Blue Highways of Faith

I knew where I lived long before I knew my address. Growing up in rural Indian in the early 1950s was like that, and for all the pain that living in poverty and a house that was “under construction” for as long as we lived there, the thing I remember most was knowing with certainty where I lived. You see, we didn’t have a street address until I was already in second grade. Up until then mail was delivered to Rural Route #2, Mishawaka IN. That’s an address that won’t help you find the house. We didn’t get a zip code until I was finishing Jr. High in 1963. But from the time that I was born, it seemed, I had been told to remember that I lived just eight tenths of a mile north of US 20 on Elder Road. I’d like to say that you could find my house with those instructions today, except that the house is long-gone—never finished—and a bypass was completed in the mid-1970s that is a full five miles south of the road I knew as US 20, or the McKinley Highway.

I delivered newspapers all up and down Elder Road and US 20 from the time I was 12 until I was nearly 16 and on my bicycle I would gaze up and down the longest road in the United States at 3,365 miles, and wonder where it went.

US 20 was not the only thing that I knew about my location. The new interstate highway system and the Indiana Toll Road came into being in 1956 and the I-90 Tollroad was just three miles north of my home. Two miles further north was the Michigan State Line. I knew where I lived, but I had no idea where I was going. As Lewis Carroll wrote: “If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.”

Now, on the other hand, I knew exactly where I was going in my faith. The Methodist Church had been a central part of my entire conscious life. By the time I graduated from High School, I had amassed an impressive sixteen years of perfect attendance in Sunday School. When I was in 7th grade I delivered my first sermon from the pulpit of Willow Creek Methodist Church. One week after my high school graduation I was licensed to preach in the United Methodist Church and I began serving my first church as minister when I was a sophomore in college.

I was on the Interstate of Faith and had no intention of getting off until I reached my heavenly destination.

And that is where the problems started coming up. You see, the opposite of Lewis Carroll’s phrase might be “If you know where you are going, only one road will get you there.” And that, I am afraid is how much of the world views its faith. They have a map of the highway and all others be damned.

When William Least Heat-Moon’s book came out in 1983, it was very popular and many of my friends asked, “Why didn’t you write that?” Some nine years before Heat-Moon loaded up Ghost Dancing, I loaded up The Wings of the Word. The Wings of the Word was a five-speed Schwinn Collegiate bicycle and my goal was to ride East until I no longer could, then ride west just as far. It was the summer of 1969 and I was 19 years old. My pack consisted of a sleeping bag, coffee pot, beef stick, change of clothes, poncho, small toolkit, a couple of books and a stuffed Piglet given to me by my girlfriend. Oh yes—and two dollars. On June 16th, at 9:35 in the morning, I left my parents home in Wolflake, IN and started pedaling east. Eleven weeks later I returned home with most of my goods in tact and three dollars left. The highways that lay between were many shades of blue.

I pulled out my journal from the trip when I got to thinking about this message and I’d like to read a couple passages to you.

June 20—1 mile east of Birmingham, OH: You never know what you can do till you try, so try it. Last night it rained a whale of a storm. Not only that, but a high and low pressure area met and the wind made almost an about face. When I got up this morning it blew right into my face as I headed east toward Elyria. I’ve had to travel nearly the whole day in 3rd gear. The road got to be so boring that I actually reduced myself to playing the alphabet game to pass the time. That’s where you find the letters of the alphabet on signs and put them in order. It took me most of nine miles into Elyria.

I was getting rather hungry since I had only had bread and butter for breakfast and shortly before noon I stopped at a town that wasn’t on the map and asked how far it was to the nearest restaurant. A kid told me that I would reach one at a little airport in about four miles. A mile later I spotted a Dairy Queen and stopped to have three hotdogs and a cup of coffee. To my knowledge I never did pass that airport or restaurant.

