Peregrinatus

33,000 Feet above the Irish Sea

Fri, 8 Aug 2008 08:57:26 -0600

I ended my visit to Ireland at the same place I started on my sabbatical journey last September: the Hill of Tara north of Dublin. At the edges of early Irish history, every year at the feast of Bealtaine, the High King would light a huge bonfire, and its embers would be spread throughout Ireland as a sign of light, of life, and of power. The Roman Briton, Patrick, stood on the nearby Hill of Slane (where the tower is visible in the center of the above photo) and lit a Paschal fire on Easter to challenge the light, life, and power of secular power with that of Christ, thereby inaugurating a new and critically important era in Christian and in Irish history. It was a bloodless revolution, but a revolution nonetheless. From the embers of Patrick’s fire, postmodern Christians are adding tinder in the hopes of rekindling elements of Celtic Christianity that make sense and seem congruent as contemporary expressions of the faith.
As I sit on the London-to-Denver United flight, I wonder what these three months of living in the UK and Ireland will ultimately mean in my ministry. I consider what I have learned, felt, prayed about, experienced, left behind, and acquired. And still, I think much of the change is not yet apparent. It’s not unlike Celtic knotwork whose beauty is in its intertwining pattern, and it’s sometimes difficult to find the beginning and the ending.

What is Celtic Christianity? That’s a key question without a simple answer. Is it merely whatever a contemporary Christian wants it to be? Is it, as one scholar suggests (using the song from the musical, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) “Any Dream Will Do?” For me, there is more.
In a conversation with an Irish priest in his 80s, I heard a wonderful distinction: What some conjure up as “Celtic Christianity” is what he called the “Aromatherapy Version:” overly simplified, airy-fairy, lite, without historical or theological grounding, and devoid of spiritual discipline. Clearly, the writings of theologians like Johannes Scotus Eriugena in the ninth century, the Confession of St. Patrick, St. Brendan’s Navagatio, Adomnán’s Life of Columba, and Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of England, as well as the Irish monastic rules and penitentials not to mention the great Gospel books like Lindisfarne and Kells, form a corpus that describes a distinctive way of living the Christian life before the arrival of the continental monastic orders in the eleventh century (on the heels of the Norman invaders).

The fish is the symbol for Christ in the Book of Kells.
Not only is there a body of literary evidence, we have archaeological remains that point out who these Christians were and what they valued. A clochan (beehive hut) reveals the utter simplicity, asceticism, and devotion of the life of a monk. A coracle (small skin boat) lets us glimpse the courage and faith these men and women had in setting out to sea as peregrini. The foundations they established beyond Ireland – Iona, Lindisfarne, St. Davids, Penant Melangell, and St. Gallen and Bobbio on the continent – bear witness to their missionary zeal. And their high crosses show not only their scriptural emphasis, but their deep religious aesthetic as well.

The High Cross of the Scriptures, Clonmacnoise, Ireland.

Historically, we can tell that their emphasis had much to do with community and deep hospitality as shown through the Celtic monasteries and the key role they played in early medieval society. As the first “urban” centers in Ireland, the monasteries were the places of education, shelter, medicine, sanctuary, and of course worship.
We see from the illuminated Gospels books written on Lindisfarne and Iona (The Book of Kells) that there was deep reverence for scripture, blended with an incredible profusion of art. The trinity is deeply a part of the Celtic tradition, and seems to have been an easy concept for the Irish to grasp. The art incorporates nature and claims it as God’s own, at the same time as the words of scripture are cast beautifully on calfskin vellum. The glosses (writing added between the lines of the manuscript) sometimes indicate a love of nature and a sense of affinity between the world and ourselves as parts of God’s creation.
All of this is what we can learn from the past. Is there more than a historical dimension to Celtic Christianity? Is there a present? Is there a future? I set out to discover what I could learn about the themes of community, music, and worship in Celtic Christianity, and I found each in varying measure.
At the outset of my sojourn, I stayed with the Community of Aidan and Hilda on Lindisfarne (Holy Island) and saw a neo-monastic community in action. Like the Iona Community it was a dispersed community that comes together in one place infrequently. And I experienced community life with two weeks at Iona Abbey, and I’m an associate of the dispersed Iona Community. I also experience deep hospitality -- a key component of community -- in the loving hands of people all summer, but especially the Newell family in Edinburgh, the people of the Isle of Man (including Doug and Carol Fox) and the sisters of St. Non’s Retreat Center in Wales.
This illustrates to me that Celtic Christianity is not a vestige of the past, but a vital part of our present.
Another part of contemporary Celtic Christianity is found in music, though perhaps not where I expected to find it. I thought I’d hear lots of four-part harmony hymn singing in Wales, but the churches are far emptier than I had expected, and the Welsh men’s choruses may sing hymns, but they don’t do it in the context of church, and from what I can tell it thrived primarily only in “non-conformist” (e.g. not Episcopalian) traditions.
Where I found it alive and well was in the person of John Bell in our own sanctuary at Plymouth, and in Iona Abbey, and in churches like St. James’s Piccadilly, which use John’s music extensively. Though not strictly “Celtic” by any means, John’s work does draw significantly on Scottish folk tunes, as well as world music. And most of it has an edge that causes us to question our presuppositions and to prod our faith when it become lax and complacent.

