When I think of my own “journey”, or Christian pilgrimage, I think of a longing for home, at once subtle and gentle, yet powerful and irresistible. One who has teetered on the brink of falling in love might best comprehend the feeling! I think of it as a quiet whisper of invitation to regain some sort of lost relational connection, not a destination. I think of it as a reunion that will make me complete, not an independent, self authenticating autonomous achievement. I don’t think of it as gaining head knowledge or learning all the answers, or as correct theology, or as pleasing someone, or even the assurance and hope of salvation. I don’t dream of some sort of electro-magnetic hum of the universe or the nebulous, hollow static of an impersonal cosmic “consciousness”. I don’t long for a cold, dark empty castle with locked doors needing an esoteric or enlightened code to get in. I dream of a candle in the window and smoke rising from the chimney as I round the last bend in my path. I dream of open and welcoming arms, a warm embrace, tears of joy and ensuing familial celebration of my arrival. I dream of “nostos,” homecoming, the place where I belong.