Clericalism: A Lament

I have to admit that this lament from a Roman Catholic priest deeply touched my soul. It's entitled "How much corruption can we tolerate in the church before we leave?"

It is a response to a fairly lengthy lament by a former Roman Catholic Priest, James Carroll, which appeared in The Atlantic entitled: "Abolish the Priesthood."

I found myself weeping not so much out of sadness but because I recognized his pain.

There is a great deal of good about the Roman Catholic Church - at least, as I remember the one of my youth. That's why it was so hard to leave it. I knew its intent. I knew its potential. I had seen the good it could accomplish - indeed, had benefited myself from it - all in the name of Jesus.

I also knew there was something corrupt that was eating away and destroying the good. Something that was not only bad but had the potential for evil. Real evil. I saw it on the faces of my male classmates when they were called out of class to go to Father's office.

"Father's Boys" we girls called them, out of a sense of envy at their status which allowed them to serve father at the altar while we were forbidden.

Looking back, I see how sadly ironic was our envy! Knowing what I now know, I wouldn't have traded places with them for all the Pagan Babies we had sponsored in Africa and Cambodia.

I didn't have a name for what I couldn't even imagine was going on behind the dread and the sadness on their faces. But, now I do. It's called "pedophilia" - an aptly Latin sounding diagnosis for Roman Catholic priests who had been carefully fed a diseased and deadly theology: clericalism.

We do have our own pernicious forms of clericalism in The Episcopal Church. We've seen it make sickening appearances in private Episcopal schools in New Hampshire and Connecticut. We've heard the cries of women who have been sexually assaulted by priests.

Except, we don't call it that. Heavens, no! That would be almost as vulgar as "seduction" or "abuse of power" or (gasp!) rape.

The sanitized term is "boundary violation". It is, in and of itself, evidence of clericalism.

No, things are not as bad in The Episcopal Church as in The Roman Catholic Church. I am convinced that extending the sacramental rites of Marriage and Ordination to everyone with a vocation to family and/or ordained life has provided the grace to help prevent clergy going off the guardrails of human decency.

The question for The Episcopal Church is not the same as the one being asked by these two Roman Catholic priests. The issue, however, is the same.

Clericalism.

We are infected with it, too. I cringe every time I'm in a room filled with clergy who are years younger than I (not so difficult an accomplishment, these days), they in their black suits - male and female - tripping over themselves as they delight to call each other "Father" or "Mother".

They have no idea that what lies behind the delight in the status of their titles is the disease of clericalism. They are oblivious to the danger.

No, it will not lead, ipso facto, to pedophilia or other "boundary violations". Of course not. But, the attitude behind those titles, the disease lurking at the fringes of the fabric of those black suits, is real.

We are all called by our baptism to servant ministry. The grace of the sacramental right of ordination is meant to amplify that vocation. Clericalism diminishes it.

When the salary packages of clergy become the largest line item in the budget, even more than what monies we commit to helping God's children and all of God's creatures and creation, we are dancing on the razor's edge of clericalism.

When we believe that a very public display of Liturgical Lament for the sin of "boundary violation" and extending the "statute of limitation" on filing complaints against those abuses addresses the problem, we are peering into the abyss of clericalism.

When we think that a Title IV process which seeks reconciliation first instead of justice is the remedy for the pain experienced by those who have been violated, we are being distracted by the descant of clericalism.

Only a thorough examination of consciences - as the nuns of my youth used to teach - of the sin of clericalism and a desire to repent and sin no more will stop its effects.

Only then will we understand that titles and collars and robes with cinctures and ornate vestments do not give us either identity or elevated status; rather these things are to remind us of the ancient vocation of having been set a part for (not set apart from) the privilege of servant ministry.

The tragic situation in the Roman Catholic Church presents us with a cautionary story as well as the opportunity to clean our own house.

Clericalism. We need to say it. Examine it. Own it. Change it.

How much clericalism will we tolerate before we make the changes necessary to be a servant church which honors and serves the priesthood of all believers so that we might serve and change the world?

That is as much a lament as it is a question.

flag day

Today is Flag Day. 
 

It's also Mary Bothelo's birthday. 
 

Mary and I were in Elementary School together from first grade to fifth grade. Mary's father was a truck driver and she missed him a lot. Her father was Roman Catholic but her mother was a Jehovah's Witness. 
 

