about your responsibility to other people--to society? How do you justify such wastefulness: a waste of your time and effort, a waste of the food you beg from others?" Or some that are burdened by the responsibilities they have assumed may question my freedom: "How do you get away with it--being concerned with only your own freedom to wander, to go where you please, and expecting others to support you? Aren't you ashamed? How can you face people, asking them to pay for your carelessness?" If people don't say these exact words to me, I will be surprised. And surely, if they do not say them, they will be thinking such things. I know I would.
	But I am convinced that the pilgrimage I am setting out on (or continuing) is not the fulfilling of a personal dream or a fantasy of complete freedom. It is obedience. And not obedience to some unique or peculiar direction from God, some individual 'calling,' but obedience to the universal will of God, to justice and truth and love. It is the following of Christ that all people are called to. Thus to walk this path is not to make an exception of myself, but to humbly follow the road that God directs us all to follow--a narrow way, to be sure, but the one, good way.
	What do I mean by "one way"? There are many legitimate ways of life, aren't there? Yes and no. By one way, I do not mean the specifics of walking and talking. I think that is a specific form of work that God has given me the gifts to do, that is my simple service to perform. But that is only the work that I do. The way that it is done, the other multitude of acts in life that form the setting for that specific work, that is the "one way" that I am talking about. That is the single-minded following of Christ that also allows for the diversity of gifts and the variety of service. Many parts in the Body of Christ, yes. But if it is his Body, it must be one; it must walk as he did; all its members must conform to his one way, because he is the Way.
	----------

	Now, as I look at this after a break, I want to start over. I just spoke with a close friend, who gave me a very hard time about the questions I was just writing on. He even accused me of escapism and being driven by fear. I was a little startled, but I put up a good defense--and then realized that I should not have been putting up a defense. I should not be justifying my actions. The motivation behind them is love. Such acts need no justification, for they justify themselves. Love is the work of God alone, whom no man can judge. I would think, since my pilgrimage 'plan' so obviously parallels the actual life of Christ, that Christians would at least appreciate that. But perhaps even that is too much to assume. I must not, however, justify this action. I must not defend it. I must accept every attack and stand firm in faith, holding to the solid rock of the source of all goodness, the author of these good actions, God alone. I must not justify, but I can answer. Because a patient and intelligent answer may help others understand my action and see God's hand in it. It may help them respond in love and grow in faith, which is what I hope would be the result of every human encounter. So I reframe these words above and continue. Though people may demand a justification, I offer none. Instead, I answer them by pointing to Christ, the Way--and I continue to point to him alone.
	----------

