Easter blessings!
This week was celebration of Passover (Mon. and Tue., March 25, and 26); the feast of Holi (March 27), and Holy Week. Phew!
It isn't like I've been off of the trail of my pilgrimage, or the School of the Pilgrim. In short, I've been taken up on the pilgrimage of life, in which much has taken place as an activist with people who are LGBTQ, marriage equality, and straight allies.
On the School of the Pilgrim front, much is taking place:
1. Just finished a course of Pilgrimage and Lent at United Church of Chapel Hill;
2. Getting ready to take seniores from the Univ. of NC-Chapel Hill on pilgrimage across England in May 2013;
3. Getting people to go with me on pilgrimage in November 2013;
4. Pilgrimage with other student from UNC-CH in March 2013.
I'll be posting here more regularly.
Buen Camino!
B
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Pilgrimages in 2013
Tonight I met with the graduating seniors with the Presbyterian Campus Ministry (PCM) at the Univ. of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, talking about the upcoming pilgrimage to Hadrian's Wall, taking place the last half of May 2013. The School of the Pilgrim will accompany them on this journey! There are seventeen of us going as we walk from west to east, discovering and re-discovering the journey we are on in our hectic lives.
Buen Camino! Brett
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Coming Out PIlgrimage
From Huffingtonpost.com: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/brett-webbmitchell/the-coming-out-pilgrimage_b_1859061.html
I woke up at 3:00 a.m. in the well-used Community Center of Bernal, New Mexico, for the first day of my recent pilgrimage to El Santuario de Chimayo in northern New Mexico. After a quick morning prayer and stretching exercises, and a delicious meal of breakfast burritos, my companions and I set out on the road to Las Vegas, the first leg of our journey to Chimayo, by 5:00 a.m. It was chilly outside because the sun had not risen yet. The sun rose a few minutes after 5:30 and within a half hour started to warm up the earth. Why Chimayo? The sacredness of Chimayo among Christians comes from the very earth itself that is said to have healing powers, whether one comes with physical pain, emotional needs, or spiritual wounds. I, along with a band of 31 other men of all ages, walked over one hundred miles in five and a half days. Even though I went on my first pilgrimage over 13 years ago, and have been on many religious pilgrimages since then, the first day of a pilgrimage is the most nerve racking. I openly wonder if my aging body will be up to the physical challenges, and if my spirit will shun or embrace the mysteries that I will encounter along the way. Each morning, questioning my sanity, I knew that I could only complete it one day at a time, one step at a time, to quote my 12-step friends. Pilgrimage begins simply with the first step forward, followed by another, and nothing is ever the same.
Seventeen years ago I awoke early one morning and began my coming out pilgrimage. Though I had long imagined what it would be like coming out, the very act of coming out of my closet brought both unbridled joy and literally scared me to death. It was these polar opposite feelings that effectively stopped me from leaving the closet's narrow, loathsome confines. I was paralyzed emotionally, wanting to embrace the emotional, relational, intellectual, spiritual, and physical attraction to men, yet could not accept being gay because I believed society's and my church's hateful condemnations against the "homosexual lifestyle." To keep my mind from dwelling on being gay, I busied myself with the academy where I worked, the denomination I served, and the family I loved, to fend off any rumors that I could be gay. But one morning, after a year of counseling and months of strategizing, I simply left the house I shared with my wife and kids, and moved to a small studio apartment, never to return. Even though I was consumed with fear that I would lose my place in the institution of higher education where I worked, be defrocked as a minister, and lose my family, I nonetheless could no longer live the lie I was trying to live. I wanted and needed to live life as fully "me": a dad, professor, writer, pastor, partner, and pilgrim who happened to be gay. As pilgrimage starts with a step forward, so does coming out. And nothing is ever the same.
I live a pilgrim life, both as a Christian pilgrim and as a gay man. I live in the amazing parallels between these two movements of body, mind and spirit. Both pilgrimages start from a beginning point; are more about the journey than the destination sometimes; use stories as a way to navigate the way forward; require taking good care of ourselves; and lean forward toward reaching a destination and a life radically reformed. The close parallel of an actual pilgrimage and coming out is more than mere metaphor: an intentional pilgrimage provides concrete, tangible, markers by which one can discern where one is located on the map of coming out.
