Silence is the language of God. All else is poor translation.

~Rumi

During the month of September I probably attended at least ten services of worship. All were either in Spanish or Portuguese, neither of which I speak. Since they were all Roman Catholic masses and I know the form of the service, I basically knew what was going on and could even gear up to say the Lord’s Prayer in English under my breath when the time came. Sometimes I could tell from the scripture lessons what particular story was being recounted but when it came to the sermon I had no idea what was being said. Even in the churches where there was an effort to teach a short sung response, though I may have caught hold of the tune as it floated by, I was making up the words, ‘watermeloning’ my way through.

Many people might think this odd…that I would be content to sit through hour after hour of an experience in which the language was lost on me. But, frankly, the sanctuaries in which I had taken a seat were so stunningly beautiful, that what was being said was overshadowed for me by the colors streaming through windows, the ancient stones that oozed strength and majesty, the statues of angels and saints that told stories of faith and a history I only know a little about. The music that surrounded from choirs and organ wove through all my eyes could take in, holding what I knew and what I could not understand, in a gentle blanket of beauty.

Truth be told I have sat through many worship experiences in which I did not understand the language. Even though what was being said was in my mother tongue, the words being spoken made little sense to me, to my experience of the Holy. I have listened to words that seemed harmful and judgmental. Words spoken to exclude and narrowly paint a box in which some are ‘in’ and others are ‘out’. It was a language I simply did not understand and didn’t want to learn. In those places I have also become one with the deep blue, the brilliant red and golden yellow in the stained glass windows. I have watched how the sun filtered through creating a rainbow on the wall and down onto the floor. I have hung on for dear life to the one hymn that seems to want to ooze in and heal all what has gone before with its sweet tune and kind words. 

So, being in so many services where I did not understand the language didn’t seem odd to me. There was maybe even a comfort in it or at least something freeing. In describing an experience of worshiping with some of her students in the Greek Orthodox Church, author Barbara Brown Taylor writes: “Not knowing the language turns out to be a kind of blessing. We can listen to the music without worrying about the words. We can let the prayers wash over us without analyzing their content. Since we did not understand what the priest is saying, we can watch what he is doing. We can see the reverent gestures going on all around us without being certain what they mean.”

I may not have understood very many of the words to which I was present in those worship services. But I did understand some of what was happening both for me and for all those gathered around me. As all of us showed up at the appointed hour and found a resting place in buildings created by the hands and the lives of people whose witness had spanned centuries, we all carried with us hope for being lifted above the ordinariness of our lives, of having an encounter with beauty and mercy and that invisible thread that connects us, of being held by Mystery. Our names and the language for this hope may have been very different but the experience was similar. How did I know this? It was visible on their faces and I believe it was visible on mine. Weeks later I now carry the gift of that with me and I am so grateful…even if I don’t know, will never know, the language.

Devotion. For much of the month of September I was confronted with acts of devotion. Since it is not something I give much thought to, each and every time it happened I was surprised. I found my breath caught in my chest. Sometimes a tear sprang to my eye. Sometimes I just stopped and watched, hoping, I think, that some of whatever was happening to the people I witnessed would rub off on me. Sometimes I simply held the space for the experience of the other…which might be a form of prayer.

As I walked the paths of the Camino de Santiago, pilgrims from many countries shared the way. Many were carrying with them a devotion to religious traditions while others were devoted to the physical exercise the walking required. One had to devote oneself to the ups and downs, the difficulties and the beauty of the road we had chosen. We were all confronted with the devotion of those who lived along this well traveled route…devotion to hospitality, welcome, surprise, guests arriving at all times. To live along this pilgrim route or to own a cafe or bar meant that your day was filled with interruptions of people bearing packs, exhausted, with hopes of a cool drink of water or a hot cup of cafe con leche. All seemed to have embraced this devotion to an open door policy to whomever showed up. If I am not mistaken, I think there is something about this in the scriptures.

The dictionary defines devotion as a “love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity or cause.” Associated words are faithfulness, commitment, allegiance, dedication, piety, sanctity, holiness, godliness. While all these point to a part of this experience, there still seems to be something more for me, something more that I observed though I am still searching its articulation.

