Seeing is Believing - Reflections from the Train - Advent IV

The fourth candle of the Advent wreath will be lit this coming Sunday and it's the one that represents love. In the Christian sense, love is not the romantic emotion but the unbreakable love that flows and comes down like the rain. It can't be beckoned, it can't be made to stop, and but it does sustain life on earth.

Love isn't something that can be earned or won. It has to be known. I think that love is there all around us, all the time, in between and connecting all creatures great and small. What we perceive as the earning or winning of love is not the acquisition of something new, but the realization or perception that something already been there all along. Like those optical illusion photos that can look like a vase or two faces, what we see can mean more than one thing if we can somehow adjust our perception. It may seem like one image, but suddenly you perceive something else about the picture. Love is there to be seen in the picture of life, but so many times we have blinkers on to keep us from seeing it. Even when we know it's there, when we look away, it's sometimes hard to focus and see it once again.

In many ways, the Advent season asks us to stay awake. I sometimes think it's bidding us to wake up in the first place. To notice. To see. And on Christmas day, we do awaken. We awaken to the realization that in this child, in this baby, is the manifestation of a love that could not be described well enough with intangible words. It's a love that can not be understood or fathomed or to most of us, cannot be believed all the time, especially during times of trial.

But that love becomes apparent, real, tangible flesh and we finally can see that love because it's in a form that we can understand: a baby.

We can believe in a baby. We can see it. Touch it. Kiss it. And if that baby is and can represent love in a way that we otherwise cannot imagine, that means our beliefs can be based in love, of love, around love. Our believing of a baby is believing in love.

I had a miserable Saturday. It was meant to be pleasant and lovely, as I was going to have brunch with a friend on the east bay of San Francisco. I took my backpack filled with clothing and my laptop, as I would proceed from brunch to the airport, and decided to do a walk through parks and along the Embarcadero en route.

I didn't realize that it would soon be raining, and heavily (to this Southern Californian) no less. The paths became muddy and the slopes in the Presidio soon became slippery. I fell twice. I got lost in the twisting paths. My phone couldn't get a signal in that forested park so I could not find my way out easily. I was soaked and in muddy jeans. Unlike the Camino, where people eat in dirty conditions, I wasn't mentally prepared for this and certainly did not feel comfortable sitting in a nice restaurant, so I canceled my breakfast and tried to find a place to wash up. Later on, BART would be malfunctioning so would have to pay 10x more to take a cab and also I'd get salsa and guacamole staining my shirt. My pleasant day turned sour and I seemed to have "one of those days."

What I didn't mention yet was that during the walk in the rain, I strolled past dozens and dozens of homeless sleeping under overhangs, eaves, and bus stops. They were wet, cold, and without safety. I may have felt awful, but I felt drier than they did, felt fortunate. And I also felt connected to them, knowing that my complaints were miniscule in comparison to their difficulties. I loved them for reminding me of this.

Later that night, on the subway from LA Union Station back to Pasadena, I was surrounded by a quirky mob. There were numerous people of all ages dressed in Santa garb. Apparently there was a Santa convention, and I was surrounded by Santas and elves of all ages. The festive mood jarred me into a state of alertness, to note the difference between their merriment and my self-pity.

There were also three young teen boys carrying skateboards, looking like they just spent a day at a skate park. One was Latino, one was African-American, and one was white. Though I assumed they were friends, their conversation indicated that they had just met that day at the park and were taking the Gold Line to their homes in different cities.

There was an innocence in their talk. They were eager to share skating stories, talk about how good their day was, what tricks they should try, and what towns they lived in. They were seemingly unaware that in many parts of this country, it takes much effort to get strangers of different ethnicities to socialize together. 

It seemed so natural, casual, and sincere. These boys did not have the hangups that society eventually places on us. As sung in "South Pacific", racism is something that "has to be carefully taught." Why can't we retain this innocence and keep love alive? This was brotherly love in a most untainted form, and I felt blessed to witness it and let it melt my heart that still shivered from the day I had.

For many, we love kids because of their innocence, their honest personalities not yet tainted or marred by the world. It's why the story of Christmas feels so accessible to us. We are naturally drawn to a child because in the baby, we find life and love.

And as I pondered this on the train, it made me appreciate more a practice that I've been following for a few months. Whenever I talk with a stranger or with someone I'm not at ease with, I imagine that person as a child. That the person is someone who is still cloaked in innocence and unconditional love. With that exercise, I've discovered that it's easier to love that person, to see the person that God created, before society changes them into something else. 

As my perception adjusts between seeing that person as a child and an adult, like looking at the vase optical illusion, I realize that I'm seeing two images of the same person. And I can love this person more easily than if I didn't try to look past their current situation.

In loving care for my own self, I've been trying to imagine myself as a child as well. I'm trying to see me as someone who hasn't strayed yet from God's plans for me. To find myself as I was once meant to be.

We can awaken to find love all around us, in the person sleeping on streets as we walk by, in the elves laughing merrily in the subway station, in the teens clutching their prized skateboards. We can awaken to see that the love has been there if we want to see it.

May the eyes of our souls perceive, beyond our own confusion, a reflection of the Christ of joy, the Christ of peace, the Christ of hope, the Christ of love.

The Counselor is Inn - Reflections from a Christmas Party

Every year, I wonder if I'll be invited to any Christmas parties and, if invited, whether I'll attend. Since becoming a Lay Counselor for All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena, I know that we'll always have at least one invitation. But this year, with me feeling downcast because of recent national events, I was wondering if I could be up for the cheer. Last night, at the Lay Counseling Ministry Christmas potluck, I felt refreshed and enlivened.

As we gathered, many of us talked about our recent fears for our country. There's something about sharing our concerns and sadness, our vulnerability and our worries, in a setting of joyful anticipation that seems cruelly ironic at best, or at least woefully inappropriately timed. But it felt soothing to know that there are others who are in the same boat I'm in. I felt at ease being the safety net (or safety pin) for others, as they were a safe place for me. We could share in trust.

You sort of expect that, given that this was a group of people who offer themselves up to listen and offer counseling to other parishioners in a professional, discreet fashion. The ministry offers 10 free sessions with a counselor to any parishioner who needs an ear, a sounding board, a wailing wall. Though we will refer you to professional psychologists if your situation puts you in harm's way, we are able to support many in the community for a few months. And last night, we supported each other.

In doing so, we were able to smile and laugh and be merry. It refreshed the spirits.

One moment at our dinner table stuck with me. In our discussions, it came up that in many Spanish-speaking countries, there is the practice of the "posada" in the week before Christmas. In villages and cities, people go from home to home, eating, drinking, laughing, sharing stories. It symbolizes the way Mary and Joseph had to go from inn to inn to find a place to stay. Rather than turning the stranger away, the modern custom welcomes these wanderers into their home for food and warmth.