The Beginning Point: A pilgrimage is privileged opportunity, because not everyone gets the chance to go on an actual pilgrimage due to a lack of time, money, or other practical impediment. It is also an extreme challenge physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. To walk twenty-miles, day after day, is not part of my normal routine. As a white Presbyterian pastor, I am the loco gringo (that's my pilgrim name), who speaks little Spanish among brothers to whom it is their first language. As the stranger from North Carolina, I am the guest, not the host, and I am honored to be one who goes on pilgrimage with them. From the start I immerse myself in the deep waters of the rich, dark, mysterious Catholic life of northern New Mexico. I am inundated with new sights, prayers, rituals, and songs (in Spanish). While my body is weary my mind is wide-awake, keeping me from getting a good night's rest before I begin an actual pilgrimage. What keeps me awake are "What If?" questions demanding my attention: What if I get a blister on the first day of pilgrimage? What if I stumble and hurt a knee or pull a muscle? What new spiritual insights will I receive that will change my world as I know it? What will be different about me at the end of pilgrimage?
The day I decided to step over the threshold of my self-imposed closet was simultaneously horrific yet exciting. I was horrified at the prospect of leaving all I had worked for: a happy family with a wonderful wife I loved, and two adorable children. I was working at my dream job at a major university, and was ordained a pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). Yet I was putting it all in jeopardy because I simply was not completely happy with my life. I felt incomplete, like I was living a lie. In this configuration of being "family" I could not fully give myself to a relationship in which I could be wholly myself. I was excited about the prospect of no longer wasting energy in holding together the closet of gloom, and giving myself over to other life projects (being fully myself) that eluded me. The pilgrimage of coming out meant that I could embrace the person God made me to be whole-heartedly for the very first time. But how would I be different in being unapologetically me? Would I recognize myself? Would my family recognize me?
The Journey: The first day of the pilgrimage is all about the physical for me, with my mind and spirit lagging except to buoy my exhausted body. Bernal to Las Vegas is roughly 20 miles, and fairly flat. The cool morning air gave way to New Mexico's dry heat. Walking over a mountain pass would not come until day three, which is good because by then I was almost fully physically adjusted to the act of walking many miles. I began to adapt my life to the rhythm of the pilgrimage: every morning begins with thirty minutes of silent contemplation, which I throw myself into, listening to the syncopated rhythm of many shoes hitting the soil with a full moon casting an eerie shadow. Later, in English but more often in Spanish, we sang songs of praise to God the Father, "El Senor," Christ the King, "El Christo Rey," and Mary, "Madre Maria." As a Protestant, I fumble through the recitative prayer of the Rosary, learning to keep up with where we are with the bead count by my last day.
Unlike the pilgrimage to Chimayo, I do not remember the day I put myself into a closet. The closet was already fitted and built around me before I was aware of it. From the first day when I was twelve years-old and realized that I was attracted relationally, emotionally, physically, and intellectually to boys my age, I was stuck in not knowing what to do with the new sensations and feelings in me. There were no stories on television, movies, children's stories, or young adult books to help me navigate through this sea of new feelings and thoughts as a young boy who was gay. After years of therapy, struggling with a sense of abandoning my family, fearing reprisal from my denomination, I left one morning after breakfast, never to return back to the house-as-home. That night I moved into a rented one bedroom studio apartment in Chapel Hill, NC, not too far from the children. I was excited yet scared, wondering aloud at times, "My God, what have I just done!" The heavy, complicated lock on my gay closet fell off the closet door. I took the first few steps, and soon miles, away from the shadow existence of a claustrophobic life into the bright sunlight of hope.
Stories: Over the six days of being together on pilgrimage, there was plenty of time on the road and off the road to talk with one another about what we missed about home, gather in small groups to discuss the conditions of the trail, how our bodies were faring, or dreaming about a hot shower (and a cold beer) aloud. While we awoke at 3:00 a.m. and were on the road by 5:00 a.m., we were off the trail and sat down wherever our feet landed, massaging our sore limbs and lancing blistered feet by 1:00 p.m. or a little later each day. "No pain, no gain" made more sense on pilgrimage. On the pilgrimage, in between the first thirty minutes of silent contemplation, and another thirty minutes of praying the rosary or singing songs, there was always time for talking. We share stories of either previous pilgrimages, or gossip about people who had been on pilgrimage before but were not able to be with us this time. While Facebook makes sharing personal stories on a one-to-one basis difficult, pilgrimage provides a precious opportunity to share intimate stories of life. On pilgrimage I find people more willing to share stories of profound vulnerability, to sigh deeply, because they know they will most likely not meet the other pilgrim ever again. We share stories of a love life gone awry; harrowing tales of inclement weather on previous treks; the "good, bad, and ugly" parts of family life back home. I listened intently to stories from those who walked this trail before, wanting to hear which is the longest day for walking, or the height of an upcoming mountain pass we would be crossing. Stories bind us together as a community of brothers.
