On suffering in this world.

"I said to the doctor as I watched my father slowly slipping away, 'we have more compassion for dying animals'."  (anonymous)

I read of this man's experience of the withdrawal of life support from his father who was, brain dead according to his story.  He conveyed his anguish over the long drawn out days as he slowly watched his father starve to death. 

I sympathize and often empathize with the suffering of others; yet, I have a hard time with the idea that euthanizing a dog shares some form of equality with ending a persons life to end suffering. I struggle with that comparison because humans are moral beings in a way that other animal life are not moral beings.

There have been a plethora of television shows lately that point to pain and suffering. Modern media is quick to cover human Suffering in all its forms. In fact there isn't a place in the world that the Human Condition is not suffering. The argument today is where or is there  nobility and compassion in suffering? Or can a person die with dignity and compassion if they are allowed to suffer unto certain death?

I think the Father and Christ has something to say about suffering. Did the Father suffer in some way (not physically as in patripassionism) as he watched his Son suffer on the cross? Christ accordingly chose a path of suffering from the Incarnation to the Passion and Crucifixion. He chose suffering because it ultimately had meaning and purpose. 

I do believe that the Christian religion teaches us not to masochistically seek suffering for Christ.  But we know when suffering comes to us due to our faith we endure it for the sake of Christ. That is easier if I am the sufferer, but being on the outside and watching my children or loved one suffer is more difficult. That's why I'm inclined to consider the emotions or feelings of the Father are equally as important to our faith as the physical suffering of Christ.  Doesn't it say, "for God [the Father] so loved the world that he gave his Son... "

It is not the suffering of our loved ones that is so difficult for us. Rather it is our compassion, our suffering with them, and their pain that is so difficult for us to handle.  As more people push for the "dignity of ending life early" with a desire to expedite the pain of a loved one,  isn't it more truthful to say that our motivation is to relieve or end our own suffering with them?  At first I thought this was selfishness.  But it's not selfish to want to end another's suffering. 

It's natural to want to end our suffering and the suffering of those we love.  But it is Godly to trust in God's timing as to when that suffering should end.

The Christian faith does have an immutable response to suffering. It is to praise God through it. It is to cling to God more than we cling to self whether we are the sufferer or the one standing next to him.

A reluctant recepient

When I was younger I used to hate going to Luby’s Cafeteria.   I’m not sure that my family was aware of my vitriol toward the establishment, because we seemed to go there all the time.  The cafeteria was the full service kind. A place where an eight-year-old boy could grab his tray and silverware rolled up in linen napkin and push down the rail.  Along the way the attendant would serve a helping of the food for which he asked.  Across or under the sneeze guard he began to pile on the choices, Salisbury steak and mushrooms(that he’d scratch off later), mashed potatoes with gravy, salads, and of course the obligatory green vegetables.

More often than not we were denied all things we really wanted.  After multiple rejections we learned to stop asking for Jell-O and coconut or chocolate cream, apple or cherry pie.

Fortunately, I assume, I was never forced to take the liver and onions.  And although we were allowed the choice, we were often admonished for picking up corn and mashed potatoes.  I learned early that two starches in the same meal is a sin.  It was a sin I committed regularly.

Slowly pushing the tray I reach the line's end.  Water and tea were the cue for my pulse to begin quickening.  Onward I pushed grabbing ice water.  And reaching the cashier my heart was beating against the collar, pounding away with no rational explanation. 

It wasn’t because the girl at the cash register was a beauty. I was still too young to think that way. 

No, as I approached her my thoughts were thus:  Will this be the time I’m finally allowed to take my tray and carry it to the table myself?  Will I be shamed again to have the girl conscripted from the back counter to carry my tray twenty feet to our table?

She always mysteriously appeared at the end of the railing.  She was some behind the scenes contrivance, some conspiracy, some underhanded and unspoken plot to undo my independence.

A few times I had already lifted my tray off the rail only to turn and be intercepted by some young attendant.  My escape in search of a table was ended before it began.

She never said a word to me, but with one look at me, she knew why she was drafted from her duties of filling water and tea glasses.  And I know why she awkwardly stands there waiting for my tray to reach the end of the rails.

I never believed that she offered a kindness to me.  It was kindness that I did not want, that I resented, and outright rejected.

She was my humiliation and the reminder that I was different.  She was the voice that whispered, “There are things that you can’t do.  You have one leg and so you’re special.”  Except I didn’t want to be special.

