One funny thing about going on a pilgrimage is realizing how special you aren’t.
Last summer when I went on my pilgrimage to Cinque Terre – the place of my conversion 25 years ago – I was anything but special. No, I was one of thousands of people heading to the same place. Now it’s true that most of the people were not there for the same explicit reason as I was: There is no shrine built on the trails between the little Italian seaside hamlets that comprise the Cinque Terre. Nevertheless, there was nothing unique about me being thunderstruck by one of the most beautiful views on earth. This inspirational locale is no holy secret.
And of course this is true about all the great pilgrimage sites. Mecca, the Ganges River, the Cathedral of St. James de Compostela – these are not hidden gems. There is no solitude in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, no privacy at the Western Wall. The Canterbury Tales – one of the foundational texts of English literature – is just a collection of stories told by pilgrims who meet each other on the road to Canterbury Cathedral.
While we know that spiritual experiences are felt internally, personally, it is worth noticing that where and how they happen are not all that unique. What’s more, we are rarely truly alone when we are transformed. It’s true that nobody else on the trip with me claimed to hear God’s voice that day on the Italian hillside. But it’s also true that I could not have had that experience if not for the people with whom I traveled. The time I was spending with them was as transformative as the location.
Pilgrimage – the intentional journey – is often crowded and noisy. We are reminded that part of walking with God is in fact walking alongside all manner of people. Pilgrimage may be personal but it’s not private. Just because God loves you and is talking to you doesn’t mean you’re special.
Finding out that I’m not special has been a very liberating experience for me. And I’m going to let you in on this so you can experience it too. Because you are not special, and that is a good thing.
For most of my life I have lived with a sort of belief – often conscious – that I am exceptional, that I am special. This usually has not manifested itself as specific condescension towards others. That is to say, I have not spent most of my life walking around actively thinking I’m better than you. That’s not how it has shown up. It’s more like this: God has a plan for me, so I’m going to be alright. I can do anything I put my mind to – my only limitations are my own desires. I’ll say more about why I was wrong about that next week, but for now, I’m just acknowledging I was like this for many years.
Likewise, when I have been sad, sorrowful, or melancholy, I have historically had the tendency to think I’m the only person who has ever felt this way. What a quaint idea loneliness is. The romanticism of imagined isolation. The truth is you are never alone in this life. Not really. I know you feel sometimes that you are – because I have felt that. No one could possibly know.
I remember sitting next to my dad in a hospital room in Maine many years ago. He had accidentally overdosed on pain meds during his cancer battle and was in a coma. I sat in stillness next to his unnervingly quiet body in that unnervingly quiet room – helpless and useless. And, because I’m a religious guy, I pulled out my Bible. I turned it to the Book of Job. Maybe when you’re sad and scared you want something happy and hopeful: an inspirational Bible quote or cheery encouraging song. Not me. I want the saddest music possible. Music was not allowed in the ICU, so I read through the Biblical story of the man who lost everything he ever had and never got a good explanation for it. Nobody ever told him why his life fell apart, and no amount of faithfulness made it clearer for him. Job was simply miserable and clueless, and at the end he hadn’t learned a thing.
It made my day. Because in that moment I realized not that I should be hopeful or happy or positive or cheery: Instead I learned I was not unique in my misery. I was not alone – even in my pitiable pilgrimage. What a gift.
When talking about reading books, James Baldwin once said, “You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever been alive.”
In the 77th Psalm, the Psalmist wonders aloud if God has forgotten what it means to be gracious. He then says he’s going to comfort himself by remembering the good old days when God showed up and did things. What I love about this is I pick up the Bible looking to read a story about when God showed up and really did things, and what I stumble upon instead is someone all those years ago hoping for the same thing. The good old days were filled with people yearning for the good old days. Maybe I should be sad at how little has changed. But it turns out I find it comforting: I am not special.
Back to Baldwin who said, “You read something which you thought only happened to you, and you discover that it happened 100 years ago to Dostoevsky. This is a very great liberation for the suffering, struggling person, who always thinks that he is alone.” When I go to the scriptures, it is not with a desire to cherry pick verses that will help me feel special. I go to be reminded that 3000 years ago they were scared of and yearning for the same things as I am now. I’m not special. I am part of the long chain of humanity that is one race – united both in our hopes and our fears, both in our joys and sorrows, both in our faith and our doubts.
Being religious is a mess, I acknowledge. But it is not convenient – not if you want to live under the illusion that you are walking this road alone.
You have all these ideas about who God is and how God works and what holiness looks like. Then you show up to church on a Sunday expecting a harmonious hush and a pacifying word of wisdom. And some kid next to you cries out right when the preacher is saying something. Or maybe it’s your kid and you feel the blood rush to your head as you worry what people around you think. And then the kid quiets down and you finally get to listen to the preacher, and she’s telling you something about God and your life that you didn’t really want to hear. Who are they to speak in Jesus’ name anyway? And then not enough people are singing along to the hymn, or it’s a hymn you don’t know, or they are singing along, but someone nearby is out of key – or is it you that’s missing the notes?
If you’re not careful you find yourself thinking this would all be more holy if it was what I wanted it to be. Religion would be great if it weren’t for all these people. Pilgrimage would be perfect if it was quieter, more orderly – if it happened on my terms, just for me.
Dear friend, you are so mightily ridiculously loved by God. Yes you. And I’m glad to tell you that you are not special. You are not unique. You are not alone. When you walk the way of love you walk a road that is crowded by the communion of saints – a holy mess of imperfect pilgrims thousands of years in the making. How liberating it is not to be the only one.
