Body Of Christ—The Door Into The Most Vital Love

St. Ignace, Michigan
Aug. ‘80

The teaching of the meaning of the death of Jesus was a uniquely
Christian teaching, but that meaning was not what Jesus taught.
Sitting in that congregation, totally absorbed in the words coming
from the pulpit, I felt a sudden change in my disposition. I no longer
felt like a particular. My sense of separateness began to dissolve.
When Peter approached Jesus and heard the words, "The time is coming
when I must leave my body," Jesus was not talking about "stepping out
of life," rather he was talking about "stepping into life," into the
whole birth-death process that sustains life and divinity. "Leaving,"
for Jesus, meant that a door opened—a door into the body of Christ,
into the body of all people caring for each other, into the body of
all divinity that makes love possible. Jesus died so that a more vital
love might be shared—a love for each other, for life, and for the
divine. For that one brief moment I felt at peace, really at peace. I
felt whole. I felt love.

I don't have any more words for what happened to me while I listened
to that sermon, except possibly, that there is a whole lot more to say
if I only had the words. Walking away from church I was overcome with
yet another emotion, one that said, "It's all right, everything's
going to be okay." At the start of this bicycle trip I was curiously
aware that I should not expect any new insights. The simple fact that
I was going on another bicycle trip was success enough. It affirmed my
chosen lifestyle and living that lifestyle was all the reward I
needed. No further contentment was necessary. So why, on this, the
very last day of my trip, did I get this feeling of wholeness while
sitting in a completely unfamiliar Christian church with total
strangers. It's funny how some things work out differently than
planned--and better.

About this trip -- it's been good. It's that simple. The one thing
that did go wrong -- my knee, I accepted with no hard feelings. I took
a totally relaxed attitude about this trip and it paid off. Even in
the rain, and there was plenty, I did not let myself get to down. When
it got bad, as it did in northern British Columbia, I boarded a
train--a good choice. On many occasions I was so high from the scenery
that I felt like I was going to burst with joy. All of life came
together in those special moments, in those very special moments. On a
more negative note, I was definitely the odd man out among the more
adventurous youth. Youth has its place, and so does age; it is too bad
they rarely find a comfortable place to coexist—that separateness is
not irreproachable. Responsibilities go with each, and both are to be
valued for their potentialities. I think its time to leave. I see my
parent's coming to pick me up.

Stepping Into God Presence—Leaving One’s Body

St. Ignace, Michigan
Aug. ‘80

The minister’s sermon began simply enough. He spoke of the time when
Jesus told his disciple, Peter, that the time would soon come when he would
have to leave his body. It was the meaning the minister attached to
"leaving one's body" that, perhaps, the congregation had a difficult
time with. Forget about St. Peter and the pearly gates. According to
this guy, you didn't go anywhere. On second thought, maybe that's too
strong of a way to put it. It might be more accurate to say that
leaving one's body was like "stepping into God's house." You still
didn't go anywhere, but, in a manner of speaking, God came to you. The
Christian church preached that Jesus was sacrificed for the sake of
the rest of us, to save all the sinners, but this minister wasn't
saying that. Rather, he was saying that Jesus was not a sacrificial
lamb, he was a messenger, and, as was common among sinners confronting
disturbing messages, they, the sinners, murdered the messenger. In
this case, the message, "love thy neighbor," was just too threatening,
not to mention the horrifying idea of seriously considering the
possibility of unconditional love. "Messages promoting love are
grudgingly received and never, or hardly ever practiced," said the
minister.

At that point in the sermon, it was as if the lady sitting next to me
had reached over and pinched me because in that instant I realized
that if I had been living at the time of Jesus, I probably would have
been one of his accusers. I probably would have called for his
execution. It was so easy to condemn, especially if one felt afraid or
threatened. It was next to impossible to love under those same
circumstances. Jesus knew that he would die for love. That's why he
taught that death transcends the particular. The Christian church
teaches something similar—that the good go to heaven, go to Jesus.

In Church The Tension Was Real

Episcopal Church
Aug. 3, ‘80

The next morning, while enjoying campfire coffee, I couldn't stop
thinking about the conversation I had with the minister. It was
intriguing for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that
the guy appeared to be struggling with something that he wanted to
talk about but couldn't or wouldn't. He appeared depressed, too. I
began to think seriously about attending his church service. After
all, it was a beautiful morning, and I had to wait around for my
parents anyway. "Why not," I thought, "it sounded like a good way to
end a good bicycle trip."

I went downtown on my bike, and asked directions to the church. In
another 15 minutes, I arrived at a small, wooden building with a white
steeple. While chaining my bike to a tree in front of the church, I
started to wonder why I was there. Sometimes I acted impetuously, and
when it dawned on me that this was one of those times, I found myself
too embarrassed to leave. Some of the congregation had already greeted
me, so I took a deep breath and went inside. There were probably forty
or so people waiting for the service to start. The place was about
half full. Two old ladies had cranked their heads around to look at
me. They were smiling, so that's where I sat, in the pew next to them.
The ladies were quick to make sure I had my hymnal and bible in hand,
and after I thanked them, the service began.

It began with the "robbed ones" parading down the isle swinging a
canister of burning incense. I guess the incense was meant to bless,
or possibly purify the congregation. It was my first time, so I wasn't
sure what was going on. The smell of incense was especially pleasant,
though. As the minister walked past me we made eye contact. I was
right; his eyes betrayed his feelings. I could see his eyes light up with
tension as soon as he recognized me. Upon reflection, though,
I’m not sure if he became tense on account of me, or if it was already
there in anticipation of his sermon, which I would be a witness to.
I'm not a churchgoer, but back when I was attending Bill's
Methodist church with Carin (Carin being an old girlfriend of mine and
Bill being both a minister and Carin’s father), I got a feel for how far a
minister could stray from the "party line"--Christian orthodoxy.
What I was about to hear stretched those limits.