Around Strongsville I was riding as best I could (Ohio has gotten steadily hillier) when a carload of screaming kids drove by. One threw a pop bottle at me, but fortunately missed. Right then a mailman pulled up beside me and asked where I was going. I told him the East Coast, he passed me and stopped at a mailbox ahead. The wind was really getting to me and it was none too warm. My eyes and nose were both runny. Then he pulled up beside me again and asked how far I had come. I told him 230 miles, he passed me and stopped at a mailox. I was beginning to enjoy this game so when I passed him again I waved. The next time he passed me he told me to pull over and wait a minute. He pulled up beside me and questioned my briefly about why I was going and how long it would take me. Then he reached out and gave me a dollar saying to stop someplace and have a good hot meal and Lord bless. The next time I passed him he never caught up with me.

One of the things that struck me as I read my journal was how oblivious you can be to the world around you, even if you are taking the blue highways. In fact it is both a blessing and a danger. I was blithely bicycling 50 to 100 miles in the morning, finding work on farms, washing cars, mowing grass or just about anything else I could do to earn a place to stay for the night and a meal, and when all else failed, singing and preaching on street corners, completely unaware of what was happening in Cambodia and Laos, disconnected from the unrest in our own country, and generally lacking in news from anything more current than Homer’s Odyssey.

On July 1st I arrived in Honesdale PA, a small town north of Scranton. I spent nearly a week there visiting my girlfriend’s grandmother and Uncle. On Sunday the 6th, I walked from their home into town to go to church.

When I got to the church I spotted a man and asked if there was a place where I could get a drink. He said yes and pointed the way to the water fountain. I asked if he was the pastor, but he was the janitor. Then I met the pastor and he told me how to get to a Sunday School class that might be interesting. I started meeting people and one old man just took me in and started introducing me to people. When I got to the class, they pumped me and I witnessed for about half an hour. During church service we had communion. Then about 20 people met me outside the front door, and I preached for about 20 minutes. One guy gave me a dollar and another volunteered to drive me home.

Mrs. Abbey, my girlfriend’s grandmother, had started our relationship by insisting that I was a no-account hippie (long hair and a beard) and that I was obviously not a Christian and certainly not worthy of her granddaughter. Later that Sunday afternoon, I was very touched when Mrs. Abbey said that she would miss her little hippie when I left. That probably meant more than anything she could have said or done.

I was sure of my destination and every path I took was the path to getting there. No matter what backroad I took, I never left the religion interstate. Perhaps the greatest piece of evidence of that was when I looked back at the trip and looked at the map to discover that in Honesdale PA I was just thirty-five miles from the single event that most defined my generation and didn’t even know it was going on. I went back and checked through my notes and looked up dates and breathed a sigh of relief when I read that Woodstock was not until mid-August and I was there in early July. At least, I thought, it’s not like I was actually so close while it was happening. Then I read on in my journal through seeing the ocean, the loss of my bicycle in Gettysburg, the bus trip to visit my sister and brother-in-law in West Virginia and the number of people I called on and the number of times I preached and sang there. My girlfriend came out to spend a couple of days with us and then took me to join her parents on their vacation trip back through Pennsylvania. Then I came to this entry:

August 18: We were all up this morning at 7:00. We loaded into the car and started for Honesdale. We got into Honesdale around 2:30 or 3:00.

Woodstock was August 16, 17, and 18. We were 35 miles away from Jimi Hendrix and Janice Joplin, both of whom died in the next eighteen months. Had I known that this was happening, though, I probably still wouldn’t have gone. You see, it wasn’t on the main route for my faith. The interstate went right past it.

I look back amazed at the 19-year-old who could attend church on Sunday morning and gather a crowd together to preach to on the church steps after the service. I find it amazing that a State Trooper who stopped me to find out if I was a run-away would conclude our interchange with the words “Your’re a preacher aren’t you? Would you mind praying for me a couple of times if you happen to think of it? I’m having some troubles and I’d appreciate it if you would.” My mouth gets dry when I read on one day that I “shouted my witness out to passers-by” as I biked through the county.

I didn’t get off that interstate until I faced divorce in 1978. You see, my ex-wife got custody of the church—and by the way, she is now a United Methodist Minister in California. For my part, I studied the mythology of nearly every region of the world. I’ve practiced creative visualization and pagan ritual for nearly thirty years now, even while I took a stint back in the United Methodist church in the 90s. I am no longer certain of my destination, but I am so enjoying the trip.