She hated that, mostly because, since her father was away a lot, she couldn't celebrate her birthday OR Flag Day. AND she had to leave the classroom whenever we said the Pledge of Allegiance. 

She also could not salute a picture of the POTUS (Eisenhower, at the time), with our carton of room-temperature milk. She just stood at her desk, eyes down at her feet, carton of milk next to the graham cracker snack on her desk. 

She, like me, was also first generation Portuguese American. Sometimes, we spoke Portuguese to each other on the playground. We made sure the other kids couldn't hear us, of course, but the "double deception" made us giggle. 

In the summer before the 6th grade, my family moved to the suburbs to start living "The Great American Dream" in our Very Own House. 
 

I haven't seen or heard from Mary Bothelo since. 
 

But, I don't think I'll ever forget her or the sadness on her face when she had to leave the room every morning. I remember that when she put her hand on the doorknob, she always looked back at us. I always gave her a very small wave. 
 

She always responded by looking tough and nodding her head slightly to acknowledge my small act of friendship.

As I think about it now, I think that made us more American than any pledge we could recite or any carton of milk we could raise to honor a President. Defiant compliance and friendship in the face of tensions between church and state.

We've always been a nation of Outsiders. Are now. Always will be. 

Everyone in America came here from a different place. 

We all have roots in other lands. We are all transplants.

The sooner we understand that the better we'll embody the real Spirit of America, which an unfurled flag - stars and stripes and a variety of colors coexisting together and snapping at the wind - can't even begin to capture.

flag

By Jacqueline Woodson

When the kids in my class ask why

I am not allowed to pledge to the flag

I tell them It's against my religion but don't say,

I am in the world but not of the world. This,

they would not understand.

Even though my mother's not a Jehovah's Witness,

she makes us follow their rules and

leave the classroom when the pledge is being said.

Every morning, I walk out with Gina and Alina

the two other Witnesses in my class.

Sometimes, Gina says,

Maybe we should pray for the kids inside

who don't know that God said

"No other idols before me." That our God

is a jealous God.

Gina is a true believer. Her Bible open

during reading time. But Alina and I walk through

our roles as Witnesses as though this is the part

we've been given in a play

and once offstage, we run free, sing

"America the Beautiful" and "The Star-Spangled Banner"

far away from our families—knowing every word.

Alina and I want

more than anything to walk back into our classroom

press our hands against our hearts. Say,

"I pledge allegiance . . ." loud

without our jealous God looking down on us.

Without our parents finding out.

Without our mothers' voices

in our heads saying, You are different.

Chosen.

Good.

When the pledge is over, we walk single file

back into the classroom, take our separate seats

Alina and I far away from Gina. But Gina

always looks back at us—as if to say,

I'm watching you. As if to say,

I know.

Jacqueline Woodson, "flag" from Brown Girl Dreaming. Copyright © 2014 by Jacqueline Woodson.

Source: Brown Girl Dreaming (Nancy Paulsen Books, 2014)

Sopa da pedra

I brought home quite a few rocks from Scotland. I don't know why, really. I just did. I always do it wherever I travel. I have rocks from every country I've ever visited, all scattered here and there around the house.

I suppose that's why I dreamed last night of my grandmother making "Sopa da pedra" or "Stone Soup". Like so much of what she cooked and baked, my grandmother had a story to tell about the dish which told us something about who we are and what we believe.

I'm sure every culture has it's own version of "Stone Soup," but according to Portuguese folklore, a mendicant Franciscan friar was on pilgrimage and was passing through a small village just north of Lisbon when he was hungry but found that he had nothing to eat. He stopped by a house and knocked on the door, asking if he could borrow a pot in which he could make a delicious and filling stone soup. Curious but also devoutly religious people who understood what Jesus said about hospitality, the family invited him in.

The friar reached into his deep pocket to produce a smooth and well-cleaned stone that he promptly dropped into the boiling water in the ironclad cauldron in the fireplace.

A little while later he tasted the soup and said that it needed a touch of seasoning. So the wife brought him some salt to add, to which he suggested that maybe a little bit of chouriço or pork belly would be better. Graciously, she obliged and dropped several thick slices into the pot. Then, the friar asked if she might not have a little something to enrich the soup, such as potatoes or beans from a previous meal.