Now, when I say inn, I'm not talking Marriotts, Hiltons, or even Motel 6s. The concept of a modern inn didn't exist yet. Instead, people in the time of Jesus would go from home to home to see if there was a place for the traveler to stay and rest. The innkeeper was us. So when Mary and Joseph were turned away at the inn, they were turned away by normal people, people like us, because we had no room.

Or, perhaps, we made no room for the strangers among us... for the strangers who came to us in time of need.

And then Stephen and I noted that the word "posada" did not technically mean journey or party, but was the Spanish word for "inn". When people celebrate the posada, they celebrate the refuge itself, the place of safety and rest, and comfort.

It didn't occur to me until this morning during my daily meditations and prayers that all this came together into a common dialogue. But it made the night's festivities seem more meaningful to me.

We don't always feel able to offer refuge to the journeying wanderers in our lives. Sometimes, we just turn off the lights and lock the doors, to our homes, to our hearts. But we are reminded that if we do, we don't make room for joy, we don't make room for solace. We don't make room for the baby Jesus.

May your posada be full of joy and open to those who come knocking on your door. May your journey take you to the place where hope and warmth comforts and consoles you. And may we all recognize that in the belly of that stranger who comes to our doors lies the Christ who has come to bring us the Good News and Light.

Letting Joy Find You - Advent III

This coming weekend, we will light the third candle on the Advent wreath - the pink candle - which is a symbol of Joy.

It sure is hard sometimes to talk about joy, especially at this time of year. It's dark outside more often than it is bright. It's cooler, and if you lived in my neighborhood last weekend when the wind storms came, that coolness isn't helped by a power outage. I think that the power outage shorted my PC, too, so I'm not exactly feeling perky right now.

We light this candle not because we are joyful at the moment but because we remind ourselves that there is a reason for joy to come. As Christmas approaches, we are counting down the minutes to a day when we celebrate a truly joyful occasion. For Christians, we are recognizing that despite everything, despite our problems, our wandering our hearts, our selfish priorities, there is unconditional love for us. The unconditional love isn't far off in the distance, disconnected from us, impossible to appreciate or even fathom.

It's a love that through the birth of Jesus shows that there is no distance between humans and God. God is among us, walked and walks with us, breaks bread with us. That, surely, is something to celebrate in times when we need joy.

I nearly wept when I saw that the North Dakota pipeline path will be rerouted. Even if the next administration attempts to circumvent this decision, for now, for this moment in time, we acknowledge the worthiness of a people, their water, and their land. There's much to bring joy when people matter more than the profits of a distant investor. In the midst of the frigid plains winter, joy can still come down and quench our thirst for justice.

Earlier this weekend, on a break from the Los Angeles Episcopal Dioceses annual convention, I walked around a nearby lake, through the dwindling light as evening approached, and reveled at the way the sunset light shimmered on a water. I stood under the darkness of the trees to gaze at the serenity. It was easy to see light reflecting on the lake because there are no obstructions. And then I marveled at the way the light found a way, in a straight line like light rays travel no less, to pierce through the canopy of trees, to allow slivers of beams to shine down upon me. The rays were small, almost imperceptible, but they found me and warmed my skin nonetheless.

Like light, Joy doesn't seem possible in darkness. But it will find a way to touch you even when you least expect it, if you notice that it's been there all this time. May your eyes be opened to the joys that surround us, bridging that chasm between our darkness and the light that cannot be stopped.

Light and Truth - Advent Meditation II

We light the candle of light and truth this coming Sunday on the Advent wreath. I find it interesting that it comes after the candle of hope and expectation. In some ways, I think hope and expectation is driven by visions of light and truth, not hope before the light.

But it's not often that way. Many times, hope and expectation comes long before you have a glimmer of light and truth. John the Baptist did not yet see the light before he offered the waters of baptism, the hope of new life, to those who came. He acted and then saw the Light appear before him.

The readings for this coming Sunday are from the his story.

In those days John the Baptist came, preaching in the wilderness of Judea and saying, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” This is he who was spoken of through the prophet Isaiah: “A voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.’" John’s clothes were made of camel’s hair, and he had a leather belt around his waist. His food was locusts and wild honey. People went out to him from Jerusalem and all Judea and the whole region of the Jordan. Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River. But when he saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees coming to where he was baptizing, he said to them: 

“You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not think you can say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. 

I baptize you with water for repentance. But after me comes one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire.”

Matthew 3:1-12

It's truly the fire and brimstone words you'd expect from a preacher out on the streets of any city. It's full of hope and at the same time warnings for those who don't repent. And this was before Jesus came up to him to be baptized. He had expectations and hope for something when in the midst of what he saw, he should not have had hope.

To me, that's what makes the light and truth so powerful as the second candle. You don't yet see the light but you've lit the candle of hope.

We must be able to hope first. We must act to be hopeful first. We must expect the coming of Christ first.

After that, the light appears.

Last night, I saw Bernie Sander speak to a packed auditorium in Glendale California. An event sponsored by Vromans Bookstore of Pasadena, the talk was supposed to be at my church All Saints Pasadena but had to be relocated to a larger venue because of the high demand. Many in the crowd were Bernie supporters, many were curious about his message now after the election. And he spoke with us, with a short period of questions and answers hosted by comedian Sarah Silverman.

And what did this Jewish Presidential candidate say when he spoke?

I heard a message of Advent. I heard a message that said we must hope, we must act, and we must plan on seeing the light and truth shine eventually. I heard that together we can rid ourselves of the vipers that got us here. And I heard that to act, we must repent, acknowledge the concessions of our souls that yielded too much power, too much of our free will to personless entities lacking humanity, that finds it easier to scapegoat than to heal.

As we approach this weekend, when we light the Advent candle of light, may we all lay the groundwork for the light that comes after today.

Hope is not Passive - Advent I

Today we lit the first candle of the Advent wreath at church. Perhaps because evening comes so early now that daily savings time has ended and we've returned to normal lighting, it seems dark. Dreary. It actually got gray and rained a lot in Los Angeles this weekend, a somewhat surprising weather pattern for us during Thanksgiving weekend.

And I was thankful for the rain, the clouds, the darkness. Because sometimes, it's hard to see that there is light around us if we don't have that darkness as a contrast. Now, don't get me wrong. I love the beautiful sunny days of Southern California and it's why my family moved here from the midwest in the late 70s and why I've stayed. But we sometimes take for granted all the light around us when we don't see it in stark contrast to darkness.

I haven't posted much since early November, largely because I have been living in a cloud of darkness. I feel anxious and unsettled for our country given that my demographic profile doesn't conform with the current nativist, uncompassionate political climate. And I'm surprised and frankly disappointed that so many people who I care about are suddenly scared and frightened.