Oh yes, I said that the journey was not always light or safe. I have been through bleak times and depression. I’ve had, figuratively, my bicycle stolen, as it was literally in 1969. But when things have been bleakest, I’ve found people like Harry Barton who showed me that preachers weren’t the only ones I could depend on while I traveled.

June 28: When I got to the preacher’s house, no one was home. A couple of men were getting into a car out back so I went to see if they knew where the preacher might be. They hailed me first and as I had knocked on the door, they took it for granted that I was looking for the preacher. Also, seeing my bike, they figured I had traveled a long way. In one breath he said, “It doesn’t look like the preacher’s home, have you traveled far?” Then after I had scarcely gotten my answer out he said, “Well, there’s no sense in your standing here waiting for the world to turn, why not come with us—we’re on our way to a picnic—we can come back later to look for him.” Being the brave person I am, I accepted. His name is Harry Barton and he’s a traveling actor, or at least he was. Now he’s attending school at Mansfield State and is going to be a teacher. The man with him was his son Steven.

We went to the picnic which happened to be a family reunion and I met most of his family. It’s not as big as mine, but they are all very nice. We had an enormous meal and I met a fellow named Jim. I don’t know his last name yet, but already I have learned to like him very much. We threw some horseshoes, and then went swimming. After we had refreshed ourselves, Harry, Steven, Jim, and I all went to a little tavern and sat down to talk. I found out that Jim is AWOL from the army and wanted to know if he should turn himself in or go to Canada. He couldn’t take the life any longer and just struck out. After everyone’s position had been aired, he pretty well decided to go to Canada. He’s a good kid, and smart, too. Not at all the type I’ve always thought of as going AWOL.

Then I found out about Steven. He’s on probation. Five years ago he had an argument with Harry, got drunk, stole a care, then wrecked it. He had to pay $1400 on it and was to be on probation until he paid it. He has $150 to go and intends to finish it off Tuesday. Then he’s going to Mexico.

Well, that’s the type of people that opened, unquestioningly their hearts, minds, and homes to me today. Harry took me home and we read some of each other’s poetry. Now, after having written, I am ready to go to bed. It is nearly 11:00.

What I’ve discovered in the nearly forty years since I took that bike trip is that a lot of people are still on that Interstate of Faith. The speed limit is high, and you are never bothered by the nuisance traffic lights. You only slow down to use the rest stop. Off on that distant horizon is the goal, and you must hurry on. The only people that you really want or need to interact with are those on the same interstate, going the same direction, because, after all, they are the ones you will see when you reach your goal.

Taking to heart some of the lessons that I’ve learned from William Least Heat-Moon’s book Blue Highways, and my own journal of an incredible summer experience, I have left Interstate 3:16 and am exploring the Blue Highways of Faith that good Christians, good Moslems, good Jews, good Buddhists, and even good Pagans often avoid. So my faith and my religion are a hodge-podge of ideas and concepts that I’ve determined serve to make me a better man. I’ve learned from business people, preachers, books, and even Unitarian Universalists in my journey, and I expect to continue learning until I arrive at wherever I’m going. No matter where it is, I will have seen a beautiful country.

I’ll return to Heat-Moon’s book for this conclusion which is far more eloquent than the words I wrote in mine:

Before I crossed the Wabash (Algonquian for “white shining”), I filled the gas tank—enough for the last leg. From the station I could see the blue highway curving golden into the western afternoon. I’d make Columbia by nightfall.

The circle almost complete, the truck ran the road like the old horse that knows the way. If the circle had come full turn, I hadn’t. I can’t say, over the miles, that I had learned what I had wanted to know because I hadn’t known what I wante to know. But I did learn what I didn’t know I wanted to know.

The pump attendant, looking at my license plate when he had filled the tank, asked, “Where you coming from, Show Me?”

“Where I’ve been.”

“Where else?” he said.