Today I went for a walk with some friends in Andorra.  It was a mountain hike and it was beautiful.  The trail runs along a rushing mountain river no wider than a Texas creek.  Uneven rocks, dirt, mud, and the occasional cow pies (Just like Texas creeks) lead up along some steep and treacherous path.  Not technically difficult for the causal hiker.  But a beautiful mountain terrain.  It’s a terrain, for me, that more often goes unseen.

As is always the case we start in the same parking lot.  And almost as soon as the journey begins the anxiety and humiliation reappears as the gap between me and the group lengthens.  As I am looking down judging where the next footstep will fall they are now ten, fifteen, twenty feet ahead of me.  An exponential growing gap between me and the group.

When I’m moving in this environment, I only see what’s right in front of me.  Because I can’t shake the idea that the next uneven rock or unseen crater hidden under a tuft of grass will be my undoing.  A fall, a trip, or worse a prosthetic brake would quickly end the adventure and make for the most humiliating and arduous hop back to civilization.  It’s a thought, an anxiety, which I haven’t manage to shake off since I broke a crutch in the second grade.

And always there is someone who does the kindness of hanging back with me.  Under the guise of just a pleasant conversation they offer the kindness of walking with me.  And I am made mindful that I am slowing them down.

The reason I like to go alone and at my own pace is that when I’ve had enough of a long walk, rather than pressing on, I stop and count my blessing for a safe travel thus far.  I declare this is where the train stops and turns around.  It’s then that I pause and take in the glory around me.  And then I feel no burden or obligation to anyone but myself.

But today for the first time my heart is ready to accept this kindness.

How ridiculous are these emotions? How prideful and selfish of me?  How another person’s kind gesture is intended for compassion but so repugnant to the recipient.

I am a mess. I both want sympathy and understanding while at the same time despise any footnote of my disability.  My hypocrisy is stark. My emotions are irrational.  I am irrational.  Wretched mind! Who will save me from this body [this mind] of death, Paul exclaims!

Now I think I know how God feels.  How foolish we must seem to God.  Who looking down from heaven or walking along side of us sees our disability.  And we in our spiritual pride reject his goodness and kindness on us all.  He who bears our tray and lot for the sake of his great love for us?

It was humiliating to me to be given that assistance.  When I didn’t feel that I needed it.

But I did need it.  I needed someone to carry that damn tray so that I wouldn’t bear the humiliation of that one time that I would have dropped it.


Accept the kindness given to you in all of its forms; whether you think it misguided or not. It is still kindness.

You can listen to my podcast at:  The Rev. Stephen Whaley's Sermons

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The love you long for...

I miss Kate.

Not in a nonchalant way. Not in the way that the simple phrase, “I’ll see you later,” tries to ease loneliness.

When we were young.

But I miss being there with her and seeing her face. Giving her a hug.  In the morning when we go to work we have a goodbye kiss. It’s our tradition.  And we exercise that custom every morning.  Except when I’m being selfish because I’m upset about something.

Along the Camino the albergues and hostels that I’ve stayed in all have single beds.  I’m glad of that, because I know that if I were in a large bed, I would reach over to feel if she were there.  And in doing so, I would feel her absence even more. 

I can’t account for it but my mind turns toward my parishioners.  I’m thinking of the men and women who have lived faithfully for decades with the love of their lives.  Spouses, the woman or the man that they loved and cherished and cared for in sickness and in health, and now for some their love has gone on to heaven.  And for the first time in decades they’re not just alone.  They’re alone with the reality that the most intimate human relationship they have had, here in this life, has changed.

For most of them, if not all, their faith lets them know that they would see their love again.  And they live on.

My current situation is not the same.  Because I know that, barring some catastrophic occurrence, I will see my love again in this world.

But this extended time away seems to make the days and nights longer by her absence, and it gives me the smallest glimpse at what my friends feel, just a glimpse.  It makes me love them more because of their suffering.  Not out of pity, but out of empathy.  And I have no idea how it really feels.  And it makes me love her more even though she’s just out of reach.

But there is hope given to us in our faith.  A guarantee that we will see those we love again in a perfected state.  Jesus taught that we’re not given in marriage in the next life, that marriage is an institution for this world.  But there is a love that is an extension of the love we share today.  And when we pass through the glass dimly seen that love will be better than the one that we have today.

The love we share today is only a glimpse into the Fullness of Love that will exceed our understanding in this world. 

And so we live in the hope of the reality that Love transcends death and that our relationships of love continue through the veil in a way that is better.  It may not feel better, but our faith tells us that it is better.  And perhaps with time as we cling closer to God and these assurance we will feel that to be true.

