293: Conversation With spiritual sage Matthew Fox on envisioning new lives

November 4, 2008 by


This is a big, new day for Americans and for the rest of the world as well! It’s Election Day 2008. From our spiritual perspective here at ReadTheSpirit—we’ve got a perfect interview for this occasion with best-selling spiritual sage Matthew Fox, whose latest book is all about re-envisioning our lives for the world that’s opening up all around us. His book’s title may sound like it’s only for half of the world. After all, the title is “The Hidden Spirituality of Men,” but it’s really a marvelous sourcebook for all people searching for creative new models in daily living.
    In his book, Matt spins out stories of the Green Man and the Blue Man, the Warrior and even the Grandfather Sky—and a half dozen other mythic images that he hopes will help men kick start their lives. He’s hoping that, as men, we finally will get our collective act together and become as creatively useful to the world as women have been for years.
    Twenty-five years ago, Matt published the landmark book, “Original Blessing.” At the time, he still was writing as a priest within the Roman Catholic Church and, like Reformers 500 years ago, he was trying to overturn a centuries-old doctrine. Specifically, he was taking on original sin. He was saying: Hey, here’s some good news! We’re not basically bad people. The world itself isn’t fundamentally a bad place. We’ve messed things up pretty badly, it’s true.
    But, he was saying: Our spiritual calling is to remember God’s goodness, to build peaceful communities and to care for God’s creation. In this kind of message, Matt converges powerfully with voices from the Celtic movement—as well as religious sages in other parts of the world. If you missed it, click here to jump back and read our recent Conversation With J. Philip Newell, author of “Christ of the Celts.”
    In giving the world 10 mythic images of male spirituality, Matt’s idea is not that readers should simply pick one. The idea is to join him in a tour of these mythic images, including the legendary “Green Man” shown on the cover of his book, and then to use these archetypes as playful tools to figure out what will most effectively fuel our journey toward health, wholeness and connection with the world.
     Today, Americans and the rest of the world are discovering that the American President, the world’s most powerful figure, can look and sound and act in ways we might never have envisioned just a few years ago. The question is: Are the rest of us ready to rethink our own spiritual models as well?

HERE ARE HIGHLIGHTS OF OUR CONVERSATION:

    DAVID: It’s hard to imagine that 25 years have passed since your little bombshell, “Original Blessing,” woke up the Vatican. As a religion writer covering the controversy, I remember that I eventually had a whole thick file of materials about what happened with you, your books, the controversy and your eventual parting of ways with the Roman Catholic Church. That remains a major touchstone in your work, right?
    MATT: That’s the book that’s aroused the most interest. It sold the most and has been translated into more languages than most of my books and, yes, it got the Vatican the most nervous. That book threatened the Vatican more than any other book I’ve done.
    Western Christianity and certainly the Vatican is so committed to the doctrine of original sin that I think the church overreacted to my book. It’s that book more than any other that got me expelled.
    DAVID: I was among the journalists covering that controversy—but the enduring value in what you wrote in “Original Blessing” is bigger than a fight over church discipline. This is a really key issue in religious life for everyone.
    MATT: Yes. Even secular culture is really invested in the idea of original sin. The whole idea of consumer capitalism is the idea that we have to buy our way out of some defect that we’re born with. In contrast are the writings of people like Hildegard of Bingen in the 12th century. She wrote that everything we need for life is within us. That’s original blessing.
    DAVID: You argue persuasively that this comes directly from Jesus’ own teaching.

    MATT: The latest scholarship on Jesus tells us that he comes from the wisdom tradition of Israel. I wrote about this 25 years ago in “Original Blessing.” This spiritual tradition of Israel is feminist, it’s cosmological, it’s about nature’s revelation not just the revelation you get from reading a book. And it’s deeply mystical. Yes, this is what Jesus represented.
    The Christian thinkers I’ve been trying to resurrect—people like Meister Eckhart and Hildegard of Bingen—these are great pre-modern mystic thinkers who were deeply imbued with the wisdom tradition of Israel. They were chanting the Psalms everyday and the Psalms are part of the wisdom tradition of Israel. That’s the tradition of the Dominicans of which Hildegard (at right) was a part.
    What we’re talking about is a very authentic tradition in Christianity, but it’s been put down for so many years.
    DAVID: At quite a cost.
    MATT: Not the least of which is the ecological disaster that faces all humankind and the other species, too. A lot of this is traceable to a religion that is far too anthropocentric. We need to ask: How are we relating to the grace of the rest of nature?
    DAVID: Here’s where you’re converging with neo-Celtic writers like Philip Newell. His latest book “Christ of the Celts,” like your new book, draws on themes that Philip began developing some years ago in his writings. But, now, in this latest book he’s brought his arguments into full flower, writing that the Celtic tradition of Christianity preserves the idea of Creation’s basic goodness.

    MATT: I appreciate your bringing that book to my attention. Absolutely this is in the Celtic tradition. I often have said that the Celts are the only ones who got Christianity right in Europe. They begin with the revelation of nature, which is wisdom theology, which the latest scholars are agreeing is Jesus’ tradition as well.
    In “Original Blessing,” I’m quoting Celtic theologians all over the place. This also is very close to Native American spirituality, too. The first time I talked in Ireland, years ago, I talked about sweat lodges and a scholar there said, “We’ve uncovered these places all over Ireland that where fire was used in what archaeologists said were essentially sweat lodges. They had sweat lodges in China and obviously in Scandinavia, which is where we get saunas today. But in Ireland there also was this tradition of sweating to pray.
    DAVID: Your new book is aimed at helping men in particular to re-envision their spiritual lives. I want to ask you about some specific examples in the book, but first: Since we’re talking about re-envisioning our spiritual lives—how has your own spiritual life changed now that you’re not within the Roman Catholic Church? How do you look back now on your Catholicism?
    MATT: First to be accurate, I wasn’t expelled from the church. I was expelled from my order and subsequently I took up with the Episcopalians who offered me religious asylum. I wanted to work with young people to reinvent the forms of worship. I felt back then and I feel today that the forms of worship in the Western church are growing very, very stale. That’s one reason that most young people aren’t there in worship.
    But, when I made these changes, I never signed any dismissal papers form the Catholic church. You know, we all belong to so many communities at once today that perhaps we should all write “Etc.” after we sign our name. I am still Catholic. You can’t take that out of your life if you wanted to after 55 years, which is how old I was when I became Episcopalian.
    The Roman Catholic version of Christianity is extremely myopic and small—and I’m talking about Cardinal Ratzinger’s church and Pope John Paul II’s church. It’s a church hiding behind very thick walls of feudal orthodoxy. It’s a time in this third millennium finally to be breaking out of our particular boxes.


    DAVID: That’s a good description of your new book—a call “in this third millennium finally to be breaking out of our boxes.” I found your 10 archetypes a lot of fun to explore. Like this Blue Man you write about and include a touch of the Blue Man image at the top of your book cover. Tell us a little about the Blue Man as an example of what’s in the book.
     MATT: This archetype of the Blue Man represents connecting to the blue sky, if you will, and expanding our consciousness. From Hinduism, I write about a saint who had a profound experience of this blue pearl that morphed into a blue man. This experience overcame the saint’s fear of death, released his creativity and expanded his consciousness. At the same time, in the 12th century, Hildegard of Bingen has a meditation on the healing Christ, the man in sapphire blue inside all of us. In that meditation she also encountered a blue pearl. It’s a striking invitation to expand consciousness as an integral part of spiritual growth and maturity.
    When Jesus says the Kingdom of Heaven is among us, he is talking about a very expanded consciousness. Everything we do to expand our consciousness of the history of our universe and our species and the archetypes that we can use to express our faith moves us toward communing with the Kingdom of God that is with us and among us.
    We may find that there’s some chemical physiological reason for this that some people are more wired for a grater diversity of ideas, but at the same time when you look at the great spiritual teachers, they were people like the blue man of great spiritual consciousness.

