Symon (centre) with friends having reached Bloonsbury Baptist Church at the end of his walk. Photo: Courtesy Bloomsbury Baptist Church
Pilgrimage
Symon Hill reflects on his walk from Birmingham to London
I was lost, tired and my mobile phone battery had run out. It was nearly 10pm and getting dark. I was walking through a tiny village. The phone box wasn’t working. It was the scariest moment of my 160-mile walk from Birmingham to London, which I undertook as a pilgrimage of repentance for my former homophobia. I could call no-one and my offer of accommodation had been withdrawn. Where was I going? With rising anxiety, I began to wonder if it was warm enough to sleep under a hedge.
I stood in front of the village noticeboard and tried to calm down. I realised that if I couldn’t ask for help from someone I knew, I would have to ask for help from someone I didn’t. I really didn’t feel like entering the village pub, lost, sweaty and looking silly.
I went in. ‘If I buy a drink, can I use a socket to plug in my phone charger?’
They did more than that. They let me use their phone. I called one of my remote support team (who between them had already seen me through several problems, some of my own making). Soon, they were looking up B&Bs in the area. And then the staff and the punters joined in, recommending places, and telling me how long it would take to walk.
But it was dark. ‘If you go out there now, no one’ll ever see you again,’ said the landlord, before offering to drive me three miles to the B&B my friend had just found. They closed at 11pm. We turned up at 10.56. A bed, a shower and a kettle have never felt so welcome.
During my pilgrimage, I learnt a lot about hospitality – as well as kindness, hostility and my ability to cope with praise and criticism. I set out each day with maps, plans and remote support, but I had little idea what would happen before the day was out. Prayer, worship, formal events and chance meetings all affected me, as well as aches, tiredness and growing awareness of my own body.
I began on the morning of 16 June leaving Carr’s Lane Church in Birmingham after a great send-off the evening before: Robin Fox, a Methodist minister, had led an act of commissioning, the staff of the Student Christian Movement presented me with a waterproof jacket, and a Muslim friend surprised me with a large cake.
As I walked along on that first day, I was only partly aware that the media interest had taken off on a larger scale than I had expected. It triggered a flood of emails. They offered support, prayers, questions, disagreement and occasionally outright abuse. Overwhelmingly, they were positive. I was deeply moved.
I feared the support might go to my head. At times, I became slightly freaked out by it – such as when someone asked to have her photo taken with me. But the nature of the walk guarded against egotism. It is difficult to feel big-headed while scrambling up a muddy bank with wet feet, or walking miles back in the direction I had come after going the wrong way.
On the whole, I enjoyed it. I had some fascinating conversations and deeply helpful thoughts. I welcomed the simple physical enjoyment of walking along country lanes or canal towpaths, stopping on the grass to relax and read while I ate my sandwiches.
I was not doing something remarkable. The journey from homophobe to equality activist is not uncommon, especially among Christians. I am not the only Christian to have found that I can no longer reconcile opposition to loving same-sex relationships with a Messiah who fulfilled the law and who calls us to live by love. This message is at once more demanding and more liberating than the legalism that Jesus challenged when he confronted the Pharisees.
In some ways, I am only beginning to understand how my pilgrimage affected me. I have three lessons in particular in my mind.
First, I realised the value of informal dialogue. On one occasion, I stayed with a minister who did not agree with my position, but very kindly offered to host me after my intended host fell ill. Over breakfast, we had a conversation that challenged us both. A few days later, I talked with a group drawn from five churches in Chesham. The discussion ranged between marriage, Old Testament law and ambiguous gender. We all went away with new things to think about.
Second, I was struck by the fruitfulness of these conversations compared to the official deliberations of denominational leaders. Jesus did not base his plans on religious institutions. He relied on those outside. I have no doubt that many church leaders and committee members are compassionate people seeking a way forward. But new trends begin with worshippers at the grassroots. Change comes from the bottom, not the top. I suspect this is as true of the Religious Society of Friends as of any other institution (and let’s not pretend that Quakers have no hierarchy).
Third, I am convinced that sin, repentance and forgiveness are important concepts in spiritual responses to the world’s problems. Quakers were on the whole very supportive of my pilgrimage, but some were put off by these words and a few very critical. To me, to talk of sin is to challenge injustice and recognise that we have become separated from each other, from God and from creation. ‘Repentance’ translates the Greek ‘metanoia’, which means something like ‘different thinking’. And forgiveness makes it possible.
My change of heart over sexuality has made me aware of how easily I can be wrong. Humility requires us to recognise that we don’t have all the answers.
It is a paradox of our calling that this humility encourages commitment rather than dissuading us from it. We are not certain, but we are called to seek God’s guidance and respond to the gospel of liberation. As someone with an appalling lack of navigational ability, I know all too well the truth of the apostle Paul’s statement: ‘We walk by faith and not by sight’.