"Really?" I think to myself, "How is it possible that people -- people that I know feel as I do -- can't see the bigotry, misogyny, and racism abounding in this country? Why does it take a political upheaval to make them realize what has been there all this time?" It's like not wanting to go into the horror of a mess in my storage in my basement, knowing what a nightmare I'll find, and thinking it's ok to just ignore it. Well it won't clean itself up unless we address it. And, if I'm honest with myself, it needs my participation to make it happen.

Which is why that first candle of Advent means so much. It's the candle of Hope. With the first light, the light that starts the Advent season, we burst through the darkness and inspire something that wasn't there before. The candle didn't come of its own but was lit by someone, lit to create sight where there wasn't before. It's a game changer, if even just a flicker.

I suffered from measles when I was a toddler back in the Philippines. I recall that extraordinary pain when my eyes opened to see light. There are very few memories of my childhood kicking around in my brain, but I do recall this one. I remember it being night but I had my eyes closed from the pain. My mother was talking to what I now know was the doctor. During that conversation, the doctor was asking me questions. After a few questions, the doctor said that he was going to stand on the other side of the room and tell me to open my eyes.

Then he asked me to open my eyes.

And I shrieked in pain like I never have screamed ever since (well at least until this spring on the Camino).

I quickly shut my eyes again because the doctor, from the other side of the room, had lit a match. And that little bit of light was all that was needed to cause me incredible pain. That's what happens for many who suffer from measles. Light sensitivity is profoundly painful.

But it's that sensitivity that I think we are needing right now. We're wandering in the darkness, yearning for light. And when that light, that hope, that spark finds us, we will be blown down in pain and fear, shock and awe. We know it's coming, we await it's coming, we want it to come. But it's not going to come without some bitter pain, at least at first.

And we await during this penitential season for Christmas to come. Yes, I am one who enjoys Advent for the season it was meant to be. Like Lent, it's a time for reflection and penitence, where we await the Good News that has been foretold. I'm thinking that we as a country are going through a penitential time, a time of waiting, of fearing, of awe-filled hope. We're in our Advent, when we prune back the deadwood for the coming spring and new life that will come.

There's a Taize hymn that I particularly like to sing during penitential times of the year. The words are:

Within our darkest night, you kindle the fire that never dies away, never dies away.

You can hear the song on YouTube: "Within Our Darkest Night".

I sang it over and over during the darkest times of my divorce 10 years ago. Ten years. It seems like a lifetime since that time of immeasurable darkness. And yet the pain and depression was so profound that I placed myself repeatedly in irrational situations, hoping that my external world would crash down as intensely as my internal world. I was deeply hurt back then, so hurt that I'm still dealing with it.

And ... I'm also still growing from it.

Because the fire never died away, never died away. It shone, if even painfully, in the bleakness, painfully shining on my sores.

I'm not sure how I arose from those ashes, but I did. I know that I didn't sit still. I attended services, though they were the contemplative ones, not the typical liturgical ones in the Episcopal church. I spoke with others who had experienced similar pains. I let myself cry. I gave myself time and room to cry.

And that's the active part of the light in the darkness. We don't just feel hopeful. Hope is not just a noun but an active verb. Diana Butler Bass (in her Thanksgiving prayer) and Rev. Susan Russell of All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena (in her sermon today) both talked about choosing hope. That you have to choose to hope and not just feel hope.

I agree and more. You have to hope to be hopeful. You may not feel like hoping, but that's what you must do to survive the sometimes existential emotional difficulties of penitential seasons of reflection. You have to hope to be hopeful, just like you need to exercise if you want to be fit or rehearse if you want to sing well. It takes practice. We must act in order to hope because it is in action that we swim across the riptide current that takes us under.

It certainly isn't pretty or tidy or comfortable at first, or even for a long time. But with practice and conviction, you'll reach a level of hopefulness that you might never have anticipated or believed.

In closing, at the top of this reflection, there's a painting from Henry Ossawa Tanner that hangs in Philadelphia. It's one my favorite art pieces. "The Annunciation" (1898) depicts the angel Gabriel appearing before Mary. In it, you see Mary's simple yet deeply moving body language, implanting her deeply personal reaction into our own psyche. James Romaine commented that "Through the visual language of her pose and expression Tanner draws the viewer into Mary’s inner life of virtue, trepidation, acceptance, and wonderment." (Art as Spiritual Perception, 2012). I connect with Mary in this painting because, though I certainly don't share in her virtue, I too feel her trepidation, acceptance, and wonderment.

And if you don't know who he is, Tanner was the first African-American artist to achieve international acclaim in his day. One of his paintings hangs in the White House, the first painting by an African-American ever to be installed in that building, by a President from a town called Hope.

Hope is like that. It isn't a merely feel-good action. It's not passive. It fills us with pain and trepidation, acceptance and wonderment. And as Christians, it's what we are doing when we're asked to do the one thing commanded of us: to love one another. Hope is the verb and noun that embodies true love. We may not feel it. But we have been asked to do so. And, we are committed to hope. So join me in the act of hope.

Beatitudes 2.1

As All Saints' Day and All Souls Day arrive, I start to think about the blessings all around us, the cloud of witnesses who came and laid down the pavement for us to walk upon but are no longer physically present. And it seems fitting that the readings this coming All Saints' Day (November 1) are the beatitudes as laid down in Luke 6:20-31. It's slightly different from the beatitudes of Matthew 5:3-12.

Here's the one in Luke

Blessed are you who are poor,     for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now,     for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now,     for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you,     when they exclude you and insult you     and reject your name as evil,         because of the Son of Man.  Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven. For that is how their ancestors treated the prophets. But woe to you who are rich,     for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well fed now,     for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now,     for you will mourn and weep. Woe to you when everyone speaks well of you,     for that is how their ancestors treated the false prophets. Luke 6:20-31

In comparison, here's the one in Matthew.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn,    for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek,    for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,    for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful,    for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart,    for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers,    for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds    of evil against you because of me. Matthew 5:3-12

It seems that the reading for today is focused more heavily on those who are truly poor and the one in Matthew focuses on the ones who are poor in spirit. They are both in the Gospel and I am inclined to think that both are equally important for us to ponder. In many ways, I conflate the two and think Christ was focused on all the poor in society, body, and spirit.