John Bell, Hal, Sharon Benton, and Julie Mavity Maddalena at Plymouth.

Some of the most meaningful worship resources I experienced on the trip were, again, not where I expected to find them. In our brief trip Aberdaron, Wales, we met the Rev. Jim Cotter, and I’ve found his psalm paraphrases a useful part of my devotional time this summer. I knew we’d be going to Aberdaron, and I knew of Jim Cotter...I just didn’t know they’d come together as parish and priest. And their former priest, R.S. Thomas, has added a distinctively Welsh dimension to the poetic imagination of worship.
It’s a lot to boil down and reduce into a sentence or two. Celtic Christianity was founded by people like Patrick, Brigit, and Columba as Christianity adapted to the environment of Celtic countries around the Irish Sea. It continued to flourish on the western fringe of succeeding empires. It continues today in a host of people, some of whom you’ve met in this blog, and in uncountable thousands in congregations and communities across the globe. Even if today’s Celtic Christianity is “historically impure,” it can be a vehicle for us to live into a Christianity that we shape as those who are influenced by the past and also by where God is calling us today. Surely, the call is not a return to the past, even if we appreciate it deeply, but rather a beckoning toward a fresh and authentic Christianity.

I’ll be back in Fort Collins by the end of the day, but still on sabbatical until September 1. I look forward to a few weeks to spend with my boys, do a lot of laundry, and try to keep assimilating learnings from this adventure. And I look forward to being back among my church family at Plymouth.
I end with a note of profound gratitude to the Lilly Endowment for making this adventure possible, and to Plymouth for its generous sabbatical practice. It’s been a gift to me!

God of the ancients,
show us where the feet of saints have trod –
their errors as well as their glories –
that we might eschew the one
and embrace the other.

God of our present,
help us to enfold each other
in the cloak of compassion
that spreads miraculously
as wide as Brigid’s,
espouses justice like Columba’s,
courage like Brendan’s and
peace like Adomnán’s.

God of our children’s future,
grant us the wisdom
to lay the groundwork
for a future that will engage
all your people in the warmth of your Spirit.
May we, like Patrick, find new ways
of relating Christ and culture
and bring others with us  on the journey of faith
into the future.
Amen.

May Christ bless us always,

P.S. I look forward to seeing all of my Plymouth family in church on September 7 (Jubilee Sunday) and for my sabbatical presentation dinner on September 8.

Back to Ireland

Sun, 3 Aug 2008 06:43:20 -0600

Since this is the third time I’ve visited Ireland in less than a year, the Immigration officers have started to become suspicious that I’m trying to live here. It’s true that I have a hard time staying away from Ireland, but I’m just about ready for some dry Colorado summer weather.
For the most part, I’ve been visiting places I was introduced to last September with the Borg-Crossan Pilgrimage, but having the chance to see them in a more in-depth way. I spent three days in Glendalough and visited some different church ruins and also hiked around the other side of the Upper Lake to see St. Kevin’s Bed (a cave where he went to pray alone, accessible only by boat). I also managed to have an evening swim in the Lower Lake (see photo above) on a relatively hot (70° F) day, which wasn’t practical last September. I also found St. Kevin’s well (yep, another holy well!) and the ruins of St. Mary’s Church, which is hidden behind huge hedges and overgrown fuchsia.
You’ve heard of the Book of Kells (which was likely made on Iona), but on this sojourn, I actually paid a visit to Kells, which was a monastic settlement started by the monks from Iona, who fled there from the marauding Vikings who saw the Irish Sea as their source of wealth. The monks brought the Book of Kells to Kells for safekeeping, but they also were critical in the development of the great Irish high crosses. Archaeologist and art historian Peter Harbison writes, “Kells is one of the most important, in fact probably the most important, High Cross site in the country, where the series of Irish Scripture Crosses may have been initiated.” There is a round tower and intact high cross in the Church of Ireland churchyard, as well as a high cross that was never completed (which is interesting, in that it shows how the scripture panels were roughed in). And the partial market cross also is extraordinary. It shows the baptism of Christ as a small person, and the baptism is not in the River Jordan, but over the head, as Catholics and many mainline Protestants perform the sacrament. (See below left.)

The baptism of Christ from the Kells market cross and the head of the Cross of Saints Patrick and Colum Cille from the churchyard at Kells.

