Between a rock and ... a violet?

It's been several days since I've posted an entry on the blog, partly because of majorly dodgy wi-fi availability and partly because I've been busy spending time with Scott after several weeks of being apart.  This picture was one he took today when we were walking on the vast sands of Uig in the northwest part of Lewis. You can see that it is yet another opening like so many others from this wonderful sabbatical that have captured my attention.  We peered into it, fascinated by this crevice caused by the action of water and wind over millions of years.  It's a pretty small space, not large enough for me to climb into (let alone climb out of), and to attempt to do so would be to illustrate perfectly the proverb about being between a rock and a hard place.  Rocks are known for being unyielding and not terribly comfortable, despite the legend that St Columba of Iona fame supposedly used one as a pillow, and they also are known for making pretty sturdy foundations and walls, which can be seen in various ancient buildings around the islands.

In contrast, this is a picture he took today of the beach being partially covered by the incoming tide of the Atlantic Ocean.  I assumed the sand was pretty compact and firm, and I confidently walked forward only to find myself sinking nearly ankle deep into soft, squishy sand -- and water. It wasn't a disaster, of course.  All I had to do was pick my feet up and carefully put them on more solid ground. But it was inconvenient and uncomfortable because I hate having wet socks and shoes, and I then had to deal with that yukky sensation of damp feet for a couple of hours.

Naturally, both of these experiences/pictures became grist for my theological mill.  The words from the hymn, "On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand" came to mind immediately, and I mused about the human tendency to take what looks like the path of least resistance, the easiest and least inconvenient route.  After all, wouldn't we all rather sashay through the beautiful white sand than shove our way through stone walls, even though we sometimes discover that the temptingly soft ground beneath our feet is giving way, forcing us to choose the more difficult path after all?  How then are we to go?

When I was in divinity school, I took a class on religion in American literature with Gayle Felton. We read, among other things, Tennessee Williams' play "Camino Real," and its triumphant cry, "The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks."  It's not easy to read or enjoy.  The themes of death and sterility and being walled off resound throughout the play, and not until the slow but sure work of the humble violet is accomplished do we see that the ultimate victory belongs to kindness and gentleness, not to stubbornness and stony-heartedness.  Love does in fact conquer all; the Light has come into the world, and the darkness has not overcome it.

In the uncertain days in which we live, when seeds of division are profligately sown and flames of hatred are stoked high, it can be difficult to believe that the violets have any power at all, let alone to break down the mountains.  The hardness of rocks is as nothing to that of the human heart when it remains untouched by love and compassion.  Seductively, the quagmire of sand and water beckon to us, appealing to our desire for the going to be easy, but for those of us who are called Christians, we are reminded that small is the gate and narrow the road that lead to salvation.  In other words, sometimes the going is going to be rough, and in those days and in those times, we cannot simply rely on our own strength but rather in the One who is himself the solid rock on which we stand, the one who will safely lead us through the shifting sand, difficult and lonely and dangerous though the way may be.

For the violets in the mountains have indeed broken the rocks!  Alleluia, Amen.