Sacred Travels
From Sacred Travels, Recovering the Ancient Practice of Pilgrimage
By Christian George
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The year was 1522. Luther dipped his pen into the ink. Eleven weeks had passed since he began translating the Bible, and the project was almost complete. Although his work would enrage the papacy and infuriate the devil, at least the peasant would be able to read the Scriptures like the priest.
A shadow slithered across the room. It was a familiar shadow, a shadow that had tormented him since he was a child.
“I know I am a sinner!” Luther screamed. “Leave me alone!”
The demon snarled. “You are worse than that, Luther. Your mouth is filthy and your work is useless. God could never use a creature like you.”
Luther knew his warts. He cursed like a sailor, drank like a fish, and if he ever owned his temper, it did not take him long to lose it.
Bats smashed against the window. “You will die in this castle,” screamed the shadow.
Luther had heard enough. The trembling reformer grabbed a well of ink and hurled it at the devil. It soared across the room and exploded against the wall, splattering ink everywhere. Knight George had slayed his dragon, and the creature disappeared into the darkness.
Luther’s original ink stain has long since vanished. Many fingers have faded the wall behind the heater, and some pilgrims have even taken pieces of it as relics. But every year someone, perhaps a castle custodian, secretly splashes the wall with a fresh coat of ink in hopes of keeping Luther’s legacy alive.
I walked away from the entrance of the study not at all excited about the long descent down to the base of the hill, but eager to engage my own demons and, in so doing, to become a greater threat to the kingdom of Satan.
Luther’s hymn declares:
And though this world with devils filled
Should threaten to undo us,
We will not fear, for God hath willed
His truth to triumph through us.
The Prince of Darkness grim,
We tremble not for him,
His rage we can endure,
For lo, his doom is sure,
One little word shall fell him.
My pilgrimage to Wartburg Castle taught me many things. It taught me the importance of packing lightly. It taught me that great friction usually precedes great movement. But above all, it taught me that being a Christian is like being a sirloin—sometimes God’s got to marinate us. In general, I don’t eat a lot of steak (seminary and poverty tend to go hand in hand), but I do know that my favorite steaks are marinated and filled with flavor before they’re cooked.
Pilgrimage is a marinating process. The Bible is bursting with people who traveled to places of retreat where God seasoned and tenderized them, preparing them to take the next step of the journey. Moses marinated in the desert for forty years before leading the Israelites to the Promised Land. The apostle Paul marinated in the Arabian desert for three years before becoming the missionary of the millennium. Even Jesus spent forty days and nights marinating in the wilderness, dueling with the devil before beginning his public ministry.
There are seasons of life in which God pulls us into the stillness. Our lives are saturated with speed and we often get into the habit of working so hard, playing so much and praying so little that we become callous to our consciences. It is then that God takes us somewhere sacred and marinates us. God seasoned Luther in a castle, but others go on weekend retreats, extended job assignments or summer vacations. Some find marinating in outdoor explorations like hiking and camping, but wherever God takes us to marinate, whether it is across the sea or across the street, we can be confident that he has purpose for us there. Pilgrimage is a journey into the landscape of the soul, and when we return, we will be spiritually seasoned and refreshed for service in the kingdom of God.
The interest of the English people in the new Bible showed how greatly they needed and longed for religious instruction. Many of the wealthy laity purchased the entire work, copies were rapidly multiplied, and Lollardism was widely spread. The poor peasants contributed their pennies and bought a Bible in common and studied out its teachings, laying the foundation for that love of righteousness and liberty in the English people, which would not rest till freedom was their birthright. Some of them, perhaps several together, bought the coveted manuscript, paying as high as $200 for a copy; or gave a load of hay or an ox for a few leaves of St. Peter or St. Paul. In 1408 translations of the Bible were forbidden, but the Scriptures were still copied and extensively read. Many were imprisoned and even killed for having the Bible in their mother tongue. Little companies, however, met at night to read it, as the early Christians under the Roman persecution, and some learned portions and repeated them to others….
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A few passages from Wycliffe’s Bible will illustrate its style better than any description:
“And Marye seyde, My soule worshipe the Lord, and my spirit joide in God
myn heelpe.
“The hungrynge he fillide with goodis, and the riche he lefte empty. As he spak to oure fadirs, to Abraham, and to his seed, into worldis.
“No man seweth a pacche of rude or newe clothe to an old clothe, ellis he takith away the newe supplement or pacche and a more brekynge is maad. An no man sendith newe wyn into oolde botelis, or wyn vesselis, ellis the wyn shal burste the wyn vesselis, and the wyn shal be held out.
“And aftir sixe dayes Jhesus took Petre, and James, and John, and ledith hem by hem selve alone in to an high hil; and he is transfigured before him. And his clothis ben maad schynynge and white ful moche as snow, and which maner clothis a fullere, or walkere of clothe, may not make white on erthe. And Helye with Moyses apperide to hem, and thei weren spekynge with Jhesu.
“Sothli who euere ben lad by the spirit of God these ben the sones of God. Forsothe ye han not taken ewtsoone the spirit of seruage in drede, but ye han taken the spirit of adopcioun of sones, that is to be sons of God by grace, in which spirit we cryen, Abba, Fadir. Forsoth the ilke spirit yeldith witnessing to our spirit, that we ben the sones of God; forsyth if sones, and eyris, sothli eyris of God, trweli euene eyris of Christ; if nethelees we to gidere suffren, that and we be glorified to gidere. Trewli I deeme, that the passions of this tyme ben not euene worthi to the glorie to comynge, that schal be schewid in us.”