Strange as it seems, I’m still not tired of looking at these “sermons in stone,” as they tell us what our Christian forbears a thousand years ago were emphasizing from the biblical record. There is also something wonderful about their relative age and the endurance of the art of both the stonemasons who carved them and the monks who designed them. Little if anything in our age has that kind of staying power. Perhaps permanence is not what we are called to as postmodern Christians...perhaps we are called to represent, even ephemerally, the presence of Christ for one another.
I am on Inish Mór in the Aran Islands, and this afternoon I spent an hour sitting alone meditating and painting in the church of St. Enda (below), who had an academy here in the sixth century and which drew monastic students from across Europe in the so-called Dark Ages. Enda is long gone, and his academy vanished a thousand years ago. But his faithful witness and dedication to scholarship and learning is one of the reasons that Ireland was called the land of saints and scholars and that one author, at least, has claimed that the Irish saved civilization.
Perhaps we each have our moment to shine, as well. We may not build or be remembered in monuments of granite and marble, but maybe that’s not what we’re called to as Christians. I wonder if our vocation is to be on a journey of faith and to love and support those who travel along the path with us each day. I wonder if we are called to be the bearers of Christ’s light to those who are in the shadows. I wonder if we are called to use our intellectual and spiritual gifts to provide new insights for people today who are looking for a breed or type of Christian spirituality that denies neither the mind nor the soul, but ties head and heart together.

May we use our gifts and listen for the whispers of the Spirit. And may we devote ourselves, as St. Enda did, to creating opportunities for others to learn and to live faithfully.
I leave you with the Irish word for blessing: Beannacht!

Welsh Pilgrimage IV: Pennant Melangell

Sat, 2 Aug 2008 11:55:46 -0600

I’ve gotten a bit behind in my blogging...I’m now back in Ireland on the Aran Islands...about as close as you can get to the United States and still be in Europe. But, back to Wales.
One of the medieval pilgrimage sites in Wales is a simple church in a small village called Pennant. It’s a gorgeous spot in a valley surrounded by tall hills, peat bogs, flowing streams, and more sheep than you could possibly count. About ten of us from St. Deiniol’s chose to do the rather long and steep hike into Pennant Melangell (including one of us who stepped on a boggy patch and sank in right up to his knee). But, before we get much further, here are two bits of information: 1) the pronunciation of Melangell and 2) the legend.
Melangell looks as though it ought to be pronounced in English like “melon gel” or something close to it. But, if you read my earlier blog entry on Welsh pronunciation, the double L is pronounced by putting one’s tongue behind one’s upper front teeth and blowing. So, the name sounds something close to “Muh-LANG-eth.”
Melangell was the daughter of an Irish prince who settled in the beautiful valley to follow her vocation as a nun, devoting herself to prayer in this place, and leaving behind her father’s plans for her to marry. One day, the local landowner, and noble named Brochwel, was out hunting with his hounds and was in hot pursuit of a hare. The frightened creature took shelter under the skirts of Melangell. Soon the hare was followed by the hounds and their master, who came to an abrupt halt before the saint. Brochwel was able to sense the holiness of this woman who offered the hare sanctuary, and he gave the land in the valley for the service of Christ, and over the years others came to join Melangell in a life of prayer. And more hares came to seek sanctuary as well.
For well over a thousand years, this valley has been a place of pilgrimage and sanctuary. The church and its shrine, which once held the relics of St. Melangell, were restored and came into use again as a pilgrimage site in the 1990s. And next door is a center for pastoral counseling run by the Church in Wales (Anglican).

The medieval church of Pennant Melangell and a relieved band of pilgrims (below).

This yew tree in the graveyard of the church at Pennant Melangell is said to be 2,000 years old.

I leave you with part of a poem by Anne Cluysenaar about St. Melangell. (“Cwm,” by the way, is Welsh for “valley,” as in the hymn tune, “Cwm Rhondda,” and it’s pronounced coom.)

from “On a Visit to Pennant Melangell”

In this Welsh valley
her Irish Gaelic
quested for God.
The valley speaks
no language. In exile
she was at home,
trusting the place.

A tightness of hills.
Shale with mudstone
or greenly wooded.
The cwm closed
by a fall of water,
a streak shining,
distant, still.

She saw it all
Sat under this yew,
hundreds of years
heavy in its branches.
The bark flaking.
Hollow at the centre
where the shoots grow.