	Christ said "Follow me." He offered us the example of his earthly--very human--life, as well as his teaching. Much is obvious about his life: his compassion, self-sacrifice, humility, fearlessness. And these are all manifestations of the love of God that he clearly displayed. But one aspect of that love, a very big and challenging one, is often overlooked. It is obvious, and stands in marked contrast to the worldly practices of modern society, but--perhaps because it is such a challenging contrast--we do not see it. I think it is best summarized in the directions Jesus gave to his disciples as he sent them out: "You received without paying, give without pay."(Mt 10.8) Freely you have received, freely give. That is such a basic truth of love that it is assumed without question in our love-relationships: parent-child, husband-wife, brother-sister. If those we love are in need, we give to them of what we have, without any expectation of restitution. The disciples lived this, following Jesus' example. They realized that God had been overwhelmingly generous with them and had sent them to love their neighbor. Generosity and love were to be the standards of all interactions with others.
	But the world's standards, even in 'Christian' nations, are far different. Almost all human interaction is governed by the laws of business; we constantly strike 'deals' with one another. Only our closest family and friends (those we really love?) are exempt. The majority of human encounters--at least for anyone who spends the large part of their day at work or school--are limited by the other person's ability to 'pay.' Think of the boss-employee relationship, customer-merchant, public servant-taxpayer. Do these people act towards the other based on love? We'd like to think so. But it's difficult to accept this given the fact that if the 'other' did not have the money to pay, the employee/merchant/public servant would not provide their services. Then the 'other' would be to them as a stranger. Is this love? It is certainly not how Jesus lived.
	But how can we 'give freely' in this world, given that society does not honor such a standard? Jesus, as well as many of his followers, lived on the generosity of others. Is that the only way? Perhaps not. But following the implications of 'give freely' leads to very few alternatives. One who gives without demanding payment (or even accepting only voluntary donations, which amounts to the same as begging, almost) is likely to be put 'out of business.' They will probably be taken advantage of and will not receive the money they need to own property and acquire food and shelter. One who gives freely will probably discover that many others will not respond in kind. Many people face this reality and conclude that Jesus' ideal of love ('love thy neighbor'--meaning even the stranger, as in 'The Good Samaritan') is impossible to live, at least in our time. I agree that it may not be possible to give freely and own property or have a stable income. But that does not mean it cannot be lived. Jesus still says "Follow me." What 'give freely' does seem to imply is a life of radical faith. It means that I will give to others and not demand payment, recognizing that that will leave me completely dependent on their generosity for my own survival. I have to hope that someone will love me and give freely to me. But this is exactly how Jesus lived: "the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head."(Mt 8.20) "Do not be anxious about what you will eat or drink... for your heavenly Father knows you need them."(Mt 6.25-33) Jesus' life demonstrated the faith in God that he preached. He said: Love your neighbor, and trust in God. That does not mean we will not suffer if we follow him in this way; the disciple is not above the master, and Jesus suffered. But it does describe the pure and holy life of Jesus, which he offered to us as an example. An example of love.
	To me, the truth of this shines so beautifully that to try to justify it seems absurd. It is good. It is Jesus, the Way. But the world does not respect the Way, just as it did not respect Jesus. That's why I quoted the devil's temptation at the beginning of this entry. The devil has no power over nature or things or our bodies; all that is real is good and holy. But the devil is a deceiver of human beings, a twister of minds, so he can control "all the nations of the world" through the people of those nations. We are all sinners, susceptible to lies and error. We admit that. So shouldn't we expect that the products of sinful minds--our social and economic systems--will reflect that sinfulness? And even is we overlook sin and the devil, can we say we really believe that our system is based on love? The fact that we have to carefully control every exchange and enforce it by law so that people are not cheated--does that indicate that love is what we expect from people? No. The assumption is that people will not love each other. So we design a system that will allow orderly and (apparently) fair human interactions, given that humans do not love each other. What kind of standard is that? Certainly, we ought not to cheat each other, but simply 'not cheating,' is that the fullness of love? There's a long way from that to the 'give freely' of Jesus. But somehow we don't see it. We assume that we must charge each other for every service, just to survive. We accept the standard of a worldly society, we bow to the power of a worldly economy, we compromise and we rationalize. But such 'ways of the world' are not the Way of Jesus. He did not worship the devil: "You shall worship the Lord your God, and him only shall you serve"--him, the God of Love.
	I am convinced that 'give freely' is a crucial part of Jesus' way of Love. He taught it and lived it--and he bore the consequences of it. It was part of his challenge to the established order, which wanted to keep people subjugated in fear, slaves to the 'necessity' of a wage, not liberated by faith, freely serving one another in love. And so that established order--the 'kingdoms of the world'--retaliated. Just as the world will retaliate today. I believe in the love in people's hearts. I hope in that love. But I also expect that if I follow Jesus and give freely, I will live a life of poverty. I will suffer hunger and cold. I will be despised by some. But so was Jesus. And, especially in the New Testament, the poor are never held in contempt by God; they are the beloved of God. In the best of the Christian tradition, this has been recognized and the poor, especially those who choose poverty for the sake of the gospel, are loved dearly. Also, it is good to be poor, in the sense of minimal needs--simple sustenance--so as to better demonstrate faith, to encourage humility, and to minimize the burden on others. I do not ask another to 'freely give' me security or a salary, only daily bread. I expect to stay poor and am happy to do so, if any might benefit from it. But I see that such poverty (and all the insecurity that goes with it) are inevitable if I attempt to live like Jesus in this sinful world. Am I surprised? The disciple is not greater than the master, and this was exactly how the most perfect Lover lived his life. I see also that his itinerancy, his wandering, also minimized the burden he placed on any one person or family, while also making him available to many. I don't know if this is the only way to live such love as Jesus' in this world. But the world doesn't offer many other options. And this was the way that Jesus chose when he walked among us. I am ever more in awe at the beauty of his example.
	Many other objections could (and will) be raised. Biblical passages such as Paul's tent making and many Old Testament laws about human interactions which do not forbid business-type interactions pop up first. I think critical reflection can put these objections aside, but I do not want to fall into defense-mode. The example and teaching of Jesus, the overarching demonstration of God's love throughout the Bible, the holy beauty of acts of pure love done in faith, any and all of these provide overwhelming arguments for the goodness of following Jesus in everything, including 'give freely.' If this is not seen in the light of faith, no arguments will make it clear. It is as clear as the love of a free, generous act, as clear as the humility of a person who has embraced holy poverty, as clear as the faith of one who has abandoned their life to Christ, following him alone. Such love, if it is truly there, can only be inspired by God. Jesus walked only as God led him, and so anyone who would follow him must also be led by God, motivated by God's own love. Where there is such love, there can be no objections.