God’s desire for us is to love and trust him.  When we are separated from the things in this world that we care mostly about, then we cling to him for his assurances more than anyone else or any other thing.

This is why Christian marriage is best understood as indelible.  The covenant relationship entered into (in this world) is a model for the eternal relationship between Christ and the Church his bride.  How can Christ be separated from his bride?  It’s not possible.  And so as the vows say, “…till death do us part.” I understand this has proven impossible for some, but with God, "...all things are possible."

In the end, when our relationship with God is confirmed, there is no end.  In fact if you believe in the Communion of Saints (I do) then your relationships within the body of Christ only grow, become holier, and perfected in the agape love of God.

The impetus then is for us to begin loving that way now, not waiting for the right time or place…or death.  But to begin loving God, neighbor, spouse, children with a love that is something like Jesus’ love.

Caught in my own trap

The busyness of the Camino.  When I first started this journey on the Camino I had expected to write a lot more often. But my efforts seemed to be thwarted by a self-driven sense of, “I need to get there.”  Every day I stopped to calculate miles/kilometers traveled versus estimated miles/kilometers to get to Santiago.  And as I focused more and more on the numbers and taking pictures along the way to remember places, I notice this idea that I’ve been driven by some sort of fear of not being able to complete the Camino at all or just as bad not beating the June 1^st deadline.  My experience of the Camino has been locked up in a trap, a mental trap that I set myself.

And as a result I focused more on riding longer distances taking on the harder days and sitting in the saddle.  Stopping frequently to get those pictures to show everyone.  And what I was missing was the disappointing part. By worrying about getting there I was avoiding meeting new people and getting to know them.  If you walk the Camino you have the intermittent opportunities to dialog with folks as you move along.  You may change your cadence to keep up or slow down.

But on a bicycle you’re pretty isolated.  Traveling at faster speeds and at times on different paths you have to maintain awareness of the terrain as it quickly changes second to second.  Walkers don’t need to focus that way.  Plus cyclist don’t usually have the room to ride two abreast of each other and so it’s not as common to build those relationship while traveling.

It hasn’t been until recently that I’ve realized these issues.  By staying in the saddle longer, stopping only to eat and sleep and based on the dynamics of cycling I haven’t been participating in the best part of the Camino: meeting people from all over.

Early on I had brief encounters with a few people when I was too tired to go on.  But it’s only been in the most recent few days that I’ve ended my days earlier and managed to put myself in social areas along restaurants, bars, and common rooms where people stop for early dinner/late lunch, a beer, or a coke.

I had dinner with a retired banker from Minnesota, catholic seminarians from New York, a stamp investor from South Africa, fund raising consultant from Hawaii’, an oil rig chef from Japan, married couple from Australia, two bosom buddies from Canada, and a Lutheran minister from Denmark.  ‘

I’ve met others, but these are the ones I’ve sat with and had lunch/dinner/snacks with.  These are the ones who I’ve had introspective conversations about life, culture, our shared experiences on the Camino.  Some offer wisdom that helps me understand better my role as a priest and pastor. 

I can say without a doubt that a conversation I had on Sunday has literally helped me clarify my role as a church leader and what I should be doing and saying to the people in my spiritual cure.

As I am getting closer to the end of the Camino, to Santiago I don’t feel the rush.  I can see the end is in reach.  And I’ll do my best to take these last few days to spend time where it matters and that is with the people that God has brought here at this time in place to take this same journey with me.

In preparing my congregation for my time on the Camino de Santiago I often referred to the pilgrimage as a metaphor for life.  I hope that we can take this life lesson I’ve learned along the Way and use our time on the journey to meet new people.  Hopefully we;’ll talk with them allow them to learn from us and us from them.

Contentment

She stands at the outer door, arms crossed and leaning against the doorpost. Waiting? For what?  It’s impossible to know without asking.  Is she thinking about this pueblo, this little village that she’s lived in or lived for her whole life?  How peaceful it is?  How much she loves it? How much she wants to leave it?  She watches me approach, and I see her?  I’m hungry and tired at the lunch hour.  Do you have a sandwich I ask? And through a series of exchanges she goes inside and begins to make a sandwich.  She seems neither perturbed at an intrusion to her solace nor elated to see a stranger ride in to her sleepy little town of Zariquiegui.

And the young boy in Navarette. He couldn’t have been older than 15 years. Standing behind the bar dutifully carrying out the tasks him mother gives. He has a simple look on his face and wears jeans and a provincial futbol team jersey.  Learning the ropes to one day take over this family business of serving those of us who pass by this town on the way to something bigger?  Does he care?  Does he want more?  Is he content with his life?  Does he look forward to the day he can run the business on his own or the day that he breaks away from the bar and the town?