Peace,

Welsh Pilgrimage III: Wells in Wales

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 06:08:55 -0600

One of the characteristics of Celtic Christians was their adoration of holy wells: springs that had probably been used by Druids in the pre-Christian era and then appropriated by Celtic Christians and rededicated in the name of a Christian saint. These can be found all over Ireland and Britain. The Gaelic word “tober” means well, and it can be found in place names like Tobermory (the Well of Mary) on the Isle of Mull in Scotland, An Tober in Ireland, Bridewell (the Well of Bride or St. Brigid) in England, and St. Winifred’s Well at Holywell, Wales.
The violent legend of St. Winifred goes like this: a young daughter of the local priest (they could marry in those days) was at home while her parents were in church. A young prince rode by her and affected deeply by her beauty attempted to ravish her, but she was keen to protect her chastity, so he lopped her head off. Her head was taken off with a single blow, and where it bounced on the ground, the holy well sprang up. (Don’t worry...here’s the happy ending:) The girl’s uncle, St. Beuno of Bangor miraculously reattached her head, and when he saw the vile young prince, he melted into the ground, much like the Wicked Witch of the West.
The healing properties of the upwelling water at St. Winifred’s Well has been documented over the centuries by inscriptions on the stone walls by those who have been cured of their ailments. (I’ll leave it up to you to decide how the waters are involved in cure.) In the photo below, you can see the pool that fills with the water that wells up in the spring just inside the central arch of the Beaufort Chapel, which was built above the well in 1485. (Interestingly, the Church in Wales [Anglican] has the chapel above, but the Roman Catholics have the well itself. Moss used to grow in the pool below, until local health and safety official insisted upon adding chlorine!)

We also visited the lovely parish church of Llanrhaeadr and walked up the little stream to the holy well (spring) in the woods near the church, which again have been used from time immemorial as a place of healing. (Apparently, a local Baptis congregation also does full-immersion baptisms in the chilly waters, which sounds remarkably appealing to me!) Water enters the pool (below) from a spring in the upper right corner, and flows from the pool into a nearby stream.
Whether this water itself has any extraordinary qualities, I do not know. But, it seemed like a holy place by virtue of the tranquility, verdant surroundings, and water seeping from beneath the earth. It is easy to see why pre-Christian and early Christian Welsh folk deemed it to be a holy place and a good site for a church.

May the water God provides bless you.
May God’s gift of water be available to all people.
May it slake our thirst, wash our wounds, refresh our tired bodies, and may its
sound calm our anxiety and stress.
May the holiness of water, which comprises much of our bodies and God’s earth,
remind you of your own baptism into our faith.

Peace,

Welsh Pilgrimage II: Llangar & Valle Crucis

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 06:05:37 -0600

One of the most fascinating churches we visited is a medieval church at Llangar. (Llan means “church” in Wales. The first two letters form a “silent L,” which is pronounced by placing your tongue on the roof of your mouth behind your front teeth – as if you’re going to say “L” – and then blowing through. It sounds almost like a very breathy “CHL.”) Some of the wall paintings on the interior of the church date from the fourteenth century, and they were covered by layers of plaster and then restored in the late twentieth century. One particularly interesting painting is the Dance of Death, reminding us all of our mortality. The timber ceiling was restored in 1974, and had been hidden by a plaster vaulted ceiling. During the Reformation, the paintings were covered over, the pulpit made more central, and the box pews added. In some ways it reminded me of smaller early New England Congregational meeting houses.

The contrast couldn’t be stronger between the church in Llangar and Valle Crucis (Valley of the Cross) Abbey, which was a Cistercian Abbey founded in 1201. It was a large monastic foundation, but was closed with all the other abbeys in Wales and England when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and claimed their wealth and property for the crown. (It’s hard to imagine how much wealth the king amassed for the crown in this horrific move.) Many abbey roofs were stripped of their lead sheeting, and eventually became exposed to the elements and fell into a state of decay. It is easy to imagine a thriving community meeting in the chapter house, saying the office, and managing its farm land holdings in the surrounding villages. (Henry got those, too.)

Though neither of these churches speak explicitly to early Celtic Christian tradition, they form links in a chain from those first followers to today’s in a line of Celtic Christians that, lest we forget, includes people living the faith today.
Blessings!

Welsh Pilgrimage I: Aberdaron

Tue, 22 Jul 2008 14:46:53 -0600

I’ve been spending my time over the past few days getting to know a new set of fellow travelers at St. Deiniol’s Library, seeing a lot of medieval Welsh churches, listening to some really good lectures on archaeology, language, and history, and spending a bit too much time inside a bus. Rather than bringing you to every spot along the journey, I’m going to hit a few highlights. (It’s also unlikely that my local internet connection has the bandwidth to upload sound files, so that will have to wait.)
One of our initial pilgrimage visits was to the Church of St. Hywyn at Aberdaron, at the western tip of the Llyn Peninsula, which juts out from Britain like a finger pointing westward to the Wicklow Mountains of Ireland, only about 65 miles across the Irish Sea. (Think about it...that’s really close enough for frequent contact in the ancient world, even in small boats. There was likely a lot more social and economic interchange between the populations of Wales and Ireland than one might otherwise suspect.)
One of my favorite Welsh poets, R.S. Thomas, was the vicar at the church in Aberdaron, until he retired about 30 years ago. He was an enigmatic figure, and some said that he was far more fond of the many birds that can be spotted on the Llyn Peninsula than he was of his parishioners. His poetry often evokes images of God who has recently left the scene, as if escaping just before our arrival. Here is a poem that reflects the sounds of nature on the Llyn Peninsula:
 “The Other”
There are nights that are so still
that I can hear the small owl calling
far off and a fox barking
miles away. It is then that I lie
in the lean hours awake listening
to the swell born somewhere in the Atlantic
rising and falling, rising and falling
wave on wave on the long shore
by the village, that is without light
and companionless. And the thought comes
of that other being who is awake, too,
letting our prayers break on him,
not like this for a few hours,
but for days, years, for eternity.