	I'm worked up! I hope I can be so bold in a week, when I leave the comfort of the abbey. And I tremble to think whether I could write the same words if I had a wife and children. How much more faith that would take! But I am tired of these apologetics. I thrive on a good argument, but overall it makes me sad and I wish all such arguments would cease. More silence, more faith, less 'diputatio.' And I do not expect to engage in discussions like this much when I am on the road. If people take me in, they probably agree with much of this already. And if they don't take me in, well, no argument there. But I'm glad for the challenge now, because doubts like these 'objections' will arise as I walk, especially if I go hungry. So I'm thankful. But enough of the arguments, enough of the economic objections, enough! I'm writing too much. And there is so much more to following Christ--this is just the hard part right now.

	6.28
	Thinking more about "The one who finds their life will lose it, and the one who loses their life for my sake will find it." Pilgrimage must not be 'my life.' I must lose 'my life' in the following of Jesus. And 'give freely' is but one aspect of that following, though it is an important one that is often overlooked, to our shame as Christians. But my life can be nothing more than humble obedience, simply following Jesus--HIS life, the one who said, "I am the Life."
	And following Jesus does not necessarily mean actual pilgrimage. It does seem, as I have tried to explain, that the sinful world pushes Jesus' followers towards poverty and exile (being homeless, outcast). But that poverty and exile could take other forms than literal pilgrimage. What pilgrimage--actual wandering--is is a specific form of service. At least it can be. Jesus, and others who followed him (Paul, Sts. Dominic and Francis) used pilgrimage as a form of preaching. The deeds that reflected their words. Pilgrimage became the symbol of faith, following God, hoping in the love of our fellow human beings, on whom we depend (as instruments of God). I believe God has also given me this work: pilgrimage as preaching. My life, however, is only in Christ. He is the Life; he is the Way.

	I just wrote that the sinful world "pushes" Jesus' followers towards a life of poverty and exile, the life of persecution that Jesus promised his followers, a life like his own, a life very much like the pilgrimage I have described before. Yet it doesn't seem to be a life that anyone is pushed into. The world offers so many other options... if only the person will consent. If only the follower of Jesus will consent to accept the world's ways--to abandon 'give freely,' for instance, or at least relegate those divine words to occasional, isolated acts of 'charity'--in other words, to cease to follow Jesus, at least for a moment. The world offers many options for security, comfort, stability, even an honored place among the honored. Security, society, and silk sheets, I call it. In this, the world does not push but beckons--just as the devil beckoned Jesus to take up the scepter of "all the kingdoms of the world." But Jesus did not worship the devil. So also, his followers must decline what the world has so generously offered--if the follower will only... stop following. This is no needless asceticism. It seems to be a choice for poverty, for suffering, but it is really a simple choice to follow Jesus, rejecting what Jesus rejected, because of the terms under which it is offered. In this way the world 'pushes' the follower of Jesus out, toward poverty and exile. And once the follower follows Jesus out, then the world, who was so generous and inviting before, is more than willing to heap scorn and hatred on the follower. Just as it did to Jesus. The disciple is not above the master.
	But God also 'pushes' the follower of Jesus towards poverty and exile, though in a vastly different way. Not as a temptation, or out of sadism, but out of love. This push is also on account of the sinfulness of the world, but it is not a product of sin. It is God's loving response to our lostness, our confusion, our rebellion. To people in such a state, humility, poverty, generosity, vulnerability, trust, self-sacrifice, are the way of love. These demonstrate God's willingness to suffer for our sin, his willingness to endure our hatred so that we may repent of it, turn, and be forgiven. Not only Jesus' words, but also his life of poverty, exile, wandering, purely preached the gospel of God's love to this sinful world. And those who follow him are also inspired by God's love. That love 'pushes' Jesus' followers to preach the gospel with their lives as Christ did, to be the Body of Christ, incarnating God's call to the world. Jesus incarnated that perfectly. And his life was poverty and exile.
	It still is. Jesus is the life of his followers, now and always. In his followers, he shines through in the same way he appeared on earth physically, veiled now only by the sinfulness of his followers, their lack of faith. But where he does shine through, he looks the same. He is recognizable as the one Christ, Jesus. His poverty, his exile, his pilgrimage is there, visible to some degree. But in his preachers, those who would intentionally make his gospel, his truth visible in this world, his life should be especially obvious. It has been so in many preachers. I see it clearly in the pilgrim preachers. How I have longed to see one of them in this time, in this place; I have begged for it. God has not shown me such a preacher. But I believe he is making me one.
	----------