As we pass through village after village all seemingly the same, small stone houses and narrow brick and stones streets I feel the sense of contentment.  Especially from the older people.  These are the ones who in the noon day sun stand under the shade of trees near the watering fountains to discuss, “What?” I don’t know.  But in each village it’s the same.  In the evening the old married couples stroll the vineyard’s adjacent paths and masonry roads; the cool air and a happy “buenas tardes” on their lips.  They are content.

They have a wealth of history and tradition.  Millions of dollars in gold chalices and leaf overlayed on alter pieces and statues show there is material wealth to be had if it is wanted.  Those things are held collectively by the church or the state as museum articles.  Outward appearances seem to show that the villagers have less individual positions relative to Americans.  And the villagers appear in my estimation to have less interest in upward mobility.

That’s not to say that they don’t aspire to better things in their individual lives.

It seems there is very little room in our world for a person to be content with their life.  That in order for a person to be considered successful in our country in our life we have to be upwardly mobile.  We must be making more money possessing more things.  We must be married with children, and on, and on, and on.

There are times when I am more aware of how messed up our American way of life is, and this is one of those times.  The imperative of the gospel of Christ is to be content with what one has.  It doesn’t mean to not aspire to great things.  But it means enjoy what you have and be satisfied. Give us this day our daily bread.

 

All things are possible.

Yesterday (Tuesday 6^th) was grueling. Pamplona to Muruzabal (Not even on the map) was deceptively easy at the beginning.  Leaving the city there were nicely paved asphalt and light gravel paths; I passed the occasional walking pilgrim on the way.  Under these conditions even some of the steep and short climbs weren’t so bad.  As the foot path parted from the adjacent auto-road I began to climb.  Moderately at first.

Just outside of Pamplona I climbed into the village of Zuzir… where I found St. Juanista Church and albergue.  Hosted by Francisco (Paco to his friends) and his wife they gave me water and encouragement.  He was impressed that I would take on this journey.  I asked to go into the church to pray.  I did.  I talked to God and cried a bit.  Water bottle filled I said goodbye to Paco and another walking pilgrim from Italy. Jacob (I saw him today, Thursday, in Viana) wanted to take a selfie with me and commended me for taking on the journey.

Rolling through and out of town I found a panderia (bakery) and had a delicious honey pastry that I devoured with fork and knife.  Believe me, I’m burning every carb I consume.  I got directions to the way, and off I went.  Again passing walkers I began to climb an easy gravel path, it became too steep and I had to dismount and push myself up a bit more.

One of the problems I struggle with on a bicycle is that if I’m in a stopped position I cannot restart facing uphill.  I need about five feet of movement to set my prosthetic foot on the pedal to start pumping again.  Most of the time I can turn the bike downhill, build momentum, and turn around to start climbing. But these paths were two walkers wide, too narrow to turn the bike.  So if I lose my momentum I have to walk up the hill.  I did a lot of that today.  At times I push the bike up 12 inches and step myself.  It’s slow going.

At one point I found the two older men I had passed a few minutes earlier were overtaking me.  I reached a stopping point to rest.  After asking me in French, Spanish, and finally English he kindly offered to help get my bike up the next hill.  The irony was palpable.  I thanked him for his gesture and declined.  I made it up that hill only to find a steeper albeit shorter hill.

I spent more time walking uphill today pushing and pulling my bicycle than I did riding it.  I’ve dubbed this move the Texas-12-inch step.  I can’t tell you how arduous it was, physically and mentally.  As a handful of walkers and cyclists passed me by on the way I felt the Overwhelming.  What am I doing?

Then came the heavy gravel.  Uphill and heavy rocks the size of cobblestone loosely lined the path.  Unsteady and dangerous the walkers managed ahead.  The one cyclist I watched with envy as he pumped left and right up the steep slope.  Impossible for me to do.  He was a local from a village, carrying only himself.

At one point in the late afternoon I was the last pilgrim on the road.  No one passed me anymore because the pilgrims behind me had stopped for the day.  Alone, looking up at the cobblestone path ahead I toiled up the side of a mountain. 

Behind me I could see Pamplona in the distance beckoning and I understood why Lot’s wife looked back.  The way back was safer and secure.  You knew where you were when you looked back.  It’s easier to go back.