    DAVID: As people are reading these lines on our Web site, they won’t catch all of your exploration of a figure like the Blue Man—unless they read more. We are going to write more about the Green Man on the day after this interview is published to help expand on at least that idea for people. But I am aware of this: What you’re talking about in these archetypes can be pretty difficult for many people to embrace.
    MATT: These ideas are powerful but they also are controversial. Jesus or the Buddha or Muhammad—they were all reformers turning over the bucket of satisfied, rote religion. They were shaking things up.
    DAVID: Let’s talk about the “male” focus of this book. Obviously, we’re two men talking about these themes right now, but I suspect that women who follow ReadTheSpirit will find this a fascinating book, as well.
    MATT: Women need this book, too, for at least two reasons: One is that men are important in their lives. They’re sons, grandsons, lovers, husbands, fathers, grandfathers, co-workers. No. 2 is that speaking psychologically now there is a masculine dimension in every woman just as there is a feminine dimension in every man. That masculine dimension in many women’s lives has turned as toxic in many cases as it has for men.
    A lot of my work has come out of the feminist tradition. When the current pope, Cardinal Ratzinger then, condemned me—his first objection was that he said I was a feminist theologian and he also complained that I called God, “Mother,” even though I’ve shown that medieval Christian mystics called God, “Mother,” as well.

    DAVID: But you’re saying that, as men collectively, we’re really slow in getting our spiritual act together.
    MATT: I’ve come to the point of realizing: Hey, men are not on par. Men have been meeting in small groups and doing spiritual work. But men have not been doing enough.
    There’s another book out there for men that has gotten a lot of publicity in the men’s movement and this fellow actually is quoting Gen. Patton time and time again—more than Gandhi or Jesus or Buddha or King. I think that’s distorted and sick. Do we really want to give our kids this vision of Gen. Patton as our spiritual guide? That man may have been certifiably unbalanced!
    There really are far deeper stories from our traditions about what it means to be male. There are so many of these deep stories and they call us to do a lot more than turn ourselves into Patton and beat up the rest of the world and declare ourselves No. 1.
    DAVID: Sounds like we’re coming here to a fairly practical impact of this new book. It’s coming at a time when America is changing its top leadership.
    MATT: Yes, for eight ugly years we’ve seen too many leaders talking about this sort of reptilian-brain thinking that says our world is about winning and being No. 1. That’s how you lose relationships in the world. That’s how you lose our relationship with the Earth itself. That’s how we lose relationships with our communities, our bodies, our children.
    There’s a tremendous vacuum today and in all of our institutions we’re running on fumes. We’re almost empty. The next generation coming along is looking for answers, too, and there’s a tremendous need to connect the wisdom of the old with wisdom of the young. We have to develop an intergenerational wisdom.
    This time is a tremendous opportunity to reinvent and to recreate our ways of living on this planet. This is an opportunity to bring in a more nuanced and generous and just expression of what human economics can be, one that includes not just human beings but also the other species on the planet from forests and rivers and oceans.
    This globe has to be a system that works for all of us—humans and all the other creatures as well.
    I’m not a wild-eyed optimist but hope is not about optimism. Hope is about tasting the future enough so that you will want to contribute to a new way of building the world.

CARE TO READ MORE?

    VISIT OUR BOOKSTORE: Click on the book covers above or on this text link—and you’ll jump to our recommendations of three of Matthew Fox’s books.
    CHECK OUT WIKI’S OVERVIEW: Fox’s Wikipedia page is a brief outline of his life and works.
    OR, EXPLORE HIS OWN SITE: Fox’s personal Web site is not fancy, but if you explore the links you’ll find intriguing articles and information about his life and work.
    CREATION SPIRITUALITY IN COMMUNITY: Visit a Web site set up by men and women influenced by Fox’s teachings who want to provide resources for communities living out his spiritual principles.
    COME BACK TOMORROW: On Thursday, we’ll tell you more about the Green Man from a special visit to a site made world famous in “The DaVinci Code.”

PLEASE, Tell Us What You Think.

    Not only do we welcome your notes, ideas, suggestions and personal
reflections—but our readers enjoy them as well. You can Email ReadTheSpirit Editor David Crumm. We’re also reachable on Facebook, Digg, Amazon, GoodReads and some of
the other social-networking sites as well, if you’re part of those
groups.
   (Published in the ReadTheSpirit online magazine.)

292: A Spiritual Journey to Edinburgh’s Famous “Writers’ Museum”

November 3, 2008 by


“What would the world be, once bereft of wet and wildness?
Let them be left,
O let them be left,
Wildness and wet;
Long life the weeds and the wilderness yet.”
Gerard Manley Hopkins

    HOW FAR we must travel sometimes before we can turn and peer into our own hearts!
    If you’re setting out on such a journey, there are few better destinations in the world than Scotland — the home of Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson and other great writers. The poet Gerard Manley Hopkins only lived in Glasgow for part of his life, but the Scottish love of literature led Scotland to adopt him as well.
    During out recent pilgrimage to Iona Abbey on a tiny island just off the Atlantic coast of Scotland, a pilgrim named Karen found out that I am the Editor of ReadTheSpirit. She sat down with me over lunch, where she explained that she is a writer herself and eventually she hopes to teach writing to other women.
    “I’d like to be able to help women write about their spiritual lives, but I don’t really know where to start. What do you think I should tell people about trying to write their own spiritual stories?” she asked. “For so many people, it’s a terrible challenge. We can sit and not have any idea where to start.”
    “Well,” I said, “start very simply. The three most urgent spiritual questions in most of our lives are these: Why should I climb out of bed in the morning? How will I make it through another stressful day? And, at the end of the day, what did I do that truly mattered?”
    “Really?” she said and pulled out a small notebook, writing down the three questions.
    Of course, these questions also were voiced by Tolstoy and they are echoes of the ancient questions: Why are we here? How shall we live? And, what is the impact of good and evil?

    There’s tangible evidence of this wisdom literally leaping from the pavement and gray stone walls in Edinburgh’s famous Royal Mile, which runs from the city’s storm-lashed castle down to Holyrood Palace. The Hopkins passage is etched in the outer wall of Scotland’s parliament building.
    Farther up the long, centuries-old street toward the castle is a paving stone with the words of writer Neil Gunn: “Knowledge is high in the head — but the salmon of wisdom swims deep.”
    These large paving stones lead to a remarkable close (or alleyway) that is home to the three-story Writers’ Museum, a non-profit tribute to Burns, Scott and Stevenson.

    I spent a morning in these lovingly designed chambers, where the principle of the three questions leaps from nearly every exhibit on the writers’ lives.
    In the rooms devoted to Burns, I won’t soon forget four black iron links from a surveyor’s chain preserved from the tool kit Burns himself used throughout much of his life as a surveyor for Scotland’s tax service. Despite his celebrity, which now circles the world, the key to understanding Burns’ prose is that he was a man of lowly birth who had to labor all his life as a farmer and tax-surveyor to support his family.
    As a poet, he is best understood as “the Heaven-Taught Ploughman,” the exhibit explains. His childhood in a poor, rural family and his aspirations for a more democratic world fueled his life’s work in verse.

    In Scotland, Sir Walter Scott is credited with placing an appealing, romantic version of Scotland’s culture onto a global stage. In some Scottish cultural centers and in an immense temple-like monument to Scott in Edinburgh, he is lavishly praised for saving his beloved homeland from sinking into third-world obscurity.
    But, much like Burns, Scott began with simple bits of turf. He scoured the stuff of everyday life to create his many novels. He read diaries, letters, travelogues, personal histories. Now, his novels like “Ivanhoe” and “Rob Roy” seem exotic and antique — but, in his day, Scott was knitting together the very stones, byways and villages of his native land.