	I just talked to Dave, and his joy and insight overwhelmed me. He, who has little religious interest, can see more clearly than some of my more religious-minded friends. Also talked about the price we pay for worldly success. I thought about that afterwards and three big 'prices' came to mind. Not that we must give these things, but we must 'give in' to these, accepting the world's standards regarding them. There are many more, but at least these: business, politics, and violence. Business demands that we accept work-for-pay as a guide for personal interactions. This is directly opposed to Jesus' practice, summed up in his words "Freely you have received, freely give." Politics sets up an inverse beatitudes: Blessed are the beautiful; Blessed are the proud; Blessed are the deceivers. And violence also is a standard, though it is primarily used as a tool to enforce business and political standards. The necessity of violence is the standard we must accept for worldly success. Even if we never become comfortable with actual violence, we must support and use the threat of violence at least (police, military). In direct contrast, Jesus' way was "turn the other cheek." To gain worldly success we must at least do business, play politics, and condone violence. Jesus did not, but then Jesus was not very successful in the world. And neither are his followers. Of course it's not the 'world' that Jesus comes to save, but those who are willing to be "not of the world." Those who will follow him.
	----------

	Took a short walk, really my first since I got here. My feet feel good. And all I could think was: What have I given up? Nothing. What have I gained? Everything.

	6.29
	I like the call of the dove: Coo-OOO, COO-coo-coo. It doesn't sound like a call, really. Other birds sound like they want an answer; but the dove sounds content just to cry out, then fall silent, letting the notes glide away.
	It's the feast of Peter and Paul today. Two on one day--I've heard it's because they couldn't decide which was more important and didn't want one feast to overshadow the other. So they get double billing today. Of course, Catholics traditionally emphasize Peter ("on this rock..." "I give you the keys of the kingdom...") and Protestants emphasize Paul (witness, preacher, epistle writer). I've been reading a book of writings on religion collected from the last two centuries. It makes me think that the church has been too cocky about "the gates of hell will not prevail against it." The church has not remained free from error, that's for sure. If anything, there has been so much error that at times it seems like one big error, sadly enough. But Jesus' words are true. The error has never completely hidden the truth; anyone who truly wants to find it can, if they have the eyes of faith.
	Not surprisingly, though, I appreciate Paul most today. One of the greatest pilgrim preachers. I'm glad to have his name. The reading from vespers last night was repeated this morning--from the end of Paul's second letter to Timothy:

	I have fought the good fight, 
	I have finished the race, 
	I have kept the faith...

And these words, which are so important to me right now:

The Lord stood by me and gave me strength to proclaim the message fully, that all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion's mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever.
	----------

	After morning rain, a beautiful day. I watched a movie before lunch and took a walk after--about five miles, with a small Labrador retriever as my companion. It just followed me back and rolled in the grass as I played my pipe.
	On the walk, I mentally compared these days with the time five years ago when I left England to return and 'face the music' after five months AWOL. My two great leaps of faith, as I see it. One thing, my prayer has changed. Prayer is no longer my helpless pleading to 'fill me,' as I knelt empty and heavy, rooted in place. Or rather, not rooted but clinging, clutching the hard earth with tired fingers. Prayer now is being caught up and carried off, by the Spirit who blows where it will. Such prayer is always active, whether the body is in motion or perfectly still. But it is as possible on the road as it is in the chapel. It will not 'come to me,' though; it must take me and send me according to itself. Thus it is prayer for the 'light' person: the poor, the humble, the pilgrim. Yes. It is pilgrimage prayer. "Thy will be done."
	----------

	I just realized that this writing is dragging on me. During night prayer, standing there in the half-darkness, I felt it. The lightness, the free motion of prayer--like that of poverty and pilgrimage--which is the surrender of faith, is not in my act of writing. It's heavy, especially when I start editing. Too heavy. I'll try to continue, in obedience, or at least to fulfill my promise to some people. But if it doesn't lighten up, if I can't do it as an act of faith, I've got to stop. Or start tearing up pages. If it's not an act of faith, I can hardly expect Christ to shine through very clearly--and it's of no value apart from him.

