soulwerker

(A Sermon based on Exodus 33:12-23 from Sunday, October 16, 2011)

Have you ever seen God? Or heard God’s voice? Or felt God’s presence?

Did you tell anybody? Or did you mostly talk yourself out having had the experience in the first place?

We’ve been reading these Moses stories in church for the past few weeks. The guy spent lots of face time with the Almighty! At a burning bush. Up on a mountain. Always off somewhere “alone with God”.Never at the office. Barely available for the people he’s supposedly leading.

“As for this Moses,” they say from time to time, “We don’t know where he is, or why he’s brought us out here…apparently he wants us to die. We’d have been better off in Egypt. He says he sees God and hears from God, but we got nuthin’. We’re hungry. We’re thirsty. We’re homeless. We’re hot. We’re cold. Why did we ever think following him out here would be a good idea? We were duped! We miss our leeks and onions!”

And all the while the people are complaining, Moses is contending with God. In last week’s lesson, God has had enough of the Hebrews and their idolatrous ways. God’s idea? Wipe ‘em out and start over again. But Moses will have none of it! For all the aggravation they are, the Hebrews are the people of God. What sort of God backs out of a promise? So Moses takes up the role of defense attorney for the Hebrews and does such a good job with his closing argument he manages to change God’s mind. Talk about chutzpah!

Then, in today’s reading, Moses wrangles God into giving yet another sign of Divine Presence:

All the plagues in Egypt?
Not enough.
The crossing of the Red Sea?
Ancient history.
Pillars of cloud and fire going before the people?
Smoke and mirrors!
Water from a rock? Manna from heaven?
Parlor tricks!
Ten Commandments?
Just words written on stone!

Moses sounds like he’s spent more time in Missouri than Midian: “Show me your glory!” And God does just that! Not the full on, melt-your-face-off glory (a la Raiders of the Lost Ark), though. Refracted glory…muted glory….slanted glory…but glory enough.

Enough glory that Moses still has to be hidden down in a crevice and shielded from it. Enough glory that Moses is left with no doubt as to what he had seen, heard and felt.

Whenever we sing, “Glory to God in the highest!” on Sundays, do we expect any of God’s glory to show up? Even a smidgen?

When we come into this space do we ever wonder if today might be the day when we are overshadowed by the presence of God to such an extent we will leave forever changed by the experience?

When a priest stretches out her hands over the elements in the liturgy and invokes the Holy Spirit to come down and make the bread and wine “the Body and Blood of Christ, the holy food and drink of new and unending life”, do we anticipate seeing, or hearing or feeling any evidence that such a thing has happened?

The Hebrew word for “Glory” (which is often used as a euphemism for God’s presence), literally means “weighty”. There is an awe-some-ness to God’s presence. God’s presence presses down upon us. We cannot bear up under the weight of that glory without being changed.

The Hebrew Scriptures tell us about what happens when human beings are overshadowed by this Glory of God:

Abraham encounters the Glory, leaves home without a map, and never quite stops wandering. Jacob limps for the rest of his life. Moses’ face shines such that he has to wear a veil to keep people from being afraid of him. David dances uncontrollably to the embarrassment of just about everyone around him. Isaiah weeps with unworthiness, but takes up the call to proclaim God’s message.Jonah flees from the Presence only to find the Presence in a whale’s belly.

And from our Christian story: Mary is overshadowed by the Presence, carries that Presence in her belly and becomes the Mother of God.

There is a dynamism to these stories which cannot be reduced to whether or not “they are true”. These stories appeal or repel because they offer us the promise, that we might just be chosen as well. We could very well be the vessels to reveal God’s glory in our time and place. What would that be like?

I confess, even talking about this stuff makes me more than a little nervous. I mean, we’re Episcopalians after all. We have a liturgy to make sure that we worship God in proper ways, with proper posture, using proper words. But I wonder…have our liturgies become ways we seek to control God, rather than channels through which we experience of God?