    It was in the final third of the Writer’s Museum that I found the most persuasive proof that our spiritual longings lie in the simplest moments of everyday life — and, nevertheless, we often find ourselves traveling far from home in our search to truly appreciate the stuff of daily life.
    These were the galleries devoted to Stevenson, author of “Treasure Island” and a host of other books that ignited the imaginations of generations of girls and boys, setting them dreaming of adventures in distant lands.
    Stevenson devoted himself to seeing, tasting and touching daily life in many parts of the world. He circled the Earth even visiting the South Pacific islands. Often, he was traveling in search of pursuits as simple as fly fishing. A handful of his fish hooks and a favorite bamboo rod in a case are some of the closest connections I’ve ever felt to Stevenson’s world.

    In a final case stands a pair of his high-topped leather boots, lined up and down with dozens of well-worn eyes and hooks. He wore them hard. Bending down, I found that what at first appeared to be a shadow actually was a deep scuff in the right toe. In fact, the leather actually is torn and the top layer is laid back.
    What happened on that day? What was the adventure? What lines of prose that we enjoy today resulted from the impact of that toe?
    Stevenson wrote, much as I am arguing here: “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.”

    It may take a pilgrimage half-way around the world to jolt our hearts and minds awake. The “labour” of touching, tasting and smelling everyday life far from home may be the fuel required. But the spiritual destination is always the same: connecting the everyday stuff of our world with the heart deep inside us all.
    In this way, we discover not only our own stories, but that we share a larger story, as well. Or, as another stone in the Writer’s Museum courtyard puts it, in the words of Naomi Mitchison: “Go back far enough and all humankind are cousins.”

CARE TO READ MORE?
    Visit The Web Site: Curiously, given the output of the trio honored in the Writers’ Museum, there’s only a small Web page devoted to the center. If you’re curious about Edinburgh, though, it’s worth clicking on the link to download an overview of various museums on the so-called Royal Mile.

PLEASE, Tell Us What You Think.

    Not only do we welcome your notes, ideas, suggestions and personal
reflections—but our readers enjoy them as well. You can Email ReadTheSpirit Editor David Crumm. We’re also reachable on Facebook, Digg, Amazon, GoodReads and some of
the other social-networking sites as well, if you’re part of those
groups.
   (Published in the ReadTheSpirit online magazine.)

291: We’re back! Full of terrific stories like this: “The Dog in the Doorway”

November 2, 2008 by


As your ReadTheSpirit team, we took our first extended retreat — and WOW did we accumulate a whole lot of exciting stories for you. We traveled to Scotland and eventually to a remote island in the Atlantic: the isle of Iona that has been drawing pilgrims for more than 1,000 years.
    You’ll hear more about the unusual way we approached this pilgrimage — and lots more about Celtic themes, the spirituality of the natural world and uplifting stories about the pursuit of peace and justice in our often troubled world in coming weeks, right here at ReadTheSpirit.
    Today, we’ve a special treat — from a tiny town in Scotland where we experienced the following True Story that we just couldn’t resist sharing with you.

The Dog in the Doorway

CELTIC SPIRITUALITY calls us back to a closer relationship with nature — a principle vividly brought to life in the tiny Craignish Church of Scotland, which bravely withstands gale-force winds on a peninsula that extends into the Atlantic from the Highlands. This is a true story as illustrated in the photos taken discreetly (without flash or fuss that morning) as we American pilgrims worshiped in what we assumed, from the start, was an intriguing, centuries-old church. We soon came to realize that it was more remarkable for its relationship with Creation that we could have imagined as we initially passed through its double set of doors.
Here is what unfolded:


On a recent Sunday morning, the outer door to the church closes promptly at 10:15 a.m. as the congregation of a dozen souls and nine visitors hears the opening chords of the first hymn. Then, one of the parishioners carefully closes a second door leading into the main area of the church — thus, leaving her dog secured in the closed-off entryway between the two doors.
    We sing several hymns. We listen to passages from Deuteronomy and Matthew. We sing some more.
    Then, a lay preacher, vested in a purple stole over his tweed jacket, steps into the pulpit to hold forth on the day’s text and lead the congregation in prayer.
    “Truly our first duty is to love the Lord,” the preacher declares part way through his sermon. “Really this is a pure definition of religion — love of God.”
    Just then, a sound like the deep lowing of a cow comes from somewhere outside the sanctuary. Visitors glance at each other, because there are no pastures near this church. The sound could be someone’s hungry stomach grumbling, perhaps.
    “And the second great commandment that Jesus gives us is to love each other,” the preacher continues.
    The lowing rises again — and now it is apparent that the sound emanates from the doorway or, rather, this small space between the two doors. As the zenith of this service nears, the dog apparently is feeling some movement of spirit and is limbering up his own responses.

    “Why do we love each other? Why do we do this?” the preacher asks. A respectful silence reigns. No response. After all, this is a rhetorical question. Pausing for effect, the preacher launches into his answer: “We do this because it is an extension of God’s love of us. For God has created us in God’s own image.”
     Still there is silence and, despite the chilling winds blowing off the loch below the church, the preacher warms to this theme, declaring loudly, “God has set us apart from all the rest of creation.”
    Now, this strikes home. A loud lowing erupts and rises into a keening somewhere between a whistle and a hum: “Heeee-mmmm.”
    The preacher wraps up his sermon without further canine contributions. Raising his arms invitingly toward the congregation, he asks, “Shall we pray?”

    He begins with a long and respectful salutation to God, then an invocation of the Creator’s presence among us and eventually he asks: “Lord God, we thank you for your entire global community around this Earth.”
    “Heeee-mmmm. Heeee-mmmm.”
    He prays for the poor in other nations, lifts up several parishioners going through difficult times.
Silence.
    Then, the preacher intones: “We remember that people don’t always look ill, but may be hurting inside. We pray for all who are in special need of your care.”
    “Heeee-mmmm. Heeee-mmmm.”
    When these responses first were heard, some visitors and parishioners were smiling — and a couple of the visitors were even biting their lips to hold back chuckles. Now, all of us have fallen into a rhythm of communal prayer. Deep into this litany of compassion, our canine cantor is proving himself quite thoughtful — emphasizing only certain petitions, it seems. The preacher is entirely at ease as his prayer moves toward its concluding plea:
    “And finally, O God, we ask that you help us see how we can help others around us this week, taking care to bring to our minds all who may be in need of your care – and who are simply seeking the gentle touch of your hand.”
    “Heeee-mmmm. Heeee-mmmm Heeee-mmmm.”

    Another hymn, a benediction by the preacher — and the service ends with a tall, elderly parishioner scurrying into the sacristy to pour pots of fresh coffee and tea while another parishioner reopens the inner door.
    Finally, our canine companion is welcome to join the fellowship hour — and readily receives the gentle touches that are immediate answers to our collective prayers.

CARE TO READ MORE?
    Read our recent Conversation with neo-Celtic author J. Philip Newell. He comes from the Iona Community, the destination of our own pilgrimage.
    COME BACK each day this week for more stories and, on Wednesday, a Conversation With best-selling author Matthew Fox on his latest book about unlocking the secrets of our spiritual yearnings.

PLEASE, Tell Us What You Think.

    Not only do we welcome your notes, ideas, suggestions and personal
reflections—but our readers enjoy them as well. You can Email ReadTheSpirit Editor David Crumm. We’re also reachable on Facebook, Digg, Amazon, GoodReads and some of
the other social-networking sites as well, if you’re part of those
groups.
   (Published in the ReadTheSpirit online magazine.)

288: Return of the Celtic sage who calls us back to the world’s goodness

October 28, 2008 by

IN THE SECOND HALF OF OCTOBER, our
ReadTheSpirit staff is regrouping for several projects we will launch
in the next few months. During these two weeks, we’re publishing a mix
of new articles and some earlier stories that are favorites with our
readers.
    TODAY, we’re sharing a Conversation With J. Philip Newell, a Celtic theologian whose name and whose insights keep cropping up everywhere we turn in late 2008. We originally published this provocative interview back in May, but it’s well worth rediscovering this autumn. If you haven’t encountered Philip’s work already — trust me, you’re going to bump into him and his ideas somewhere in the coming year.

