Recently, my Gay Old Soulmate and I took the scenic High Road from Santa Fe to Taos. The Santa Fe Official 2014 Travel Planner marked the route in blue, noting Chimayo only as “a small church built in the early 1800s.” It did not mention pilgrimages, multiple chapels, or holy dirt. We did not know we would enter a different world.

Not long after, I would be asked to preach on chapter 9 of the Gospel of John. There, Jesus thrusts a man born blind into a different world by giving him sight. The ensuing conflict most likely reflects tensions between the author’s community and the religious authorities of that day. But I found myself wondering more about the experience of the man who the Gospel says received Jesus’ form of holy dirt.

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Twenty-two years ago, as spring arrived, my father’s spirit departed.  I remember brilliant sun radiating through the windows.  My mother remembers a windy day with snow on the ground. The difficult final weeks of his passage drew to a close with just a few shallow breaths and then–holy silence.

I am now only eight years younger than he was at the time that he died. I wish he could have lived to see his grandson teach at the college his father taught at.  I wish he could have held his two great grandsons. Continue reading →