Smiling broadly at his clever game, she agreed and added a healthy portion into the bubbling water. This continued for a while, the friar tasting the soup and then the family supplying some other ingredient. Finally, the friar announced that he had indeed made a very delicious and filling soup. When the soup was done, the friar fished the stone out of the pot, washed and dried it off, and plopped it back in his pocket for the next time.

He and the family ate a delicious soup for dinner after which he told them many stories from the bible. When the family woke up in the morning, they found the friar had already gone but he had left enough soup for them to feed the poor and hungry in the village.

My grandmother said that when we ate this soup we should remember the Portuguese virtues of hospitality, generosity, and community, especially in times of crisis.

She used to end the story by holding up her hand and saying, "See? There are four fingers and a thumb. Each finger is different from the other and the thumb looks nothing like a finger. Yet," she'd say as she closed her hand, "they all belong to the same hand. And, know this: If you take one finger away, the hand does not work as well."

As she served the soup she'd always say, "Keep a stone in your pocket and you'll never go hungry," adding, "Jesus said that if we are silenced in praising God for all the wonders of creation, even the stones will cry out."

Maybe that's why I collect rocks from other countries.

Snakes and Serpents and Sea Monsters

This is my last day in Scotland. It's a wet and windy and chill-you-right-to-your-bones kind day.

I was supposed to have been a real tourist today and had planned to take a coach up to the Highlands to Loch (Lake) Ness and Inverness, but the weather made that trip very unappealing, so I cancelled.

Instead, I slept in a bit and had a leisurely breakfast. Then, I spent the day riding the bus to Glasgow and taking the train to Edinburgh and back.

I love talking to the locals on the bus and the train and in shops and restaurants.

It was a thoroughly delightful day - well, except for the rain and the cold and the wind. I have fallen in love with this country and its people. And, oh, I love the stories they have to tell.

So, when I told people that I had originally planned to head to Loch Ness, the conversation naturally came 'round to snakes. I personally am not fond of the creatures. I suspect that has a great deal to do with my first introduction to them coming as it did from the Bible Story of Eden where the snake is represented as the symbol of evil and temptation and "poison".

I am absolutely fascinated to learn that Celtic spirituality holds a very different understanding about these slithering creatures.

I learned that snakes are symbols not of evil but of transformation.

The Ancient Celts, connected as they were to creatures and creation, would watch the snake struggle to shed its skin and come through the struggle a renewed creature.

For that reason, when Christians like St. Columba came to Scotland talking about baptism and being "born again," the Celts understood the concept perfectly from their observation of snakes in nature.

One will often see Celtic knots at the base of a cross and if one looks closely, the knot is made up of several snakes.  The Triquetra representing the Trinity is often made up of snakes.

St. Columba's cross has snakes at the base. There's a story about him and sea serpents, which are understood to be very large snakes who live in lochs (or lakes) like Loch Ness.

The story goes that, in the 6th Century, St. Columba and a companion were staying with the Picts when he saw some folks burying a man by the River Ness.  They told him that the man had been swimming in the river when a 'water beast' came and dragged him underwater. They tried to rescue him by boat but when they finally got to him, he was already dead.

St. Columba sent his companion into the water to confront the beast.  The beast approached him, but Columba made the sign of the cross and said to the Sea Monster: "Go no further. Do not touch the man. Go back at once."

The creature stopped as if it had been "pulled back with ropes" and fled, and Columba's men and the Picts gave thanks for what they perceived as a miracle.

Some of the locals say that this is proof that the Loch Ness Monster lives. One of the women I spoke with on the train said that her father and brothers had been swimming in Loch Ness and saw a huge fish that was "the size of a monster".

An alleged picture of Nessie, swimming in the Loch

The boys were all excited, she said, but on closer inspection, her father proclaimed it to be a very large cat fish.

Another woman told me that the sea-serpent is a very important animal to Celtic spirituality.

Ancient Celtic mythology holds that the Sun and the Moon were hatched from two crimson sea-serpent eggs hidden in a willow tree.

This led the Celts to give the sea-serpent multiple meanings ranging from transformation to various contradictory meanings, such as life and death, danger and assistance, illusion and reality. They are not at all surprised to know that the snake plays such a central role in the Creation story.