For more than 1,000 years, Celtic Christians have been evangelists from a distant land, bringing fresh insights to the faithful around the world — and sometimes finding themselves harshly rebuffed for their effort.
    Throughout the 20th Century, the Celtic revival flowered and began to re-seed Christendom –  even before similar movements took hold in the U.S.
    Millions of Americans are familiar with Jim Wallis, the best-selling author of “God’s Politics” and founder of Sojourners. But, in Scotland in 1938, 10 years before Wallis’ birth in 1948, the Rev. George MacLeod founded the Iona Community with principles that are a first cousin to what Wallis shaped decades later.

    Millions of Americans are aware of a renewed interest in the Orthodox realm of Christianity — rediscovering the beauty of icons, the seemingly fresh perspectives of Orthodox theology and the way that Orthodox worship engages all the senses. MacLeod was making this connection in the 1930s.
    Millions of Americans love the hauntingly beautiful Celtic music that’s everywhere these days. But the Celtic musical revival in worship really is the full flowering of a generation of Iona leadership in which J. Philip Newell ran the historic abbey in the far west of Scotland and talented musicians like John L. Bell literally were producing a whole new hymnal and book of liturgy.
    Countless Americans already know Newell’s inspirational voice — calling to them to re-engage their spiritual senses through popular books like “Listening for the Heartbeat of God.” Now, Newell takes a startlingly different approach toward readers and offers a full-fledged manifesto that seeks to reshape the way most Western Christians think about the core of their faith.

    (If you’d care to learn more, read our own series on A Pilgrimage
to Iona. You also can click on the cover or the title of Philip’s book
and you’ll jump to an additional review of the book — and can buy a
copy direct from Amazon, if you wish. We’ve got even more helpful links at the end of this story.)

    This isn’t the first time Americans have heard this appeal to a Creation-based spirituality — and an abandonment of the original-sin-and-redemption approach to the faith. In 1983, for instance, American theologian Matthew Fox published, “Original Blessing,” a milestone in the rebirth of this strain of spirituality.
    In his earlier books, Newell already has been reflecting these themes. But “Christ of the Celts” — weighing in at a remarkably slim 161 pages — is really Newell’s full-fledged Christology.
    And, since timing is everything in our rapidly churning global culture — Newell couldn’t be hitting American bookstores at a more opportune time. Everywhere readers look these days, American evangelicals are engaged in vigorous — sometimes even angry — debate over the future of Christianity.
    From the traditional end of the spectrum, Wheaton College English professor Alan Jacobs has a brand-new book appearing this month, “Original Sin,” trying to remind Americans that the traditional original-sin approach to faith still serves a very good purpose. The book proclaims that “original sin” is nothing short of “the cornerstone of our self understanding.”

    Then, at this precise moment, here’s this slender, smiling pilgrim from Scotland, his curly hair perennially windblown from hiking the highlands, stepping onto the global stage and telling Jacobs — and all of those arguing American evangelicals: “Sorry, friends. You’ve got a few things wrong.”
    Whether you agree with Newell — or regard him as a heretic, as many surely will — his spiritual message is powerful. He calls to weary men, women and young people and asks them simply to:
    Remember God’s goodness within you.
    He says: At the core of our lives is goodness, not original sin.
    He says: At the core of the Earth community, there is goodness. And, as God says in Genesis, the Earth itself is — good.
    This is a voice you cannot afford to miss in the historic debate on Christianity’s future. This is a book that, if your small group tackles its 8 chapters, you’ll be overflowing with discussion for a couple of months — and, likely, more.

    Here are highlights of our Conversation with Philip Newell from his home in Edinburgh, Scotland.

    DAVID: Many readers are going to be startled by this book, Philip. When you and I met in Iona last year, you were this very soft-spoken leader of a pilgrimage group, decked out neatly in your yellow rain gear — and I think that’s a pretty good metaphor for the way your global audience may think of you: the neatly contained, whispering voice from Scotland inviting them to rethink their Christian spirituality.
    This book is short, but it’s a major — well, the word “manifesto” comes to mind.
    PHILIP: Yes, this is a first attempt at a new Christology from within this Celtic resurgence. It’s an attempt to further root what this movement has to offer in the world today.
    But I love the phrase from Jewish mystics who talk about new-ancient words. I’m speaking about an ancient vision here but in a new way.
    As this material has been emerging, from within me and within the context of my meeting with so many people around the world over the last number of years, I’ve been aware that for some time I was speaking of the new birthing of Christ and putting it in future tense. Finally, I realized that it’s not future tense. Something is stirring now and we’re being invited now to explore this new way of seeing. We’re bringing the treasure of our tradition here –- Christ right in the heart of us.

     DAVID: My impression is that, until now, many people have bumped into the Celtic tradition mainly through music in their parish or perhaps an inspirational book. Many people think of the Celtic movement as calling people back to a love and appreciation of nature.
    But you’re pointing people another step forward in their understanding of the Celtic movement, right?
    PHILIP: Yes. I’ve been devoting a lot of my teaching and writing energy over the last 15 to 20 years on aspects of bringing the insights of the ancient Celtic tradition to people today. I think for the first major part of that effort -– at least the first 10-plus years of that — most of our focus was on the creation theme and understandably so! We were so hungry and desperate to find language that deeply incorporated the language of creation into our spiritually.
    But that’s only half the picture. At the profoundest of levels what the Celtic tradition has to bring us is not just love of creation — but love of Christ and love of creation held together.

    DAVID: When people start reading this book, they’re going to experience some surprises. Like Pelagius! Many readers won’t know his name at all — but those who do will be stunned. As far as I can recall, this is the first Christian book I’ve read in years that says: Hey, Pelagius was an all-right guy!
    I mean, your book is coming out in the same season that Alan Jacobs freshly slams Pelagius for arguing against the doctrine of original sin. Jacobs has no use for Pelagius at all. You’re saying he was an important prophet and his message is relevant today.
    PHILIP: Pelagius has been so badly misrepresented.
    A number of years ago in England, I was at an event in which Jurgen Moltmann was giving a talk and he took another swipe at Pelagius as countless others have done over the centuries. At the end of the talk, I asked him, “Have you read Pelagius?”
    He said, “Of course not!”
    I have a lot of respect for Jurgen Moltmann, but about what other theologian would he have thought to say something like that: I’ve never read him, but we all can safely criticize him.
    So much of our western Christian tradition has assumed they knew what he was teaching and on the basis of this, they’re willing to dismiss him. But, there’s been very little engagement with the material as Pelagius presented it.

    DAVID: There are others who’ve been raising this point. Tell us a little about the other voices.
    PHILIP: In the Celtic tradition for me, it was James MacKey’s book in the early 1990s, a volume James edited called, “An Introduction to Celtic Christianity,” especially from the Irish perspective. For me there was quite a groundbreaking article in that collection arguing that Pelagius was not just a “one-off” or some kind of “exceptional teacher-slash-heretic.” Rather, Pelagius was speaking from deep within a perspective that had a common ground in the Irish-Celtic tradition early on. That article opened up a new way of seeing Pelagius for me.
    If we get into reading his material, I think we can see that Pelagius was reflecting a tradition rather than just being an eccentric.
    DAVID: In the States, of course, many people are aware of Matthew Fox, who comes out of the Catholic church and for more than 20 years has been talking about Creation Spirituality. Has Fox been important in your life?
    PHILIP: Very much so. I think that Matthew Fox’s “Original Blessing” was a very significant work in many respects and it’s in “Original Blessing” that Fox flags up a type of realization that the Celtic tradition has some important perspectives to speak into today.
    I think Fox was prophetic on that front. That book came out before people had seen the big contribution of the Celtic stream of today. And, certainly on that point, the understanding that what is deepest in us is blessed — and is essentially is “of God” instead of “opposed to God” -– is so much at the core of his thinking. And, that’s what I find at the center of the Celtic Christian tradition, as well.
    I suppose that’s the common ground with Matthew Fox. The area of distinction is that so much of the work he has done in the area of Creation Spirituality is very new work and I think one of the most important aspects of the Celtic tradition that resonates so deeply with people is that it’s a recovery of an ancient tradition.
    It’s drawing from an ancient stream and trying to apply that stream to our world today. Of course, Matthew Fox also does that with many of the great mystics. But he’s also often drawing from quite a variety of new work and new thinking.

