In a message posted on the UNITARIAN UNIVERSALIST HISTORY CHAT, the estimable Rev. Elz Curtis wrote:
From time to time this list has discussed the value of making a pilgrimage. This past weekend, I was in icy, snowy Rochester, NY for a workshop. Obviously the schedule was tight and we didn’t spend lots of time outdoors.
Nevertheless, after running the dogs, my home host suggested that wee take a quick drive through Mt. Hope Cemetery, where both Frederick Douglas and Susan B. Anthony lie at rest. My host ventured her van down some icy roads to show me their markers. Even though we didn’t get out, and couldn’t even pause long enough to read the whole commemorations, I find the experience resonating strongly many days later.
I also did a drive-by pilgrimage once near the Milwaukee GA (UUA General Assembly) to see a plaque marking the spot where Abraham Lincoln had addressed troops volunteering for the Union Army. I think that for me, a longtime bi-costal thinker, that little sign did more than anything elxe to bring alive that familiar phrase, “Union Army.” No more was it a useful label, but now I feel it as a meaningful term for those participants. We have Civil War markers up here in Northern New England, and I think Antietam Creek and Gettysburg are more real to me now as a result…
That elicited the following musings in the wee small hours of a winter’s morning.
Shrines. Yes that is what they are. Sometimes you think of yourself as simply a tourist with a passing interest in history willing to invest an idle afternoon in idle curiosity. But these places have ways of catching you up short, tapping you on the shoulder and whispering “things are bigger than you are” until the hair stands up on your arms.

Like Ed (another poster on this same topic), I have felt it at the Lincoln sites in Springfield including the Old State Capital—where hours from now another skinny Illinoisan will announce he is running for President of the United States. Obama, I know, has been there alone in the quiet morning and by candle light on a winter’s night. He has felt it then. Will the wild and excited crowd chanting his name this morning feel it? Will they know that it is greater than them, or Obama, or even Lincoln himself?

One windy afternoon on a Montana hill at a place the Lakota called Greasy Grass, nearly stumbling over small stones hidden in the grass where this trooper or that was found bloating in the sun contorted in agony, I felt it. Not because vain and ambitious George Custer was a hero. He certainly was not. Or because the $14 a month troopers—professional soldiers after all—fell in some noble cause. They were just being paid to steal someone else’s land. But because, in spite of it all, something human and tragic happened there. A shrine to futility and waste perhaps, but a shrine.

As an old labor radical, I have often been drawn to the Monument to the Haymarket Martyrs in the old cemetery that used to be known as Waldheim not so very far from where Frank Lloyd Wright built his temple for the Oak Park Unitarians. Scattered all around are the graves of generations of anarchists, reds, radicals, unionists of all description. Over there lies Emma Goldman—be careful, you’ll step on her—and the other way a young red-blanket-baby Communist who I happened to go to high school with. Names on stones you recognize in an instant. Dirty fingernailed night oilers at long shuttered factories. The dead cried out for the dead. They could think of no higher honor but to let their bones crumble to dust near Them—Spies and Parsons and the rest.
Not so very many years ago a small manila envelope marked Joe Hill’s Ashes was found in an overcoat pocket hanging in a forgotten Detroit closet. Hill, the IWW song writer who was executed by a Utah firing squad in 1915, in his “Last Will” said “…My body? Ah if I could choose,/I would to ashes it reduce./And let the merry breezes blow/My dust to where some flowers grow./Perhaps some fading flower then/Would come to life and bloom again…” He also expressed to Big Bill Haywood the desire “not to be found dead in Utah.” So his body was shipped to Chicago for the biggest funeral that city ever saw. Then he was cremated and his ash sent in those little manila packets to every state in the union EXCEPT Utah to be scattered in solemn ceremonies by his Fellow Workers in the IWW. Somehow the task got neglected in Detroit and the grandson of the negligent Wobbly sent the packet back to Chicago with his apologies.
Some of my friends took it down one day to the Haymarket monument. They sang some songs from THE LITTLE RED SONGBOOK—SONGS TO FAN THE FLAMES OF DISCONTENT—and scattered the last of Joes ashes there. They knew he would have approved. He was with friends. A shrine.

In Woodstock, Illinois, a couple of blocks from my home church, the Congregational Unitarian Church, the Old McHenry County Court House raises its white domed head along side a picture book square. Attached to one side of that red brick building, is a smaller structure of yellow Milwaukee brick. That was the jail.
Both building have been converted to other uses. Several restaurants have come and gone. But at one time you could sit in an iron cube cage and dine where Eugene V. Debs spent his sentence for contempt following the great Pullman Strike of 1894. While he and his fellows on the American Railway Union Executive Board passed their time playing checkers, reading and playing with the Sheriff’s children, Victor Berger came down from Milwaukee and gave the young union leader the brand new translations Karl Marx into English published by Charles H. Kerr (Jenkin Lloyd Jones’s old publisher and collaborator.) In that cage Debs studied and emerged a Socialist.
There, even among the clash and clatter of silverware on china, the piped in Muzak, the prattling conversations of other diners, you could close your eyes and for an instant hear a crowd around the jail chanting, “Debs! Debs! Debs!” as they prepared to hoist him on their shoulders at the end of his sentence and carry him to the train station and the triumphant ride back to Chicago. A shrine.
We have our pilgrimage, each and all, our shrines, our private Hajj.
Let it be so. Blessed Be.