I left solid, charted ground for something far more uncertain. The Via Francigena through the rice paddies may not be its finest kilometers, but it’s stable and reliable. If anything, it offers too many services, tempting me constantly to go over budget. Over these last 25 kilometers, I fended off the lure of the handful of cafes in Gropello Cairoli, and then, following a long, winding march on a riverside track, I was overwhelmed by the options in lovely Pavia. The arcaded bridge led me into the center, where the streets were thrumming with Italians out and about on this late-summer Saturday. I popped over to the duomo to gawk beneath the third-largest dome in Italy, but otherwise mostly went native and strolled up and down the pedestrian roads.
For all those temptations, though, I couldn’t linger; the day was only halfway done, and surprises most assuredly lurked ahead. My customized approach took me back towards the Ticino River. Shortly after the confluence of the Ticino and the mighty Po, an essential bridge crossed over; I could find no better option when mapping out this route. What I didn’t anticipate was that the bridge would be utterly unwelcoming to pedestrians. Even the few bicyclists making the crossing seemed to take their lives in their hands and earned my respect in the bargain. Where feet failed, a thumb did the job; soon the bridge was behind me.
A more disruptive surprise came later. By this point, I was following the red and white blazes for the Via degli Abati, a pilgrimage route that also functions as a variant for the Via Francigena, linking Pavia and Pontremoli. The waymarks called for a right turn, leading past what I suspect is going to be a solar farm; for now, only the posts have been installed, along with extensive fencing to keep out people like me. As this was a Saturday, though, nobody was around, so I squeezed through one fence, hopped another, and ultimately made it out the other side. All that separated me from Broni, the biggest town in this stretch, was an overpass across the expressway. Only one problem: the overpass has been ripped away. I could climb all the way up to the edge of the expressway, and then the asphalt crumbled abruptly beneath my feet. I’ve never encountered anything quite like this! A sweaty backtracking process followed, adding a couple kilometers to an already long day. So it goes, when you set out on your own.
I’ve been listening to Losing Our Religion: An Altar Call for Evangelical America by Russell Moore. Moore is one of the foremost figures on the religious right, along with David French–Southern Baptist in Moore’s case, Presbyterian in French’s–who have become pariahs in the wake of Trump’s ascent, due to their rejection of his candidacy. Moore had been one of the most visible and vocal of America’s Southern Baptists, serving as the president of the Ethics & Religious Liberty Commission for the SB Convention, as well as dean of the School of Theology at the SB Theological Seminary. Along with his concerns about Trump’s immorality, Moore was also alarmed by resistance among some Southern Baptist leaders to responding to sexual abuse claims. As months passed, Moore was increasingly targeted with condemnation within the church, and eventually he felt compelled to leave it. The church had been his home for his whole life. What was his life without it? For the first time as an adult, he had to confront that unknown.
There’s a lot to chew on in Losing Our Religion, but I was struck by his discussion of disillusionment. Maybe I was in the mood. After so much enthusiasm for taking on something new, different, completely unknown, I had taken a couple blows on the chin. Moore centers the discussion on CS Lewis, citing an essay titled “Learning in War-Time.” Here’s what Lewis had to say, about a fundamental change that occurs when we shift from living in peace and stability to war and chaos:
“All the animal life in us, all schemes of happiness that centered in this world, were always doomed to a final frustration. In ordinary times only a wise man can realize it. Now the stupidest of us know. We see unmistakable the sort of universe in which we have all along been living, and must come to terms with it. If we had foolish un-Christian hopes about human culture, they are now shattered. If we thought we were building up a heaven on earth, if we looked for something that would turn the present world from a place of pilgrimage into a permanent city satisfying the soul of man, we are disillusioned, and not a moment too soon.”
Disillusionment, in this case, is not a bad thing! On the contrary, the illusions are a trap, a mark of how we have been led astray, of how our eyes have been taken off the prize. As Moore expounds, “The death of your illusions, then, is not meant to paralyze you, but to reshape you into the kind of person who can weep and groan at the wreckage around you, which is the first step, of course, to seeking a different sort of kingdom. Your idols failing you is not bad news for you; that you can see that they are failing us is, in fact, grace.”
Few people have more cause for disillusionment than Moore, which makes this theological zag all the more impressive in my eyes. Contrary to every impulse, this is not a time for cynicism or pessimism. Indeed, Moore adds, “what that grace always brings is an initial, and sometimes seemingly interminable, period when one feels disoriented and as though one does not know what to do, or where to go. This is part of the grace. That can lead us away from both denial and despair.” There’s an opportunity here to see more clearly; to realign our priorities with our values; to break free from the comfortable illusions that have unwittingly led us astray.