The stories of other gay dads, married, with children was the only way I could navigate my way out of the closet. I studied carefully how society at large and the Church in particular reacted to out gay men, learning from others how I might be perceived and treated in my community. I devoured David Leavitt's The Lost Language of Cranes, empathizing with the closeted gay father figure who would find solace in the dark confines of adult movie theaters, as he secretly envied the open life of his gay son. I freaked out when viewing the dramatic British movie "Hollow Reed," as the gay dad and his partner try to save the life of his young son who was being physically bullied by his former wife's boyfriend. While there seem to be plenty of stories of single young men, stories of gay dads were rarer. Perhaps I need to create an "It Gets Better" series of gay dad stories for dads who are in the process of coming out as an emotional map.
Taking Care: After a long day -- 3:00 a.m. wake-up call, walking, eating great meals, participating in worship along with morning and evening prayers, and showering--there is always time at night to check feet for blisters and ankle sprains, shin aches, and knee problems. There are people pre-assigned on pilgrimage to carry a medicine bag full of ointments, bandages, moleskin, and Ben-gay cream for sore limbs. I watch the care and healing touch of Roger who gives me a new understanding of brotherly love as he massages a foot, carefully threads a needle and then lances a blister, applies a bandage to keep the wounded site clean. On this pilgrimage, two men unfold a massage table, in which all pilgrims are given the gift of a massage of thigh, shin, calf muscle, and feet with cocoa butter. All we have to do is bring our towel to spread on the bed itself, and the magic begins! By the end of the pilgrimage young men take care of the feet of us "older men," a practice they learned from their elders.
Along the coming out pilgrimage trail it is important to take care of ourselves as we walk along harrowing stretches of darkened roads, the once-comfortable hiding place of the closet falling down around our ears. While counseling is helpful through this crisis of change, it is extraordinarily helpful to have others who have come along a similar pathway to walk with us. Bandaging bruised egos, and reminding ourselves that another person's crisis is not our problem simply because we're "out" is a great help. Lancing a blister, where we keep butting up hard against those who call our "lifestyle" sinful is a gift. Pulling out splinters from the shards of the wooden closet of hate I used to live in makes moving forward easier. And a massage is simply icing on the cake.
Reaching Destination: Throughout the weeklong pilgrimage to Chimayo I depended upon rituals, prayers, and songs to buoy me along the way, helping to redirect my attention from my tiredness to realizing the beauty around me as I walked. I gained insight to the audacious nature of God by simply realizing that Jesus himself was a pilgrim throughout his known ministry, never owning a home but living life on the road, depending upon the goodness of others. The late-Brother Roger of Taize rightly called Jesus the Pilgrim God. There is nothing so magnificent yet disheartening as getting to our destination. The morning of our last day together, walking nine miles is incredibly bittersweet. I know I'll never walk with this exact band of people again. I won't have the opportunity to sing the songs we've been singing all week with my friends. I'll miss someone preparing every meal for me throughout the week. The confraternity of men happens but for a brief moment in life, then disappears. It is illusory the rest of the time. Over one hundred and sixty people walked over one hundred miles over five days, up and over mountain passes, through chapels and churches, in the hot northern New Mexico sun. At El Santuario de Chimayo we enter the small sanctuary itself, half filled with cheering and singing pilgrims from other parts of New Mexico, with the Mariachi-like band playing "Que Viva Christo Rey!" An official of the Catholic Archdiocese of Santa Fe places rosaries from the Camino de Santiago de Compostela around our necks. Various crosses, images of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and other memorabilia are gathered in central place during our closing Mass together. Go in peace.
I'm now out of my once constrictive closet. The boards, nails, screws, and locks were left in garbage cans along the way. I self-identify as a dad, a pastor, a writer, a professor, a partner, and a pilgrim who is gay. In my daily prayers I quietly voice my gratitude to God for making me who I am. I love who I am today. Still ordained in the Presbyterian Church (USA), I now work at another university, teaching ethics and world religion to new students every semester. My children are grown. My former wife and I are friends, and my partner and I live in the countryside with our dogs. And now I write several blogs on my stories of being a gay dad, my letter to those in the closet to come out and move on. Perhaps take time to swim in the ocean of full acceptance, where the water is just fine. The pilgrimage of coming out is arduous but richly rewarding in the end.
