The 4 "R's"

When I wrote up my request for this sabbatical, I mentioned three "R's" as part of its purpose or goal.  They were research, rest, and renewal.  Research as I took the opportunity to make use of the fantastic Wesley archives and other resources of the John Rylands Library in Manchester, rest as I took a break from the church and the demands of ministry, and renewal as I took time to feed my spirit and soul amidst some of the most beautiful places on God's green earth. And all of those things were of great importance over the course of nearly 11 weeks of traveling with Wesley around the UK, but it rapidly became clear that I had forgotten the most important "R" of them all, relationship.  

Relationship was and is at the very heart of my sabbatical and of life itself.  As I ventured forth in places as varied as London, Epworth, and Tarbert, whether on a train or tram or on foot, and no matter how sacred or secular the setting, I encountered sisters and brothers, other amazing and unique people created in the image of God.  I made new friends everywhere I went, got reacquainted with some old ones, and even had the chance to preach at St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Stornoway at the invitation of the Rev. Terry Taggart, a friend made on our last visit to the Outer Hebrides.

I made a wonderful discovery in my weeks of traveling as a stranger in a strange land. I found that the world is full of people who are kind and helpful to foreign visitors who may not look like them and certainly don't sound like them. I found that cities like London and Manchester are refusing to let fear or hatred or terrorism make them bitter.  Not surprisingly, a song by Manchester's Gallagher brothers of the band Oasis, "Don't Look Back in Anger" was one of the earworms that kept reverberating in my head as I pondered events in Charlottesville, Catalonia, and elsewhere.  I found that the more I traveled and the more I talked to different people, the more obvious it became that we have so much in common, no matter what our race or religion or country of origin happen to be.

And the risen Christ kept showing up in the middle of it all, even in people who claim not to believe in him as well as in those who do.   From the woman in the Bristol train station who shepherded me to the right bus to the man who carried my heavy luggage across Iona, from the home-cooked hospitality of the Worthingtons and Howards to the surprise birthday card and chocolates from people I met on the Oban-Castlebay ferry, there were moments of pure joy when nothing but sheer gratitude was an appropriate response. There were moments when silent tears of thankfulness were all I could offer in the face of such an overwhelming sense of God's presence. There were moments when I felt my heart would burst from the experience of so much inexpressible grace.

Please forgive me if today's musings are disjointed and incomplete. I'll continue musing on the continuing resonance of my travels with Wesley in this blog from time to time as it marinates in my heart and head, so stay tuned. The journey continues!

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.

Spirit of Enniskillen

One of the joys of this sabbatical has been the people I have met along the way, many of whom come from backgrounds very different from mine.  While staying at the Catholic House of Prayer, I had the opportunity to get to know a nun living in a religious community in Enniskillen, Northern Ireland. She told me a story from the horrendous IRA bombing that took place there in November 1987 that illustrates the nature of forgiveness and the power of the cross to change people's lives and a nation's future.  The bomb was intended to kill soldiers as they marched in a Remembrance Day parade, but the timer malfunctioned, and the bomb detonated, killing 11 people, most of them elderly.  One of the dead was a young nurse named Marie Wilson.  She was standing with her father Gordon when the blast occurred, and as they lay covered with rubble in the aftermath, her concern was for him and his well-being.  In interviews, he movingly described these moments:

“She held my hand tightly and gripped me as hard as she could.  She said, ‘Daddy, I love you very much’.Those were her exact words to me and those were the last words I ever heard her say. But I bear no ill will. I bear no grudge.Dirty sort of talk is not going to bring her back to life. She was a great wee lassie. She loved her profession. She was a pet. She’s dead. She’s in heaven and we shall meet again. I will pray for these men tonight and every night.”

Gordon Wilson, a devout Methodist, chose the harder path of forgiveness, urging that there be no reprisals from the loyalists in response to the bombing, and he went on to become a voice for peace in the midst of "The Troubles," even being invited to join the Irish Senate.  This event and Gordon Wilson's courage and forgiveness of the perpetrators of the attack eventually led to a major shift in attitudes towards the violence that plagued the land, often called the Spirit of Enniskillen, and his quiet example of Christ-like love and forgiveness, bought at a terrible price, changed hearts and no doubt saved lives in the bloody struggles there.