One of the really pleasant surprises was that the new vicar of the church at Aberdaron is a man named Jim Cotter, whose writing on Celtic Christian spirituality are a favorite of one of our members back home at Plymouth. We spent awhile looking at the medieval pilgrimage church, which was the last stop before pilgrims crossed to a tiny island called Bardsey, where early Irish monks had their cells, and which was known as the Island of 20,000 Saints. (It would be physically impossible to bury that many saints on the tiny island, but let’s not let that get in the way of a good tale.)
Bardsey Island
Jim spent some time with our group doing some reflection on pilgrimage with our group, which was really meaningful. We also had a half hour of silent time in the church, which was particularly helpful to try and integrate the experience. Jim’s most recent book is a new “unfolding” of the psalms – a kind of transliteration of the ancient psalms along with a musical refrain, which I’ve found particularly meaningful. Here are the first two verses of one of the “pilgrim psalms,” No. 121:

I look towards the mountain ranges,
and fear their lurking terrors.
The pilgrim path takes me through them,
by rocks and ravines, ambush and vultures
Pause
Stormy winds swirl round the summits,
avalanches threaten across trackless screes.
The hills themselves give no courage or strength,
and I turn once again to my God
Refrain:
Companion on my journey, protector at my side,
I venture on the way in simple childlike trust.

(from Out of the Silence... by Jim Cotter, Harlech, Wales: Cairns Publications, 2006)

One of things that struck me most in the church wasn’t Celtic in orientation at all, but rather was a modern icon of the risen Christ, mounted on a rough wooden cross, and I’ll leave you with that image, and with my blessing.

Compare the cross on Christ’s chest to the one at St. Non’s Well in St. Davids. Click here to see the latter.

The Future of Liberal Christianity

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 09:43:53 -0600

That’s the name of the seminar I’ve just finished with at St. Deiniol’s Library. What is fascinating to me is that in Great Britain, “liberal” is not a dirty word, as it has become in the United States. And it has a long and proud history, both politically and theologically. Politically, it is reflected the career of William Ewart Gladstone, who founded this library. It centers around the idea that people ought to be free to think, feel, believe, and act in the public sphere. According to Ian Bradley, it goes back in this country to the writings of John Milton, who not only espoused free speech and a free press, but also saw free will as a God-given gift and right. It is in the context of this tradition that Congregationalism grew in this country and later on the other side of the Atlantic. We were not only Reformed, but continually reforming (semper reformanda).
I obvious won’t recount everything from our several days of lectures and discussion, but here is a paradigm for you to consider. Ian Bradley, who teaches at the University of St. Andrews, sees four characteristics of liberal Christianity:
Grace – Overflowing, abundant, unearned grace is at the heart of God. And compassion, or mercy, is at the heart of God. The hymn Ian identified as typifying this was Faber’s “There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy.” In terms of worship, he identified infant baptism as the ultimate sign and seal of God’s grace, given without conditions.
Order – Jesus is called the logos, which is often translated “word,” but in Greek also can mean “intelligence” or “order.” God brings form, beauty and order out of chaos and nothingness to form creation. He quoted John Bell, who said that “The enemy of the Spirit is not order; the enemy of the Spirit is anarchy.” Order brings reason into our faith tradition. In our worship, Ian identified a high correlation between an ordered form of worship and the ability to stretch and reach out in terms of thought and action.
Openness – Ian said that this is typified by being open-minded, non-judgmental, and leaves open the possibility of being wrong. He introduced an interesting perspective that I’ll invite you to consider:  Do you think of your faith essentially as an unfolding journey, or is your faith the result of a one-time revelation? To put it another way, is your faith more influenced by “Emmaus Road” experiences or by a “Damascus Road” experience?  In the 1960s, 2/3 of Britons surveyed had an experience of sudden conversion, and 1/3 saw their faith in terms of a journey. Today, the percentages are exactly reversed, which speaks to greater openness in our attitudes. Inclusive language and liturgies and the re-exploration of pilgrimage were the aspects of worship Ian identified.
Diversity/Difference – Ian talked about being willing to come out of our comfort zones and encounter others with whom we may disagree, as well as to see all persons within the love of God. He also used the Trinity’s threeness within oneness as a model of diversity. A “diverse diet” of worship that provides eclectic opportunities for participants can nurture inclusion and expression. Rephrasing the psalm, Ian suggested that we might declare, “How good it is when sisters and brothers dwell together in diversity.”

I hope that gives you something to chew on. It’s certainly been a stimulating time so far here at St. Deiniol’s!
Shalom!