Last year, I blogged about creating my own list of the blessed, the Beatitudes 2.0 if you will. It came a presentation when Nadia Bolz-Weber visited to All Saints Pasadena and she offered her list. My list came out to be as follows

Blessed are the poor in spirit,     the spiritual but not religious     the seekers of their authentic selves     the suffering who begin to doubt because the pain never seems to end     the sick who fear their own bodies     the stranger in our midst who needs a smile, a hug, a friend     the child afraid to venture outside lest the bullying return     the scared who fear coming home lest they return to a place of anger and judgment for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn,     the spouse who lost the person they've loved deeper than we can understand     the lovers who no longer find the trust and joy in each other's arms and say goodbye     the child who doesn't understand why her parent won't be coming home anymore     the friends who viewed a couple as one, as was meant to be, but now just find hollow eyes     the family shocked at the loss of someone taken too soon by gun violence     the relatives whose loss is viewed by others as collateral damage     the breaking hearts who did not even have a chance to say goodbye     the silent who must watch dementia steal someone's memories away leaving just a body for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek,     the teenager who stays in the closet, fearing that the name of their love will be discovered     the pained who turn to the bottle or to pills to give them strength and energy     the thinker and artist that lacks the opportunity to share     the pastors who heal others but wonder who will tend to them     the friend who realizes that somehow their bodies and souls don't fit a M/F binary     the nurse who washes our sores       the friend that listens to hear us, watches to see us, and grabs our hands to hold us for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,     the foreigner who is told to leave and go to a place of fear and hunger     the friends who cannot walk down the street in a hoodie or even complain about injustice     the mother who just wants to get affordable medical care to plan a family     the inmate facing the final judgment of Man and not our Creator     the families torn apart because of arbitrary rules regarding homeland     the kneeling who face violence because of their love for God, YHWH, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, ...     the proud who won't let others impose their bigotries on them for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful,     the heros who take care of us behind our backs     the friends that know all will benefit from roads, sanitation, health, protection, education     the families who reach out and adopt and care for all children, not just those that look like them     the older sibling, real or implied, who has our backs     the comadre and compadre who listen to our problems without judging us     the teacher who gives of their own time to care for that special child     the mother and father, sister and brother, who just want you to be happy for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart,     the custodians at the church, homeless shelter, and hospital     the teachers who want the most for your child     the person at the grocery line who lets you cut in front of them     the staff at the store and restaurant that share the bathroom even if you didn't or can't buy anything     the ranger who tends to our land so that future generations can marvel at Creation     the homeowner who sees you lost, gives you water, and guides you home     the friend who gives you a ride, cares for a prisoner, plants flowers on a trail for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers,     the police and judiciary that understand that true safety starts in trust     the people who unite us as a human family, rather than divide us like spoils of war     the artists, writers, and musicians who inspire us to love and compassion     the fire crew that calms the fearful neighborhood     the military who put their lives on the line for our protection and not for their glory     the unknown missionary who lies in a shallow grave for the civil rights of brothers and sisters     the good Samaritan whose name we never knew, or whose face we've already forgotten for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,     the ones who care for the Children of God          ignoring false idols          ignoring their own egos          ignoring the sense of their own righteousness for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Perhaps because I've spent my career in software, I thought I would revisit this list and made some changes. I do this not because some things are less blessed than others but because sometimes, with the filter of time, you start to see things differently. I put in italics the areas that changed.

Blessed are those guided or seek guidance by a higher power     the poor in spirit,     the spiritual but not religious     the pious and self-righteous     the broken one feeling the weight of their perceived sins     the seekers of their authentic selves     the suffering who begin to doubt because the pain never seems to end     the sick who fear their own bodies     the stranger in our midst who needs a smile, a hug, a friend     the child afraid to venture outside lest the bullying return     the scared who fear coming home lest they return to a place of anger and judgment for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn,     the spouse who lost the person they've loved deeper than we can understand     the lovers who no longer find the trust and joy in each other's arms and say goodbye     the child who doesn't understand why her parent won't be coming home anymore     the friends who viewed a couple as one, as was meant to be, but now just find hollow eyes     the family shocked at the loss of someone taken too soon by gun violence     the relatives whose loss is viewed by others as collateral damage     the breaking hearts who did not even have a chance to say goodbye     the silent who must watch dementia steal someone's memories away leaving just a body for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek,     the woman who must remain meek and the man who must not be meek     the teenager who stays in the closet, fearing that the name of their love will be discovered     the pained who turn to the bottle or to pills to give them strength and energy     the thinker and artist that lacks the opportunity to share     the pastors who heal others but wonder who will tend to them     the neighbor who realizes that somehow their bodies and souls don't fit a M/F binary     the nurse who washes our sores         the friend that listens to hear us, watches to see us, and grabs our hands to hold us     the person down the hall whom we intentionally or unintentionally oppress for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,     the foreigner who is told to leave and go to a place of fear and hunger     the friends who cannot walk down the street in a hoodie or even complain about injustice     the mother who just wants to get affordable medical care to plan a family     the inmate facing the final judgment of Man and not our Creator     the families torn apart because of arbitrary rules regarding homeland     the kneeling who face violence because of their love for God, YHWH, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, ...     the proud who won't let others impose their bigotries on them     the neighbor whose land was taken & defiled by governments, industry, oil, & ourselves for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful,     the heros who take care of us behind our backs     the friends that know all will benefit from roads, sanitation, health, protection, education     the families who reach out and adopt and care for all children, not just those that look like them     the older sibling, real or implied, who has our backs     the comadre and compadre who listen to our problems without judging us     the teacher who gives of their own time to care for that special child     the mother and father, sister and brother, who just want you to be happy for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart,     the custodians at the church, homeless shelter, and hospital     the teachers who want the most for your child     the person at the grocery line who lets you cut in front of them     the staff at the store and restaurant that share the bathroom even if you didn't or can't buy anything     the ranger who tends to our land so that future generations can marvel at Creation     the homeowner who sees you lost, gives you water, gives you refuge, and guides you home     the friend who gives you a ride, cares for a prisoner, plants flowers on a trail for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers,     the police and judiciary that understand that true safety starts in trust     the people who unite us as a human family, rather than divide us like spoils of war     the artists, writers, and musicians who inspire us to love and compassion     the fire crew that calms the fearful neighborhood     the military who put their lives on the line for our protection and not for their glory     the unknown missionary who lies in a shallow grave for the civil rights of brothers and sisters     the good Samaritan whose name we never knew, or whose face we've already forgotten for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,     the ones who care for the Children of God          ignoring false idols          ignoring their own egos          ignoring the sense of their own righteousness for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

In your world, what are YOUR beatitudes? And in your heart, who do you bless as Jesus would bless?

Climb that Tree and Find What You Seek

There was a time when I felt lost. I mean, really lost, and not like lost as I am in general today. I didn't enjoy attending my church because I would hear reinforcing messages that the way I was born, the way I was created, was somehow intrinsically maladjusted, bad, sinful. Not just any bad, but worse than the run of the mill sins that other people committed. And I was too young to even act upon these sins. These were just thoughts and feelings that I had inside and society told me to keep under wraps.

So I started to stay away from Church. I think a lot of people do that today.  They hear messages at their church that they don't like or disagree with and they stop attending. But how does one then differentiate that discomfort from making church all about themselves? What is to differentiate self-gratification in a human-constructed church from self-gratification from an ego-constructed sense of identity?

How does one leave a Church without it being about him or herself?