Over the weekend, at the Diocesan Convention, the Bishop, in his sermon at the Eucharist on Friday evening and in his pastoral address on Saturday morning, invited us to become “people of abundance”. He challenged us not succumb to the culture of scarcity that surrounds us. And then, after his pastoral address, we entered a legislative session which gave witness to the reality living into God’s abundance is easier said than done.

We are easily distracted by everything around us — falling incomes, foreclosed homes, unemployment, economic uncertainty, sparring politicians and political movements — the Tea Party people saying it’s all Big Government’s fault and the Occupiers of Wall Street saying it’s all Big Business’s fault. Angry speaking and finger-pointing are about the only bipartisan activities we get to witness these days.

To talk about abundance in Church seems either to be “out of touch” or “in denial”. Easier to trust in Caesar’s coinage (or the green slips of paper adorned with pictures of dead white guys we carry in our wallets) than to trust in God. Easier to fret about what we don’t have than to offer thanks for what we do have. Easier to seek after our own wills than to seek after God’s will. Easier to chase after the light and airy glories of the world than to submit to the weightiness of the glory of God.

I confess, I don’t know what to do about any of it. I’ve got my own worries and fears. I struggle with how to live my faith just like everybody else. That’s why I need all of you. That’s why we need each other. We Christians claim to follow the same God who called Moses and led Moses to lead God’s people. We claim God is present whenever two or three of us are gathered together. We claim to have Good News to share in a world filled with bad news.

Somehow, we’ve got to do more than claim those things. We’ve got to find ways to live them — in our words AND in our actions. We may not ever gather up enough chutzpah to say to the Almighty, “show us your glory.” But if we are faithful, if we are expectant, if we are open, who knows? We may just get enough courage to share with one another “in here” and the world “out there” when we’ve caught a glimpse of the Glory of God. Or a smelled a whiff of it. Or felt the weight of it.

And we will be changed. And that change may be just enough to change the world.

Yesterday, on the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01, I spent a good chunk of the day on airplanes and in airports. Admittedly, I wasn’t too worried about my safety, but the travel did call up eerie feelings all the same. I can still remember in the days after 9/11, living “inside the Beltway” in northern Virginia, where the sights and sounds of fighter planes, Apache helicopters carrying a full complement of weapons and the scores upon scores of other sorts of military aircraft were the only aircraft we saw in the skies for weeks.

We were on our initial approach to Atlanta yesterday at 8:46 a.m. EDT, the time of the impact of a plane crashing into the North Tower of the World Trade Center ten years earlier. Our pilot, his voice quavering, came over the “p.a.” and asked flight attendants and passengers for a moment of silence in remembrance of those who lost their lives in the attacks. I peered out of the window at 10,000 feet, looking at the rolling hills of northern Georgia, while the memories of all the images of that day ten years ago came racing forward in my mind’s eye. Then (in what I was to learn was a completely unscripted moment), one of the flight attendants sang “The Star Spangled Banner” — clearly, somberly and soulfully. Passengers clapped quietly in a respectful, reserved fashion. I continued to look out of the window and instinctively “crossed” myself as I said prayers for those who died and those who live without loved ones and all of us who live in the aftermath of the events of ten years ago.

In the Atlanta airport, all of the television monitors were tuned to cover the remembrance ceremonies from every conceivable angle. As I walked down the concourse, not only was I treated to the sounds of speeches and tributes from loved ones of the victims and various dignitaries and politicians, but I was also assaulted by the incessant analysis of “what was happening” and “what it all means” by the folks who were reporting on the observances. I found myself wishing everyone would simply be quiet. All the words attempting to make meaning out of meaningless acts of inhuman violence, even as well-intentioned as they were intended to be, seemed inadequate and forced.

Words of course, are the preacher’s stock and trade. I suspect if I had been in my usual role yesterday, I would have felt it incumbent upon me to (as my son used to call it) “say some words” at the time of the sermon. I was fully aware of the Gospel reading assigned by the Revised Common Lectionary — and couldn’t get over the irony. The passage for this particular Sunday after Pentecost comes around every three years and “just so happened” to be the “Good News” the Church in this country had to hear on a day which commemorated such horrifically bad news.