After the pilgrimage, I made my way to two particular places where this observation of what I can only call devotion was writ large. Walking into the large concrete square that connects the more traditional cathedral of Fatima, Portugal with its newer more modern church, I came face to face with a long pathway of rubberized material that seemed to connect the two places of worship. Making their way on knees bent in prayer and most likely penance, people moved slowly with their eyes lifted toward a place near by where miracles are believed to have occurred. I watched as they crept along in the too hot day devoted to some deep held longing I was not privy to. The whole sight seemed like miracle to me.

A few days later I joined with people of all ages from around the world to have a moment with the Black Madonna of Monserrat in eastern Spain. After taking either train or cable car to the top of the mountain believed to have been created by angels with golden saws, people stood for hours to make their way to the high altar of the sanctuary to gaze into the face of a black wooden statue of Mary that had been found in a cave on the mountain. Total silence held us as we inched along and wound through a narrow stairway. I looked at the faces of those ahead of me and could see something I can only name again as devotion…and a longing to be in the presence of More. Watching a young man make his way toward the Black Madonna I saw his beautiful brown eyes look into hers, watched his lips mutter words I could not understand, saw him kiss the round orb she held in her outstretched hand. Another young woman followed him and, at the last minute, took the purple and white scarf that she wore and wrapped it clumsily around her head before approaching. Her whole face shown as she stared into the static face of the Madonna.

When my own time came to climb the steps and look into the deep brown face and piercing eyes of this statue born of tree and rock and miraculous stories, I stepped forward into a devotion that is somewhat foreign to this Protestant. What these people before and behind me were experiencing I did not know, could not know, will never know. Their lives and the spiritual cloth from which we have been cut is different in so many ways. How we have known devotion or its absence is as varied as any of us might imagine.

What does devotion look like to you? When have you been in its presence? Walking down the steps and away from the Black Madonna I was bathed in all the moments of devotion I had glimpsed over the weeks that I had just lived. Making my way down the mountain cut by angels, I somehow knew that I, too, live a life of devotion that may connect with all those I witnessed in a way that is universal. My devotion to the love, loyalty and enthusiasm for longing…longing… can bring me to my knees or cause me to gaze into the eyes of statue, human, animal, flower or daybreak. This longing to connect with the One who breathed all Creation into being is a lifelong source of devotion. To have had even a brief encounter with this devotion is miracle enough for awhile.

To find truth, one must travel a dense fog.”
~ David Dweck

Fog. Every day we began our walk in fog. Unable to see more than a few hundred feet down the path of the Camino de Santiago, we headed out in the early hours of morning hoping to escape much of the heat we knew would arrive later in the day. In small villages and larger towns, in countryside and along highways, across bridges that spanned water and busy roads, we trusted the invisible path to unfold before us. Seeing just enough to continue along that journey that would unfold over five days of walking…walking…walking. Trusting our senses and staying in the present moment, watching for the markers of arrow and shell that pointed us in the right direction. Trusting the path as pilgrims have done for over a row we began in fog.

This fog was something I had not anticipated and came every morning as a surprise. The humidity hung heavy in the air and our hair was soon wet with early dew hanging limply in the wee hours. We had abandoned any sense of fashion after only a few minutes. Our work, which we gave ourself to every day, was to walk. To walk and to be present to the path and to the journey, to the prayers we carried within and those that lingered in landscape and the parish churches that marked our way. Entering chapels heavy with history and image and relic and low in lighting, candles flickered in corners, evidence of other pilgrims that had arrived earlier, evidence of others who had made their way through the fog. Every now and then we added to their light and named those for whom we had dedicated the walk of the day. As the hours continued the fog began to lift and more of the path became visible, our eyes reaching further into the expanse of the day.

Looking back now over my photos, I have been struck by this fog and the metaphor of it. In truth, don’t we begin most days shrouded in fog? Our plans may be all lined up in our planners or calendars, neat outlines of the tasks ahead, the meetings, the errands, the tasks to be accomplished, our own intentions and hopes. And yet, what the day will become has a life of its own, one we can only see into with dim flicker of light. Sometimes we come to the end of the day and marvel at the surprises both beautiful and terrible that have come to walk alongside us. Some days have us traveling well into evening in the companionship of fog. Our only hope is to begin again after sleep holds us or eludes us. Other days we step out of the fog and into the pure light and give thanks for the arrival, the lifting, the seeing.

There is gift in fog if we choose it. It allows us to see only what needs be seen for the next moments. It keeps us in the present which, in the end, is all we have been promised. It bathes the day in a Mystery that is our ever-companion. And when it lifts we can stand in the grace of putting our feet on the path, one step at a time.