The way forward was dangerous and unknown.  The way forward seemed to never end.  With each approach to the top of the hill I was greeted with another hill.

And at the beginning of the next climb is when my emotions swelled; I began to think, “I can’t do this.”  It’s not possible for me.  And through tears I thought, I tried.

And immediately I knew someone was praying for me.  And that mantra entered my thoughts: 

All things are possible

All things are possible  

All things are possible

All things are possible

All things are possible

All things are possible

All things are possible with God.

I became like Samson.  I was overwhelmed with the strength of God.  My broken and tired body was carried on eagles’ wings.  Thank you! Thank you, those who are praying for me.

Each time I was discouraged I remembered.  All things are possible.  And each time I considered God’s promise I was filled with a strength that I didn’t have.

People have asked me in planning this journey, “Aren’t you going with someone?  It’s good to have a buddy.”  They’re right.  It is good and definitely safer. But it’s a heavy emotional burden for me to slow others down.  And it’s a physical burden to keep up with them.  And so I must go at my own pace.  God is with me.  And as you read, so are you.  I’m not alone.

I climbed a mountain today.  Literally, by the strength of God, I climbed a mountain.

Planes, Trains, and Automobuses...and Bikes.

"Get off the train!"  The conductor said to my friend Mark as he helped me get situated in my seat.  The conductor spoke in Spanish, and Mark understood.  Mark is the warden of St. George's Church, Barcelona and he has helped me get around these last two days so that I can begin my Camino. (The Way to Santiago de Compostela)
   

The last bit of help he gave me was getting me on my train with my over sized bicycle bag and my one man back pack.  Well it was a crazy way to say farewell.  Having the conductor tell you to get off the train.

That’s not the way I would have envisioned it. 

But off the train he went.  We didn't even get to shake hands.  We waived goodbye through the tiny window in the door.

And off on my cycling pilgrimage I go.

The train ride was peaceful; there were extra seat so no one bothered climbing over me to get to the water closet (train toilet).  For four hours I began to think that things were coming together.  Perhaps I'd even have the opportunity to get a bus ticket after all to St. Jean Pied de Port to start my Camino there.

The Pamplona station was just a concrete platform, a moderate sized ticketing room with an attached a café. Complete with flickering Coca-Cola light. 

I had five hours of daylight left and thought I might still make it to SJPP.
I made a few calls. There was no bus to St. Jean Pied, nor half way there to Roncevalles.  I felt like getting on the train was such a blessing that God would see fit to provide me a bus to St. Jean Pied de Port.  He did not.

I had a coke and a bocadilla con jamon y pimiento at the café. That's a ham sandwich on a baguette.  I wouldn't recommend it for the price. 

Once the crowd cleared the platform the area was cool and tranquil.  There was a little  alcove outside to the left of the platform that I could unpack and assemble my bike.  So I did.  I was missing one washer for the left pedal.  But decided not to let that disappoint me too much.  God would work it out. 

Facing East toward Jerusalem I read Evening Prayer.  I then and mapped out a few hostels (cheap places for pilgrims to stay) on my phone.  I road into the old city but couldn’t find the hostel.  Found some wonderfully narrow and ancient streets to ride on, and parks and plaza teaming with people, playing, exercising, etc. People walking their dogs in the park.  Old men walking their wives through the parks.  There were parks and plaza squares at the foot of churches.  It was beautiful.

At nine o'clock my alarm went off to read Compline (bedtime) prayers and I pulled into a green plaza just adjacent to San Miguel's Church.  I said my prayers and decided I had to give up on finding a cheap hostel tonight.  I'd either keep riding to the next town, sleep in the park, or spend a lot of money on a hotel.

I got on my bike to think it through, turned the corner and stumbled across Arrieta Pension. (Pen-see-own is a boarding house in an apartment)   A little old lady and her husband run it.  I only had to carry the bike up ½ a flight of stairs before little Maximo came up to help me with the other flight of stairs.  It was kind.  Pensions cost a little more than the hostels, but hopefully once I hit the small towns the hostels will be easier to find. 

I have had so many frustrations trying to get to where I want to start, that I've finally surrendered to the idea that St. Jean Pied de Port won't be the starting point for my Camino.

 

Plan and research and reading are thrown out the door, because what happened when I got here didn't fit the plans and research and reading.  After train reservations failed and bus routes never materialized the best solution I've managed is to get to Pamplona by today. 

So I've booked a room in a mom and pop boarding house and tomorrow I'm heading west to Santiago!

And each time my best laid efforts fail, I just have to say, "Well Lord, I guess we'll go with your plan.