I am always reminded that, while the Gospel holds up a description of what it is like to be “Kingdom” people, we are often still very much up to our eyeballs in the circumstances of the world surrounding us. I kept wondering how boldly I could proclaim the necessity of forgiveness, when I was so unsure I had actually done the work of forgiveness myself. I also began to wonder about the ways in which we preachers can sometimes sound so glib…as if we’ve managed to fully embody the words that roll so easily out of our mouths. Then I started to think about the ways over the past number of years I have “held forth” as if what I said in a particular sermon was actually important. I began to think about how the call to proclaim the Good News to the gathered people of God might call for less words, more measured words, more carefully chosen words — not for fear of offending one’s hearers, but out of respect for the weightiness of the office of preacher.

Sitting in the Atlanta airport, praying to God for peace in a world of war, I could only think of three things to do. Make the sign of the cross. Shed a few tears. And be quiet.

The Tour de DioMil officially came to a close late yesterday afternoon (September 9, 2011), as our group of cyclists wheeled into the parking lot at St. Simon the Fisherman Episcopal Church in Port Washington, Wisconsin. We were greeted by the same sound that had launched us out onto our pilgrimage eleven days before — the ringing of a church bell. Earlier in the day, we had been treated to lunch at the Cathedral Church of All Saints in Milwaukee, where we were greeted by the cheers of well-wishers and the peals of the Cathedral Church bells.

Yesterday’s ride from Kenosha was 73 miles long. When we stopped in Port Washington, the Tour had covered a total of 538 miles. What a journey!

Someone asked me tonight at dinner, “What one memory stands out from the Tour?” I didn’t have to think too hard about my answer. The memory I will carry forward are the people I met, the stories they shared and the welcome the Tour received.

Everywhere we went, we were greeted with smiles. We were greeted with meals. We were greeted with shelter. We were offered the best gift any pilgrim could receive — the hospitality of fellow pilgrims. We weren’t treated as strangers…or guests…or burdens, but as long, lost friends. Along the way, we received assurances of prayer and gifts of money in support of the causes the Tour has highlighted.

On our last night on the road, we heard one parishioner tell the story of his lifelong connection with his parish (some 70 years or so). He told those present at dinner of the times he had been in the worship space in the late evening, as the sunlight was fading, and the dappled light spread unevenly upon the floors and walls. He said, “In moments like these, I can almost hear the voices of all the people who have been a part of the parish since its founding. They have all gone on beyond this life, but somehow they are still present. I find great comfort in this.” I found myself enthralled by this unguarded personal account of an experience of “the communion of saints”.

I have encountered this communion of saints “in the flesh” over the past two weeks — holy people doing holy things, in the quiet, unassuming and practical ways that are so much a part of the ethos of what it means to be an Episcopalian. Sometimes we may not look very dynamic. There are times we can be overly cautious, bordering on recalcitrant. We’ve certainly got our challenges as a “mainline” denomination. And yet, in spite of all our ecclesial quirks, we are, deep down, people who want to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves.

All over this country there are signs attached to telephone poles, mailboxes, street signs and light posts. It has a simple message, “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You!” Twenty years ago, I experienced that feeling of welcome when I participated in my first ever worship service according to the Book of Common Prayer. These past two weeks, I’ve been overwhelmed by that same feeling of welcome in every one of the parish churches the Tour visited. I can attest that the words on those signs aren’t wishful thinking — they describe who we are.

People who have been welcomed into relationship with God through the gift of another’s hospitality are changed forever. Over the course of the last twenty years, maybe I had forgotten some of the sheer joy I felt when I was first welcomed into the community of faith named St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Fernandina Beach, Florida. In the last two weeks, as I have been received into parish churches throughout the Diocese of Milwaukee, I have been powerfully reminded of the ways one particular parish in this Diocese received me as their priest seven years ago. I am a better priest today because of the graciousness, the generosity, the humor and the practicality of the saints gathered as Trinity Episcopal Church in Wauwatosa.