"But, just use the imagination that God gave ye when you was born, lass," said one woman, "Just go back and read that story in the Bible about the Garden. Now, instead of seeing the snake as evil, look on the snake as a creature that invites transformation and new life. Ah, see? Gives a whole new meaning to the story, don't it? "

"That's the power of the snake or the serpent," she said, "they remind us that life is constantly changing and what we think is negative or harmful is simply an illusion."

Then, she added, "And, now ya understand why that snake talked to the woman first, doncha? It's cause that snake knew the woman would understand shedding the lining of your womb once a month to make way for new life."

I confess I had never even considered the possibility. I can't wait to read that part of the story again.

I had lunch in a wonderful Greek restaurant where my waitress, a middle-aged Greek woman with a heavy Greek accent - told me all about the Celtic Animal Zodiac Chart.

Yes, children. There is a Celtic Animal Zodiac Chart.

How did I get to live this long and not know about this? How did I get to live this long and not know so much about so many things?

Anyway, I learned that I my Celtic Animal Sign is - wait for it - a serpent. Yes, way.

She told me all about it and I wrote stuff down, but on the train ride back I googled it (of course) and this is what I learned (my birthday is April 21st):

Sea-Serpent (April 15 – May 12)
The Celtic animal zodiac sign of Sea-serpent is a symbol of growth and regeneration. It unites people together and offers great healing to those who need it, even if it's just an ear to listen. The Sea-serpent is quite attractive and knows how to use its powers of seduction. It is a fierce guardian of those it cares about, and isn't afraid to strike when threatened.

Not too far off, I suppose. Fascinating, really.

There were other stories and myths I was told by various people in shops and on the train which I started to write down but, honestly? I finally just put my pen down and listened.

I did write down some names which I'm sure I've spelled incorrectly. I will spend some time in the local library looking up the myths and enjoying this part of my visit to Scotland all over again.

I'm sad to leave Scotland - I don't know that I will return - but I must say that I'll be happy to get home to warm weather and sun. This is a bit too much like Oregon or Washington State for me.

It's beautiful. It's lovely. I love visiting that part of the country. I couldn't live in a rainy climate. That's for a body and a psyche and a spirit much more sturdy than mine.

Ah, but I love the people. I love their stories and their love of the telling of their stories. I love their ironic sense of humor. I love their pragmatic spirit.

I'm so grateful to have learned so much more of the heart of authentic Celtic Spirituality. It is so much more than Celtic crosses and haunting, mournful songs.

In the very middle of the middle of Celtic Spirituality is the interwoven spirits of justice and joy, which is what is in the very middle of the middle of the heart of The Creator.

Thank you, Scotland, for being such a generous host.

Like the snake and serpent, I have shed some of what I no longer need and have emerged lighter and freer to take on only what is essential for the rest of my journey.

I leave Scotland embracing the pilgrim's motto from the writings of St. Augustine with renewed ferver:

Sing Alleluia and keep on walking!

Leaving Iona

The surprise is that I am ready to leave.

It's not that I am bored or upset.

I have received here more than I could have asked for or imagined.

The Iona Religious Community has provided a nourishment for my soul that I didn't even know I needed. The simplicity and poetic flow of the language are capable of sending subtle but powerful messages to one's heart, mind and body.

The Iona Community - the artisans, the shop owners, the folks who manage the inns and Bed and Breakfast, the folks who run the ferry boats and the sailboats and the fishing boats - could not have been warmer and more lovely and happy to engage in conversation.

Even the quirky older woman at the Post Office (Isn't there always a quirky older man or woman at the PO?), who was, at first, resistant to conversation, finally engaged my questions and considered my observations about 'island life'.

I've been to both ends and the middle of the Island and I suppose there is always more to explore. I have taken home some rocks because, well, it seems to be what everyone does.

But, the most enduring image I will take with me is that of Andrew, a young man with Trisomy-21 (Down's Syndrome) who is part of the Iona Religious Community at the Abbey.

Andrew (he pronounces it 'AHN-drew') rings the bell to call the community to worship.

Andrew is one of the first ones forward for laying on of hands for healing.

Andrew is one of the first ones to join in the circle of laying on of hands for healing.

