The Tourist and the Pilgrim

Wendell Berry famously wrote, “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.”

I’ve been thinking lately about what makes a place or a practice hallowed.

Last night, I met a few women at Unity of Charlottesville’s Community Meditation Garden. We’ve been reading the book Walking a Sacred Path by Lauren Artress and wanted to experience a labyrinth together. 

Artress describes the labyrinth as a “sacred container." Her book offers a spiritual history of the labyrinth, a thorough explanation of the geometric design, and basic approaches for how to walk the path. As contemplative spaces and ancient practices intrigue me more and more—the earliest labyrinth dates back to about 2000 BC—I admit I find myself somewhat intimidated by them, too. 

What if I mistake the meaning of these mysteries? What if I don’t understand what the practice is teaching? What if I miss God in these sacred containers? 

Before walking the labyrinth Tuesday night, I re-read a section of Walking a Sacred Path where the author differentiates between the pilgrim and the tourist:

The tourist arrives at a location with an eye for novelty—and often a camera—asking, “What can I get from this place?” The tourist seeks experiences and consumes.

The pilgrim travels with a different posture, asking, “What might this place have to teach me?” The pilgrim seeks transformation and understands there may be discomfort and uncertainty along the way. 

“The pilgrim participates. The tourist observes,” writes Artress. 

I wonder what would change if I come to formation practices—prayer, silence, fasting, solitude, Lectio Divina, breath prayers, labyrinth walks—as a pilgrim rather than a tourist. What if I allowed the Spirit dwelling there to do the slow work of excavation in my spirit?

And, if I believe Berry’s words that there are no unsacred spaces, then the chair where I sit and pray each morning is significant. The garden where I turn the soil is holy. The pile of dishes in the kitchen sink, well, God walks there too, apparently. (St .Teresa of Avila)

On Tuesday evening, I entered the labyrinth alone. The sun began to set. I reflected on the season of life, the beauty and hardships of these days, the goodness of our little book club. I stepped into the center of the labyrinth with curiosity but no answers. With a posture of prayerful participation and no camera around my neck (or in my hand). The space felt ancient. It felt sacred. It felt like something I could count on. A center that would hold.