For me, experiencing the Episcopal Church for the first time was like coming home. I reconnected with that feeling every time I walked through a set of church building doors on the Tour de DioMil. The Episcopal Church has welcomed me over and over again through the years. It is my spiritual home. My prayer is that we Episcopalians never lose sight of our call to hospitality. My fervent hope is that whenever someone sees that sign and takes the risk to cross our church building thresholds, they will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are being welcomed as they are and for who they are — beloved children of God.

After yesterday’s 80+ mile adventure, it seems as if I’ve re-discovered every muscle I didn’t even know I had! My joints are talking to me in the unmistakable language of stiffness and creakiness. Today, I  can, quite literally, feel all the miles in a way I haven’t felt for the entire journey.

The Tour de DioMil has been a fabulous adventure for someone like me who isn’t necessarily an “adventurer” (or even much of a risk taker for that matter!). I’ve gotten a much better appreciation for the beauty of this state. I’ve met many of my fellow Episcopalians and their stories of faith and service will remain with me for some time to come. I’ve enjoyed the camaraderie with my fellow bikers and our faithful support teams.

I have been blessed to have one person ride the entire route with me and I now truly understand why Jesus sent the disciples out “two by two”! (Thanks, Betsy!) The Tour has also been gifted by the energy and presence of our chase car driver, who served tirelessly as our shuttle service, laundry service, Tour photographer, logistics coordinator with our parish contact people and probably dozens of other tasks I don’t even know about! (Thanks, Elizabeth!) There are scores of other folks to thank, but I’ll wait until we’ve gotten the last 70 or so miles behind us.

We began this Tour eleven days ago. Each day we’ve gotten up, gotten ready, and set out to face whatever the day had in store for us. We’ve had some challenges, but we’ve enjoyed the trip. And, at the risk of sounding a bit melodramatic, I’ve been changed by the effort. The Tour may officially end today, but the needs in Haiti and the need for clean water/basic transportation for the poor throughout the world c0ntinue. It’s not too late to make a contribution in support of the Tour. Please visit the website at http://www.tourdediomil.weebly.com

And now, it’s time for me to get on the gear, power up with one (or three!) cups of coffee, climb aboard the bike and pedal on..

The ride from Beloit to Kenosha was already plotted as the longest leg of the Tour — approximately 80 miles. Our consolation was the knowledge this ride would be less hilly than our swing through the western part of the state. Of course we weren’t expecting an all day wind out of the northeast at 20+ mph (with gusts of 28 mph). The headwinds insured we would barely average 10 mph.

Our slower than expected speeds meant we spent almost 8 full hours in the saddle. At some point today, I gave up calculating the time we would finally arrive at our destination. All I could think about was keeping the pedals spinning, avoiding traffic and making certain the next gust of wind didn’t knock me off the bike. Finally, we arrived safely at our destination. Gathered around a table, sharing stories from the ride and learning about the ministries of St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church, I briefly forgot about my sore knees, my blistered face and my numb posterior.

The virtue at work in the ride today was perseverance. I would be the first to say this is not a virtue I would have often applied to myself. Certainly, I was taught the value of “finishing what one starts”. Of course, I was cautioned as a child against becoming known as “a quitter”. But the way I most often made sure I was a “finisher” and not a “quitter” was simply never starting anything in the first place.

As I cranked along, one mile at a time, I couldn’t help but think about the way we live this life of faith called “Christian”. We go to worship services. We say our prayers. We cook countless casseroles for covered dish dinners. We talk with fellow disciples. We argue with the texts of Scripture. Or maybe we argue with each other about those same texts! We do service projects. We participate in clothing drives or feeding programs or teaching in the Christian Education time at our local congregation.

We would be the first to say we struggle with faithfulness, but everything in our life underscores the faithfulness we doubt. We worry that we’re not doing enough, but others stand around and are amazed by all that we do get done. We are, quite simply, “persevering”.