I woke up at 3:00 a.m. in the well-used Community Center of Bernal, New Mexico, for the first day of my recent pilgrimage to El Santuario de Chimayo in northern New Mexico. After a quick morning prayer and stretching exercises, and a delicious meal of breakfast burritos, my companions and I set out on the road to Las Vegas, the first leg of our journey to Chimayo, by 5:00 a.m. It was chilly outside because the sun had not risen yet. The sun rose a few minutes after 5:30 and within a half hour started to warm up the earth. Why Chimayo? The sacredness of Chimayo among Christians comes from the very earth itself that is said to have healing powers, whether one comes with physical pain, emotional needs, or spiritual wounds. I, along with a band of 31 other men of all ages, walked over one hundred miles in five and a half days. Even though I went on my first pilgrimage over 13 years ago, and have been on many religious pilgrimages since then, the first day of a pilgrimage is the most nerve racking. I openly wonder if my aging body will be up to the physical challenges, and if my spirit will shun or embrace the mysteries that I will encounter along the way. Each morning, questioning my sanity, I knew that I could only complete it one day at a time, one step at a time, to quote my 12-step friends. Pilgrimage begins simply with the first step forward, followed by another, and nothing is ever the same.
Seventeen years ago I awoke early one morning and began my coming out pilgrimage. Though I had long imagined what it would be like coming out, the very act of coming out of my closet brought both unbridled joy and literally scared me to death. It was these polar opposite feelings that effectively stopped me from leaving the closet's narrow, loathsome confines. I was paralyzed emotionally, wanting to embrace the emotional, relational, intellectual, spiritual, and physical attraction to men, yet could not accept being gay because I believed society's and my church's hateful condemnations against the "homosexual lifestyle." To keep my mind from dwelling on being gay, I busied myself with the academy where I worked, the denomination I served, and the family I loved, to fend off any rumors that I could be gay. But one morning, after a year of counseling and months of strategizing, I simply left the house I shared with my wife and kids, and moved to a small studio apartment, never to return. Even though I was consumed with fear that I would lose my place in the institution of higher education where I worked, be defrocked as a minister, and lose my family, I nonetheless could no longer live the lie I was trying to live. I wanted and needed to live life as fully "me": a dad, professor, writer, pastor, partner, and pilgrim who happened to be gay. As pilgrimage starts with a step forward, so does coming out. And nothing is ever the same.
I live a pilgrim life, both as a Christian pilgrim and as a gay man. I live in the amazing parallels between these two movements of body, mind and spirit. Both pilgrimages start from a beginning point; are more about the journey than the destination sometimes; use stories as a way to navigate the way forward; require taking good care of ourselves; and lean forward toward reaching a destination and a life radically reformed. The close parallel of an actual pilgrimage and coming out is more than mere metaphor: an intentional pilgrimage provides concrete, tangible, markers by which one can discern where one is located on the map of coming out.
The Beginning Point: A pilgrimage is privileged opportunity, because not everyone gets the chance to go on an actual pilgrimage due to a lack of time, money, or other practical impediment. It is also an extreme challenge physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. To walk twenty-miles, day after day, is not part of my normal routine. As a white Presbyterian pastor, I am the loco gringo (that's my pilgrim name), who speaks little Spanish among brothers to whom it is their first language. As the stranger from North Carolina, I am the guest, not the host, and I am honored to be one who goes on pilgrimage with them. From the start I immerse myself in the deep waters of the rich, dark, mysterious Catholic life of northern New Mexico. I am inundated with new sights, prayers, rituals, and songs (in Spanish). While my body is weary my mind is wide-awake, keeping me from getting a good night's rest before I begin an actual pilgrimage. What keeps me awake are "What If?" questions demanding my attention: What if I get a blister on the first day of pilgrimage? What if I stumble and hurt a knee or pull a muscle? What new spiritual insights will I receive that will change my world as I know it? What will be different about me at the end of pilgrimage?
The day I decided to step over the threshold of my self-imposed closet was simultaneously horrific yet exciting. I was horrified at the prospect of leaving all I had worked for: a happy family with a wonderful wife I loved, and two adorable children. I was working at my dream job at a major university, and was ordained a pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). Yet I was putting it all in jeopardy because I simply was not completely happy with my life. I felt incomplete, like I was living a lie. In this configuration of being "family" I could not fully give myself to a relationship in which I could be wholly myself. I was excited about the prospect of no longer wasting energy in holding together the closet of gloom, and giving myself over to other life projects (being fully myself) that eluded me. The pilgrimage of coming out meant that I could embrace the person God made me to be whole-heartedly for the very first time. But how would I be different in being unapologetically me? Would I recognize myself? Would my family recognize me?