I don't think you can know how powerful it is to have hands laid on you for healing until you feel Andrew's hands on your back, or have Andrew offer a hand to help you up, or have Andrew look deep into your eyes and smile. Then, there are one of Andrew's fabulous hug.

And, I think the very angels in heaven rejoice to hear Andrew sing - flat,off-key, no always getting all the words.

Ah, but the energy with which he sings is enough to make the angels weep with joy.

So, I shall miss Andrew, and Cat who made my shawl, and Mercy who ran the larder next door, and the old woman who designed the Iona Tartan and is now "gobsmacked" she says, that she will "die a rich old woman over something I doodled at my kitchen table one morning."

After so many years of resistance, I'm glad I came. I'm happy to encourage you to come.

It is a place of great beauty as well as hidden harshness.

It is a place at the heart of Celtic Spirituality - of pilgrimage and sacrifice, of putting your matter into the matter of things so that there may be in you and in the world the justice and joy which is at the very heart of the universe which God has created.

I will be taking more than just a few rocks home with me.

I will be taking that which the rocks represent and will tell if you ask them and then hold them up to your ear to listen: Stories.

Not atoms - no! - but stories are, indeed, what hold the world together.

I have discovered a few of my own. Now to weave them together with the stories of the world and the stories of God's people.

Blessed be!

Theopoetics

It is cold and rainy this last full day on Iona.

Not too much different than three

out of the last

five days

but somehow more – what?

Distressing?

Disquieting?

Ah, no. Insulting. 

That's what it is.

I mean, wouldn’t you think that the Isle would be

a wee better host

by offering up a beautiful day

on our last full day here?

Not just for me, of course, but for us all.

The whole group.

We are Americans, after all,

used to getting

what we paid for.

It’s just rude, is all.

That's what it is.

Do you suppose

I’m

thinking like a

Tourist

and not like a

Pilgrim?

Ah, guilty as charged.

Perhaps I have

inadvertently stumbled

onto a Great Truth

which all Pilgrims

eventually come to know:

The Thinnest of Thin Places

is not always to be found

on a day filled

with beautiful sunshine

sparkling on turquoise water

and white sand.

Sometimes, it is a wet,

windy,

gray

chill-you-to-the-bone

kinda day,

alone with only your

own thoughts and prayers

sitting by the window

watching the sheep graze.

                                                                         

Iona, Scotland 5/31/19

                                                                     

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Pilgrimage as Prayer

The past two days, our group of pilgrims has been focused on pilgrimage and prayer. We’ve been looking at what it is that makes us pilgrims and what shapes and forms our prayers – and how are prayers are shaped and formed by being on pilgrimage.

It seems that lots of people are leading lots of pilgrimages to lots of places which are considered “ancient” and “holy”: Rome, Jerusalem, Iona, Ireland, Canterbury, etc. Folks who are associated with religion – usually Christian – lead these trips: A priest, often the rector of a church, a member of a religious order, a member of the laity who is associated with a church or a diocese.

So, if a ‘holy’ person is leading you to a ‘holy’ place, it must be a ‘pilgrimage’, right?

The folks on Iona have a very different view of that. Mind you, they’ll never turn anyone away and they would never deny the title “pilgrim” to anyone who claims it. As one member of the Iona religious community said to me, “Who are we to know what sacrifice it took for them to be here?” No one is judging anyone.

She did say, “You know, pilgrimage is one of those words we use and use and then it loses its meaning. It’s like the word, ‘love’. A person will say, ‘Oh, I LOVE” my spouse,” or “I LOVE Jesus,’ or ‘Oh, I LOVE it here on Iona,’ and that’s good. But, that same person with that same inflection will say, ‘Oh, I had Scottish scrambled eggs and fried halloumi for breakfast and I LOVE it.’ Now, what that tells me about that poor soul is that she probably doesn’t know what love is. The poor dear has used the word ‘love’ so much, it has become meaningless. How can you love your spouse or Jesus or this island as much as you love fried halloumi? The same is true, I think, with the word ‘pilgrimage’. People have used it so much, they don’t really know what it means.”