Ten days ago, I didn’t know if we could actually accomplish what we were setting out to do. Five hundred miles on a bicycle might have been a bit over-ambitious. But here we are, 70 miles or so from the finish line. Tomorrow, some of us will climb aboard our bikes and set off. We will arrive  at our destination (hopefully!) seven hours later in the same way we’ve managed to “arrive” every day of this Tour — one spin of the pedals at a time. And, believe it or not, that’s how Christians persevere — one breath, one prayer, one act of service, one moment, one day at a time.

We don’t have to commit to persevere for the next 10 years. We only have to be faithful for the next 10 minutes…and then the next…and the next…and the…well, you get the picture. Before we know it, we will have lived a life! And what a life it will have been! Thanks be to God!

As the Tour has made its way around the Episcopal Diocese of Milwaukee, we’ve been received into parish halls of all shapes and sizes. Parish halls in Episcopal congregations are the communal gathering spaces where the daily life of a congregation is lived. If the worship space is the formal living room of a church building, the parish hall is the family room. In these rooms around (mostly) folding tables, sitting on (mostly) standard issue metal folding chairs, we’ve heard the stories of parish life that weave relationships into the bonds of love we Christians hold as a standard for what it means to “be church” (instead of simply “going to church”).

Over and over again, we’ve heard people in the parishes we’ve visited refer to their particular parish as “a family”. When I press the metaphor and ask, “How is your parish like a family?” The stories people tell in response are full of personal anecdotes describing the myriad ways congregations have helped when a fellow parishioner was in need. Congregation members arrive with food or some piece of medical equipment. Congregation members drop whatever is going on in their daily lives to take a fellow parishioner to a medical appointment. Congregation members reach out with a phone call that always seems to come “at just the right time” when a fellow parishioner is feeling lonely or isolated.

In a world where we are more connected than ever — smart phones, Facebook, Twitter, e-mail, text messages and all the rest — what seems to draw congregations together always comes down to spending time (that most precious of commodities!) with each other. Relationships cannot be rushed. We cannot manufacture friendships — they are gifts of God. But congregations can be places where people spend enough time together so that space is created for casual acquaintances to grow into the deep bonds of fellowship — the sort of fellowship that isn’t forced, but fellowship that flows easily between the “blessed company of all faithful people”. As this fellowship grows through the years, people who were once strangers to each other now begin to act like (or in some cases act better than!) sisters and brothers.

Relationships can’t be quantified. We can’t measure them in books of statistics. Relationships can’t be “monetized” either. In short, parochial life isn’t about budgets and buildings as ends in themselves. Budgets and buildings are tools to serve congregations, not the other way around. We often say “the Church is not the building, it’s the people”. Over the past two weeks, I’ve seen the Church in the tear-filled eyes of people sharing their stories. I’ve heard the Church in the laughter around plates full of food. I’ve felt the Church as people have shook my hand and patted my back.

There are plenty of statistics to tell us all the ways the mainline Christian denominations are “declining”. The folks we’re visiting aren’t oblivious to their particular local challenges. But these plucky Episcopalians aren’t going to forget the reasons they gather in the first place — to worship their God, to share in the Holy Food and Drink of the Eucharist, to chat over a cup of coffee and to roll up their sleeves, get to work for the Kingdom and love each other come what may.

I woke up this morning with the words of one of my favorite hymns playing in my head. The hymn epitomizes what I’ve witnessed all over this Diocese. I pray that whatever happens to these congregations in their futures, they never forget that, first and foremost, they are communities that live out Jesus’ life and ministry — they are communities that care.

I come with joy to meet my Lord,
forgiven, loved, and free,
in awe and wonder to recall
his life laid down for me.

I come with Christians far and near
to find, as all are fed,
the new community of love
in Christ’s communion bread.

As Christ breaks bread and bids us share,
each proud division ends.
That love that made us makes us one,
and strangers now are friends.

And thus with joy we meet our Lord.
His presence, always near,
is in such friendship better known:
we see and praise him here.

