Our congregation’s final Sabbatical Celebration took place in the Lodge of nearby Camp Long on Sunday August 24.  The day started with worship, followed by a potluck meal and sharing both from the Kindem family and the several members of the congregation.

Worship was centered around the theme of pilgrimage.  The liturgical frame included songs and dialogs we’d experienced with the Iona Community, and was interspersed with Scripture readings and complementary stories from our travels.  I’ve included the reading citations and stories below.  (To get the most out of this, I recommend that you look up and read the Bible passage before reading the accompanying commentary or story.)

FIRST READING: Genesis 12:1-4a

Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” So Abram went, as the Lord had told him.

STORY #1 – Pilgrimage

God called…and Abram went. Thomas Cahill calls those two words—ABRAM WENT—two of the boldest words in all literature.  Abram and Sarah left the settled life they’d always known and struck out for the unknown, believing that God would lead them there.

Well, the Lilly Foundation called, and the Kindems went!  Four months, six countries, 20,000 miles. We traveled by plane, train, car, ferry, bus, taxi, bicycle, gondola, horse, and on foot.

The list of the necessities for our journey was a bit longer, I’m sure, than Abram and Sarah’s list.  And unlike their journey, ours had us traveling to parts of the world that are well known rather than unknown.  Armed with smart phones, laptop, and a detailed list of places we’d be staying and people we’d be seeing—our trip was a far cry from Abram and Sarah setting off into the unknown.

Yet still our itinerary took us to places new to us. And like Abram and Sarah we had faith that God would travel with us along the way.

As we began dreaming about what this experience might look like, the language we started to use was the language of pilgrimage. Our family’s pilgrimage would have geographical dimensions as well as spiritual ones, and include visits to places, people, and communities with whom we had a deep desire to connect.  The congregation’s journey here at home, on the other hand, would be spiritual rather than geographical, but the sense of pilgrimage would still apply.

The language of pilgrimage has resonated deeply with people of faith through the ages. 

• It starts with these opening verses from the 12th chapter of Genesis but it doesn’t stop there.  It continues with the stories of Isaac, Jacob and Joseph.
• It moves forward with the story of Israel’s captivity in Egypt, and their liberation at the Red Sea and the 40 years of wandering the wilderness under the leadership of Moses.
• We see the journey motif appear again during the Babylonian exile and the eventual return home.
• The story of Jesus begins with his journey from heaven to earth, from the realm of the infinite to the confines of a young woman’s womb.  The Eternal WORD goes on a sojourn, leaving heaven in order to be fully present in the flesh among us here.  And Jesus himself, as his public ministry begins, is led by the Spirit on a 40-day pilgrimage into the wilderness among the wild beasts.
• The New Testament goes on to tell how St. Paul and other gospel witnesses were always on the move, journeying from place to place, sharing the message of how God was at work in Jesus of Nazareth, mending and healing this broken world through his life, death, and resurrection.

We began our sabbatical pilgrimage in New England, exploring the places and histories of those first European immigrants who came to these shores in search of the freedom to practice their faith without Old World constraints.

They were given the name “pilgrims.” 

Being on our own pilgrim road put us in the company of them and of other pilgrims—both ancient and contemporary—whose journeys embraced both physical as well as spiritual dimensions.

God told Abram and Sarah to go, and they went.  And in their going, the world was changed.    Where is God calling you to go?  Will your journey be geographical?  Emotional?  Spiritual?

SECOND READING: Psalm 121

Psalm 121 is one of a group of psalms in the Psalter known as Psalms of Ascent.  Essentially, they are pilgrimage psalms, short and compact, that the faithful could recite as they made their way on foot to Jerusalem for festivals.   This psalm affirms God’s protective presence all along the way.

I lift my eyes to the hills; from where will my help come?

My help comes from the Great God who made heaven and earth.

God will not let you fall: The One who watches over you is wide awake.

The Protector of God’s people never sleeps.

A God has you in safe keeping and stays by your side.

The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon harm you by night.

God will protect you from all evil and will cherish your life.

God will keep watch over your going out and your coming in, now and forever.