The Journey: The first day of the pilgrimage is all about the physical for me, with my mind and spirit lagging except to buoy my exhausted body. Bernal to Las Vegas is roughly 20 miles, and fairly flat. The cool morning air gave way to New Mexico's dry heat. Walking over a mountain pass would not come until day three, which is good because by then I was almost fully physically adjusted to the act of walking many miles. I began to adapt my life to the rhythm of the pilgrimage: every morning begins with thirty minutes of silent contemplation, which I throw myself into, listening to the syncopated rhythm of many shoes hitting the soil with a full moon casting an eerie shadow. Later, in English but more often in Spanish, we sang songs of praise to God the Father, "El Senor," Christ the King, "El Christo Rey," and Mary, "Madre Maria." As a Protestant, I fumble through the recitative prayer of the Rosary, learning to keep up with where we are with the bead count by my last day.
Unlike the pilgrimage to Chimayo, I do not remember the day I put myself into a closet. The closet was already fitted and built around me before I was aware of it. From the first day when I was twelve years-old and realized that I was attracted relationally, emotionally, physically, and intellectually to boys my age, I was stuck in not knowing what to do with the new sensations and feelings in me. There were no stories on television, movies, children's stories, or young adult books to help me navigate through this sea of new feelings and thoughts as a young boy who was gay. After years of therapy, struggling with a sense of abandoning my family, fearing reprisal from my denomination, I left one morning after breakfast, never to return back to the house-as-home. That night I moved into a rented one bedroom studio apartment in Chapel Hill, NC, not too far from the children. I was excited yet scared, wondering aloud at times, "My God, what have I just done!" The heavy, complicated lock on my gay closet fell off the closet door. I took the first few steps, and soon miles, away from the shadow existence of a claustrophobic life into the bright sunlight of hope.
Stories: Over the six days of being together on pilgrimage, there was plenty of time on the road and off the road to talk with one another about what we missed about home, gather in small groups to discuss the conditions of the trail, how our bodies were faring, or dreaming about a hot shower (and a cold beer) aloud. While we awoke at 3:00 a.m. and were on the road by 5:00 a.m., we were off the trail and sat down wherever our feet landed, massaging our sore limbs and lancing blistered feet by 1:00 p.m. or a little later each day. "No pain, no gain" made more sense on pilgrimage. On the pilgrimage, in between the first thirty minutes of silent contemplation, and another thirty minutes of praying the rosary or singing songs, there was always time for talking. We share stories of either previous pilgrimages, or gossip about people who had been on pilgrimage before but were not able to be with us this time. While Facebook makes sharing personal stories on a one-to-one basis difficult, pilgrimage provides a precious opportunity to share intimate stories of life. On pilgrimage I find people more willing to share stories of profound vulnerability, to sigh deeply, because they know they will most likely not meet the other pilgrim ever again. We share stories of a love life gone awry; harrowing tales of inclement weather on previous treks; the "good, bad, and ugly" parts of family life back home. I listened intently to stories from those who walked this trail before, wanting to hear which is the longest day for walking, or the height of an upcoming mountain pass we would be crossing. Stories bind us together as a community of brothers.
The stories of other gay dads, married, with children was the only way I could navigate my way out of the closet. I studied carefully how society at large and the Church in particular reacted to out gay men, learning from others how I might be perceived and treated in my community. I devoured David Leavitt's The Lost Language of Cranes, empathizing with the closeted gay father figure who would find solace in the dark confines of adult movie theaters, as he secretly envied the open life of his gay son. I freaked out when viewing the dramatic British movie "Hollow Reed," as the gay dad and his partner try to save the life of his young son who was being physically bullied by his former wife's boyfriend. While there seem to be plenty of stories of single young men, stories of gay dads were rarer. Perhaps I need to create an "It Gets Better" series of gay dad stories for dads who are in the process of coming out as an emotional map.