I don't offer this as a feel-good story during a bleak and dark week in the United States but instead as a sign of hope that is not cheaply come by, not glibly spoken of, and not easily clung to.   One reporter who interviewed both Nelson Mandela and Gordon Wilson said that Mandela assured him that just as South Africa had lived through its national nightmare, so would Northern Ireland.  What God hath wrought in those two troubled places, surely the glory and love of the crucified Christ can also bring to fruition in our troubled nation and indeed in our broken world.  It takes great courage to forgive rather than seeking the destruction of someone who wrongs us, and there were those who refused to do business at Wilson's drapery shop as a result of his actions, but this one ordinary man's quiet refusal to hate even when it would have been the easiest thing in the world shines as a beacon of light in a world threatened by shadow.  I pray that you and I will have the courage to choose what is right rather than what is easy in the days that lie ahead.

On the Turning Away

This morning, like many of you, I awoke to the news of increased tension between the US and North Korea, to reports of neo-Nazis and other alt-right groups marching in Charlottesville, and to all kinds of stories of violence and unrest.  I awoke in a sunlit room with flowers swaying outside the window, a room where the sound of waves lapping at the shore and breezes flapping the curtains nearly lulls me back to sleep, and it was surreal, being in a place of such calm and beauty and yet knowing that even here, evil and violence and wickedness can and will exert their influence and disturb the peace.

As I pondered these things, I decided to play some music, and there in the playlist was one song from Pink Floyd, a song so melancholy and so full of yearning that it fit my mood perfectly.  Go to youtube.com and read the lyrics as you listen to the words that plead for a world in which there is no more turning away from the weak and the weary, a world where the daylight is indeed stirring, a world where, in my "churchy" language, the kingdom of God has come on earth.

The picture above was taken from the dim interior of St. Oran's Chapel, where shadow lay over everything within, yet just outside the heavy wooden door, the daylight streamed over everything in its path.  And I think of how we live on the threshold of those two realities, between the healing light which gives life and yields growth, and the darkness where resentments fester and unhealed wounds explode into bluster and shows of power.  And I think of how Jesus calls us not only to walk in the light, but to BE the light of the world that cannot be hidden.  And I think how hard it is to be those who aren't part of the turning away, to be those who truly mean it when we pray, "I am no longer my own but thine. Put me to what thou wilt; rank me with whom thou wilt.  Put me to doing; put me to suffering." Left to our own devices, we can't pray those words and mean it.  Left to our own devices, we will continue to choose to keep turning away.  But we aren't left to our own devices.  The Holy Spirit surrounds us and fills us and works within us to give us the courage to face evil and injustice wherever we find them, even when it is hard, uncomfortable, or dangerous. Because of that, we can dare to dream and to work for a world in which there is no more turning away.

On the turning away
From the pale and downtrodden
And the words they say
Which we won't understand
"Don't accept that what's happening
Is just a case of others' suffering
Or you'll find that you're joining in
The turning away"

It's a sin that somehow
Light is changing to shadow
And casting its shroud
Over all we have known
Unaware how the ranks have grown
Driven on by a heart of stone
We could find that we're all alone
In the dream of the proud

On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
Mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It's not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there'll be
No more turning away? ~ David Gilmour, Anthony Moore

Through Cloud and Sunshine

Last night at 9 pm, I made my way down to the Episcopal retreat center on Iona, known as the Bishop's House.  You never know who or how many people will show up for services; for the past few nights, there have been several monks, myself, and one or two others.  But last night, there were only four of us -- me and three monks.  I wondered what the hymn of the evening would be and how we would sound, but to my delight, it was "Abide With Me."  In that small but acoustically perfect worship space, our voices blended and harmonized, and there was a holy hush as the final notes died away.  As I walked towards my accommodations afterwards, I took a couple of pictures to symbolize the Holy Presence that is constantly there with us through cloud and sunshine, the Light of Light that shines through the gloom and points us to the skies.