STORY #2 – Life Given Back

When you’re on a long journey, things happen that you didn’t anticipate, that you hadn’t planned for; sometimes for good, sometimes for bad.

The self-guided bicycle tour in France’s Loire Valley was an activity each one of us anticipated eagerly. Beginning in the town of Blois, our route took us along rural roads, through vineyards and French villages, and past great Chateaus built by French royalty in centuries gone by.

Our luggage was transported for us from one destination to the next, so it was ready and waiting—along with a dinner voucher—when we arrived at day’s end.  What’s not to like?

Day 2 of our journey began in the village of Bracieux.  It was a beautiful spring day as we followed the route laid out for us in our written guide, and things were going quite well until we reached a fork in the road that was not on our map.  Which way to turn?  I was convinced we ought to go left.

An hour or so later, after trekking for what seemed like miles through an increasingly narrow, wet and muddy forest path, we finally emerged on the other side of the forest, only to find that the decision we’d made (OK, I had made…) back at the fork, had taken us a score of kilometers in the wrong direction.

So when we finally arrived at the outskirts of our destination, Coeur Cheverny, after riding nearly double the distance we’d anticipated riding that day, our crew was road weary and a wee bit grumpy.

Crossing a busy road on foot, we walked to the first stoplight we’d seen that day and waited to cross.  When the light turned green, Kai and I pedaled across, leaving Chris and Naomi to follow. What happened next comes straight out of the catalog of parents’ worst nightmares…

The huge truck that came up from behind Chris and Naomi seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

Naomi had started pedaling across the intersection with Chris soon to follow when the truck driver—high in his cab and oblivious to the little girl on a bicycle in the crosswalk—initiated a right turn, putting him on a collision course with Naomi.

There was no time to act.  All Chris could do was scream.

When I heard the scream, I was waiting with Kai 100 ft past the intersection.

Turning back I saw this huge truck stopped dead in the intersection, halfway through the turn, with Naomi and Chris nowhere in view.  Throwing down my bike, I sprinted back to the scene and started shaking my fist and yelling at the thoroughly bewildered truck driver like a madman!

But there, on the other side of the truck, on the sidewalk wrapped in Chris’s arms, was our daughter completely unscathed.  Other than being totally embarrassed by her parents’ outbursts of anger and tears she was OK.

You see, when she heard that truck come alongside her, and saw his wheel turning toward her, Naomi turned too—turned like a pro, right off the street, onto the sidewalk, and out of harms way.

GOD HAS YOU IN SAFE KEEPING, sings the Psalmist, AND STAYS BY YOUR SIDE.  GOD WILL PROTECT YOU AND CHERISH YOUR LIFE.

PSALMODY                            Eagle’s Wings            ELW #787

THIRD READING: Exodus 17:1-7

STORY #3 – The Lord Provides

We’d rented a car for our journey from the Loire Valley to a small village in the Vivarais Plateau region of south central France called Le Chambon sur Lignon.  If you read our blog you know why we were going to this small out of the way place.

Above the door of the Protestant Church
In Le Chambon: Love one another

Over the course of World War 2, the Christian inhabitants of this region sheltered thousands of Jewish men, women, and children in direct opposition to the orders of the French Vichy government and Nazi occupation forces, for the duration of the war.

Led by Pastors Andre Trocmé and Edward Theis, the people of Le Chambon and surrounding farms and villages fought the forces of violence and evil with the weapons of the spirit.  I wanted my family to experience this place.

The trip to Le Chambon from Blois would take, we figured, about five hours.  But wanting to take in just one more sight before we left the Loire Valley slowed our departure until mid-afternoon.

We drove on, making the best time we could, but found ourselves leaving the main highway and entering the mountains just at sunset.  The road signs were less than helpful, the roundabouts confusing, the kids were growing hungry, and our goal seemed to slip further away each moment.

After taking a wrong turn and then back tracking for the second or third time, we finally had to admit that we were lost.  THE NEXT TIME YOU SEE A HUMAN BEING—Chris said—STOP!