Once I finally reached Broni, the day simplified. Having loaded my pack with food for dinner, I tackled the lone ascent of the walk–and the first in a few days. Leaving behind the flat river valley, I entered the Oltrepo, a mini-Tuscany hidden in these little-visited hills. I had scouted out some camping options on Google Maps, and reality proved even better than the digital dream. In the small town of Campana, there’s a park complete with grassy terraces, picnic benches, and a covered stage area. Initially, I was disappointed to discover that some people were present; such feelings were almost immediately dispelled, though, when one of the men greeted me in English.
Liam, per his chosen pen name, quickly identified himself as a Seattle Seahawks fan and Portland-phile. We were off to a good start! He explained that he is part of Castana’s pro loco organization, which is a volunteer group that coordinates events and promotes other initiatives. As part of that, he was spending his Saturday afternoon staining the park benches. Liam has only lived in Castana for three years, and yet he wasted no time embedding himself in the community; he regaled me with stories of local history, including pointing out the tree that Napoleon slept under. Liam consumes as much American media as he can, always striving to improve his English. It’s a business initiative as much as cultural interest; he writes fantasy / science fiction in English, to access a wider market. As much as he is drawn to American cities and sports, though, “the one thing I don’t understand about America,” Liam said, “is how your country approaches mental health. If someone over there is in trouble, they’re on their own. We would never let that happen.” Eventually, Liam wrapped up his work. Before leaving, he brought me a cold drink, made sure the bathrooms were unlocked, and wished me well. And with one last, “Go Seahawks,” he was gone.
The next morning, my hopes were dashed in Caminata, when my best shot at a coffee were wiped out by a “chiuso per ferie” sign–closed for holidays. And yet, a half-hour later, in a village so small I hadn’t even noticed it on the gps–Trebecco–a woman greeted me and then guided me to the community bar. It seemed like everyone was present on this Sunday morning, all working their way through small plastic thimbles of espresso. In a mix of English and Italian, she drew out my story, pausing repeatedly to translate it to the interested onlookers. Before long, I had my own plastic shot glass, a social Eucharist if ever there was one, binding us together in this impromptu community. Restored, I shouldered my pack; they wouldn’t hear of me paying for my drink.
The Via degli Abati led me onward on the trail of Saint Columbanus. That’s only part of the story, though; a much longer Via Columbani runs from Ireland to Bobbio, following the Irish missionary’s very extensive journey across the continent to this small, isolated corner of Italy. Unlike Moore, Columbanus’s departure from his home church was one he desired and advocated for. Filled with missionary zeal, the man was driven to spread the word. Alas, what he discovered in Europe was, for lack of a better word, disillusioning.
In Burgundian France, he was surprised to discover that Christian practice had degraded badly. His biographer notes that while the Christian creed survived, “the saving grace of penance and the longing to root out the lusts of the flesh were to be found only in a few.” Still, Columbanus and his fellow travelers established themselves in the area and had some initial success. Until, that is, they came in conflict with Frankish bishops over disagreement over the date of Easter. Columbanus eventually asked if they could just make this an “agree to disagree” situation: “I came as a poor stranger into these parts for the cause of Christ, Our Saviour. One thing alone I ask of you, holy Fathers, permit me to live in silence in these forests, near the bones of seventeen of my brethren now dead.” His request was not granted. Appeals to the pope went unanswered. Finally, Columbanus moved onward, beyond the bishops’ reach.
Things got worse. Columbanus made an enemy of Brunhilda of Austrasia, the regent of the two dynastic heirs. Columbanus’s mistake? He rebuked Theuderic II for keeping a concubine. Eventually, Columbanus was incarcerated at Besançon and sentenced to execution. He managed to escape, but before long he would fall back under their orbit, under even more dire conditions–with his students being murdered in the woods.
At last, Columbanus passed into Northern Italy in 612, settling into a far more constructive relationship with King Agilulf and Queen Theodelinda of the Lombards, who granted him the right to found a church in Bobbio. After so much travel, so much uncertainty, he finally had a home again, a base of operations.
I couldn’t have arrived in Bobbio at a better time. The community was bursting with life, centered on a party outside the duomo. For lack of a better word, a sock hop was taking place, complete with dancers in matching outfits, and–for some reason–the General Lee parked next to them. Later that afternoon, a roving band of singers marched up and down the town’s streets, with a spontaneous crowd of revelers following them and bursting into dance all along the way.
The road getting here wasn’t easy. There were stumbling blocks and closures, reasons to wonder if this was the correct road at all. But at the trail’s end, the answer was clear.