It took me a long time to come to terms with that problem. I'm still dealing with it, but have gotten further than ever before. Meanwhile, during the times I walked away, I still felt a hunger, a wanting, so I would sneak into church for silent prayer. This was at a time when I was out at university and I didn't want my gay friends to see me in church. Church hurt too many of them as well, and the explanations I'd have to give seemed to difficult to express. No I wasn't self-hating; I was hungry. No I wasn't actually still in the closet; I was seeking more from my life. Sure, I had made mistakes. Lots of them. And that's what made me feel like I needed to understand myself and my values ever better.

So yes I would sneak back into church. I was out as a gay man but closeted as a religious person.

The return to church in the past two decades has been life-sustaining for me. I have realized that I can't begin to live the life I'm intended to live without coming to the water when I'm thirsty. We are called into a place where we can be healed, where we can be the source of healing, where we are meant to be, and that calling is both internal and external.

We must respond to the feelings inside of us. We must move our butts to the places where we can put our values and life-meanings into action. Inside and out fully expressed: there is no more need for any closet. Instead, we climb the highest trees to see what's possible, to see the good in the world, and commit ourselves into the direction we were meant to go.

I think that it takes a great deal of reflection to decide that your spiritual journey may or may not need a church. Likewise, it takes some commitment to accept whether or not your journey includes a spiritual guide. Like a tour guide, you sometimes need others to show you the way. It's not that you can't figure it out on your own. It's just that you might want to get to your destination sooner, easier, with less wear and tear, so that you can enjoy yourself more fully. I've always avoided tour guides in my travels but have learned to understand my need for them when I'm immersed deeper in foreign languages and lands than I can handle. The same has applied in my spiritual life. It's taken me a long time to accept my need of church and spiritual guides, but once I set my ego aside, once I accept that my journey doesn't have to be over broken glass and bloody thorns, then I can yield to those who can help me get to the place I'm meant to be sooner, happier, safer. And in doing so, I make it clear to myself that it's in trusting others, in loving others, that I can find my way.

Last night, Stephen and I watched Les Miserables, the movie from a couple years ago. It's my favorite musical and though the movie has issues, the story line still brings me to tears. The contrast between Javert and Jean Valjean is marked, and yet they both sing the same melody when they come to their spiritual crisis. Jean Valjean's crisis is when he must decide who is the man that God intended him to be; Javert's crisis is when he confronts his moral world and finds no place for forgiveness. Both, in the end, are confronting the issue of Love unfolding, Love all-encompassing, Love made flesh. And at the end of the musical, my favorite line: "To love another person is to see the face of God."

We attended a cousin's wedding this weekend. Cousin weddings happen in my life more often than most, as I have 54 first cousins. And yet, sitting in the Roman Catholic church that I once walked away from, that I once felt outcast and excluded, I watched two people in love come together, seeing the face of God in each other. Trusting each other to help guide the other, to help each of them find their way in this life.

I close this blog entry with this coming Sunday's reading. Jesus promises to be there for us, if we reach out, if we love, we allow ourselves to be loved.

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through. A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. He wanted to see who Jesus was, but because he was short he could not see over the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way.
When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.
All the people saw this and began to mutter, “He has gone to be the guest of a sinner.”
But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.”
Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

                               Luke 19:1-10

Take me, Take me as I am

I walked this Camino thinking that I might be posting, as I did this spring, nightly. Obviously, I did not. I spent much time thinking and contemplating, like before, but this time with a fixed group - All Saints Episcopal Church Pasadena's Transformational Journeys- traveling together as one. So some of the time I would have spent writing was spent sharing stories and breaking bread.

And increasingly, as the 10 day trip continued, I felt humbled. I didn't think of myself as a group leader per se. I was there to help guide people on their journey in my mind, to make it a safe space. A friend on Twitter posted yesterday :

Now that I think about it, a walking meditation group may not be safe. What will the church do if a member is injured or dies on a walk?

I responded

Pilgrimage isn't about safety

So though in my heart, I knew that risks are always taken when one goes on pilgrimage, I was serving these new friends of mine in a way not to create the journey, not to create the spiritual space, not to inspire, but merely to make that journey just a little bit safer, a little less frightening, a little less scary.

In between the delicate spider webs, the soaring spires, the wide open fields, the rolling hills of forests, different people had blisters, and stomach issues, and sun exposure. Sooner or later, someone would wander far ahead or far behind. But the gentle rhythm of life in a pilgrimage walk keeps you moving and drives you forward, and you flow through and with and in that stream in community with others.

So as the days passed, I grew increasingly humbled that I had the opportunity to be a part of this journey with others. That in my own way, as someone who was there to care for the safety of others, I got to draw inspiration as they did, to find new insights into my own journey, and into my own failings.

I had another coincidence involving meeting someone from home. This spring, I ran into Nancy at the Cruz de Ferro. Well this time, my friend Ralph and I had been speaking this summer about his coming Camino. As it turned out, we ended up in Palas de Rei on the same night. He started in Saint Jean Pied-de-Port in early September and caught up with us on our shorter journey. I was thrilled to be able to sit in the Cathedral with him as he watched the botafumeiro swinging wildly from the ceiling. With both these instances, the Holy Spirit just wanted to remind me that we are never alone and that always walk with others.

My pack felt incredibly light this trip. Did I really pack that much less? I don't think I did. I may have packed more. But I felt strong and confident in body, which was quite ironic because I started the trip with a visit to Urgent Care in Madrid. You see, I felt I had a growth or something in my chin that I tried to attend to in Pasadena before I left but time ran out before my flight. So, I went to the Spanish doctor who gave me antibiotics which nipped the problem quite well. Physically, I felt fine, but I talked awkwardly (and unbeknownst to others perhaps, with discomfort) for a couple days. Everything got better with each passing day and soon I recovered.

The flowers had passed by this time of year but the weather was spectacular. Normally Galicia is rainy, but it never rained on us more heavily than a light mist for 5 minutes out of the whole week. This made my walk and the walk of others that much easier and made it easier to take photos.

Given this background, I was thinking about my three angels from the last camino. Thor, the one who saved me; Daniel, the one who showed beautiful love and life; and Silvia, the one who cried at the well. (I recounted their stories in Walking in the Kingdom of Heaven). I thought of my journey in life, and what I was doing on the Camino this time around.

Every day we did morning prayer and we tried to do prayers every evening before dinner. At first we did it in my room, but then we took it out into the open and just did the prayers in public. It felt so good. It felt right. We were keeping the spiritual journey focused with these prayers. And we prayed not in isolation, but with the world, as we prayed for the people in Haiti, Syria, and our community. As a Lay Eucharistic Minister, I brought some consecrated bread and wine with me and surprised them so that we could have communion on our Sunday walk and on our last day walking. I was moved that they were appreciative of this, as I was of being able to share with them the Eucharistic feast.