It seemed unlikely we’d run into anyone on what seemed like a road to nowhere, but then, around the corner and across the way we spotted him: a man fueling his delivery truck.  I pulled over and Chris got out to explain our situation the best she could in French, and before long, the man had drawn up a map of sorts on a scrap of paper, detailing the turns we’d need to make at key points in order to thread our way up through the rugged hills to Le Chambon.   Thank you God.

That map became our Bible and we became literalists! Following every mark he’d made, we slowly winded our way up and up through the increasing darkness.

By now it was after nine pm on a Sunday.  We hadn’t had dinner, there was no restaurant within miles, and the food we’d brought along was nearly consumed.  The kids were at their wits end.  I’M HUNGRY!  WHEN WILL WE GET THERE!  WHY’D WE COME HERE!  I WANT SOME FOOD!  On and on it went, rising and falling.  You get the picture.

I felt like Moses, about to be stoned.

When we finally arrived in Le Chambon it was 11pm and everything was locked up tight, but by the mercy of God we found our hotel just out of town.  As we pulled up to the curb the weeping and gnashing of teeth in the back seat reached epic proportions.  They were done.

Everything looked dark.  Did the hotel remember that the Kindems were supposed to spend the night?   Please Lord, let it be so!  Chris got out to see.

Running to the door she looked inside and saw a light on; she reached for the door handle—it opened!   And there at the deserted front desk was a room key with our name: Kindem.  Thank you God.   We bundled the kids up to the room, turned on the TV for distraction purposes, and after bringing in the luggage, I turned my attention to finding food.

This is supposed to be a bed and breakfast, I thought, there’s got to be a kitchen around here somewhere! 

I tried a door off the lobby…it opened!  And low and behold, it was the door to the hotel’s dining room and kitchen.  With the lights off, I felt my way around and stumbled upon some breakfast cereal in a dispenser.

I filled up three bowls and brought them upstairs to the room to Chris and the kids. And let me just say:   No hunter gatherer ever felt prouder than I did at that moment!

But we needed milk, and so I returned to the darkened kitchen to continue my search. And as I’m scrounging around in there the thought enters my mind—what if someone finds me in here and thinks I’m a thief?!

Seconds later I hear the door open and a voice calls out:

QUI EST LA?—Who’s there?

On goes the light and I find myself, bowl in hand, face to face with the hotel caretaker, who’s just returned to the hotel with his girlfriend.

I tried to explain the best I could what I, a complete stranger, was doing in the darkened kitchen steeling cereal for my starving children, and, fortunately, his English was better than my French.

His response?  WOULD YOU LIKE SOME MILK?

When I arrive back at our room a few minutes later, milk in hand, I am greeted like a conquering hero.  Yes, thanks be to God, we have survived!  Already the legendary hospitality of Le Chambon, this community which had served as a safe haven for outsiders during critical moments in the 20^th century, had proven itself.

To the question, IS THE LORD AMONG US OR NOT?  The unequivocal answer that night was YES.

FOURTH READING: Hebrews 11:1, 29-12:2  

STORY #4 – Celtic Saints

St. Oran’s High Cross

One of the things that left the deepest impressions on us was the lives of the Celtic saints we came to learn about during what we call our Celtic pilgrimage from Ireland to Iona, to Lindisfarne to Durham—St. Patrick, St. Kevin, St. Bridget, St. Columba, St. Aiden, St. Cuthbert among them.

Their passionate devotion to God; their willingness to endure all manner of trials and challenges to bring the light of Christ to people who’d never known it; their spiritual stamina and physical fortitude; their artistic sensibility; their recognition that God was imminently present in the natural world; their comfort in dealing with kings and chieftains as well as the common folk; their humility…the list goes on.

St. Patrick is probably the best known of that group.  The story of how he was kidnapped and brought to Ireland as a slave, and after six years escaped, and later returned to Ireland to become the founding father of the Irish Church, reads like a best selling novel.

But it is the way Celtic Christianity developed during and after Patrick through a network of largely independent monasteries scattered through the rural landscape of Ireland and then Scotland and then northern England, which is truly remarkable.

John Cahill tells that story in his book HOW THE IRISH SAVED CIVILIZATION.