At the close of day today, may you find a quiet moment to acknowledge God's constant love, perhaps by stopping to notice the quality of the light as darkness deepens in the sky above you or perhaps by regarding the photographs in this post. Either way, may you know yourself to be more than conqueror, even over death, through the One who constantly abides with you and me.

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see—
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour;
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s pow’r?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness;
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heav’n’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me. ~ Henry Francis Lyte

Gather Us In

                Light illuminating the darkness over the altar, Iona Abbey on Sunday, August 6, 2017
                "Gather Us In" was our communion hymn, and I invite you to meditate on its words.

                                                 

    Here in this place new light is streaming,
    Now is the darkness vanished away,
    See in this space our fears and our dreamings,
    Brought here to you in the light of this day.
    Gather us in - the lost and forsaken,
    Gather us in the blind and the lame;
    Call to us now, and we shall awaken,
    We shall arise at the sound of our name.

    We are the young our lives are a myst'ry
    We are the old who yearn for your face,
    We have been sung throughout all of hist'ry,
    Called to be light to the whole human race.
    Gather us in the rich and the haughty,
    Gather us in the proud and the strong;
    Give us a heart so meek and so lowly,
    Give us the courage to enter the song.

    Here will will take the wine and the water,
    Here we will take the bread of new birth,
    Here you shall call your sons and your daughters,
    Call us anew to be salt for the earth.
    Give us to drink the wine of compassion,
    Give us to eat the bread that is you;
    Nourish us well, and teach us to fashion lives that are holy
    And hearts that are true.

    Not in the dark of buildings confining,
    Not in some heaven, light-years away,
    But here in this place the new light is shining,
    Now is the Kingdom, now is the day.  
    Gather us in and hold us forever,
    Gather us in and make us your own;
    Gather us in - all peoples together,
    Fire of love in our flesh and our bone.  ~ Marty Haugen


Iona Abbey was built centuries ago as a place of Roman Catholic worship, but over those centuries, it suffered from slow decay, partly as a casualty of the religious battles between Protestants and Catholics and partly as a result of the harsh winds and rain that frequently batter this tiny holy island, until it was barely more than scenic ruins. Restored in the late twentieth century, largely due to the tireless efforts of the Rev. George MacLeod, it has now for many years served as a place of ecumenical worship, open to Christians of all denominations and none.

The Iona Community founded by MacLeod is an international affiliation of people who are committed to the gospel of Jesus Christ with a special emphasis on peace and justice and firm dedication to active, non-violent resistance to all forms of oppression wherever they are found in the world.  As a result, worship in the Abbey is quite different from what you might expect, as it is both liturgical AND informal, both sacramental AND free-wheeling, combining elements of high and low church worship in diverse ways that are unfamiliar and sometimes uncomfortable - which is partly the point of the gospel as it unsettles us and points us to a kingdom whose values are not yet mirrored in this world.

The hymn "Gather Us In" is one I first encountered several years ago in the supplement to our United Methodist Hymnal called The Faith We Sing.  Word and melody combine to make this a powerful vision of that kingdom for which we work and pray to come here on earth as in heaven.   It is an affirmation of the welcoming God whose love calls and yearns for ALL of us to be gathered in this place where new light is indeed streaming, where new birth is occurring just beyond those open windows and doors.  It represents our yearning to respond to the divine invitation extended to ALL, a song of the earthly communion which is a foretaste of the heavenly banquet to come.  It is the cry of our hearts when we meet around Christ's table to share wine and bread, nourished and fed as we are sent forth to be salt for the earth as the Church, the Body of Christ, gathered and then scattered as we experience the fire of God's love in our very flesh and bone.

If you are not familiar with this hymn, go to youtube.com and have a listen.  Read the words and meditate on actually being gathered in with all people in the common bond of Christ's redeeming love, a family reunion that includes those who don't look like you, speak the same language as you, vote like you, or seemingly have anything in common with you.  What might it mean to embrace that demand of the gospel even when it's uncomfortable and risky?   Lost and forsaken, broken and wounded, young and old, rich and poor, proud and haughty, meek and lowly -- may we all be one in the One who poured out his very life to gather us in.  In a world filled with violence and division and hatred, let us be filled with the Spirit's consuming fire in our flesh and bone.  Let us open our arms wide just as Christ did on the cross, and let us be God's love poured out not only for us but for ALL people.  Gather us in, O Lord, and let us be light of your light, fire of your fire, love of your love!