She then gave me some excerpts from various ancient texts to read. I rather like these:

“And three Scots came to King Alfred in a boat without any oars from Ireland; whence they stole away, because they would live in a state of pilgrimage, for the love of God, they recked not where.” (The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle)

“God counseled Abraham to leave his own country and go in pilgrimage to the land which God had shown him, to wit the ‘Land of Promise.” Now the good counsel which God enjoined here the father of the faithful is incumbent on all the faithful; that is to leave their country and their land, their wealth and their worldly delight for the sake of the Lord of the Elements, and go in perfect pilgrimage in imitation of Him.” (Columba). 

The traditional religious understating of a pilgrimage is that it is a vocation, in that a person is called by God or moved by the Spirit to a spiritual quest. A pilgrim is one who is on a spiritual quest but doesn’t always know the full nature of that quest – or even the exact route – of the pilgrimage.

What is known to the pilgrim is that it will involve travel – sometimes rigorous travel – and that it will come at some sacrifice of time, money, pride, status, and, most importantly, security – emotional, spiritual and/or financial.

The Celtic image for the Holy Spirit is a Wild Goose. A pilgrimage is often referred to as a “Wild Goose Chase” because the pilgrim is off, chasing the Holy Spirit, finding something that perhaps was never lost, discovering something that was hidden in plain sight, and reconnecting to the Holy in oneself in order to deepen one’s relationship with The Holy One.

It’s a ‘thin place’ experience of God that does not necessarily happen IN a thin place but BECAUSE OF a thin place.

That’s because prayer is an essential ingredient of pilgrimage.

‘Prayer’ is another word, like ‘love’ and ‘pilgrimage’, that has become so over used and misused that it has lost the fullness of its meaning.

Here’s a sample of what I mean from the writings of Columba: 

“The path I walk, Christ walks it.

May the land in which I am be without sorrow.

May the Trinity protect me whenever I say, ‘Father, Son and Holy Spirit’.

Bright angels walk with me – dear presence – in every dealing.

In every dealing I pray them that no one’s poison may reach me.

The ninefold people of heave of holy cloud, the tenth force of the stout earth.

Favourable company, they come with me, so that the Lord may not be angry with me.

May I arrive at every place, may I return home; may the way in which I spend be a way without loss.

May every path before me be smooth, man, woman and child welcome me.

A truly good journey! Well does the fair Lord how us a course, a path.

There’s a sense in this prayer of a request for an awareness of God’s presence in every moment – traveling, interacting with people, knowing that Christ is presence in every step on the path we walk.

That’s very different from reading something someone else wrote, isn’t it? It’s acknowledging, every time you open your mind to think, or your mouth to speak, that God is already there, in every thought and every word.

In Celtic Spirituality these prayers are known as a Lorica or Breastplate. Episcopalians know parts of St. Patrick’s Breastplate, but here are parts of St. Patrick’s Lorica of the Deer’s Cry:

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.

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.

As I’ve walked all over this island while I’ve been here on pilgrimage (I’ve walked between 2-10 miles daily), I have come to understand that ‘loricas’ are what my grandmother prayed every morning after reading scripture and before walking to daily mass.

They are active prayers for protection, for strength, for remembrance, so that one’s whole entire being is centered in God and Christ Jesus in everything one does.

Someone asked our pilgrimage leader what was the most common form of prayer in Celtic spirituality. Without a moment’s hesitation, she responded, “pilgrimage”.

Pilgrimage, she said, is in fact, the essence of Celtic prayer. It's about using your body and all your senses and your mind in an act of sacrificial dedication to following the Holy Spirit into a deeper understanding of your self and all of creation so that you might be in deeper relationship with God, the Creator of All of Creation.

One of the folks here on Iona told me that it is not an overstatement to claim that you can not really know Celtic prayer or plumb the depths of the Art of Contemplative Pray without going on Pilgrimage.

A pilgrimage is a form of prayer. A pilgrim is a person of prayer on a wild goose chase, following the spirit to “steal away because they would live in a state of pilgrimage, for the love of God, they recked not where.”

I love being a pilgrim. It is one way which has become my favorite way to pray. It is an important way to connect (or, re-connect) with myself, my story, and creation and its story.

It makes me feel more connected to my grandmother who “stole away” from Portugal, not certain of where she was going or what would happen after she arrived.

It makes me feel more connected to Jesus who walked all over Israel, far from his home, following the Spirit, preaching a gospel of Good News wherever he went.