These monasteries, including the one we visited at Glendalough, Ireland, established by St. Kevin, the one founded by St. Columba on Iona, and the one established by St. Aiden on Lindisfarne, were centers of community, centers of mission and centers of scholarship.

The monks found meaning, purpose, and direction by following a rule of life.  And when we were on Iona, where Columba (or Colum Cille as he’s called there) founded a monastic community in 563, we got to see first hand how 21^st century Christians inspired by a 6^th century saint and committed likewise to a rule of life, were bringing new vitality to the church.

GOSPEL READING: Matthew 16:13-20

STORY #5 –  Who do you say that I am?

The path to community

All along the way during our sabbatical, we encountered different answers to this question Jesus posed to his followers.

At Weston Abbey in Vermont, the Benedictine Brothers showed me a Christ who is made known within a compassionate community dedicated to a simple lifestyle of loving service, justice, and joy.

At Iona we met a Christ who, rooted in ancient Celtic love of music and verse, calls us into a community of mutual accountability and a way of loving God that leads to engagement with the thorniest issues facing our world.

At Le Chambon we met a Christ who comes to us in the guise of the vulnerable neighbor, seeking refuge.

In Florence it was Christ the Pantocrator and Great Judge, to whom we must ultimately give account for our lives.

In Venice the Christ we met seemed frozen in a past age; a precious museum piece from a long ago time, beautifully gilded but remotely inaccessible.

And in Rome we met a Christ who suffered the depths of what evil and corrupt humanity could dish out, and still suffers as the church who claims him as Lord vacillates between resorting to tactics of Empire and serving the lost and the least with humility.

Over the last 2 millennia, Christians have answered his question WHO DO YOU SAY THAT I AM in an extraordinary variety of ways.

When Peter gave his answer, Christ congratulated him; but a few short verses later, it becomes clear that Peter himself really didn’t know what being THE MESSIAH, THE SON OF THE LIVING GOD truly meant.

You’d think that after 2000 years the question would be settled!  But it’s not.

We still need to ask it in every age, in every context.  And to ask, too, what claims the answer will make on our lives.

Will it settle things?  Or will it perhaps make us restless?

Restless to go on yet another journey?

We’re flying 36,000 ft above above the Great Lakes, winging our way toward home after four and a half months of travel and adventure.  Kai’s reading Percy Jackson on his Nook, Naomi and Chris are reading on the other Nook — a Patricia Polacco book on Lincoln.  We’ve all been in good moods today anticipating this journey home and the joy of sleeping in our own beds tonight. 

We made a final trip into Concord this morning where we met our dear friend Julie Ells, with whom we had explored the Mayflower and Plimoth Plantation way back in March, and with a little time on our hands before lunch, we walked to the North Bridge once more.  All was in full flower there, a marked contrast to the snow and ice that had greeted us the first week in March; a fitting ending, as people and places that marked our sabbatical beginnings come full circle once more,

Some circles come to completion with this flight home tonight, but many others will remain open for months or years to come.  The sights, sounds, and tastes of foreign lands; the kinship we experienced with communities of faith we met along the way; the new friends that are part of our circle now; the grand sweep of artistic, religious, literary and other cultural expressions that touched us through the course of our travels; what we’ve learned about our own capacities and the life of faith to which God is calling us–all of this will continue to journey with us going forward.  How all this will weave its way in and out of our lives as individuals and a family remains to be seen; but I am hopeful.  

We’ve switched from being pilgrims to being tourists during this post-sabbatical time on the East Coast…or so we thought.  Our first day in the Big Apple took us across the harbor to the foot of Lady Liberty.

The poem by Emma Lazarus, donated by her in 1883 to the campaign to raise funds for Liberty’s pedestal, came to prominence only after her death when it was placed on the completed pedestal in 1903.  She entitled it THE NEW COLOSSUS, and having seen the place in Rome where the ORIGINAL COLOSSUS erected by Nero once stood, we now had another layer of meaning to add to the content of what she wrote.

As we boat neared Liberty Island, words which I’d put to memory in my elementary school choir came to the surface once more:

That poem, which has never failed to move me, took on even greater meaning when, after bidding Liberty adieu, we docked at Ellis Island.