                                                   crucifix in St. Oran's Chapel, Iona

What is it about Iona?

As Christians, we believe that God made the heavens and the earth, and that God is in fact still in the business of creating and re-creating, and we believe that God stood back after that initial birthing of all that is, took a look at everything and smiled with satisfaction, saying, "That's good stuff I did there!"

If we truly do believe that, then it follows that everything in all creation has value and meaning and is special in the eyes of the One who creates, redeems and sustains it all, and therefore all ground is holy ground for there is no place we can be where God is not.  If that is so, if one can encounter God at any time, in any place, in any circumstance, why is it that people have for centuries flocked to this particular tiny island off the coast of yet another island that is off the coast of Scotland?  What is it about Iona?

This wee isle has captured the imagination and stirred the souls of countless pilgrims who travel here at some expense and inconvenience, partly because of its rugged beauty, yes, but the world is filled with vistas as lovely or even perhaps lovelier than here.  Perhaps for some,  because it's almost expected that a Christian visiting Scotland will check off coming to Iona as part of a bucket list, and for others, well, it's just another stop as they hop and skip along the islands of the Hebrides.

But for people like the composer Felix Mendelssohn, and the fiery minister George MacLeod, and Celtic monk Adomnan, this is sacred ground that is somehow different from any place else on earth.   If the traveler stops and stays on the island for a few days and develops a rhythm of being a part of the endless sky and the restless sea and the craggy rocks and the relentless wind, she or he is in a position of being mindful of not only the majesty and power of the Spirit but of the challenging yet comforting presence of Christ.  Whether worshiping in the Abbey, staring meditatively at the outdoor Celtic crosses, reading the words of pilgrims in whose footsteps one follows, or simply stopping to let the peace of the place soak in,  for those with eyes to see and hears to hear it is clear that the boundary between the ordinary world and the world to come is porous and thin indeed.

I hope that you will make a space in the busyness of your life where you can stop and simply be in the "loneliest loneliness."  You might try a little exercise using Psalm 46: 10:  "Be still and know that I am God."  Sit quietly and repeat those words 3 times and then pause to let them sink in.  Then repeat, again 3 times -- "Be still and know that I am."  Pause.  Then  3 times, "Be still and know."  Pause.  3 times, "Be still."  Pause. And then finally, simply repeat, "Be."

Recurring themes

This morning, this is the view outside my window.  It promises to be a sunny, cool day on Iona, so I plan to do some serious walking.  Of course, even though the forecast says it will be a day filled with sunshine, I still need to be prepared for the rain which into every life must fall! (To be taken literally as well as figuratively.)

I mentioned in a previous post that I have found myself taking lots of pictures of portals of various kinds:  windows, doors, gates, etc.  I have also been struck by the recurrence of certain words or phrases that I have read or heard as I've been traveling around.  Last night, I attended the communion service at the Bishop's House, the Episcopal retreat center.  The presiding priest, Joyce, asked me to read the Old Testament lesson, Exodus 34: 29-35, where Moses had to wear a veil when he spoke with the people of Israel because his face was shining because he had been speaking with God.  The gospel lesson from Matthew was about the treasure hidden in a field and the pearl of great price, and Joyce asked us to consider whether (1) our faces are shining because we spend time in the presence of God and (2) whether the gospel is the greatest treasure in our lives, reflected in how we live and interact with others.

As we moved through the service, I was struck by the following portion of the eucharistic liturgy that prays that we may be kindled with the fire of God's love and renewed for service in God's kingdom, which is a nice way to sum up a sabbatical:



There it is again -- images of warmed hearts, kindled by the fire of the love of the God who first loved us, and the notion of renewal, re-creation, re-birth for service in the kingdom.  The same metaphor in the prayer from Elizabeth of Schonau shared in a previous post, the same metaphor which which Charles and John Wesley expressed their experiences of the presence of the Holy Spirit.