Gladstone’s Library

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 09:37:10 -0600

If you’re not up on your 19th century British history, William Ewart Gladstone served several times as prime minister. His estate, Hawarden (pron. Harden) Castle is in northwestern Wales, just across the border from Chester, south of Liverpool. Gladstone had a keen interest in theology and had a huge number of books. Part of his legacy was building St. Deiniol’s Library near the castle, to ensure that future generations of theological students would have a place to come and study. (He even carted some of his books here from the castle in a wheelbarrow!) The library has grown over the years, and Gladstone’s children added a very comfortable residential wing to the library, which is where I’m staying right now, and will be for the next ten days. I’ll be taking part in a course called “The Future of Liberal Christianity,” which begins tonight, and then I’ll be enjoying a week of Celtic pilgrimage in North Wales, but based here at St. Deiniol’s.
I’ll add more as time permits and especially as the pilgrimage begins. (St. Deiniol, by the way, was a 6th century Celtic saint...naturally!)
Peace,

True Retreat Time

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 14:04:40 -0600

My time here in St. Davids has been a wonderful period of rest, renewal, and regeneration. I’ve done a fair amount of walking along the cliff top trail, made time for reading and prayer, and have spent a bit of time in town (a half mile from the retreat center). St. Davids Cathedral is a splendid small cathedral (with the ruins of the archbishops palace in the photo above) and has a very active music program, including a choral college for young choristers (including girls). On Thursday, I attended choral evensong at the cathedral, which was wonderfully done.

Unlike many cathedrals, St. Davids does feel like a church that get used regularly. Indeed, it is the parish church for the 3,000 residents of the city. The pilgrims I described in my last entry were not the only visitors to St. Davids. As the reputation of the cathedral grew in the 10th and 11th centuries, Vikings also paid numerous visits to pillage. Two bishops were murdered in these raids, and one of the beautiful remaining Celtic stones (below) is the gravestone of Bishop Abraham and his sons Hedd and Isaac, who were killed in 1080.

It’s difficult not to sense the history of such a place where our faith has been practiced by so many for so long, often at great cost.
The element that has made it most meaningful, though, is the living Christian witness of the sisters here at St. Non’s Retreat Centre. I am really grateful to Sisters Johanna, Alma, and Nora for making me so welcome here and providing the depth of hospitality that has made it possible for me really to feel at home.
As a Christian pilgrim, I’ve discovered that I have a built-in family wherever I go. And the reverse is true also: we can extend the hand of sister- and brotherhood to those we meet who visit us at home.

Sisters Nora, Alma, and Johanna

Here is a wonderful reminder from an unknown author, which is displayed here at St. Non’s (and speaks volumes about the lovely women who run the center):

Our first task in approaching
another people
another culture
another religion
is to take off our shoes,
for the place
we are approaching is holy.

Else we may find ourselves
treading on
another’s dream.

More serious still,
we may forget
that God
was there
before our arrival.

I leave St. Davids with a sense of gratitude for deep hospitality and acknowledge what a significant ministry it is.
God bless!

On the Pilgrim Path

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 03:11:58 -0600

I’m being very well looked after here at St. Non’s Retreat House by Sisters Johanna, Alma, and Nora, three delightful Irishwomen. The location couldn’t be more beautiful, on a cliff overlooking the Irish Sea, right along the extensive Pembrokeshire Coast Path, with an ancient Celtic chapel, cross, and holy well on the grounds. (It’s gorgeous, but I am really missing Cam and Chris!) Tradition has it that it was here that St. Non gave birth to St. David, who later became the patron saint of Wales.
Like others in the Celtic tradition in the sixth century, David lived an ascetic life, subsisting on bread, herbs, and water, and like others he often stood for extended periods of time in frigid seawater reciting the psalms and eschewing all that would be an impediment to his spiritual journey. He was reputedly a very kind and compassionate man, and others soon joined him in a monastery in Mymyw, which became Latinized as Menevia in the early Middle Ages, and now is named St. Davids.
During the Middle Ages, this was a major destination for pilgrims. Often, a pilgrimage was undertaken as a penitential journey to atone for a wrong that one had committed. Following the murder of Archbishop Thomas á Becket in the 12th century, King Henry II made two visits to St. Davids and after his second visit was officially pardoned for his involvement in the murder. There are several sayings from the Middle Ages that two visits to St. Davids are equivalent to one pilgrimage to Rome.
Throughout the days of pilgrimage, thousands came from around Britain to this place and no doubt stopped at the holy well and chapel of St. Non on the last leg of the journey before reaching the cathedral precincts.

St. Non reputedly grasped this stone (which you can see in the top photo as well) while in labor with St. David an left her fingerprints embedded in it.

Nearby is the well of St. Non, whose waters reputedly have curative powers. Pilgrims would have visited the well seeking a cure for any number of ailments.