There we stood in the very room where my grandparents Ingvald and Anna Kindem had stood with their three young children Olaf, Halvor and Andi, on June 5, 1923 as immigrants from Norway.  In the computerized files, we were able to find their names on the ship’s manifest and even glimpse a photo of the ship itself–The Stavangerfjord–which bore them safely to this new land.  Yes, pilgrimage territory indeed!

From Ellis Island, we journeyed on to the 911 Memorial.

The Memorial is a powerful and elegant tribute to those whose lives were taken from them that awful day, and a tribute to the enduring principles to which we aspire as citizens of this republic.  Standing at the edge of those two great pools whose waters continually cascade downward and ever more deeply toward the center of the earth, I found myself turning inward, remembering that awful day.  The powerful nature of the time we had there was made more powerful still by my encounter with a young man named Harry.  Harry asked if I’d mind snapping his photo next to one particular name that was engraved on the bronze apron that surrounded the North Pool.  Happy to comply, I asked Harry to tell me about his friend, and I learned that the engraved name belonged to a young man he’d grown up with; who he’d gone to elementary school and karate classes with; a friend with whom he’d shared his childhood; a friend whose name was Aaron.  Aaron Horwitz.

Harry and Aaron grew up in Manhattan.  They were both there the day the towers came down; one on the inside, the other watching safely from his parent’s apartment nearby.    “You know,” Harry told me, looking out on the Memorial grounds, “they got it right.”

That was our sentiment, too.  Later we went through the newly opened 911 Museum.  It’s cavernous spaces dwarfed us, but the exhibits carefully invited us in, offering an opportunity to go more deeply into the lives and stories of 911’s victims and those who rallied to save them.  If you ever have the chance, I would recommend it.

View from atop St. Peter’s Dome

Erik here, writing from my sister’s home in Carlisle, Mass, to which we’ve returned after leaving Rome yesterday afternoon.  The snow and frigid temperatures that greeted us when we arrived here on March 4^th at the start of our sabbatical journey have been replaced by verdant hardwood forests and mid-90 degree heat with high humidity.  In March we walked on frozen Walden Pond; today we sought refuge from the heat there, enjoying a swim in Walden’s waters.

It feels good to be back in familiar territory, even while we continue the process of unpacking what we’ve experienced over the past four months of this extended journey.   There’ll be no summing up in this post—we’ll be sorting through all this for many, many moons to come—but I did want to reflect a bit on our Roman experience particularly as it relates to the Christian story.

REFLECTION 1:  Imperial Rome was a juggernaut of incredible proportions.

The geographic reach of imperial Rome during its heyday was truly astounding.  From Hadrian’s Wall near the Scottish/British border in the north, and throughout France and Italy we continually encountered evidence of that reach. 

At Pont du Gard in southern France we encountered one of the most astounding symbols of Rome’s calculated ingenuity—the remains of an aqueduct system which delivered water from freshwater springs near Uzès to the city of Nîmes, over 50 kilometers (31 miles) to the south.  Over its course, the water in the aqueduct passed over a series of underground and above ground covered structures to the catchment basin in Nîmes, maintaining a consistent drop in elevation of 10 inches per kilometer and delivering 50-100 gallons of fresh water per second to the city’s inhabitants.  The aqueduct bridge spanning the Gard River (Pont du Gard), 900 feet long and 160 high, was an astounding achievement.  All these centuries later it continues to astound with its beauty, massive proportions, engineering prowess, and the organizational systems that enabled such a project to be realized.  Aqueducts such as this, along with the famous Roman road system that stretched throughout the Empire and the temples, theatres, and amphitheaters we touched along our way, testify to Rome’s reach and control of territories and peoples.