	6.30
	A fine, clear morning, and cool. The sun appeared suddenly over the mountains and set ablaze the simple, white crosses of the monks' graves. I sat and prayed, and my heart burned with the crosses. On the feast of Jesus' Sacred Heart.
	I've been reading Kierkegaard's "Purity of Heart Is To Will One Thing." It is the same book I read during the dark mornings after vigils at the monastery in England. My impression now is much the same as my impression about prayer, how I have changed since then. My uncertainty about "willing one thing" (necessarily "the Good," Kierkegaard says) has disappeared. Double-mindedness does not seem to lurk in any shadowy corners. But this immediately becomes a temptation to doubt, just as the consciousness of my "lightness" in prayer challenges me. How can I claim purity of heart, or purity in prayer? It's preposterous--certainly delusional! But that also is a temptation... to double-mindedness. I claim nothing. All is Christ's. "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me; and the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me."(Gal 2.20) By faith! And that also I cannot claim as mine, for it is no 'thing' but rather a surrender, a release, an un-doing. Also it is nothing great or extraordinary, for a child has the same. Only the simplest surrender of faith; and all the love--that purifies the heart, raises prayer, sets the feet and tongue in motion--all the perfect power of love is Christ's alone. He is the Way, the Truth, the Life--All. When I speak or write of anything good, it is not of myself that I write but of God, who alone is good. Only my own sinfulness, my nothingness, draws attention to myself, which is shameful to me. My only comfort is that God is good; and all that is shamefully mine will be destroyed, and only what I am in Christ will endure. For he alone is my life.
	That's it: what I needed to write, to continue to write. The pages are lightened, unburdened. Anything good on them is all his and will always endure with him, and every foul stroke of the pen is mine and will immediately disappear. As all my faults immediately disappear in his presence. Who I really am he holds in his heart: his love for me defines me. His love creates me.
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	Roses at mass today, red ones.
	And who should appear, to celebrate the feast of the overflowing love of Jesus' Sacred Heart? Droopy! At least the voice was definitely Droopy's: nasally mumbles that seemed to barely make it through the cheeks to dribble out the mouth. The preaching was utterly lifeless; but couched in such delicious irony! Nothing he said could have been painful. I had to stifle giggles through the whole mass. I'm not one for "days and seasons," but this one had it's moments.
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	I sat reading Emily Dickinson (wondrous discovery!) in the summer afternoon, deeply silent, and was disturbed. Strange, because this week has been one of almost uninterrupted joy and peace. As close to perfect as a week has ever been for me. But the disturbance came right after a heated phone conversation, so I didn't have much trouble identifying its source. Several times this week people have flatly rejected what seems to me to be clear truth. Not that we forgot our love or were even unkind to each other; in every case, there were reassurances, and I would call them all again happily. But the rejection disturbs me. I feel completely satisfied that they have understood me, and I feel no need to bring up the subject again. But the rejection disturbs me because I have seen what I do not want to see. They have shown me dark places IN themselves. And I am disturbed and hurting and cannot escape it.
	So here it is again. The end of bliss for anyone who would love with God's love. Love a sinful person (any of us!) and you will always be disturbed to some extent. For your own sin, you can repent as soon as you glimpse it; but you cannot repent for another, and they are seldom ready to repent the moment you become aware of their sin. There is forgiveness, certainly. But that does not relieve them of the effects of the sin they conceal in their rejection, the lie that fetters their movements, their life. If you love them at all, you will be disturbed. Until they are completely free, pure, whole. Luckily for me (maybe?), I see little and love little; I cannot see as God sees, or love as God loves. I am only a little disturbed and suffer little from love. But I accept it and embrace it; it is at least a taste of God's love.
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	The reading tonight was good: Ephesians 2.4-10, I think. It was a different translation than I have; verse 10 came out something like: "We are his work of art, created in Christ Jesus for the good life, which God prepared for us..."
	And I noticed that Psalm 143 appears at morning prayer tomorrow. I won't be there, as I'm leaving early; but these lines will be sung by the monks:

	Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love,
	    for in you do I put my trust.
	Teach me the way I should go,
	    for to you I lift up my soul....
	
	Let your good spirit lead me on a level path!
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	Emily Dickinson:

	Much madness is divinest sense
	To a discerning eye;
	Much sense the starkest madness.
	'Tis the majority
	In this, as all, prevails.
	Assent, and you are sane;
	Demur,--you're straightway dangerous,
	And handled with a chain.