In addition to visited the nearby pilgrimage sites, I also had a couple of hours to hike along the beauty of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, which is unbelievable! The whole path (at 10-15 miles a day) takes 15 days to walk! These long-distance hiking trails are popular here in Britain, including St. Cuthbert’s Way, which ends on Holy Island (Lindisfarne). Given all the rain here, I’d rather not do long hikes in the rain and sleep in a tent! But, I’ve been able to have a glimpse of the beauty along one section of the path here.

Read the lower sign carefully!

I leave you with this blessing from St. Patrick:
May the strength of God pilot us,
May the power of God preserve us,
May the wisdom of God instruct us,
May the hand of God protect us,
May the way of God direct us,
May the shield of God defend us,
May the host of God guard us
against snares of evil
and the temptations of the world.

Shalom!

On Track to St. David’s

Wed, 9 Jul 2008 00:29:21 -0600

As I write this entry, Cameron and Christopher are on a United flight back to Denver. The time with them was terrific, spanning from London to Paris to the Isle of Skye, across the Irish Sea to Dublin, all the way to Dingle in the southwest of Ireland, and then back to Dublin and London.
Now, I’m traveling by train westward across southern England and toward Wales. We’ve crossed the lovely (rainsoaked) fields of Wiltshire and are nearing Bristol (where Larry and Janet McCulloch of our “Living Celtic Christianity” group lived for a time). I’ll change trains at Swansea (Dylan Thomas country, for you poetry fans) and continue to Haverfordwest. There, I’ll be met by Sr. Johanna from St. Non’s Retreat House in St. Davids, where I’ll spend the next four nights. (Sr. Johanna is a Sister of Mercy, the same order that ran the Mercy Center where I often went on retreat in Connecticut, and the order of my spiritual director in Connecticut, Sr. Carmela.)
The time of tourism has concluded and the pilgrimage has
been re-engaged. It feels palpably different: There is a sense of seeking for “something more” while on pilgrimage, both outwardly and in terms of the inner journey. For millennia, people of faith have gone on pilgrimage in search of the “something more,” perhaps trying to fill the God-shaped hole we each have in our lives, perhaps trying to heal the wounds that we all bear. God knows we all need healing and wholeness in our lives, and perhaps pilgrimage today can provide one possible avenue to seek it. Certainly, the journey is as much inward as it is beyond geographical boundaries.
I am aware of the rare privilege I’ve been given by the Lilly Endowment and by my congregation in having the resources and time to be on pilgrimage. So, right now, I’m filled with a sense of thanksgiving to them and to God for this gift.
Though I’ve lived twice in the U.K., I’ve not yet been to Wales, another Celtic land. The Welsh language is the most widely spoken Celtic tongue anywhere today, thanks in part to the many Methodist and Congregational congregations in Wales, in which the vernacular language flourished in the 18th and 19th centuries before it was lost. (A similar phenomenon is true with the Congregational-tradition churches in Hawaii.)

ASIDE: It seems appropriate to reflect on what is happening in the Church of England right now at their General Synod in York. Yesterday, they voted to open the episcopacy to women priests. Since the Episcopal Church USA has a female Presiding Bishop, this may seem “old hat,” but it’s very controversial here, and Evangelical and Anglo-Catholic segments of the church have threatened to split off. Though a difficult step, not unlike our General Synod’s affirmation of same-sex marriage three years ago, I see it as progress indeed. I hope you’ll join me in praying for all the women and men of the Church of England at this critical time.

Now, I’m having a lesson in patience, humility, and in letting go! First, I goofed on the time that I sent to Sr. Johanna. (I wrote 18:28 instead of 8:28; so she arrived when I said I’d be there: 6:28!) What’s more, there has been some flooding on the railroad tracks here in Wales, and we’ve been delayed at Swansea. Fortunately, Sr. Johanna has been in touch by cell phone, has the patience of a saint, and is willing to wait for me at the station in Haverfordwest. It’s been a crazy day of traveling and waiting and saying the Serenity Prayer a few dozen times: “God, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” It’s also a wonderful testament to the hospitality of Sr. Johanna and the Sisters of Mercy! We don’t really have anything analogous in our tradition to the hospitality of retreat centers, so maybe that’s something we should learn.

Well, I was greeted by Sr. Johanna with a smile and a hug, even though my train was nearly an hour late, and she’d been waiting the whole time. The three sisters here are all Irish, and the warmth of their welcome bears witness to the importance of the hospitality in the Celtic Christian tradition. The retreat center is a gorgeous old house on the cliffs overlooking Ramsey Island and the Irish Sea. I feel especially blessed to be in such a lovely place and that I’m being looked after so well!
Peace,

Cam & Chris

Wed, 2 Jul 2008 13:06:50 -0600

I’ve fallen behind in blogging while touring around with Cameron and Christopher over the last few weeks. (Rather than “man-on-man,” I’ve had to play “zone defense” as a parent!) And we’ve had some pretty amazing travels, too: From London to Paris and back on the Eurostar (2 hours and 15 minutes each way, via the chunnel at up to 186 mph.) From London to Inverness on the overnight train. Driving from Inverness on the northeast coast to the Isle of Skye on the west and then back to Edinburgh. And yesterday, we flew to Dublin. Phew!
This part of my sabbatical journey is concerned with family time, rather than study, and it’s been great (most of the time) to have some intensive time with the boys, though we’re all enjoying a two-bedroom apartment in Dublin and eating some home-cooked food.
The boys are really getting tired of me making them mug for “dynamic duo” photos, so I’ll show you what I’ve got.
Peace,

With a beefeater at the Tower of London and in Covent Garden.

