"You're gonna have to serve somebody . . ." B. Dylan

     Charles Colson died recently.  I deeply hated the Nixon administration, and Colson was into those crimes hip deep.  You know the story--he was a big deal brought low and sent to prison.  In prison, Colson converted.  Prison let God finally catch up to him, and He confronted Colson with the Truth.  Colson was released from prison and founded Prison Ministries.  

     Michael Gerson, a conservative, Catholic, Washington Post columnist who knew Colson, writes so well about the sharp and cutting edge to the morality of Prison Ministries, and by extension, all sorts of Christian ministry.  

     Gerson says:

     "It also plays a morally clarifying role. It is easier to serve the sympathetic. Prisoners call the bluff of our belief in human dignity. If everyone matters and counts, then criminals do as well. Chuck led a movement of volunteers attempting to love some of their least lovable neighbors. This inversion of social priorities — putting the last first — is the best evidence of a faith that is more than crutch, opiate or self-help program. It is the hallmark of authentic religion — and it is the vast, humane contribution of Chuck Colson." 

http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/finding-freedom-in-prison/2012/04/22/gIQANabcaT_story.html

     Who am I serving?  Is my religion authentic?  I've tended to serve the "sympathetic"--folks at my church, kids,  . . .you know, the grateful and 'deserving'. So much of Christianity in America today is about success, fulfillment, personal growth and spirituality.  Christ, a tortured Jew hanging on an empire's cross, the central symbol of our faith has nothing to do with success, fulfillment, or personal growth.  John, in his Gospel, says again and again, that the clearest possible picture you can ever have of what God looks like, His glory in its fullness, is that moment--a tortured Jew hanging on an empire's cross. You want to see God, look at the outstretched arms of Jesus on that Friday afternoon--what did it take to keep his arms so wide open, waiting to embrace us?

     So who do I serve?  Who do I follow? Service, the kind Jesus calls me to, calls my "bluff".  Over the course of my pilgrimage I hope to see more clearly exactly who I am to serve.  I've been given gifts all my life, gifts of talents, family, resources.  Now is the time to ask, before its too late to ask, what have they been for?  After all, as the song goes, "You're gonna have to serve somebody . . ."

Prayers, Preparation, and a new towel

     In 31 days, my plane lifts off for Madrid.  I've been preparing for so long, and now I continue preparations, and I confront what I cannot prepare for . . .

     This morning as I prepared to jump in the shower, I decided, " I'll try my new micro-fiber, quick dry towel."  I will be taking it to Spain with me.  I bought it because it packs small, unfolds to a large size, and supposedly will dry overnight.  Well, using it was an odd experience.  It did not feel like my normal fluffy cotton towel.  It did not move over my skin easily.  I had to blot and blot.  It rolled up on itself, and I had to unfurl it repeatedly until I got the hang of "blot and move, blot and move".  In the end, it did, as advertised, dry me very thoroughly.  Indeed, the new towel dried me more thoroughly it seems than my normal towels, or maybe I changed my actions because of the towel.  It is hanging up now, and I'll see if it is ready for reuse in 8 hours.  That's the sort of preparation I can do.  Tonight I'll try washing my quick dry underwear, convertible pants and shirt in the sink with my Magellan's laundry soap sheets (they come in a container about the size of a pack of dental floss).  Will the soap work?  How many of those little sheets will it take?  Will the clothes dry overnight?

     These sorts of things I can "test" and prepare ahead. Other sorts of things . . .well there is just no way to prepare.  I walked this weekend, and felt tired after just 5 miles.  My first day in Spain is 14 miles.  The second day is a bit less than 14 miles.  The third day is 20 miles.  I cannot prepare for that physical exertion.  At best, I have walked significant miles both Saturday and Sunday.  Monday, finds me back at the desk.

     I have fears about my physical abilities.  I have fears about language problems.  I have fears about a 500 mile walk in a foreign country--will I make it?  Will something happen?  I have been this peregrino person for 3 years now, told everybody, bragged sort of . . . what will happen if I don't live up to that image?  