    DAVID: Your book seems so — so thin when you first look at it. And yet you cover so much ground in the book. You talk about the meaning of the cross. You touch on gospels that didn’t make it into the Bible. At one point, you talk about a gospel that’s closely associated with gnosticism, a movement that stressed secretive knowledge about the faith and formed inner circles of believers.
    Let me ask you about that point, because even flipping through your book in a bookstore, people may note those references and think you’re trying to link the Celtic with the gnostic tradition.
    PHILIP: No. I think the trouble is that the terms for gnosticism are so broadly used these days that I’m often hesitant even to talk about the terms. Just as I’m hesitant to use the term New Age.
    DAVID: Well, the good news about the phrase “New Age” is that, for the most part, the only people still trotting out that term on a regular basis are evangelical critics of what they perceive to be a “New Age” movement. It’s not a phrase we hear in the mainstream anymore, over here in the States.
    PHILIP: So much of what I’m talking about has been reduced in many places to sort of Boogeymen. You say “New Age” and it’s like you’re trying to scare someone. To a certain extent, the terms around gnosticism have been turned into Boogeymen, too.
    The terms mean a lot of things to a lot of people.
    I am attracted to the root of the original word. If what we’re talking about is a gnosis, access to a deep wisdom, then I am attracted to that. What I’m very critical of is any sense of secrecy in that wisdom. I’m also critical of any sense that higher wisdom disparages the physicalness of the body or the Earth.
    The Celtic tradition is rooted emphatically in the body and in the Earth and in physical matter.

    DAVID: You know that many people will disagree with points you’re making here — but the central voice in your work will be powerful and healing to so many. I’ve seen it myself at Iona. I’ve heard it from so many people around the world, who have emailed us here at ReadTheSpirit.
    There seems to be so much potential here — or perhaps that’s not a word you’d use.
    PHILIP: No, I tend not to use that word “potential.” There isn’t anything wrong with what you’re trying to convey with the word, except I think that word can be a starting point toward so much in our Western Christian inheritance that runs very deep and has been colored by this doctrine of original sin.
    People talk about “potential” to give the impression that we all have potential, but that means we need to become something other than ourselves. The assumption becomes that what we are right now isn’t good. What this path leads us toward is believing that we need to become something else to fulfill someone’s idea of potential.
    That serves the old spiritual paradigm.
    It’s this thinking that leads us to wake up in the morning feeling haunted, fearing what’s deep within us. Afraid.
    And what we should feel as we wake up is blessed about the goodness that’s already here in our lives and in the community around us.

    DAVID: I’m going to close by sharing with readers just a few words to illustrate where you take readers in the course of your new book.
    This is from the opening chapter, “The Memory of Song.” I love this particular passage because in this section I hear echoes of one of my other favorite writers, Frederick Beuchner. Here’s what you write in that chapter:
    “I do not believe that the gospel, which literally means “good news,” is given to tell us that we have failed or been false. That is not news, and it is not good. We already know much of that about ourselves. We know we have been false, even to those whom we most love in our lives and would most want to be true to. We know we have failed people and whole nations throughout the world today, who are suffering or who are subjected to terrible injustices that we could do more to prevent. So the gospel is not given to tell us what we already know.
    “Rather, the gospel is given to tell us what we do not know or what we have forgotten, and that is who we are, sons and daughters of the One from whom all things come. It is when we begin to remember who we are, and who all people truly are, that we will begin to remember also what we should be doing and how we should be relating to one another as individuals and as nations and as an entire earth community.”

    Care to read more?
    We’ve provided a link to our own ReadTheSpirit series on Iona.
    Visit Philip’s personal Web site.
    The photo of Philip, above, is from a set of portraits made by photographer Claudia Tammen, a freelance photographer who lives in Silverado, CA. She is currently working on a book with Philip. Her web site is www.claudiatammen.smugmug.com
    Order a copy of Philip’s book via Amazon and judge it for yourself.
    Wikipedia’s article on Pelagius is a mixed blessing. There are some obvious flaws in the Wiki text as it stands at the moment — but the overall article is a good online summary of key points and issues in Pelagius’ life. Plus, there’s an intriguing series of links toward the end to Pelagius references in literature. For example, fans of Jack Whyte’s popular series of novels about Arthur’s Britain, for example, can read about Pelagius in the course of that fictional saga.

    PLEASE, Tell Us What You Think! Click on the “Comment” link at the end of the online version of this story. Or, Email ReadTheSpirit Editor David Crumm directly.

281: Pilgrimage to Iona: “Down the Rabbit Hole to an Island Far Away”

October 19, 2008 by

IN THE SECOND HALF OF OCTOBER, our
ReadTheSpirit staff is regrouping for several projects we will launch
in the next few months. During these two weeks, we’re publishing a mix
of new articles and some earlier stories that are favorites with our
readers.
    TODAY, we’re republishing the opening chapter of one of our most popular ReadTheSpirit series — on a pilgrimage to Iona, Scotland. We won’t be reprinting the entire series this week, but you can follow the links to read the other chapters if you enjoy this first chapter:

INDEX to All 5 Parts of our “Pilgrimage to Iona” series:
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5
TO SEE AN IONA VIDEO, click on the arrow!

    (If your version of today’s chapter does not show a video screen — Click Here to see it.)

CHAPTER 1:
“Down the Rabbit Hole to a Wee Island Far Away”

      “We will be following … the Way of the Dead, but we also are following the way of thousands of pilgrims seeking new life.”
    Author and Pilgrimage Leader Beth Miller

    We are bound for Iona, land at the end of the world where priceless medieval art and popular modern song were born on a shoe-shaped island so small that it disappears from most maps. This is the story of our journey into this very real, if usually invisible, land of sailing and spiritual rebirth.
    Our leader, author Beth Miller from First United Methodist Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan, convenes our circle near our departure gate at the Toronto airport.
    “Pehh-rehh-greeen,” she says so slowly that it is impossible to understand the connection between the syllables.
    Then, she links the sounds: “Peregrine.”
    “Do you know what it means?” she asks us.
    “A falcon?” someone asks.
    She nods, and says, “Yes, but alone it means wandering. Prone to wandering. It’s a name that has been used for pilgrims for centuries. We are peregrini.“
    She pauses to let us ponder this, then says: “We are pilgrims and what we are doing right now places us in an ancient religious tradition. We understand this calling, even if we have forgotten it for a while. The calling is here inside of us. It’s why we love books like ‘The Lord of the Rings.’ But, remember that in Tolkien’s stories, Frodo did not travel alone. He traveled in a community and that’s how we have chosen to travel today.”

      We don’t feel much like a community, restlessly perched in a booming airport gateway. The plane’s other passengers certainly aren’t interested in us. And, as we eye our fellow pilgrims in our vinyl-and-chrome seats, we each wonder if even the dozen of us who professed a certain commitment to this pilgrimage will get along for nearly two weeks of difficult travel at close quarters.
    But it’s a pleasant idea. Wandering. Frodo. A fellowship of pilgrims.
    We await our flight with Beth and, as she describes our odyssey in more detail, we become mindful that landing in Glasgow, Scotland, tomorrow morning is only one of the steep steps ahead of us toward the rocky peaks of Iona. After Glasgow, there is a bus ride to Scotland’s west coast, a ship to the greater island of Mull, then a night in a cottage near a fishing village, and then a long trek across the treacherous roads of Mull to the granite quarries of Fionnphort.
    Then, there is another boat to cross a sound where four experienced men died within recent memory in stormy seas and then — only then — do we reach the fabled Iona.
    Our destination: a rocky burial ground of medieval kings, most likely the origin of the famed illuminated gospels known as the Book of Kells, the birthplace of a modern revival of Celtic spiritual music — and, perhaps most remarkable of all, a brave brow of stone for millions of years defying the vast might of the Atlantic.