So with all that, yes, I grew increasingly humbled by where my journey was leading me. A hymn kept popping up in my head that I didn't consciously bring along but wouldn't leave me alone:

Take, O take me as I am
Summon out what I should be
Set a Seal upon my a heart
and live in me

It's a hymn from the Iona community in Scotland by John L Bell, of the Church of Scotland. I wasn't guiding, I wasn't leading, I wasn't pushing people along. Instead, I felt like I was just asking to be taken as I am, with the imploring plea that I become the person I was meant to be. And with the grace of love on my heart, may that love live within me. Not exactly the hymn you think a pilgrimage leader would have, but there you go, that's what was going on in my head as I went to sleep, as I walked over streams, as I broke bread.

I got home last night, tired and a little under the weather. Not surprising I suppose because after the Camino, I went off to a beach-filled rest in the Canary Islands then to meet with a friend in chilly Mainz, Germany. But I got home, had dinner with Stephen, and then glanced at this weekend's readings and had to smile.

The reading will likely be used at churches across the country to talk about sin, idolatry, and perhaps even the current election season. But I smiled because I thought it fit with this Camino oh so well. I find it hard to think of myself as a leader in spirituality, when I am on the journey as much as everyone else is. But perhaps, that's what the Holy Spirit is summoning out of me. Perhaps, I've got to accept that it's my brokenness that my personhood is justified.

To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else, Jesus told this parable: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’

“But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

“I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Luke 18:9-14 NIV

Knock knock

Today's the feast day of St Fancis. As I walk on an ancient pilgrimage route that this man from Assisi once traversed, I wonder what the animals thought of him, his Italian words and prayers, his simplicity. I wonder if he delighted in seeing cows and sheep and chickens like we are on the Camino.

And I wonder how he laughed.

Did he tell knock knock jokes? Or tell groaners or "Dad jokes"? Or snicker at the folly of a fellow brother?

We may not think of saints laughing or crying or looking anything but pious and stern. Ascetic perhaps, or maybe suffering. But certainly not busting out in laughter much less busting a move on a dance floor.

And why not? They were human. They walked and breathed among us. Why must we expect others to sit outside of the human condition before we can appreciate their extraordinary gifts?

He may have walked the Camino in a group like I am. And I've certainly had my share of laughs in between the insights and prayers. Don't most?

I want to think he laughed when the goats skipped merrily along a wall. Or smiled broadly, perhaps saying "awwww" when a calf appeared beside her mother. Or swooned when a bird flew over a setting sun.

Because it is in that humanity, we too can walk with saints. And smile.

Different, Yet the Same

Now that I'm in Sarria, I've spent a day dining and traveling to our Camino starting point with the All Saints Pasadena Transformational Journeys group. It's my first time leading a pilgrimage group rather than walking the Camino independently. I've had an inkling that it would feel different than my other Caminos and it's true, it does. 

To a point.

I'm preoccupied with the itineraries and luggage needs of others. I'm making sure their concerns are allayed and that we minimize situations where a member of the flock wanders away. And instead of my own personal prayer sessions, I'm inviting us all into my ritual of morning and afternoon prayer, going from an informal conversation with God to one based on the Morning Office of the Book of Common Prayer.

We didn't start those prayers Thursday or Friday. I figured we would do so on days we walked, the other days focused on jet lag, eating, and worldly needs. Three of us had dinner in Madrid Thursday night and our first group meal was here in Sarria for lunch. We attended the evening mass and blessing at Santa Mariña, the large church at the top of the stairs in Sarria, and then proceeded to beer, wine, tortillas (egg omelet), and cheese for a light dinner.

The differences:

• checking us as a group into an hostal (inn) and paying for it

Uhhh, in truth that's it.

The similarities:

• great laughs while simultaneously eating and sharing personal stories of our lives, loves, and Journey

• chatting with random pilgrims 

• wandering and seeking of beauty and the new

• discovering that Spanish mass is the same yet different

• sensing rain and cold and yet valuing the present company and relationships

• laughing at our encounters with languages

• pointing out landmarks and buildings to each other

• walking separately and yet together

I'm excited about what will happen in the next few hours as we breakfast, do morning prayers, and commence our walk. I can't make someone's Camino the spiritual journey of their lifetime. That's up to them and the Holy Spirit. But I can be there to assist.

Somehow that's the most similar to my most recent Camino, the one focused on healing. Recognition that I can help and guide in the spiritual journey, but cannot control it. Being both helper and helped. Finding in our humanness, the divine. And trusting that the Holy Spirit will provide, guide, and feed each of us.

I'm feeling really blessed right now because of this opportunity, yes, but mostly that others are there to help me and praying for me.

For Thursday started with a predawn visit to Urgencias. I had a jaw pain that turned out to be a cheek abscess likely brought on by an accidental bite. And it got infected and made it painful to talk and eat. Yet everyone here and at home via Facebook has poured out prayers for me.

That's a continuation of my Camino of healing. That's Love embodied in the family and friends in our lives, in the strangers who help us at the hospital and  train stations.

I close this blog post with a photo from my hotel room in Madrid. Four skyscrapers that are instantly recognizable as financial centers in Madrid outside my window. And just below are the tents of the homeless. And I think to myself, what journey are they on and how do our journeys interact? What have we done to accidentally guide them there and what can we do to lead them to a better place? Is there Hope in their lives? I know there's Hope all around us. I'm just asked to help remind others when fear and new situations frighten. To be there for others as they are for me. To love and be loved.

Even When Alone, We Walk Together

I leave on Tuesday for Madrid. Yes, I'm returning to the Camino de Santiago. Unlike the 2014 and 2016 walks, I'm doing this differently.

In 2014, I walked 270 miles from after Burgos to Santiago de Compostela. In 2015, I walked short segments as I drove my parents along the entire route from Lourdes to the end. And earlier this year, I walked the 600 miles from Lourdes to Santiago de Compostela. For the most part, these were by myself or with people I met along the way. This spring, my husband Stephen joined me for the final 200 miles. So I had a little practice walking and guiding someone, but it was just one individual, someone I knew quite well.

Now, I'm leading a few people from my church. All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena has a Transformational Journeys ministry, and though I've taken a trip with them to China before, this is the first time I'm leading a group. We range in age from 31 to 67 and will be walking 117km from Sarria to Santiago de Compostela.

And yes, once again, I'll be blogging every day on this journey.

I've spent some time preparing us and the itinerary for group, but this week I had an opportunity to synthesize and reflect on this coming walk. First, it was brought to my attention that like many things in life, pilgrimages and retreats come in three phases: awareness, destabilization, and reconstruction.

First, we become aware of our surroundings, our bodies, our challenges. We identify and feel everything. We absorb and let our senses take it all in. Then we move to a period of destabilization, where we recognize that the information our senses are collecting is not what we expected, or wanted, or aspire, or accept. It's destabilizing to realize this knowledge, for we spent so much of our normal days avoiding the awareness.