     Thus, I covet the prayers of those who follow me on this walk.  As I told one of my cousins who sent me a prayer to take along, a most intimate sort of prayer . . .

On a day, sometime in May or June, I’ll have arisen at 6:00, repacked, filled the water bottle, and headed out into the bird-chirping light.  After 5-8 miles and 2 – 3 hours of quiet walking through the Spanish morning, we’ll stop, sweaty, in need of food and drink.  We’ll sit and share our bread, fruit, and cheese.   Then we’ll start our devotions (see an earlier post).  I’ll reach into my pack, pull out a prayer, and find a moment of intimacy with someone who I know and love, but is far away.  A moment of prayer, a picture to take and post later in the day marking the spot where a burden was laid down, a joy firmly planted, or dream put in as seed to grow, and I'll smile enough to keep me moving for the next 5 hours of walking.

I can’t tell you how I look forward to sharing those moments. God has called folk to walk the trails I'll walk for a thousand years.  God has something for me on this pilgrimage . . . and I may already be carrying it by the time I leave.  

God's messenger angels in the Bible always announce their fearsome presence by shouting, singing, saying, "Fear not".  The latest Pope said that "Fear not" is the fundamental Christian gospel message. 

"Fear not" 

Well, I'm glad the towel worked, at least I got that going for me, eh?

Buen Camino, peregrinos.  Send me your prayers.
  

A report on a church service in Zarautz

     On day two of my Camino, I'll walk from San Sebastian to Zarautz (22k or about 13 miles).  I plan to try to get to as many worship services as I can along the way.  In almost all cases they will be evening mass at a Catholic church.  Here's a hint of what I'll be experiencing.

     One of my favorite websites is called Ship of Fools.  It is a very funny site produced in England that comments on various aspects of Christendom.  One of the recurring columns is called "The Mystery Worshipper".  Various self-appointed folk travel to churches and participate in services and report the story following a pre-selected set of questions (see below in bold).  Now most of these folk are squarely in the Anglo-Catholic tradition and like their "smells and bells" (high church pomp--heck many of them can tell you who wrote the setting for the Mass being played!), but they usually report with a fair amount of humor, tolerance, and Christian affection for traditions other than their own.  Here Augustine the Aleut (mystery worshipers adopt pen names) is walking the northern route of the Camino (the route I'll be following) and reports in on a service he attends one September evening in Zarautz. Several things stand out to me--the "naturist" section of the beach I'll have to come through to get to Zarautz, how full the church is on a Friday night, the passing of the peace with dignity and warmth, and sharing a bottle of txakoli Basque wine after Mass.  Nose around once you get to the full website, its full of fun.