    “We are told that Iona may have been some of the first rock to rise from the seas and, at the end of time, may be the last to vanish,” Beth tells us. “This may be why so many great men and women wanted to be buried there.”
    She says, “Toward the end of our journey, we will be following the final path of high kings who passed away long ago, the Way of the Dead — but we also are following the way of thousands of pilgrims seeking new life.”


    Who wouldn’t feel they were falling into the pages of “The Lord of the Rings” or “The Chronicles of Narnia” with that kind of overture?
    Then, our leader’s final words are punctuated by a booming voice from the airport speakers: “This is the final boarding call for Flight …”
    As we take a breath and, for a moment, look and listen to the people seated behind our own circle, we contemplate these other passengers, moving so casually to other ends beside us: A young man taps a message on a cell phone. Another reads a paperback thriller and sips a Starbuck’s.
    A mother calls sharply to her daughter: “Come here now! We’re going soon.”
    A man says to a woman: “It will be green there, very green.”
    She says, “I know I’ll love it.”
    He leans his cheek close to hers, pauses, then kisses her cheek.

     Gradually, we refocus on Beth’s face.
    She knows the timing, the pace of leadership, and she has waited to say this next thing: “Pilgrimage takes us outward to our sacred destination, but it also takes us inward.
    “What are you seeking? Ask yourself that and consider this, as well: We are each traveling as an individual, but I want us to contemplate the community we are forming.”

    Community. There it is again.
    Perhaps, but the truth is that the first stage of most trans-atlantic pilgrimages from the United States is a turbulent, solitary dream.
    We board our airliner close to evening and buckle ourselves into snug, womb-like seats, knees neatly tucked, arms folded at our sides, braced for the transformation about to take place.
    As the plane bumps, then soars, pressure builds in our ears and hearing moves from normal clarity to waves of sound that are barely able to roll over the constant hiss and hum of the plane.
    Soon, the air itself tastes foreign as the scents of food and our companions mix into a gaseous stew, like fish breathing in warm water.
    Finally, the captain dims the lights, “so that you can catch some sleep,” he tells us in a crisp British accent as he concisely explains the time zones we are speeding through backwards, consuming time faster than normal, turning time inside out.
    As the lights fade, only the bright rectangles of movie images glow and flicker form a half dozen screens visible to each of us around the airplane — and most of us cannot sleep.


    Then, we sleep.
    We dream fitfully.
    Or do we? Suddenly, I am awake in the wee hours, looking over at the pastor of this Ann Arbor church, the Rev. Douglas Paterson, sitting wide awake on my right with a magazine open on his knees to a bold headline: “Dark Nights.”
    What are the odds of that in the middle of an actual dark night?
    I MUST still be dreaming in this airplane speeding backward — or is it forward — through time.
    But I recognize the reference in Christian mysticism. St. John of the Cross, the great 16th-Century mystic considered a Doctor of the Church, had a famous “Dark Night of the Soul.”
    Others, too: Georgia Harkness, the 20th Century theologian and ecumenical pioneer, the famous author Frederick Buechner — and now myself, apparently.

    I shake my head, reach out for Doug’s magazine to see if it is real.
    “You want this?” he asks. “I’m done with it.”
    I nod and discover that it is, indeed, a real magazine as my fingers touch the smooth pages. It’s an issue of Christian Century magazine, a review of “Come Be My Light,” a recently published collection of private writings of Mother Teresa. The key insight in this new book, the reviewer concludes, is that this candidate for sainthood had many achingly real doubts throughout her long life.

    I shake my head again. Even Mother Teresa had solitary fears and doubts?

     This is just great! Just what I want to discover, bumping along in a darkened plane on what we’ve already been warned will be a challenging pilgrimage.
    My own doubts come flooding:
    Did I pay that last bill before I left home? Back up that computer file? Was it a mistake to set work aside to become a pilgrim?
    I try to settle back in my enveloping seat, re-tuck my knees, re-fold my arms, close my eyes. But I cannot sleep.
    Not now.
    I can’t see much, yet, but I can see this:

    I don’t even care much anymore about the people seated around me. I cannot sleep. I am a person of enormous responsibilities weighing on me like a slab of Iona marble on this dark night so far above the earth.

CLICK ON THE LINKS AT THE TOP OF TODAY’S STORY TO ENJOY THE OTHER CHAPTERS.

Please, tell us what you think! Email me personally by clicking here. Or, click on the Comment link in our Web site and post your thoughts for other readers.

St. Patrick’s various “Breastplates” …

March 16, 2008 by

St. Patrick’s Breastplate is a Gaelic prayer in verse that, down through the centuries, branched into many different forms. Some popular sections were excerpted to form shorter prayers. The prayer also is associated with hymns, with folk music, with the fine arts and various multimedia presentations. Sections of this famous prayer show up all around the world today.
    The original was based on a passage in Ephesians in the New Testament of the Bible in which St. Paul talks about putting on the “armor of God” each day.
    Historians aren’t certain that St. Patrick actually wrote these words. The verses may have been penned “in the tradition of Patrick” centuries after his death.

    FIRST: Here’s one of the lengthier English-language versions that’s popular around the world to this day. Many adaptations of these verses jump past the opening section to the line “I arise today through the strength of Heaven …” Many others jump to the lower section that begins “Christ with me …”
     (NOTE: After this version, we’ve ALSO included, below, the popular hymn version of the text.)

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ’s birth with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,
Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,
In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God’s strength to pilot me:
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s way to lie before me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man’s body and soul.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.
.

   SECOND: Of course, the prayer (above) is not the only English version of this Gaelic prayer. Many know the lines as rendered in a hymn from the late 1800s.
    The following hymn is a popular version of St. Patrick’s Breastplate penned by Cecil Frances Alexander, a poet and philanthropist who was married to an Anglican clergyman. She was prolific in her writing and also is responsible for Christmas carols, including “Once in Royal David’s City,” as well as the famous hymn, “All Things Bright and Beautiful.”

Here is her rendition of the St. Patrick prayer in the form of a hymn:

 

 

I bind unto myself today
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same
The Three in One and One in Three.
I bind this today to me forever
By power of faith, Christ’s incarnation;
His baptism in Jordan river,
His death on Cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spicèd tomb,
His riding up the heavenly way,
His coming at the day of doom
I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself the power
Of the great love of cherubim;
The sweet ‘Well done’ in judgment hour,
The service of the seraphim,
Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word,
The Patriarchs’ prayers, the prophets’ scrolls,
All good deeds done unto the Lord
And purity of virgin souls.

I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the star lit heaven,
The glorious sun’s life giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea
Around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today
The power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay,
His ear to hearken to my need.
The wisdom of my God to teach,
His hand to guide, His shield to ward;
The word of God to give me speech,
His heavenly host to be my guard.
Against the demon snares of sin,
The vice that gives temptation force,
The natural lusts that war within,
The hostile men that mar my course;
Or few or many, far or nigh,
In every place and in all hours,
Against their fierce hostility
I bind to me these holy powers.
Against all Satan’s spells and wiles,
Against false words of heresy,
Against the knowledge that defiles,
Against the heart’s idolatry,
Against the wizard’s evil craft,
Against the death wound and the burning,
The choking wave, the poisoned shaft,
Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.
Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the Name,
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same,
The Three in One and One in Three.
By Whom all nature hath creation,
Eternal Father, Spirit, Word:
Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
Salvation is of Christ the Lord.

(And, so ends her 19th-Century hymn.)

Care to read the “Breastplate” in Gaelic? In 2010, thanks to an alert reader, we posted a Gaelic version as well. And there’s a link, as well, to a book of traditional Irish verse from which it comes.

Originally published at readthespirit.com, an online magazine covering religion and cultural diversity.

 

 

026: Pilgrimage to Iona, Part 5: “The Island’s Final Spiritual Riddle”

October 25, 2007 by

INDEX to All 5 Parts of our “Pilgrimage to Iona” series:
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

     Welcome to the final chapter of our 5-part series: A Pilgrimage to Iona! For today’s VIDEO, there’s a link below.

