The Sauntering Pilgrim

Three months after the Holland Tunnel was completed and opened for traffic, E.B. White wrote that it seemed to be working just fine. It was tight enough to keep water out, deep enough so ships had not foundered on it, and you could dive into it in New Jersey and emerge, predictably and safely, on the other side in Manhattan. There was only one problem: after two or three trips he noticed it wasn’t much fun; it could even be downright dull at times. So he suggested the tunnel needed a more carnival-like spirit. Maybe the tunnel policemen could hand out rings for motorists to snatch as they sped past.

I wonder how many of us grew up with a Holland Tunnel kind of Christianity, a faith mostly about getting people through this life safely to emerge in heaven on the other side? We’re plunged into the faith at baptism; we’re taught to sink or swim in Sunday school; and we’re launched into life at confirmation to make it on our own. It’s the faith of that old hymn: “On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand, / and cast a wishful eye / to Canaan’s fair and happy land / where my possessions lie.” The pronouns are always singular because the focus is always on personal salvation, about me crossing, not the Hudson into Manhattan but the Jordan into the eternal habitations.

The destination is painted beautifully: streets of gold, fountains that never run dry, manna that never runs out. And the way there is often seen as a passage to get through, a “veil of tears,” full of hardships, sorrows, and suffering—one we’d like to dress in a more carnival-like spirit as we keep our eyes fixed on the destination.

But the gospel is not about the destination. It has never been about the destination. It’s not about driving through this life to emerge in a perfect life on the other side. The good news is that God has made the crossing and emerged in New Jersey, in the geography of this life, to sit at our table in this veil of tears. God has come here to restore a carnival spirit to our journey, to make a way in the wilderness and streams in the desert (Isa. 43:19).

Jesus had very little to say about heaven; he had a lot to say about the kingdom of God. He taught us to pray, not that we get through this life and into the next one safely, but that God’s will be done here on earth as it is in heaven. And he taught that if we are to have any hope of seeing the kingdom here, we’ve got to become like children, free of the masks and costumes we learn to wear as adults.

Some look for that existence in another life and another world. But St. Paul told us: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you,”—and it does—“he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also”—not to some future spiritual body, but to your mortal body, this one—through the Spirit that already lives in you (Rom. 8:11).

The gospel isn’t about surviving this world; it’s about the Spirit filling this world with life. Salvation is not about escaping this life; it’s about participating in its restoration. Eternal life is not about length of life; it’s about quality of life—God’s quality of life—starting now. The “ifs” become promises through the Spirit that raised Jesus and lives in each of us, giving life—abundant life, more and better life than we ever dreamed of having—to our mortal bodies. That Spirit, alive in every person, is what gives this life its carnival spirit, if we recognize it, honor it, and cooperate with it.

In many parts of the world, people greet one another with a Sanskrit word: namaste. It means something like this: “I honor the place in you in which the whole universe resides, the place of love, of light, and of peace. I honor the place where, when you are in that place in you and I am in that place in me, there is only one of us.” It is then that the gospel of reconciliation is made real (Gal. 3:27-28; 2 Cor. 5:19).

Pastor Jeff said it this way in a recent sermon: “When we welcome and are welcomed, we recognize one another as fellow children of God.” And he said, “that doesn’t just happen inside the walls of a church.” The Spirit makes it happen whenever we see through our differences to our common humanity, to the Spirit that lives in each of us.

It happened recently in New York City, among people famous for their emotional armor and anonymity. When the Knicks won the NBA championship after a 53-year drought, the city was transformed. Anonymous passers-by became fellow fans; a blue-and-orange hat became a conversation starter; an elevator car became a place where strangers acted like old friends. If basketball can do that, surely the Spirit of God can do more.

We can find that connection more often—if we respect its reality, attend to its presence, and let it shape our lives. The more we cooperate with the Spirit that dwells in every person, the more we will experience the abundant life for which we yearn and for which we are made. And we will know, deep in our mortal bodies, that God has indeed crossed over to dwell with us here.

As you leave here today, don’t rush through life as though it were a tunnel to somewhere you believe is better. Don’t live with your head down, waiting for the moment when you finally emerge into the light. Lift your head, look around, and see the Spirit alive everywhere. Live in that place in you where God dwells, and let your bearing say to everyone you meet: I honor the place in you where God dwells, where we are one. Let your welcome be wide enough so strangers become neighbors, your kindness deep enough so differences lose their power to divide, your courage strong enough to trust that God is already here with us.

And as you do, may you discover the abundant life Jesus promised—life that begins now, life that grows and deepens now, life that shines now. Because the kingdom is not far away. It is not later, and it is not elsewhere. The kingdom is among us. The Spirit is within us. God has crossed over and come to New Jersey.