http://shipoffools.com/index.html

2307: Santa María la Real, Zarautz, Gipuzkoa, Basque Country, Spain

Mystery Worshipper: Augustine the Aleut. The church: Santa María la Real, Zarautz, Gipuzkoa, Basque Country, Spain. Denomination: Roman Catholic, Diocese of San Sebastian. The building: There have been churches here for about a thousand years or so – maybe more. This one likely dates from the 15th century, but was built on the ruins of an iron age edifice, likely a fort. Its mullioned windows, arrow-loops and modillions give this building the appearance of an ancient fort. It has an outstanding baroque altarpiece by Andres and Juan de Araoz, featuring the image of Santa María la Real. There is a 9th century necropolis here, with lots of tombs from the 11th and 12th centuries. The church: Santa Maria la Real is the main church in the town of the coastal town of Zarautz. The neighbourhood: Santa María la Real sits on the far western side of Zarautz, about 100 metres or so from the shore and the western gate of the old city walls. About 200 metres to the east, there are a number of cafés and restaurants around the Plaza Zaharren. Ferdinand III of Castile gave the city its charter and rights in 1327 and it still feels pretty medieval. It's on the fifth stage of the coastal route of the Pilgrim's Way through through Gipuzkoa province in Northern Spain (the Basque country). The cast: There was no notice or announcement, and there is no parish website. The priest was in his fifties. The date & time: Friday, 30 September 2011, 7.00pm. What was the name of the service? Parish Mass. How full was the building? We could probably have squeezed in 300. There were over 200 present, of a wide range of ages, and likely as many men as women. Unlike many Spanish churches, there appeared to be a spread of social classes. Basque Catholicism has a populist, left-wing flavour, unlike the rest of Spain. Here the Church was one of the pillars of Basque language and consciousness and, in Francoist days, many clergy suffered imprisonment. Did anyone welcome you personally? A few people noticed that there was a stranger in the church, and nodded to me. Was your pew comfortable? It wasn't too bad, and the kneeler was well spaced from the pew ahead. I had no complaints. How would you describe the pre-service atmosphere? There were sounds of people greeting each other as they took their seats. What were the exact opening words of the service? "Aita, Semea, eta Espiritu Santuaren izenean." (In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.) What books did the congregation use during the service? There were two screens at the front of the church, which fulfilled this need. What musical instruments were played? This was an evening service, and there were no instruments aside from the organ. Did anything distract you? Not particularly, other than the fact that the church was fairly full and I had to study the situation carefully before I found my favourite spot up on the epistle side. Was the worship stiff-upper-lip, happy clappy, or what? Neither, but the singing was full-hearted and full-voiced – the rafters did actually ring. This was quite unlike any Latin-rite RC church in Canada. The peace was passed in a graceful manner, with a very well-dressed older woman shaking my hand, and a Vin Diesel-wannabe coming up and greeting me with both hands on my shoulders. Normally, I would have thought this a gross invasion of personal space, but here it seemed to be fine. Perhaps it was because I was still recovering from the 22km walk from San Sebastian. Exactly how long was the sermon? 12 minutes. On a scale of 1-10, how good was the preacher? N/A – I tried to follow him but he spoke in Basque (as I realised later on) and I couldn't understand a word of it. In a nutshell, what was the sermon about? I was very frustrated, furiously squinting my ears to catch some words. I know that my Castilian Spanish is rocky, but I can usually get the gist of things and can follow sermons moderately well. I wondered if there was a Biscay accent, which sounds impenetrable to wandering Canadians. It was only during the consecration, as the prayers were projected onto the screen, that I realised that the mass was in the Basque language, cognate to no other tongue known to man. No wonder I understood nothing! Which part of the service was like being in heaven? Aside from the wholeheartedness of the singing, a realisation that I could get an awful lot from the actions without being able to follow a single word of what was being said. And which part was like being in... er... the other place? Total incomprehension. I couldn't figure out a blessed word. What happened when you hung around after the service looking lost? Everyone poured out the doors onto the porch to chat furiously, or they headed off to cafés and restaurants. The clergy disappeared and I was unable to obtain a stamp for my pilgrim's credential. How would you describe the after-service coffee? They don't do that here, but I ran into a local (French-speaking) teacher, whom I had met earlier at the naturist end of the local beach, which one encounters descending from the hills to the east of the town. He invited me to share a post-mass bottle of txakoli, the local white wine, and his younger daughter gave me a very intense lesson in Basque plurals, as well as the etymology of local place names. Her older sibling rolled her eyes in disgust at this display of erudition, while the father beamed. The older sister's boyfriend glowered at me with inchoate fury, apparently viewing me as some sort of exotic rival, in spite of my aged and haggard appearance. How would you feel about making this church your regular (where 10 = ecstatic, 0 = terminal)? 8 – If I lived in Zarautz, there really isn't much choice, aside from the chapel of the Poor Clares. Even though I couldn't understand Basque, I would give it 8/10 as everyone was friendly. Did the service make you feel glad to be a Christian? The quiet friendliness of parishioners to this stranger among them. What one thing will you remember about all this in seven days' time? The lesson in Basque plurals; it still makes my head hurt.