He Didn't Talk Like A Minister

St. Ignace, Michigan
Aug. ‘80

I had a good night last night. After my shower, I walked downtown
and stopped at a couple of bars. At my second bar, Ken, the owner and
ex professional wrestler, greeted me. He was a very funny guy.
I was the only person in the bar until another fellow came in
and sat one stool down from where I was sitting. After awhile, the
bartender introduced the guy sitting next to me as the town's
Episcopalian minister. I found that surprising. He was my age, and he
didn't talk like a minister. After Ken bought a round of drinks, I
returned the favor by buying a second round for the three of us. The
subject of religion was never brought up; that is, until the minister
got up to leave. He invited me to his morning church service. I was
sure he wasn't serious. I could see it in his eyes. The last thing he
wanted was to have a Saturday night drinking buddy show up in the
middle of his Sunday congregation. "Don't be surprised," I said,
"maybe I'll be there." When I finished my beer, I said goodbye to Ken
and headed back to my campsite. On the way there, I passed another bar
where I had to stop for a pizza and beer. Hey, I was hungry.

Bicycling Highway 2—Not Recommended

Manistique, Michigan
August, `80


Well here I am, sitting in a $6. per night camp site--the end of the
line, end of the road, the end of the trip. After I started throwing
things away, I started feeling empty. In retrospect, the same type of
thing occurred on my last bicycle trip. I hope my parents appreciate
the fact that I'm not bicycling the best part of the trip -- the home
stretch. Tomorrow, I will meet them on the north side the Mackinaw Bridge.

Yesterday, when I reached Munising, I called information. I was
looking for an old college roommate of mine. In the early `'70s we
hung out together, and I wanted to pay him a surprise visit if
possible. He was from Manistique, so I thought maybe he was still
there. The operator told me there was a J. Fredrickson phone number
listed, so that was good enough for me. I reconfigured my route and
headed down to Manistique.

When I arrived, I went into a bar on Main Street and inquired into the
whereabouts of Jimmy (Manistique was a small enough town for that kind
of thing). The bartender informed me that he hadn't seen him in a
long time, but his parents lived in town. "Why don't you get in touch
with them," he said. I tried calling, but nobody was home. The guy
sitting at the bar drinking a beer told me he didn't know what Jimmy
was doing now, but three years ago he was working as a corrections
officer in the prison system up in Marquette. Disappointed, I got on
my bicycle and started pedaling east on Highway 2.

Highway 2 was enough to turn a bicycler's hair white, especially when
the bicycler in question knew there were better routes to travel. The
traffic was so bad I had to stop bicycling early. I camped just off
the highway, under some power lines. The next day it was more of the
same. Michigan was a great state, but my opinion concerning the
idiot's driving the highways remains in tact -- Michigan has more than
its share of assholes.

Pictured Rocks--Munising, Michigan

Lake Superior
Aug. 1

Yesterday was a good day, as was the day before that, and the day
before that. Michigan is a great State. Of course, it helps when the
weather is good, too! The flies forced my quick departure from the
beach yesterday, so I didn't get a chance to acknowledge the great
company Rick turned out to be. The two of us left the beach together,
and went to the hospital where we ate a great breakfast for a
reasonable price. We wished each other well after that, and I headed
out for Munising, another fifty or so miles down the highway. It was
already afternoon, so that was a good place to aim for, particularly
since it was my last chance to camp on Lake Superior.

The bicycling was great. The weather was muggy, and occasionally the
traffic was heavy, but that was the only drawback. I almost forgot,
before leaving the last campsite, I thought I'd try swimming in the
lake. Lake Superior is very cold. This time, however, the water was
tolerable, even pleasant, after I got used to it. I enjoyed my
morning swim tremendously. It was just me, in the middle of the lake,
digging my toes into the sand,--looking out at miles of deserted
shoreline. Beautiful!

At the end of that gorgeous day, I went to a bar and had a couple
beers, and ate a turkey sandwich. That was a great way to end the
day. I also called home and set the date for my parents to pick me
up--Sunday, Aug. 3, in St. Ignace. After I had made those
arrangements, I felt strange. My trip was coming to an end, and it was
a very heavy feeling. This had been a very good bicycle trip, but I'll
probably speak more on that later.

I just finished my last pancake and am about to begin another great
day. There were no flies in the campground last night and hardly any
mosquitoes. It doesn't get any better than that!

Moon Over Lake Superior—Rustic Camping

Marquette, Michigan
July 31, '80


I arrived in Marquette just in time to purchase an $11. bicycle tire.
Prices got higher the farther east I went. I bought the same tire for
$8.50 the last time. After completing that task, I biked up the hill to
Northern Michigan University and grabbed a shower. At the University,
I met up with another biker. He was out of London, Ontario, on his way
to Vancouver. We agreed to camp together, and after a pizza and beer
at a local pub, we biked to a stretch of deserted beach just north of
Marquette. The white sand beaches of Lake Superior were fantastic. We
had no problem setting up camp, and enjoying the six beers we had
carried back with us. We watched a big red moon come up over the lake
-- nice.

Not so nice, however, were the Lake Superior mosquitoes. They tried to
carry us away last night, and then today we have the man-eating flies
to contend with. They're biting my ankles through my socks about every
four minutes-- making me write faster and faster. I suppose I've
enjoyed this beach long enough, anyway. I think I'll go tell Rick
I'll be heading out instead of spending a couple of days here in
paradise like we had talked about last night. All things considered,
Lake Superior is still worth the hassle.