To coincide with this stage, let me bring up a quote from Father Henri Nouwen. This week, we recognized the 20th anniversary of his passing. He wrote in "Making All Things New":

As soon as we are alone...inner chaos opens up in us. This chaos can be so disturbing and so confusing that we can hardly wait to get busy again. Entering a private room and shutting the door, therefore, does not mean that we immediately shut out all our inner doubts, anxieties, fears, bad memories, unresolved conflicts, angry feelings and impulsive desires. On the contrary, when we have removed our outer distraction, we often find that our inner distractions manifest themselves to us in full force. We often use the outer distractions to shield ourselves from the interior noises. This makes the discipline of solitude all the more important.

The last phase of a journey is reconstruction. You've felt, you've seen things torn apart by true awareness, and now it's time to rebuild yourself and find a new understanding. It's what we think pilgrimage is about, and yet to get there, we must first go through the other two phases. I feel that some who don't get to this part of their journeys, who feel that the Camino did not yield to them new insights, may not have allowed themselves to go through the first two phases fully and deeply.

I had a deepening of this last phase of my last Camino this week. Daniel from the UK was visiting California. If you followed my Camino, you would have seen my post "The Healing Water of Lourdes" where we walked together for the day. We spent breakfast together the next day ("Empty Nests"). And he figured prominently in my synthesis of my journey, as one of my angels who guided me ("Walking in the Kingdom of Heaven").

We met for dinner and while he stopped by Los Angeles. Two other friends of his were with us there at that restaurant in Silverlake. One of them, Sandy, seemed to walk around the same time as me. In fact, after hours of chatting, we realized that we knew many of the same people and had interactions with the Texas A&M students on the same day in Carrion de las Condes. And yet we never met until Wednesday night. And we didn't know how our lives were connected, even though they were. Even though they are.

So much of the Camino and life can be like that, I realized. We are interacting with people we never meet, their influence on us slight and indirect, our influence on them similarly subtle.

You may walk alone, but you're walking with the person in front of you, walking with the person behind you, with the person passing you on the left, with the person, you're passing on the right.

I may not know what I'm seeking on this pilgrimage. But I approach it with an open heart, and an open mind. I appreciate your prayers for our safety, for the health and well-being of those who I walk with, and for all of us reading this. We are all bound together in ways we cannot recognize, destabilizing and reconstructing each other whether we know it or not.

But first we have to feel it.
To sense it.
To become aware of what we have in front of us.

And though it can be frightening, we can move on in prayer with each other and for each other and for ourselves.

And for those who are Christian and spiritually inclined, I want to bring up that not only are we connected to each other, we are connected to the divine. Whether we know it or not, we are affected and informed by this relationship, seen or unseen. I'll close with a portion of a prayer attributed to Saint Patrick.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye that sees me,
Christ in the ear that hears me. 

Buen camino fellow pilgrims. Buen camino.

Is your Journey an Adventure?

I saw this image on the web and had to share it, as it caused me to think. It's about adventure, and the Camino de Santiago, the whole journey of life for that matter, is an adventure.

The picture is certainly a bit of fun with a whole lot of tongue in cheek about adventure. And, I hope you don't have to worry about cutting off an arm.

Yet many times we worry about our difficulties and focus in on them, forgetting about the happiness we encounter. When deeply involved with those troubling times, we might not even see the joys of life around us. They're there, but we obsess about the tough parts.

I certainly can get that way. Once I'm in pain or things aren't going as planned, I start worry about contingencies. Even if there's nothing I can do for the moment, it's all I seem to think about. In the end, though, as the picture suggests, if we aren't about to die, then it might not be as bad as we think. And, it might even add to the adventure.

I recall the many difficulties I've had while traveling on vacation, on Camino, through life... They weren't fun at the time, and yet today, I sit back and tell stories about what happened. How I hurt or was scared or angry. In the rear view mirror, it doesn't look as menacing as when I was in it at the moment.

So I'm try not to stay in that "are you about to die" moment, trying not to micromanage an outcome, to control what cannot be controlled. The world needs us to be present with each other, as well as with the trials testing us. If we can approach life and each other as the adventure that never stops exciting us, I think we'll find ourselves less fearful of the daily threats and troubles around us. We'll be able to see both sides, the unsettling side AND the joyful side.

And then, then we can take pictures to remember, stories to tell... and post them on Instagram.

Walking in the Kingdom of Heaven

I was asked what were my most memorable moments along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. I reflected on this, as I had so many memories, photographs, and blog postings. It occurred to me that my most memorable points were not about me alone, about the flowers, or about specific places.

It was about people.

Now, I found many amazing people along the Camino but for this question, I focused on three people in particular. Three people who I view as messengers in my life. Angels really. After all, the original depiction of angels were messengers, so perhaps it's fitting, on this Feast Day of Saint James the Apostle, the saint for whom the Camino de Santiago is named, that I dwell on those who bring Good News to people.

The first person came to me in the middle of my deepest fear I've had in decades. The full account of that day is in "Angel Messenger and the Comfort of Christ". I held back tears because I was afraid that I would die of exposure while crossing the Pyrenees. I thought I had such good fortune because just when I thought my hip and lower back could not get me over the mountains, I saw the luggage transportation van, and the woman was able to take at the last minute my backpack to my destination. Unfortunately, in my haste, I grabbed almost everything I needed for the daypack, except my jacket. As the clouds came, the rains came and the painful hail poured down for two hours, shredding my poncho and leaving me basically with my day pack and my quick dry long sleeve shirt. The fog and my steam-covered eyeglasses could barely see where the trail was and where the cliffs threatened. I could not even venture to see a statue of the Virgin in the mountains because I feared falling off the slopes.

And then came a vision from behind me. I only saw his chin peeking out from his clothing, a chin where my immediate reaction was "Oh, that looks like the guy who played Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar". He asked me how I was and I responded with "cold and frightened." And this person just smiled and said "You'll be fine." He continued, "Where are you going?" I answered "To Roncesvalles on the other side of the Pyrenees". With his calm smile he said, "I'll see you on the other side" and continued walking into the foggy hail. For some reason, this was weirdly re-assuring. Moreover, he wore a fluorescent red backpack poncho, a colour so bright that I could actually see it and follow along the twisting, unseen trail. So I followed this young man who looked like Jesus into the unknown, somehow comforted, somehow feeling safe, somehow confident.

And the next day, after I made it, after I slept, I was back on the trail and he placed his hand on my shoulder and said that he knew I would be there. And he walked with me the whole day. We broke bread together on a mountain top. His name was Thore, after the Norse God of storms and protection.

And on this fifth and sixth day of my Camino, yes, this person whose image first made me think of Christ, he met me in a storm and was my protector.