Taking Care: After a long day -- 3:00 a.m. wake-up call, walking, eating great meals, participating in worship along with morning and evening prayers, and showering--there is always time at night to check feet for blisters and ankle sprains, shin aches, and knee problems. There are people pre-assigned on pilgrimage to carry a medicine bag full of ointments, bandages, moleskin, and Ben-gay cream for sore limbs. I watch the care and healing touch of Roger who gives me a new understanding of brotherly love as he massages a foot, carefully threads a needle and then lances a blister, applies a bandage to keep the wounded site clean. On this pilgrimage, two men unfold a massage table, in which all pilgrims are given the gift of a massage of thigh, shin, calf muscle, and feet with cocoa butter. All we have to do is bring our towel to spread on the bed itself, and the magic begins! By the end of the pilgrimage young men take care of the feet of us "older men," a practice they learned from their elders.
Along the coming out pilgrimage trail it is important to take care of ourselves as we walk along harrowing stretches of darkened roads, the once-comfortable hiding place of the closet falling down around our ears. While counseling is helpful through this crisis of change, it is extraordinarily helpful to have others who have come along a similar pathway to walk with us. Bandaging bruised egos, and reminding ourselves that another person's crisis is not our problem simply because we're "out" is a great help. Lancing a blister, where we keep butting up hard against those who call our "lifestyle" sinful is a gift. Pulling out splinters from the shards of the wooden closet of hate I used to live in makes moving forward easier. And a massage is simply icing on the cake.
Reaching Destination: Throughout the weeklong pilgrimage to Chimayo I depended upon rituals, prayers, and songs to buoy me along the way, helping to redirect my attention from my tiredness to realizing the beauty around me as I walked. I gained insight to the audacious nature of God by simply realizing that Jesus himself was a pilgrim throughout his known ministry, never owning a home but living life on the road, depending upon the goodness of others. The late-Brother Roger of Taize rightly called Jesus the Pilgrim God. There is nothing so magnificent yet disheartening as getting to our destination. The morning of our last day together, walking nine miles is incredibly bittersweet. I know I'll never walk with this exact band of people again. I won't have the opportunity to sing the songs we've been singing all week with my friends. I'll miss someone preparing every meal for me throughout the week. The confraternity of men happens but for a brief moment in life, then disappears. It is illusory the rest of the time. Over one hundred and sixty people walked over one hundred miles over five days, up and over mountain passes, through chapels and churches, in the hot northern New Mexico sun. At El Santuario de Chimayo we enter the small sanctuary itself, half filled with cheering and singing pilgrims from other parts of New Mexico, with the Mariachi-like band playing "Que Viva Christo Rey!" An official of the Catholic Archdiocese of Santa Fe places rosaries from the Camino de Santiago de Compostela around our necks. Various crosses, images of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and other memorabilia are gathered in central place during our closing Mass together. Go in peace.
I'm now out of my once constrictive closet. The boards, nails, screws, and locks were left in garbage cans along the way. I self-identify as a dad, a pastor, a writer, a professor, a partner, and a pilgrim who is gay. In my daily prayers I quietly voice my gratitude to God for making me who I am. I love who I am today. Still ordained in the Presbyterian Church (USA), I now work at another university, teaching ethics and world religion to new students every semester. My children are grown. My former wife and I are friends, and my partner and I live in the countryside with our dogs. And now I write several blogs on my stories of being a gay dad, my letter to those in the closet to come out and move on. Perhaps take time to swim in the ocean of full acceptance, where the water is just fine. The pilgrimage of coming out is arduous but richly rewarding in the end.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Pilgrimage of Life at Univeristy Presbyterian Church!
I've begun teaching "Pilgrimage of Life" series at University Presbyterian Church in Chapel Hill, NC. We started Sunday, Sept. 9, 2012, and will continue for the next five weeks! Come one and all!
Friday, June 29, 2012
Day 7: CHIMAYO!
There's a lightness to my footsteps we I walk to Chimayo. There was good conversation among the pilgrims, happy that we had "made it" (almost). There was a nine smile stretch between Santa Cruz and Chimayo. We passed many churches, houses, and restaurants along the way. We took a novel turn into old Chimayo (town), a section I had never explored. And, like clock work, we made it to our destination sooner than we were scheduled to arrive. Throughout this pilgrimage we walked faster than we had to, and my feet and legs felt it.
So we sat outside with the men's group we were shadowing, and the women's group we met in Santa Cruz. As is the rule of pilgrimage, there is no fraternization between men and women's groups, so girlfriends and wives, sisters and aunts could not interact with any of the "men's folk."
Finally, we were given the "go ahead," and we made it to the Sanctuary. Walking into the Sanctuary, we pass by a smaller statue of Mary, carved in the 1400s in Spain and brought to the "new world" int he 1600s, and housed in the Cathedral in Santa Fe. A kiss of her gown, or a gentle kneel was done by all of us.