Mythologically speaking, Romans understood themselves to be descendants of Mars, the god of war, and when you’re in Rome, you can see how that core belief undergirds the city and its greatest monuments.  Ancient sources testify that during the first 100 days of games in the newly inaugurated Colosseum in 80 AD, 9000 animals were killed; and that each year as daily spectacles were staged there, thousands of gladiators (and condemned prisoners) lost their lives.  The structure itself was erected just after the Judean Wars, which culminated with the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple in 70 AD; in fact Jewish exiles from that war provided much of the slave labor needed to build it.  A few hundred meters from the Colosseum, you can still see the Arc of Titus which celebrates that Roman victory and depicts Jewish slaves carrying sacred Temple treasures—now Roman war booty—from Jerusalem back to Rome.  Imposing arcs like this one, which celebrated significant military victories and ushered Roman generals into the Roman Hall of Fame, were a dominant feature of the ancient city. (Including the one erected by Constantine—standing near the Colosseum— following his victory over Maxentius; a victory that presaged his conversion to the Christian faith.)

Relief from Arc of Titus depicting Temple treasures being brought back to Rome

Reflection 2:  Going against the grain of this Empire by following the life and teachings of a poor Jewish carpenter was risky business.  The contrast between the Roman way and the Jesus Way of being in the world has been brought home to me as never before.

One of the most moving experiences for me in Rome was our visit to the catacombs at Callixtus.  Located outside the ancient city along the Appian Way, Callixtus became a burial place for early Christians during the 2^nd century after Emperor Commodus granted Christians the right to bury. 

Entrance to catacombs

1. Burials had to be outside the city walls.
2. The means of disposing the bodies would have to be sanitary.
3. The burials would have to be on private property.

The least expensive land was this non-arable expanse of tufa so that’s where Christians began to bury their dead.  Tufa, consisting of consolidated volcanic ash, was too soft and liable to collapse when first dug.  But with exposure to air, it hardens, and so it proved to be an ideal place for burials, to the point that eventually a half million Christians were eventually buried there.

As the Christian community developed these tombs (the main architect assigned to this task was named Callixtus and the name stuck), digging down from the surface, adding skylights and ventilation shafts, they eventually reached down 20 meters into the tufa rock.  95% of the tombs were for individuals, but a small percentage were carved out for families or extended families.  During this era when Christian teachings were anathema to the Empire’s interests and Christians were labeled “atheists” for their failure to participate in Roman cultic practices, the catacombs became places apart and the larger family burial rooms provided spaces and the opportunity to pray. The catacombs were not secret places, however. They were well known, and this fact was not lost on the Roman authorities.  The Way practiced by Christians was still illegal and, at times, violently opposed in the second and third centuries. If caught in the act of prayer, you could be summarily executed.  The story of early martyrs testifies to this. 

While walking through these subterranean passageways we saw early Christian symbols painted on the walls and ceilings of some of the family tombs:  Fish, shepherds, lamps, doves, anchors, doves, and others.  These symbols, many of which had reference points in Roman culture, became infused with new meaning as Christians used them to express their burgeoning faith in a God/Man who had suffered the worst kind of death Rome ever conceived—crucifixion—and rose above it.  The Jesus these symbols celebrate commanded his followers to love—not to slaughter—their enemies.  To become one of his followers was to place oneself on a clash course with the mightiest Empire the world has ever known.  What courage it took!  What Spirit to persevere and endure against all odds, knowing that the ultimate victory belonged to Christ alone!

Reflection 3: All of this changed when Christianity became legal.  When Constantine declared Christianity legal and later called the first ecumenical council, the church began moving from the margins to the center of Roman culture; from the underdog to the overlord.  In that process, many of the systems that had sustained Rome over the centuries became features of the fledgling institutional church.  What followed as church structures, doctrines, and hierarchy developed over ensuing centuries was an ecclesia that more and more mirrored the Empire. 

Inside St. Peters in Rome

The upshot:  the fingerprints of ancient Rome are all over the Western Church as it developed institutionally, and that heritage is still present with us today.   Like the Roman Empire, that imperial church is dying.  In many of the places we visited that empire-church has become little more than a museum piece and it’s hard to imagine a sustainable future for the kind of vision they once embodied.  Still, there is evidence that something new is emerging from the old.  We found this was particularly true among some of the communities with Celtic Christian roots.  Whether it will prove strong enough to revitalize the church in Western Europe remains to be seen.