Together met, together bound,
we’ll go our different ways,
and as his people in the world,
we’ll live and speak his praise.

Yesterday marked one week since the Tour de DioMil rolled out of the parking lot of St. Simon the Fisherman Episcopal Church in Port Washington. For the vast majority of our pilgrimage around the perimeter of southern Wisconsin, we have ridden on roads which are well off the “beaten path”. We have ridden past scores of silos, barns and farmhouses. We’ve been surrounded by fields of soybeans, corn, alfalfa and barley. We’ve seen plenty of cows, sheep, goats and even an occasional alpaca. On our rest day in Monroe yesterday, several of us got a real treat, though – instead of riding past a farmer’s fields, we actually had a couple of hours to walk through some.

 Most people, when thinking about the stereotypical Episcopal priest, wouldn’t expect to find one miles from any established town, gleefully telling his guests about the process of having a farm certified “organic”, trudging through an alfalfa field explaining hay production with a big grin, and finding a new pumpkin on the vine with the joy of a kid tearing through wrapping paper on Christmas Day. Neither would we typically expect to find a priest in the U.S.voluntarily living in circumstances others in our society (even some of his farmer neighbors!) would describe as “rustic”. But the Reverend Brian Backstrand and his wife are committed to such a project that is, as he tells it, a daily learning experience.

 Why spend the time and energy doing such hard work at an age when many of his colleagues are contemplating retirement to a condo? Brian simply says, “I can’t imagine doing anything else — there’s a certain fulfillment that comes with being able to see what you’ve done in a day’s work. When I’m out here, close to the land, I feel close to God.”

 Presently, the Backstrands are kicking around the idea of building a small cabin on the edge of their property to be used by folks who would like a place of retreat or would like to spend time on the farm learning about organic agriculture. This project is probably a few years into the future. The more immediate plans are to raise a few steers and finish some of the tasks on their own living space.

 The real education for me happened when we took the tour of the living space, which is powered by solar energy. We heard all about their rationale for an “off the grid” power source. I learned about how such a system actually teaches the users to become aware of the amount of power being consumed on a daily basis. I couldn’t help but think about how often my biggest concern is finding enough electrical outlets for my various gadgets, and the way I can arrogantly assume power will always be available in an endless supply. As I peered into the big battery chest under the Backstrand’s stairwell, I was reminded that our sisters and brothers of St. Mark’s in Jeanette,Haiti (The Haiti Project!), depend upon the power of portable generators and solar panels on a daily basis.

 As I reflect upon all of the work the Backstrands are doing at their farm, I sense this work is also having an impact on the parish they’re serving in Monroe. The congregation of St.Andrew’s is smaller, but they are patient. One parishioner told us on Monday evening at dinner, “We are growing…maybe not in leaps and bounds…maybe not in big numbers, but we’re growing deeper in relationships, deeper in our commitment to the Lord and deeper in our desire to reach out in Jesus’ name.” This is the sort of growth which takes patience and hard work – two essential characteristics necessary to the vocation of farming.

 Jesus told his disciples, “the harvest is plentiful and the laborers are few” – but he never said the harvest would fall into our laps. We can’t simply ride by the fields and admire the crop.  We have to work the land, tend the plants and when harvest time comes, get out there and gather it. After the last day and a half in Monroe, I have little doubt that Fr. Brian and the people of St. Andrew’s are willing to do the work necessary to reap a harvest for the Gospel.

Yesterday’s 55 mile trek from Platteville to Monroe got a bit longer when several of us turned onto a less-than-clearly-marked county road. We were on the correct road, just headed in the wrong direction. The good news is our supply and gear team discovered our error before we had gone too far off course (only about 7 miles). The other news is we had climbed a number of significant hills while facing into a strong headwind. By the time we all got back on to the correct route, we had lost about 90 minutes of progress. I’m guessing without the SAG drivers’ assistance, we would have not recognized our error until we pedaled into Mineral Point – which has an Episcopal Church, but would not have been expecting us for lunch!