Inside the Sanctuary, there is much singing as each group makes it into the small space. NOW we can reach out and touch, hug, kiss, and fraternize with one another. Gias are lined up in front, along with the musicians and images of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Each group goes up to the front, and one by one we receive yet one more rosary from Spain's Santiago de Compstela.
Back in our group, we then file out, passing by the small chapel that houses the hole with the holy soil, with a variety of crutches and Santos lining the wall. Out back, there's a nicely arranged gathering spot, with a large gazebo with stone benches around the gazebo. A huge tree used to shade this spot. From each group, the crosses were brought together, as were the pieces of the heart and images of Mary. The soil was distributed in the front of the gazebo and blessed. There was a Mass that was celebrated, with the Chancellor from the Cathedral celebrating and preaching the homily, saying nothing that was memorable. Few priests have done this walk. Archbishop Sanchez, who recently died, was well remembered as a friend of the pilgrimage. 2 hours in the sun is where we sat as the Mass went long.
Afterward, we gathered our bags, hugged and said our good-byes. Joseph Sanches (from a previous pilgrimage) picked me up and dropped me off at the airport where I would pick up my rental car.
More on the afterthoughts of the pilgrimage coming up.
Buen Camino!
Brett
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
3 Things About Pilgrimage: My Testimonial
What I shared on the night of testimonials on Friday, June 1st:
1. Remember, that your first pilgrimage is like your first kiss: you never forget it. Whether it has been a good or not-so-good or easy pilgrimage, one never forgets the pilgrimage nevertheless. My first pilgrimage was to Chimayo, by way of Costilla, and I've never forgotten it.
2. About scallop shell--which we are now wearing around our necks: the scallop shell (from the Camino de Santiago de Compostela), is a reminder that we are to share, give-and-receive, with an open hand along the pilgrimage. The open handedness of the scallop shell is a constant reminder that we share life together on pilgrimage;
3. The scallop shell is a reminder of our baptism. Coming from the water, it is a constant reminder that we, who are Christians, are children or people of the "living water," namely Christ.
The scallop shell, as seen below, starts off with the fan fringe, with rows going toward the center. Like the scallop shell, this pilgrimage began with five different routes that are bringing us together to one place, Chimayo. We are one day away.
Trust me, fellow pilgrims, whether it was good or bad, you never forget your first pilgrimage...nor your first kiss.
Buen Camino!
Brett
1. Remember, that your first pilgrimage is like your first kiss: you never forget it. Whether it has been a good or not-so-good or easy pilgrimage, one never forgets the pilgrimage nevertheless. My first pilgrimage was to Chimayo, by way of Costilla, and I've never forgotten it.
2. About scallop shell--which we are now wearing around our necks: the scallop shell (from the Camino de Santiago de Compostela), is a reminder that we are to share, give-and-receive, with an open hand along the pilgrimage. The open handedness of the scallop shell is a constant reminder that we share life together on pilgrimage;
3. The scallop shell is a reminder of our baptism. Coming from the water, it is a constant reminder that we, who are Christians, are children or people of the "living water," namely Christ.
The scallop shell, as seen below, starts off with the fan fringe, with rows going toward the center. Like the scallop shell, this pilgrimage began with five different routes that are bringing us together to one place, Chimayo. We are one day away.
Trust me, fellow pilgrims, whether it was good or bad, you never forget your first pilgrimage...nor your first kiss.
Buen Camino!
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Day 6: One More Mountain
They didn't tell me about the hill/mountain we would be climbing today, which is probably a good thing. Today was a 16 mile day--a little longer than the day before, but bearable.
We woke up after the group from the north already left for Chamisal. It was a bittersweet moment, because this is the last day of our long walks. Tomorrow would be an "easy" nine miles into Chimayo. Breakfast went quickly, and I've got packing down to a fine art (took me forever on the first few days). I've worn a different t-shirt each day, and smell pretty well. Did notice a new blister today (sigh) on the ball of my right foot, so two blisters on this journey. Not bad. The double socks theory worked for me this time.
We were bussed to Chamisal, only to find the other group of men Peregrinos there. Thankfully we were bussed further "up" the road. We walked for a good distance before stopping at Las Trampas, with a church built in 1769. I love this church and community, reflecting that when the Founding Fathers were in Philly thinking they were at the center of the US, while in NM (to be), there were Spanish settlers...and Indian Americans of course. But the church was closed, with no one to welcome us, so no encuentros.
