c. 2000 Religion News Service

(Tom Ehrich is a writer and computer consultant, managing large-scale database implementations. An Episcopal priest, he lives in Durham, N.C.)

(UNDATED) “Let us take time to be still,” says the worship leader, “to center ourselves, to seek God alone.”

At that instant, a train whistle sounds in that middle distance where train whistles seem to reside: not here, not there, but moving slowly across the land.

It is a mournful sound, almost a beckoning to come along, as if loneliness needed company. While worshippers sit in silence, I listen for more of the sweet sadness. Ever since I lay in my bed as a child and listened to the Monon Railroad passing through town on its way to Chicago, that sound _ more like an oboe than a whistle _ has made me think of other places.

I didn’t think of particular destinations, but of movement, going, setting out on a road toward whatever lay beyond. My heart wasn’t mired in discontent or a need to escape, but was stirred by the “romance of the road,” by the vague knowledge that out there lay places I had never seen but might enjoy seeing.

I did take to the road. I did discover places I had never imagined seeing. It still happens. The sound of a train whistle still burrows deep inside, joined now by the oddly enticing whine of jet engines.

Scripture talks of coming, going, moving, changing, following, transforming. The Hebrews’ stories and the Jesus stories aren’t a settler’s guide for staying put, but a pilgrim’s guide for moving on.

“Come to me,” says God to his people. Leave your home, leave your safe place, follow on a road not of your choosing. Even though their range of travel was small, nothing like the vast distances we take for granted, the invitation to faith was always like a train whistle, beckoning the pilgrim to rise and follow.

Even the invitation to sit in stillness and to center oneself is an invitation to move onward, for self-understanding leads inevitably to disruption, and God-understanding leads inevitably to change.

From the beginning, American life has been grounded in movement, as if freedom’s perfect expression was departure, setting out on that “thoroughfare” toward undefined newness.

This drive onward has made us creative and energetic, uniquely able to let history proceed, uniquely resistant to artificial barriers. But it has also filled us with sadness and longing. Trains and planes, bus stations and highway diners speak of not fitting in, not being at home, not being there yet.

There is a romance to pulling onto the four-lane, but there is also a weariness. To seek is to let go. To follow is to leave. To look inward is to become unsettled. To know God is to lose oneself. To hear a train whistle is to mourn. To live is to move toward dying.

The hot-button word in this year’s national politics is “restore,” as in “restore integrity to the White House,” “restore values,” “restore America’s confidence,” or with Al Gore’s choice of an Orthodox Jew as a running mate, “restore Al’s pre-Bill freshness, restore the boldness of the Kennedy era, when we stepped beyond religious bigotry.”

As with most political language, “restore” is a code word. In Republican usage, “restore” seeks to link Gore with Bill Clinton without directly accusing the heir of comparable transgressions. In Democratic usage, “restore” suggests taking power back from the fat cats.

But at a deeper level, “restore” speaks to the pain and loneliness of impermanence. “Restore” suggests climbing back into the childhood bed and starting over, this time not hearing the train whistle luring one away from home, this time staying put in a nest that should have been enough.

“Restore” says, Go back, go home. It is a cruel word, a cruel invitation, a callous tapping into loneliness and worry in order to score a few points.

There is no going back. There is no climbing back into the childhood bed. Our nests are gone. Like our ancestors, we chose to wander. The 1950s weren’t stolen from us. We chose to move on.

Our task now is to deal with the consequences of our freedom, not to blame someone else for our longing, nor to foster the illusion that yesterday can be reclaimed.

DEA END EHRICH