Wine and more Wine

     Among the many delights of Spain, wine surely is high on the list.  I hope to sample the very local vintages as we traipse along the coast.  In my family, we raise our cup on Friday nights and say a barucha, pronouncing God "blessed" for giving us the "fruit of the vine".  The Psalmist (#104) starts listing all of God's blessings to humanity and says even before praise of bread and oil, "wine that gladdens the heart".  Well I hope to have a "glad" heart nearly every night of the journey. 

     In the Basque region, where we begin, there is an obscure variety called Txacoli that I'd like to sample.  As we wind our way further west, certainly all the Tempranillo and Granacha Tinta from the Navarre and Rioja regions should be easily available. Near Bilbao, I'll be on the look out for wines of the Bizkaiko Txakolina (notice the Basque spelling) that are allegedly very tasty.  In Cantabria, I've heard you must depend on wine from further south.  The original Celtic inhabitants did not bring much of a wine culture with them, and the region is better known for cheese and sea food (bummer, eh?).  In Asturias I'll try sidra (a hard apple cider and definitely not wine!), and I'll look for Verdejo Negro from the Cangas region.  It is made from the Mencia grape.  Supposedly if you get a bowl of Pote Asturiano (a stew of cabbage, potato, wide beans and pig parts of various sorts) and drink Verdejo Negro you will want to stay in Asturias forever.  In Galacia, wine comes from the Riberio and Rio Biaxes.  I'll be looking for a nice bottle from the Martin Codax bodega to split with Ketl on our first night together in Santiago de Compostela.  For so many reasons, that will be a memorable evening, eh?  What could be more of a blessing: a soft woman to hold near my heart and a good wine.  Some many reasons to be singing the Doxology.

It's new boots day! It's new boots day!

Two years ago, I bought a pair of Asolo boots to try out for the trip.  It turned out I loved them.  They keep my feet "still".  That is, there is no side to side movement and they do not slip forward and back.  My feet flex inside and that's about it.  I've put near 500 miles on them and have never even had a hot spot, much less a blister (see photo of what a blister does to a walker's foot!).  Alas, 500 miles is just about 200 to 300 miles short of the life of the boot; meaning, in the middle of my journey, my boots would likely end their useful contribution to the journey.  So I bought another pair of the same boots (on sale!) a couple of weeks ago.  Today, I start the break in process.  I'll probably put about 50 or so miles on them as I begin the final wind-up to Spain in 44 days.  I feel like Steve Martin . . .It's new boots day! It's new boots day!

For my day dreams and your delight, here's a picture of the albergues (hostel) near the town of Miraz on approximately day 17.  These albergues range in price from free to 5 Euro, or even up to 12 Euro if they feed you too.  You present your credential, they stamp it, and you get to stay on a first come first serve basis.  Some are old monasteries, some are small civic buildings, but all are simple and one night only then "Move on pilgrim.  Move on!"

45 more days

The photo was taken by a pilgrim in 2007.  It is along the path of our 1st day's walk between Irun, where we start, and our first stop, San Sebastian. When we visited Rachel in Bilbao in 2008, we took a bus for a day trip to San Sebastian. We drove through areas that looked much like this.  Walking will be much different, much better: full of silence, sweating and panting, rest stops to take in the view, worrying about the route, and laughter and wonder that we are there actually commencing our Camino, and if I know anything about my God, there will be surprise and grace if I eyes to but look for them.

 I fly to Madrid in 45 days.  Peter, my walking companion, and I will meet, regain our senses and enjoy Madrid for 48 hours, and then take a train north to Irun.  I purchased the train tickets yesterday.  They are printed out and on the corkboard in my office along with the scallop shell, the movie poster from The Way, a small flag of Spain, and a large stick figure silhouette of a person with a walking stick and backpack.

The reality of the journey, the culmination of 3 years of dreams and fantasy, is bearing down on me.  I am both excited and anxious. In 49 days, I'll stand on the very spot where this photo was taken . . .my, oh my.  I hope to savor a fine glass of wine at the end of that day.