Simeon Stylites is described in Butler's Lives of the Saints as the pillar saint. He didn't get
the name by being a pillar of the church. Simeon lived, and died,
atop an actual pillar in the desert in Syria. Converted to the
monastic life as a child-shepherd, the young man performed a range
of humiliations of the flesh in order to train himself in the ways
of Christ's poverty. One of the most extreme was tying a rope
around his waist until his flesh rotted away in that spot.
St. Simeon makes me feel guilty about my
difficulty performing some of the basic spiritual disciplines: fasting, prayer, and
biblical study. I've heard about these disciplines my whole
life, especially at the evangelical church in which I was raised
and the evangelical college I attended. At each juncture of my life
I have engaged and failed, walking away wondering why I have such a
difficult time transforming my "interior castle."
Then I learned the modern discipline of riding
my bike. Biking wasn't a big part of my life growing up. In
the suburbs of Washington, D.C., everything was far away, there was
no public transportation, and I wasn't willing to spend
bike-required energy to get where I needed to be. As a member of
upper-middle class Americana I drove my gas-powered '96 Chevy
to high school, college, and then to graduate school without
much of a thought. But that was before America went to war with
Iraq. And that was before I met Peter Dula.
Dula was at Duke University to defend his dissertation and give a lecture about his time with the Mennonite Central Committee in Iraq. He went to the Middle East to teach theology at a Christian college and to write about what he saw and experienced. What my ethics class expected the day he walked to the podium was a message of hope sprinkled with MCC recruitment talk. What we got was the face of war.
Dula was ashen when he addressed us with his
typed speech. His voice and his words conveyed the bitterness of
the present-day situation in the Middle East, the Iraqi hatred for
Americans, and his powerlessness to distinguish himself from the
occupying military forces and contractors. He told us how he had
recently been evacuated to Jordan after a rash of expatriate
kidnappings, leaving behind new friends whose futures were unknown.
Everything about Dula spoke to us of the horrors of seeing
one's neighbors' children kidnapped, of walking with
fear along a deserted street, of seeing churches exploding in the
night.
By the end, our ethics class sat in stunned
silence. The least we could hope for was some way to respond.
Should we go to Iraq and do the same? Is it time to picket the
White House? Write letters? What do we do? Dula's answer was
clear and emphatic.
"Ride your bike."
He repeated this short phrase twice but the
second time it sounded more like a plea than a suggestion. Then he
walked from the lectern and left a befuddled crowd to ponder his
words and, hopefully, to act upon them.
Six months later I am living in Portland,
Oregon, exercising the spiritual discipline of bicycling. True,
it's a lot easier here than in Durham, North Carolina. Buses
fueled by biodiesel share the road with bipeds in one of the
country's most bicycle-friendly cities. Bike lanes dot the
highway and most motorists will even give you a friendly wave.
Still, it's not always fun and games riding in the city. It
rains almost everyday in the northwest and the winds of the
Columbia River Gorge can knock over the most stalwart biker with 10-degree blasts.
So I guess, as spiritual disciplines go, this
one certainly fits the bill. But, while riding is considered
"morally correct" and financially wise for Oregonians,
many of us who are Christians ride for different reasons. Rising
gas prices posted on placards on many corners are consistent
reminders of the world at war, a war fueled by oil. As a Christian
I have a responsibility to respond to the imitation of Christ not
only with my interior life but with the ways I use the resources of
God's creation and in how I think about war. There is no
simpler gesture of Christ's peace than to stop purchasing
from the gas station.
We are coming upon a new Lenten season, a time
when the guilt of my failed spiritual disciplines will once again
be edging in on my psyche. If you feel the same way, this season,
when we prepare our hearts for the great mystery of Christ's
death and resurrection, you might try on a different hat. Instead
of ditching sweets, maybe try riding the bus, though it might tack
30 minutes onto your daily commute. That time can be used for
prayer and reflection. Feeling ambitious? Think about setting your
coffee money aside every day to invest in biodiesel or straight
vegetable oil conversion. You might commit to 40 days of bicycle
commuting, walking to the grocery store, or not driving all
together.
Lent is the time when we have the opportunity
to release convenience and ease for a life of dependence,
community, and sacrifice. May this season in particular help us
each remember our commitments to the church worldwide, the MCC
workers and Christians in Iraq - including the Christian
Peacemaker Team members still held hostage - and, ultimately,
to the kingdom come.
Melissa Bixler is part of the
L'Arche Nehalem community in Portland, Oregon, working as an
assistant to developmentally disabled adults.