Then the surprise: straight uphill. Zigzag pattern. But uphill. I fared well, but the joke was "up around the corner is the summit," and it never was.
The beauty was to be found when we did reach the summit and saw the view of the valley where Chimayo was located. Gorgeous. Behind us were the Rocky Mountains' ridge.
We walked to Cordova, a town where Vincent grew up (his grandparents lived here). We walked by the Presbyterian Church of Cordova, and the men doffed their hats, and then we entered the Catholic church with their fascinating, hauntingly beautiful, and old Santos. I marvel at these ancient relics that continue to remind us of the faith today. This is so NOT a Presbyterian phenomenon.
Thankfully, Cordova was our last place today. We walked to the post office and awaited the bus that would take us to Santa Cruz, where we would meet up with another men's group from the North and the women's group from ABQ.
The worship/Mass that night was celebrated by Fr. Ed. It was great seeing him. I also enjoyed the classroom where we slept, with the 1950 statutes of Jesus, Anthony, and Theresa of Avila.
We also welcomed the novice pilgrims tonight. This happens among all the groups. We are wearing white shirts, candles lit, and the cross on the floor, placed on the quilt, welcoming the new pilgrims with scallop shells around our necks and a hug for each pilgrim. Music that was played on the first night is played again, starting with "Let it be," by the Beatles, with focus on Mary. I learned of those pilgrims who walked 37 years (Roger), Charlie, who walked 13 miles and this was his last (trucker next year) who was proud his family was with him (sons, son-in-laws and grandsons); those who served prison time; those who were simply proud of their ability to walk thus far. Kneeling and lying prostrate before the cross was part of the ritual. Powerful, as always. Lives devoted to Christ.
Finally: we had 1 toilet for 60 men. Fascinating.
Buen camino! Brett
p.s., a painting of the church in Cordova.
We woke up after the group from the north already left for Chamisal. It was a bittersweet moment, because this is the last day of our long walks. Tomorrow would be an "easy" nine miles into Chimayo. Breakfast went quickly, and I've got packing down to a fine art (took me forever on the first few days). I've worn a different t-shirt each day, and smell pretty well. Did notice a new blister today (sigh) on the ball of my right foot, so two blisters on this journey. Not bad. The double socks theory worked for me this time.
We were bussed to Chamisal, only to find the other group of men Peregrinos there. Thankfully we were bussed further "up" the road. We walked for a good distance before stopping at Las Trampas, with a church built in 1769. I love this church and community, reflecting that when the Founding Fathers were in Philly thinking they were at the center of the US, while in NM (to be), there were Spanish settlers...and Indian Americans of course. But the church was closed, with no one to welcome us, so no encuentros.
Then the surprise: straight uphill. Zigzag pattern. But uphill. I fared well, but the joke was "up around the corner is the summit," and it never was.
The beauty was to be found when we did reach the summit and saw the view of the valley where Chimayo was located. Gorgeous. Behind us were the Rocky Mountains' ridge.
We walked to Cordova, a town where Vincent grew up (his grandparents lived here). We walked by the Presbyterian Church of Cordova, and the men doffed their hats, and then we entered the Catholic church with their fascinating, hauntingly beautiful, and old Santos. I marvel at these ancient relics that continue to remind us of the faith today. This is so NOT a Presbyterian phenomenon.
Thankfully, Cordova was our last place today. We walked to the post office and awaited the bus that would take us to Santa Cruz, where we would meet up with another men's group from the North and the women's group from ABQ.
The worship/Mass that night was celebrated by Fr. Ed. It was great seeing him. I also enjoyed the classroom where we slept, with the 1950 statutes of Jesus, Anthony, and Theresa of Avila.
We also welcomed the novice pilgrims tonight. This happens among all the groups. We are wearing white shirts, candles lit, and the cross on the floor, placed on the quilt, welcoming the new pilgrims with scallop shells around our necks and a hug for each pilgrim. Music that was played on the first night is played again, starting with "Let it be," by the Beatles, with focus on Mary. I learned of those pilgrims who walked 37 years (Roger), Charlie, who walked 13 miles and this was his last (trucker next year) who was proud his family was with him (sons, son-in-laws and grandsons); those who served prison time; those who were simply proud of their ability to walk thus far. Kneeling and lying prostrate before the cross was part of the ritual. Powerful, as always. Lives devoted to Christ.
Finally: we had 1 toilet for 60 men. Fascinating.
Buen camino! Brett
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