The next influential person appeared after Pamplona. I had been upset and fearful that my blisters, acquired from wet feet and the struggle over the Pyrenees, would impair me. For now, I was doing better. And I came across a person who simply radiated love. In fact, almost every person who ever met Daniel from Oxford described his intensely caring eyes and his beautiful affection for everyone he met. He was astonishingly humble. We talked and walked all day, breaking bread at dinner and the next day at breakfast. He was thrilled that I had water from Lourdes that I was sharing with those on the Camino, and he thankfully took a sip and asked to be anointed with it. He touched almost everyone he seemed to meet.

And he did this while walking on crutches. You didn't notice them after you talked with him; you didn't usually see his bruised hands and feet. The reality was that his ailments slowed him down to just over 1-2 mph and it was taking him three months to reach Santiago, three times longer than most. I can't imagine how he navigated the muddy, rocky slopes of the various mountains we crossed. When asked why he was on the Camino, he would respond "so that every day I can walk again." But he inspired such care in others, as we all cared for him. After evening mass, for example, I lost track of him even though he was sitting beside me. I found him; he was giving alms to a needy man and asking if he was safe this evening.

He embodied so comfortably, so easily, the unconditional love that graces us and that we are called to show. Despite his challenges, he feared not, almost a posterchild of St Teresa's "Nada de Turbe" (Do not worry) prayer. Yes, I shared the healing waters with him, and in his presence and love, I was the one who was healed.

The third person who touched me greatly on this Camino walked into my life the day after Burgos City. I took a rest day in Burgos because my blisters were so painful. And for some reason, on a day I was feeling quite healthy, I saw a grove of trees next to a sign that said "Fuente" (water fountain). I had lots of water and wasn't tired. In fact, I was only an hour away from my destination. But I felt called to sit under these trees, so I listened to the Holy Spirit and walked into grove and sat at the tables. I chatted with some pilgrims and found out the water was empty. Soon, a woman from Italy came over and was looking for water. She became frightened and upset when I said that the well was dry.

I offered her my water since I had plenty. After all, I was only an hour away from my final stop of the day. She filled her bottle and drank much of it. I topped it off for her. In talking, she found out I started in Lourdes and she expressed her interest in visiting it one day. I offered her some of the Lourdes water. And that's when she really caught my attention. She burst into tears, hugging me for a couple minutes, sobbing. Silvia drank the Lourdes water and asked to be anointed by it. In the next week, I would come across her several more times, including walking with her for a whole day surrounded by flowers.

That day, that evening, I didn't know why she cried. It took several more encounters with her to understand that she was exhausted, thirsty, and spiritually challenged. She had come onto the camino looking for a spiritual experience but she was coming away thirsty and longing for that touch with the divine, the mystical. Here I was, thinking I was merely offering her water, but when the Holy Spirit drew me to that well, I was guided to give her a glimpse of the waters of life.

So these three people, these three angels affected me most. As I described them, the person who asked me the initial question reflected and said, "I asked you to describe your most memorable Camino memories. You've just described the Kingdom of Heaven."

I was at first surprised and then it began to sink in. I was so close to these stories, I hadn't stepped back to put them together. In Thore, I encountered the comforting, guiding Christ. Beside Daniel, I walked with unconditional love. And with Silvia and guided by the Holy Spirit, I acted out the great commandment and loved my neighbor as myself. It wasn't a fluke that these three were in my life and were somehow prominent memories of my Camino.

They represented the best promise of life, the promise of the Kingdom of Heaven. In their presence in my presence, in our encounters on the Camino de Santiago, I was making my journey to that Kingdom.

So step back and look at the angels in your life. Where are they guiding you? Where are you leading them? And are you awake enough to see where you are and where you are going?

May your footsteps always walk beside the angels in our lives, on a journey of love, peace, and comfort.

Can't Walk On Any More

Coming off the Camino de Santiago, I still find that journey and travel passages in the Bible capture my attention. So imagine my surprise when I saw that our gospel reading this week is the well known Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37) parable.

We are told of a traveler of unknown ethnic or religious origin who gets robbed, stripped, and left for dead at the side of the road. We are told a priest saw the man, literally crosses the road to avoid him, and passed on by. Then a Levite did the same. A Samaritan comes by and actually helps the beaten man.

How fitting for the distressing stories in the news this week and all too often recently. Fitting not because of what happened, but because of how we respond.

A priest in Biblical times performed many of the duties you would expect in a temple. A Levite is performs other temple duties that the priest does not do. They serve the church and supposedly God.

The foreign Samaritans were largely detested by the Jews. Since Jesus was giving his parable to a Jewish lawyer, he clearly was trying to make a point about who stopped to help and who didn't. Clearly those who we expected to be "good" did not act righteously. It's even more poignant because Jesus gave this parable in response a question on the Great Commandment. "How do we get into heaven?" "Love your neighbor as yourself." And, like a lawyer, he asks "But who is our neighbor?"

So Jesus responds with a parable that is meant to provoke, to make you notice the log in your eye. There's a person who's been hurt and all people, even those you detest, can be the one who stops and helps that individual and do what God expects. Those who seem to be good could ignore the Great Commandment and walk past what they see as an obvious injury.

I see the events in regarding Alton Sterling and Philando Castile in this light. It seems to be happening all across the country. African Americans have a frighteningly high mortality rate at the hands of police. People of color, people like myself, feel that we have to be extra careful when confronted by police, to be docile, to have our hands out in the open, to not make any sudden moves. I remove my hat so that my face is seen when police are around. There is no sense of safety, but of caution. I fear that I could be the next statistic or hashtag on Twitter.

And yet the media and most people who don't worry about their safety at the hands of their protectors walk on by. They change the subject, maybe blaming the victims for their problems. Sometimes, they'll offer "thoughts and prayers".

I see it happening to immigrants and refugees. I see it happening to those who are in poverty or who are forced into homelessness. I see it happening with women whose rapes are blamed by their attire and were asking for it. I see it happening towards the LGBTQ community where their deaths and beatings are blamed upon them. I grew up hearing that we could not possibly be born this way and are living out our lives not out of honesty but in defiance of some concept of normalcy. I see it happening to the weary traveler who is confused and lost, but gets in the way of those in a rush to drive to work in their nice car.

Well the Samaritan story doesn't accept that apathy and denial and those blinders that impair the light of God from shining forth. The neighbor isn't the person who looks like you, the person who shares your faith or homeland, the person who even likes you. The neighbor is anyone who needs a neighbor. The neighbor is the brother and sister, for all are children of God.

So what are you going to do? What am I going to do? I don't know an easy answer. But I do know this. I can't cross to the other side of the road and turn my head away. I won't ignore, blame, deflect. I accept responsibility for my complicity in the problem, whether its because I actually harmed someone, or because I walked past the injured. I don't know the answer, but I know it's not what we have today.

May we be given the courage to get right on down on our knees, down in the dirt, and help those who need us most. To help. To touch. To love.