To be a Pilgrim
To be a Pilgrim
Dean Andrew Tremlett reflects on pilgrimage for the season of Lent.
1. Starting out
It’s growing on me, this pilgrim thing. I never really saw myself as the ‘type’, if there is such a thing, but somehow it is starting to take root.
I don’t want to sound flippant, but I sometimes do think that different stages of life call for different expressions of spirituality.
And now, after so long in Cathedral ministry, I find myself drawn towards pilgrimage. That sense that there is no escaping the fact that others have trodden here before - a long time before – and that we now stand in their place. We have moved up the queue of those called to be custodians, holders-in-trust today.
A glib metaphor for life, we are pilgrims on a journey, but nonetheless there is deep comfort, connection and coherence about places where others have walked in their thousands and ten thousands over the last millennia.
Looking back, I think it was a visit to the Western Wall of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the Wailing Wall which lies beneath the deeply contested Haram Al-Sherif, the third most holy site in Islam, that was a turning point.
As Orthodox Jews were rushing through the narrow lanes of the old city, I found myself in the crowd at the Wall with a group of Christian leaders. And there, in an act of extraordinary hospitality, we were welcomed to pray alongside Jews who were praying for the Peace of Jerusalem.
Not my tradition, I have to say, but there I was writing on a scrap of paper, scribbling an inchoate request for a loved one, and inserting it carefully chosen crack in the stonework. What did I think I was doing? Was God going to come along like some divine janitor to pick up all these scraps and read them one by one?
I really don’t know. What I did know was that there was something profoundly moving going on. A connection between the fragility of my prayer and the permanence of that wall. Between praying alongside a community of which I was no part and the intense feeling of joining an ancient practice. An overwhelming sense that this was the right thing to do without the slightest clue what was going on.
In short, that’s my layman’s guide to pilgrimage.
Something which is viscerally embedded in an ancient past, but somehow points to a life and vitality that is anything but over and done with. An experience which is most often communal – even when it’s not your community – but firmly implanted in the knowledge of one’s person in relation to God.
So, to be a pilgrim, and in these Lent reflections I will draw on Scripture to help us on our journey.
2. On the banks of the River Jordan
Matthew 3.13; Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him.
But it never rains! That was my first reaction getting off the bus. Jumping down I found myself if not quite knee deep in mud, then certainly in sufficiently claggy soil for it to ooze over my shoes. That was the first impression.
The second impression on arrival at the River Jordan was that it was a tad more busy than I had expected. I had in my mind’s eye imagined a place of solitude to which the crowds swarmed, but in a very English and orderly manner. But the group I was leading had managed to collide with the Epiphany celebrations of the Coptic community, and they turned up in their busloads, replete with ululating women and intoning men.
And the third impression was the security. Like a bad night in Newcastle, there were police and army standing around half-waiting for something to kick off. That mixture of surly indifference coupled with threatening menace. You’re never quite sure whether they are there to protect or to intimidate.
And here’s what happened.
Making our way through the mud after a sudden downpour; pressing through the crowds of Oriental Orthodox Christians sipping their Fanta Orange; wearily keeping a distance from the heavy security presence, we made our way down to the river bank, to the supposed site – or at least, one of the supposed sites - of Jesus’ baptism.
The River Jordan was in full flood, though even in full flow, any decent river would put it to shame. We were stood on the Israeli-Palestine side. The far bank – not 10 yards away – was on the Jordan side. Another country.
But what had at a distance sounded like a choir singing in chorus, it became clear was two distinct groups of worshippers. On our side, the Israeli-Palestinian bank, was a group surrounding their Patriarch, a venerable figure almost enclosed in the adoration of the worshippers.
But on the other bank, in Jordan, another country, was a second group of Copts, all responding to the chants, singing antiphonal responses.
It is no exaggeration to say that the width of the Jordan at that point in no way exceeds the width of St Paul’s Quire, and it was like having Dec and Can – Decanal & Cantoris – singing and responding across the baptismal waters, all the while the police on either side making sure that no one made a bid to cross to the other side.
For once it was the church which was united, and the barriers were those of the state which kept them apart.
To be a Pilgrim in this Lenten season can be a messy affair. Mud on your boots, strangers for companions, hazards to make your way around.
But what a foretaste of heaven. To hear the glorious company of Apostles praising God in a harmony which transcends the imposition of human or state or geographical boundaries. Now that’s a real picture of what heaven could be like.