    Let’s Clear Up one point of confusion that has been voiced by readers: In our story about the pilgrimage, Rick Miller and Beth Miller are not related, although they have the same last name. If you’ve followed our story throughout the week, hopefully you “know” Beth now as the wise and resourceful leader in our fellowship of pilgrims. Perhaps if we stepped into the pages of “The Lord of the Rings,” a trilogy of novels mentioned more than once on Iona, Beth would be a cross between Aragorn and Galadriel—wise leader and visionary. You might envision Rick Miller as the Legolas in our company of pilgrims—quick, quiet, wise and resourceful. And, no, they’re not related by blood or marriage.

    At this point, we know you’re packed for the journey and eager to go … So, on with our Spiritual Adventure …

 

CHAPTER 5:

“The Island’s Final Spiritual Riddle” 

“Is a chapel in a graveyard a strange place to end a pilgrimage? I think not.”
    Simon de Voil, guide on Iona’s strenuous walking pilgrimage


Iona is small.
    Even before the orb of the sun has broken over the shoulders of Mull’s mighty peaks –-
    Even before the winds of day can disturb the silver sheet of water that separates Iona and the abandoned granite quarries of Fionnphort, making it seem inconceivable to a newcomer that four experienced men could have drowned in this placid little sound within recent memory -–
    Even before the sheep stir and call in the pasture beside the abbey –-
    Even before a proper cup of strong tea is brewed or served –-
    Our fellowship of a dozen American pilgrims is pushed into community with Others –- the dozens of pilgrims who have arrived from other lands.
    Each week, pilgrims are herded into the two-story stone residence hall, where the abbey staff sorts everyone into 20 monastic cells. Pilgrims are packed sometimes three and even four into these tiny rooms with the most basic of fixtures: narrow beds, one chair per room, one wooden chest and a wee table no bigger than a footstool tucked between the beds.
    Then, before dawn in this cramped residence, we find ourselves forced into this new community — in the showers.
    The showers are so few and so small that morning showering is a slow procession. “Like lining up for a little eternity, isn’t it, just to get a drizzle of warm water down our backs in a phone booth so small that you can’t even scrub your back,” one pilgrim from Liverpool says.

 

    It was hard enough dealing with the awkwardness and messiness of living with the dozen pilgrims I knew so well from home. Now, the reality of living shoulder to shoulder with people from around the world is a jolt.
    I poke my head into the narrow anteroom that leads to the one men’s shower on our floor and find a line of other men so tightly packed that I cannot fully open the door.
    A man from Fornby in a fleecy robe and a thick towel around his shoulders sees that I am surprised and hesitant about this cramped situation and he grins cheerily. “Queue up, young fellow!” he calls.
    I cannot back out now. So, stepping into these confines, my towel and soap and shampoo tucked in the crook of my arm — I glimpse in my mind’s eye the yawning chasm that now separates me from the comfortable bathroom I enjoy back in the States.
    Just then, a tall Swiss psychologist, Ernst Meier, leans forward in the line two places in front of me and smiles back in my direction. “David!” he calls out.
    “Ernst,” I say and nod politely, thinking: What is European protocol in a shower line?
    “David, last night when we were talking, do you remember what we talked about?” he asks. “You told me that some of your family comes from Switzerland and you told me of this village that is yours: Jegenstorf. And, you will remember that I said I did not know this village at all.”
    “Yes,” I said nodding. A man from Liverpool is nodding, too. Ernst now has the attention of the entire line of waiting men.
    “Well, I have looked into this!” Ernst says, pointing a long finger at me.
    “You have?” I ask. I am stunned. Over the years, I have casually told thousands of people that my family tree has a good share of Swiss within its trunk. And never before has anyone “looked into this.”
    “Yes,” Ernst says, quite seriously as if he has just run a battery of tests for some exotic disorder. “And I have found this Jegenstorf, too. It was something of a search, because you said your home was near Zurich. And it is in the canton of Berne, actually. But I tracked you down.”

    I try to nod graciously. His turns of phrase are compelling. He tracked me down?

    “You see, here is the problem: Your village is a place that people like us —” and then he chuckles and shakes his head at his own phrase. “I say, ‘Like us,’ and what does this mean?” he says, now mocking himself as he repeats again: “Like us?”
    He continues, “I mean, people like me from the big cosmopolitan centers, you know, like I am from Zurich, very cosmopolitan, or even Berne — people like us from these places would not even know about a village like your Jegenstorf.”
    I am thinking: MY Jegenstorf? I’ve never been there. This is the stuff of family mythology since my childhood.
    “It is a small place, very rural and they have these distinctive houses there. Do you know this?” he asks.
    And, oddly enough: Yes, I do know the houses. How do I know them?
    Then, he actually clears a space in this jammed anteroom. Somehow the queue of robed and towel-draped men — like latter-day monks — parts sufficiently that Ernst can spread his long arms side to side. He dips his knees and looks up at me, lowering his entire frame so that his body forms a low triangle with his arms spread out.
    And, oddly enough: I know that shape. I know what he is modeling.
    “The houses are built like this, aren’t they?” he asks me. “With these long, long roofs like my arms here that nearly touch the ground on each side.”
    He is miming a family home that I have never visited, but that flashes forward in my mind — a Kodachrome snapshot taken decades ago by the first relative in my family to return to Switzerland, after most of a century had past, to find the family homestead.
    Ernst is showing me that home in a shoulder-to-shoulder anteroom in the cells of Iona.
    All I can say is: “That is it! I do remember, now, seeing a photograph of that when I was just a boy.” And, I am seeing it again in Iona.
    “Yes,” he says, kindly. He rises. A man from Fornby now shoulders his way out of the little shower and it now is Ernst’s turn in the booth.
    “Well,” Ernst says. “What I would tell you, David, is this: You should travel there. It would do you much good, I think. That is a pilgrimage for you, isn’t it? You really should go home again.”
    But — in that moment, I have.

    Hot showers are essential, if difficult, on Iona because pilgrims often get wet and muddy.
    The core of a week at the abbey is a one-day walking pilgrimage across the length and breadth of the island itself. This ritual dates to the Rev. George MacLeod’s revival in 1938, when he brought both clergy and craftsmen to the island to rebuild the monastic portions of the abbey that the Duke of Argyll had not reconstructed in his revival of the church just before World War I.
    MacLeod searched Iona for the most memorable geologic and historical points of interest on the 3-mile long by 1-mile wide island. Then, he wrote a guide to reflections that should be read to pilgrimage groups at each point. Often, he performed this delicious challenge himself, even to the extent of standing atop Iona’s highest peak, called Dun I, spreading his arms wide and inviting his weary band of followers to envision Jesus himself standing on this peak in one of the gospel stories.
    “Oh, some of George’s meditations, like the one on the peak of Dun I, were said to be grand scenes, indeed,” the Rev. Malcolm King, current rector of the abbey said. “He was the master of such things.”

    And, ever since MacLeod established that muscular and spiritual challenge for visitors to the island –- each week, pilgrims continue to spend one full day on a seven-mile-long course: hiking, climbing, slogging and occasionally crawling across the rocky ridges and deep bogs of Iona. And, just when the newcomers seem winded or overwhelmed with the weight of their muddy boots, the Iona guides to this day pause for religious meditations suggested by MacLeod.
    This is much like the Muslim Hajj in which the basic pilgrimage is the journey to Mecca, but the heart of the experience involves a strenuous walking course to points of sacred reflection. At one point along the arduous course, Muslims even pick up stones and throw them in a physical demonstration of their rejection of evil.

