Another excerpt from the journal of the 2008 pilgrimage:
Across the river, the town of Harper’s Ferry nestles against closely huddled mountains. The town is invitingly connected to the canal trail by an old railroad bridge reserved for walkers. I cross from the canal side to the south side of the river, climb through the town’s steep streets and narrow stairways, full of 18th century charm, and arrive at a massive rock overlooking the confluence of the Shenandoah River into the Potomac. Thomas Jefferson came to this rock, perched high above the town, and wrote about the beauty of this place. Damp with the sweat of climbing, I gratefully sit and share the rock with a soft breeze and the ghostly presence of a former president. Together we watch the mountain shadows wade gradually into the rivers.
A slow train rumbles over a second bridge crossing the Potomac into town. As the engine hangs over the water, it announces its arrival with a harsh, effective horn. Within a few seconds, the mountains grab the piercing sound and mold it into a mellow echo, complete with several musical overtones. Whistle and echo are like the difference between an amateur horn player and a practiced concert professional. The first hits relatively accurate notes; the second makes the soul sing. I want the train to keep sounding its amateur horn just so that I can hear the singing echoes bounce again around the rivers and hills.
Human speech is not so different. It can be loud, effective, practical, accurate; it can pass along practical information and get the job done. But oh, in the ordinariness of our living, don’t we need a soul song—one that when reflected and echoing around us, pulls us beyond the mundane, gives us something more beautiful than efficient, stretches us to reach across the mountains and rivers that challenge us, calling us from the sweat of necessity to the hope of what God is inviting us to be. Sitting on that rock, listening intently for echoes, I realize that the words of the gospel of John I have been learning by heart on this pilgrimage are becoming soft echoes of what I truly long for.
Here is an example simple gospel sentence that, with the repetition of memorizing, has become an echo rolling around, calling me to listen more deeply to how the story of my life is transformed by God. When I listen carefully to its overtones, it helps me hear and see things differently about myself. I hear it bouncing into impoverished corners of my heart and announcing God’s hope for me. The echo? Jesus said, “I came that you may have life, and have it more abundantly.” (John 10:10)
I could listen to this echo for a decade or more.
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