Run, run, run, as fast as you can - you can't catch me I'm the gingerbread man! Okay, rediculous strart, but it came to mind. My dad and I used to, and still sometimes do, take rides through the countryside. We'd eat fried pig skins (disgusting, huh?), and drink whatever our favorite soda was (usually, for me, rootbeer). Now that I have revealed to you how thoroughly Mississippian I am, I suppose I can share with you have formative it was. Not only in developing a bond with my father - strong enough for me to chose to "come out" during one of our drives - but in helping me think about pilgrimage.
As I ponder Holy Lingering, I am promoting moments of stability that punctuate our pilgrimage. Pauses for reflection allow our roots to grow a little deeper and find some sustenance, before picking up and moving on. This is countercultural , especially the USA. When I look at my father, I wonder if his own love of travel was not only a movement forward, but a movement "away from". Pilgrimge, like any travel, has often included those who were fleeing.
The difference, I think, between a pilgrimage and a fugitice is the pilgrim runs toward and with love. The fugitive is running away. Perhaps my study and interest in holy lingering is a call for me to engage the practices of the season of Lent: to thoroughly search myself, to present my sins to God, to make ammends as possible with those whom I have offended, and know by grace and mercy the compassion and love of God.
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