Once we regrouped, we set out (on course this time!) from Darlington,WI. We spent the rest of the afternoon hurtling down the backside of one hill to get up enough speed to climb our way to the top of the next, before repeating the process again. There were brief stretches of relatively flat road – extremely brief! At 4:45 p.m., we were met by a trio of riders from St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, who rode the final 5 miles with us to the church. When we arrived at St.Andrew’s (about 90 minutes behind our original schedule), we were greeted by cheers, clanging pans, wonderful sidewalk art, and the largest welcoming committee we’ve seen thus far on the Tour.

We feasted on goose, garden fresh vegetables, home-style pickles, roasted potatoes, fried green tomatoes and strawberry shortcake. We enjoyed delightful conversation and heard stories of the healing power of God made present in the midst of Christian community. We were also inspired by the witness this congregation gives to its community through many different sorts of outreach ministry – the sort of holy helping which characterizes Episcopalians at our best.

After I told the folks at St. Andrew’s about our wrong turn, I mentioned I would try to figure out some spiritual value in getting lost for today’s blog post. Thankfully, I didn’t have to do that, because one of our SAG drivers texted me the answer last night after dinner: “The spiritual value in taking a wrong turn is not in the getting lost, but in the finding you are in the wrong place and seeing the way to get back on course.” Agreed!

Sometimes, though, we can’t see where we are without the benefit of other sets of eyes. We often need other people to point us in a different direction, or at least to point out other options. At its best, this is what Christian community can be – a group of pilgrims, making our way together through this life, helping each other when we get off track, patiently waiting while we find our way back and then greeting us with open arms (and a Holy Feast!) when we finally arrive home.

Since last Wednesday, the Tour de DioMil  has been, quite literally, “up one hill and down”. We’ve come to appreciate the different types of hills — little “rollers”, slight inclines, 8% grades, and of course the climbs that seem to go on and on and on. Yesterday, a few miles outside of Prairie du Chein, on County Road C, the Tour trekked up the longest climb of the entire journey — 2.9 miles. (I know the distance because when we scouted the route by car last June, I was so impressed/challenged by the length of the hill I made sure we measured its distance!)

I’m nowhere near being  a champion hill climber. On the east side of Wisconsin there aren’t many opportunities to actually practice this sort of sustained challenge. And, as I continue to remind myself on this journey, I’ve only been seriously riding a bike for a bit over a year. I suspect if this would have been the first hill we faced last Wednesday, I would have been defeated before I even started to pedal up it. But over the past few days, I’ve learned a bit about climbing hills just by virtue of the experience of climbing them.

I’ve learned not to “gear down” too fast or too soon. One has to save the lowest gears for as long as possible so there’s somewhere to “go” when the hill gets steeper and one’s speed gets slower. I’ve learned not to rush up the hill — slow and steady may not win a race, but it does help climb a hill! I’ve learned to go fast enough to make progress, but slowly enough to maintain control of my breathing and heart rate. I’ve learned to stay focused in the moment and to celebrate how far I’ve traveled as opposed to constantly worrying about how far I’ve got to go. Finally, I’ve learned that once the top of the hill is reached, it’s perfectly acceptable to linger a moment or two and engage in a bit of mental celebration about the accomplishment before heading off to find the next hill.

Yesterday, there were plenty of hills between Prairie du Chein and Platteville. We’ve got more hills today between Platteville and Monroe. This morning, my back hurts and my knees are a bit tender. To be honest though, I’ve never felt better. County Road C wasn’t the Rockies or the Alps and the Tour de DioMil certainly isn’t the Tour de France, but I’m learning lots about what it means to have focus, conserve energy and press on toward a goal.

As I cranked along yesterday, huffing and puffing up hills, enjoying the fabulous Wisconsin scenery and the gorgeous weather, I thought of all the places in this world where people are unable to receive even basic healthcare because they live so far away from even a modestly equipped medical facility. These people depend upon healthcare workers coming to their village…and often healthcare workers have to travel great distances on foot to get to them.