We all, not just those of us on formal sabbatical, have to ensure that we deliberately make time to spend in the presence of God, sitting together face to face the way one sits and has tea with a friend. We all, not just the "professional" religious folks, have to regularly receive the sacrament of holy communion which feeds our souls, renews the life of Christ within us, and energizes us for service in the kingdom.  And we all have to pray and seek with great expectation the rekindling of the fire of God's love within us, not just in that quiet space in which we sit and meditate but out there in the beautiful yet broken world that lies beyond that invitingly open window.

What great adventure lies before you and me today as we go out there to mingle with strangers and friends, all created in God's image as we set out with our faces shining with the reflected glory of God and with hearts strangely kindled by the fire of LOVE?

O consuming fire, O Spirit of love

Yesterday, the weather started off with fits and starts of rain and sun which yielded the lovely rainbow in this picture which I took on the first leg of my journey to the harbor town of Tobermory on the Isle of Mull.  If you look on a map, you'll see that Mull is beside Iona, but you will also see that Tobermory is way up on the northern side of the island, so it takes a good bit of planning to get the right combination of ferry and bus service to get you there and back.  Fortunately, I had planned my schedule out well in advance, checked it twice, and headed out in plenty of time to catch the ferry from Iona to Fionnphort.  There I snagged the second seat from the front on the bus and settled down to stare dreamily out the window at the Hielan coos (Highland cattle).

However, the guy in the seat in front of me had different ideas.  He made some small talk about the weather, which I answered, and then launched into telling and showing me his exact itinerary for the next two days, describing his mother's descent into dementia and the inconvenience this made for him, and then rambling about his grandiose plans for making big money back on Iona.  He was obviously suffering from some mental health issues and felt the need to vent, and he didn't pick up on the polite cues that one gives to tell someone that you'd rather not talk.

This went on for about 30 minutes while the rest of the bus was -- I kid you not -- dead silent.  I could feel the weight of everyone's annoyance at him and the equal weight of their desire not to get involved.  When I at last succumbed to blissful sleep for all of 3 or 4 minutes, he woke me up to ask me if I was taking the ferry to Oban, which I was truthfully able to answer in the negative.  At Craigure, he was first off the bus, and as everyone filed past me to depart, many smiled at me and even murmured something about how polite I had been with him.

Which was nonsense.  Sure, I was verbally kind, nodded and said "yes" and "uh-huh" and so forth at intervals in his story, but in my head, I was shouting, "I'm trying to look out the window and think sweetly meditative thoughts about God and Jesus and stuff, and here you are making me be all pastoral and patient!"

Which is kind of the point.  After all, I am a pastor, but even beyond that, simply as a Christian, is it not my duty (and yours) to listen to those who feel themselves to be unheard, to offer a moment or two of genuine care to someone so clearly broken, to be as Christ himself to them?  On my walk from my friend's home to the ferry that morning, I had kept rhythm with my footsteps by praying this prayer from Elizabeth of Schonau:

O consuming fire, O Spirit of love, descend into the depth of our hearts and there transform us until we are fire of your fire, love of your love, and Christ himself is formed within us.  Amen.

As I listened to this lonely, confused man, those words kept echoing in my head and heart, and even in the midst of my impatience at his interruption of my reverie, I felt the Spirit nudging me to be fire of fire and love of love, to let Christ be formed within me, the Christ who tenderly and patiently loved that man just as much as me or anyone else on that bus, the Christ who tenderly and patiently attends to my complaints and grumblings, the Christ who lived and loved and died and rose and loves us all to hell and back.

So I ask you to pray for healing grace for the un-named stranger on the bus, for his brokenness and the illness and grief and guilt of his family surrounding their reactions to his mother's sickness.  Pray for the Spirit to descend into their hearts and transform their sorrow and uncertainty into calm and acceptance.  And pray for me and for you yourselves to be so consumed with the fire of God's love that we are all transformed into the image and likeness of Christ himself.  Amen.