    In MacLeod’s walking pilgrimage, to this day, men and women stumble over rocky crests and slog through knee-deep bogs to reach the rocky beach where St. Columba and his 12 monks first landed in 563.
    Pilgrims tend to flop down on this beach, despite its lack of sand, and feel the red, white and gray, ocean-worn rocks rattle as we try to settle our weight comfortably on this punishing surface. Rocks are not an ideal bed for over-taxed muscles and sore ankles.
    Our guide, Simon deVoil, a young Scottish staffer at the abbey, lets us squirm and even invites us to eat some sandwiches packed for us that morning in the refectory. But he keeps our focus on the rocks all around us.
    “We want you all to select two of these rocks!” he says at length. “The first stone you pick up will represent all that we pray to cast away from us and leave behind today. So, I’d pick a good sized one, if I were you –- to throw away as much as you possibly can at such an opportunity, right?”
    We chuckle and search the shore for appropriate rocks.
    “Then choose a second to represent spiritual gifts we plan to take home,” he says. “But don’t take too many –- we’ve lots of pilgrims and we don’t want to walk away with the whole beach, now, do we?”
    I laugh again at this line. Then, I watch the other pilgrims around me. This is only the middle of our week on the island and I see pilgrims picking up rocks as big as melons to cast away from them. I see pilgrims pocketing four, six –- even 10 stones to carry home.
    There’s a whole lot of spiritual work unfolding here, after all.
    Pilgrims reach way back and fling their rocks with abandon! It’s a wonder that no one is knocked down in the process. And I remember a Muslim friend who came back from the Hajj with a bandage just behind his ear and he explained to me that an especially high-spirited pilgrim somewhere behind him had unintentionally knocked him cold in the stone-throwing phase of the Hajj.

    Of course, there’s far more than throwing and saving stones.
    We sing. Scriptures are read. We pray.
    There are many reflections involving the geography and geology of the island. An amber-colored pond high in the ridges at the south end of the island, once the source of Iona’s drinking water, is the site for a meditation on the precious nature of water for billions of humans all around the world.
    But we begin to realize that the spirit of this walking discipline is not really in the words or music. There’s something else working in the complex chemistry.
    At some point throughout the day — and that point differs for each of us — we find ourselves just a little annoyed as this realization dawns on us. I begin to suspect: Is this yet another riddle?
    Exactly where in this sodden, boggy, rocky, ankle-twisting landscape is the Spirit?
    And, then we grow weary. Even the fittest among us grow weary.
    Gradually, we realize that at least part of the energy within this spiritual exercise lies in the humbling experience of bruising ourselves — in pride, if not always in muscle. It lies in falling down in the slick ooze of the bogs, scraping our shins on sharp-edged ledges and tripping on the knot-like stems of heather.

    Finally, when the abbey itself actually is within our view — just an easy walk — Simon de Voil waves his arms and leads us away from it to our final point of meditation. No, not inside the abbey where there are comfortable seats on which we could rest. No, he herds us all into the centuries-old stone chapel of St. Oren in the Iona graveyard with its stone floors and lack of seats.
    We stand on aching muscles.
    Now, this is no longer a riddle, but a cruel joke! This is some cheesy attempt to revive the medieval Dance of Death — those grim artworks designed to bring Christians to their knees with visual reminders that the figure of Death comes to dance with each of us.
    Simon solemnly intones: “Is a graveyard a strange place to end a pilgrimage? I think not.”
    Then, he leads us in a weary rendition of the hymn that affirms: “The world is not my home forever.”
    Is that truly the end?

    Not quite.
    Several more waves of revelation await us.

    The first comes as we pull off sodden clothing, wash, gulp down Motrin and ponder how fragile we are as humans when grappling with even the smallest of islands.
    Each wave of Others who cross Iona, even in this narrative that you have been reading this week, claims to understand something about this island and, by making such a claim, to control Iona in some way.
    On the contrary, humans work on Iona like waves crashing on the craggy rocks. Intellectually, we know that each roll of the brine does reshape the rocky shore — but imperceptibly, of course, and this realization that we feel in our sore muscles is one of the truly Celtic revelations in our long quest: We are part of a Creation that should humble us in our fleeting dance across its shores.

    The second revelation comes at dinner as the pilgrims tell their stories over the long oak tables. And this, too, is Celtic because it is a lesson about the spiritual goodness of community. This lesson stumbles from our lips — all of our lips — as a heartfelt litany in the refectory as we remember and affirm these things:
    “You!” we call to a companion. “Yes, you! You pulled me from that bog where I might have lost my shoe and what was left of my pride forever! Thank you!”
    “You had that stick that helped me regain my footing!”
    “You showed me how to rest on the heather!”
    “You laughed with me!”
    “You brought me ice for my ankle!”
    “You pulled me up on that ledge when I know I would have gone head over heels!”
    “You! Thank you!”

    Then, there is a third revelation — and, now, we think we are completely off the boundaries of the neatly printed schedule of abbey programs that hangs each day on the refectory wall. As the week has unfolded, men and women — Catholics, Anglicans, Protestants and people of no specific religious denomination at all — have felt drawn to end their day — even after the nightly 9 p.m. abbey service — with night prayers.
    And where do these pilgrims spontaneously gather?
    It’s only known by word of mouth, so it’s not immediately discernible that night prayers are even taking place. I don’t find my way toward this circle until the night after our long hike, well into the week.
    And, where?
    The pilgrims gather, as they feel so moved — with no formal organization — in St. Oren’s chapel in the cemetery. That is the very place I had dismissed as a cruel joke, a literal dead end.
    And their numbers swell through the week as relationships form and the Spirit works on people to restlessly draw them toward more and more acts of communal worship — so that even the 9 p.m. abbey service cannot  quench their desire just to pause and pray together.
    By the time I finally catch on and head toward St. Oren’s, I have to crowd into the little chapel. Candles glow, but so low that it is not entirely clear who is praying close at hand — until Ernst moves to the front of the chapel and says that, finally, he feels moved to share one of his most treasured gifts from the mountains of his homeland.
    He opens his mouth and, in a resonant bass, he intones a centuries-old, Swiss-German invocation of God’s and the Virgin Mary’s protection on farmers in the unforgiving landscape of the Alps — farmers from tiny towns like Jegenstorf, perhaps.
    Then, and only then, do I recall something Malcolm told us, plain as day, on our first night at the abbey. They were words that I jotted in my notebook with the dutiful discipline of a journalist who jots down everything, in case it might mean something later. But they were words that I immediately dismissed as meaningless — until this moment in St. Oren’s chapel.
    Now, sitting in the glow of Ernst’s bass voice — echoing centuries of faith from the Alps — I realize what Malcolm meant when he said: “You will learn here that we are something different on Iona. We are not a hotel. We are not a retreat center. We are a community. And, in time, you will discover this.”

 

 

 

 

     Do you see the final riddle, yet — and its answer?
    On the final morning on Iona, Ernst sprinkles salt on his porridge in the Scottish manner. He has learned this from some of the staff on Iona, he says proudly, and rather likes it this way.
    Then, he tells his new friends around the table that he has decided to take a break in his years-long habit of setting out on quests for spiritual revelations around the world.
    Already, he has been to Asia to live for a time with a shaman and to the rain forests of the Amazon to look for tribal healers. He has trekked along the pilgrimage routes to Spanish shrines.
    “Oh,” he says, shrugging. “Ohhhh, there is perhaps one more pilgrimage I want to make in Tibet someday — but that will be some day, I think. Because, now, I may not feel so moved to make these trips — at least not for a long while.
    “There is something about this place. Iona. This place, I think, will have a long, as we say in  German, a long nachklingen,” and he flattens his hand and moves it slowly through the air like a calm wave flowing from person to person. “Iona will go on and on among us for a long time like the lingering sound of a perfect note.”

    Before boarding the ferry at the Iona jetty, we move into the abbey one last time and together we pray these words from the liturgy of parting: “For the path that lies before us now, and our futures in your hands, we thank you, Living God.”
    The entire abbey staff walks the narrow road with us to the jetty and stands, shoulder to shoulder, as the steel ramp of the ferry rises.

    And this is the final spiritual riddle of Iona:
    Yes, Iona is small.
    And, yes, Iona is as big as the world.

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