One of the charities the Tour is seeking to support through our fundraising efforts is World Bicycle Relief, which provides bicycles to healthcare workers in the two-thirds world. (To find out more about World Bicycle Relief, go to the Tour website, http://www.tourdediomil.weebly.com and follow the link to their website.) Yesterday, even with our slower overall pace of about 8 mph, we covered 56.5 miles in 6 hours — during that same 6 hours, we would have been “speeding” to have covered 20 miles on foot. What a difference a basic bicycle could make in someone’s life — perhaps even saving a life.

In our uphill climb against poverty and disease, we are climbing against all of the forces that conspire to keep the poor of our world out of sight and out of mind. We are climbing against hopelessness and helplessness. We are climbing against apathy and denial. Sometimes progress seems slow or even non-existent. Yet, as people of faith — people who walk (or bike!) the pilgrim way — we  have to remember that our race won’t be won by wearing ourselves out too early. We are in this climb for the long haul. We can practice focused patience. We can remember that we aren’t making this climb alone. We have each other and we serve a God who has all the time in this world…and beyond.

Yesterday’s ride was (thankfully) cooler than Thursday’s, but we were in and out of rain throughout the day. There were several very significant uphill climbs, but the good news is there were also some wonderful downhill coasting opportunities too. By the time we arrived at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church in Prairie du Chein we had pedaled 55.5 miles and had plenty of stories to tell each other about our experience of the ride, the roads, the rain, the hills and the very fast blue heeler (a herding dog) who seemed to enjoy racing/herding each and every one of us as we passed by his/her house!

Five riders made the trip yesterday. Four of us from Trinity in Wauwatosa and a parishioner from St. Barnabas’ in Richland Center.  Not long after we got out of Richland Center, I was “blessed” with the first flat tire of the Tour, which needed to be repaired along the side of the road. Thankfully, one of our support personnel is the handiest of flat-tire-fixers, and I was back in the saddle in fairly short order.

As the day progressed, I noticed the ways in which our little band of travelers “ebbed and flowed” across the landscape. For the most of the day, we were within eyesight of at least one or two of our fellow riders, but we were often stretched out along a distance of a mile or more. The blue heeler would have had a nightmare attempting to keep us all together!

At one point, I started thinking about our riding group as a metaphor for congregational/parochial life. Throughout the Tour, I’ve heard folks at the parishes we’ve visited speak movingly about their love of one another and how their congregations feel like extended family. I’ve glimpsed, firsthand, the interconnection and abiding friendships in these places —  the “super glue’ which holds congregations together and provides the spiritual support for parishioners as they journey through this life.

This “togetherness” isn’t a given, though. It requires effort, intention and gobs of patience. Inevitably, in any group of people (whether bikers or parishioners), there are people who are out front, others who cruise along in the middle of the pack and those who are working hard to keep up. In a competitive society like ours, we love races — literal and metaphorical. We love to cheer on the winners and feel pity for the losers. Who doesn’t want to “Be Number 1!”?

Sometimes in our anxiety about parochial “survival” we apply this same competitive spirit to our congregational life — where ministry gets confused with more programs, more people, more money and the focus becomes obsessed with “church growth”. Sometimes in our push to “win” the parochial race…whether against the threat of dwindling resources or simply because we’ve bought into the societal notion that bigger, faster younger and richer is better, we forget that one of the reasons congregations become so much a part of our lives is the value we each receive from simply “staying together”.

Yes, I know this might seem like a maintenance mentality. Some may accuse me of playing to the lowest common denominator. But I saw the dynamism of staying together played out in our ride yesterday. Leaders stopped to wait for others to catch up. Middle-of-the-roaders enjoyed conversation with each other. Back-of-the-packers marveled at the gorgeous scenery, while keeping the pace to not lag too far behind. All of us spent some time in each of those positions during the day. And then, outside of Prairie du Chein we all regrouped and we arrived at our destination just as we had left Richland Center — together.