At Tower Bridge and the British Maritime Museum in Greenwich.

At our favorite café in the Latin Quarter and along the Seine.

On the first floor (we climbed!) and in front of the Eifel Tower.

At the Roman Arena of Lutece near our hotel and by Notre Dame.

Platform 9¾ at King’s Cross (read Harry Potter) and at Castle Urquhart on Loch Ness.

More Scottish castles: Eilean Donan and Stirling.

Chris on a cannon at Edinburgh Castle and from our apartment balcony in Dublin.

Back in London

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 01:08:56 -0600

The boys arrived safely in London, and we’ve been doing the “big stuff” on the London tourist circuit: Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, St. Paul’s, the British Museum. (My feet are killing me!) Everything is going well, and they’ve having a great time. This is where the expense of being in London is most apparent. Dinner for three of us at the Gourmet Hamburger Kitchen (the culinary pattern is shifting!) was £36 ($72)! It would be great if we could revalue the dollar. Ouch!
Chris & Cam strike a pose in Hyde Park.

Cameron’s favorite thing in the British Museum was the samurai armor and swords, while Christopher was most impressed by the mummies. (I liked the Viking walrus ivory chessmen found on the isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides.) We’ve got some theater planned, too. This afternoon we see Lord of the Rings and tomorrow we see Spamalot!
Part of the Lilly Endowment’s Clergy Renewal Grant is to spend time having fun with family, and that’s what we’re doing! On Saturday, we take the Eurostar (fast train via Chunnel) to Paris for a few days. It only takes two hours and 15 minutes, compared to the all-day journey it used to be from London to Dover via train, ferry to Calais, and train to Paris.
Hope that your summer is bring times of fun with family and friends for you!

Shalom!

An Iona Reflection

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 03:20:33 -0600

It’s a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning in London. I made the trip down from Iona yesterday (ferry, bus, ferry, train, bus, airplane, tube, train) and thought about what it all meant (though I talked with my fellow pilgrims until I got to the airport in Glasgow).
It was difficult to leave Iona, though I knew it was time to go. The island, the monastery, the community all contribute to sense that Iona is what George MacLeod called a “thin place” where the division between heaven and earth is as thin as tissue paper. The continuity between worship and work, prayer and politics, sacred and secular is intentionally blurred by the Iona Community, which is as it should be.
The daily rhythm of morning worship, work (cleaning bathrooms, washing dishes, etc.), learning, eating in community, and having time to walk, sit, and reflect, and an evening service was a wonderful and fulfilling pace of life. One of the reflections of Malcolm, the warden of the abbey, was that we were not returning to “the real world” when we went home, but rather this daily rhythm was reality as God intended it.
It makes me wonder how we at Plymouth, and I in my own life, can emulate this balance better.

How do we pay attention to that which is not merely urgent, but that which is truly important? How do we say “no” to the urgent, less-important things?
How do we take time for all aspects of our lives (worship, family, work, play, study, service, community) so that there seems to be a balance?
How do we take time to see beauty around us and reflect that in our lives as a prayer of thanksgiving?
How do I take this perspective and this balance into my ministry this fall, knowing that the program year will be ramping up and that we have another capital campaign in the offing?

My time on Iona was a blessing, and I know I am privileged to have had the opportunity to visit. I also have a sense that I’ll be back at some point in the future, perhaps as a volunteer member of staff during my next sabbatical, perhaps leading a pilgrimage from Plymouth. I sense a deep calling to this holy place and to help spread the rhythms of life I experienced there. I don’t know whether Iona is in itself, simply in its essence, a holy place, or whether being the site of Christian pilgrimage and prayer for 1,450 years (think of all the prayers offered in that one place throughout those years!), or being the locus of the Iona Community has made it a sacred place.
I’m on to the next chapter of my summer pilgrimage, which is nearly four weeks with my sons, Cameron and Christopher, who arrive in London on Monday! We’ll be doing mostly touristy things (few abbeys, more kid stuff!).
Thanks to all at home who are supporting me with thoughts, prayers, and practical stuff! You’re in my thoughts and prayers, too.
May we all find the balance and rhythm of life we need,

A stone labyrinth at St. Columba’s Bay – the Bay of New Beginnings – invites us on an inner pilgrimage.