It makes me feel more connected to the apostles who travelled far in the name of Christ, to bring the Good News of Jesus the Christ near and far.

It makes me feel more connected to the millions and millions of pilgrims over the centuries of time who left home to put their feet in the same place where others had walked, to find the longing and the desire of their heart – especially in the “thin places” of God’s creation.

Something happens when you put your body in motion and allow it to become the incarnation of prayer in order to become instruments of the justice and joy of God.

As the Iona Community prays:

We will not offer to God,

offerings that cost us nothing.

O Christ, the Master Carpenter,

you, at the last, through wood and nails,

crafted our whole salvation.

Wield well your tools,

in the workshop of your world,

so that we who come rough-hewn to your bench

may here be fashioned

to a truer beauty of your hand.

Amen.

Thin Place Experience

Today, our pilgrimage meditation was “thin places”.

I took with me this poem, “Iona,” by Kenneth Steven and considered it as I walked around this island with breathtaking vistas of ancient beauty.

And God said:

Let there be a place made of stone

Out off the west of the world,

Roughed nine months by gale,

Rattled in Atlantic swell.

A place that rouses each Easter

With soft blessings of flowers

And shocks of white shell sand;

A place found only sometimes

By those who have lost their way.

So, I’ll start with a confession. When I first became an Episcopalian, I never felt like I belonged. I never felt like I belonged because I really never felt fully included. Honestly? Back then? In 1977? When I was “received”? 

It felt pretty much like an insider’s game with rules that were known only by those women who wore natural fiber suits and a single strand of pearls, and men who wore herringbone tweet jackets with patches at the elbow and everyone drank either gin and tonic or bourbon and wore the same broad grin and laughed the same cadenced laugh (Ah-ha, ha, HA!).

I mean, if my baptism means that I am a member of the household of God, aren’t I already ‘included’? Why do you have to ‘include’ me, after I’ve been baptized AND ‘received’?

I think it took at least 15 years before I really found my footing. By that point, I had been ordained 10 years.

I stopped caring whether or not someone remarked about my “particular style” of dress, as it was frequently called. What that meant was that I wasn’t wearing a black suit – dress or slacks – with a black clerical shirt. 

Oh, I often wore black clerical shirts but never – ever – a black suit. I refused to look like a female-male priest. Through observation of many of my peers, I knew if I took myself that seriously I would kill the very spirit that called me to a life of ordained service of God’s people.

Even so, I’ve frequently felt lost in the institutional church with its double messages of “warm welcome” and “inclusion” but no full time, proper paying work if you were a woman. God help you if you had what one of my colleagues called a “double condition”. That would be woman AND – fill in the blank of anything that wasn’t Caucasian, Ivy League, proper Episcopal Church pedigree, and, God knows, heterosexual.

I say all of that to say this: In an act of “institutional rebellion,” I have actively resisted all the things that mark a proper Episcopal priest: A properly dressed person who drives either a Volvo or a Subaru, who owns a golden retriever and has been to Iona. 

Tell the truth: Doesn’t that describe many of the Episcopal Clergy you know who have at least two of those things? And lots of Episcopal priests, it seems, have been to Iona.

Except me. Until now. And, that was very intentional.

What changed me was experiencing Celtic Spirituality during my time on Camino in Galicia. There was something deep to that particular expression of Celtic Spirituality which I had not experienced in any of the expressions I had witnessed in America.

Something organic. Something authentic. Something that had deep roots in an expression of spirituality which grew from the fertile soil of ethnicity and culture.

It happened my last night in Spain. Our pilgrimage leader organized a wonderful dinner to celebrate the completion of The Camino. At the end of the dinner, two Spanish bag pipers came into the room with a Celtic witch who brewed an amazing, fiery alcoholic beverage while she spoke and sang ancient Galician chants.

At the end of the evening, she came over to me and looked deeply into my eyes. As she did, I felt there was something about her that was very familiar. Did I know her? How could that even be possible?

And then, she smiled and said, “Hello, my sister.” And suddenly, I realized we resembled each other. She looked familiar because she could have been a relative of mine.

She saw me. My essence. My blood. My ethnic connection. And, when she saw me, I was able to see myself. Or, more of myself. A part of myself I didn’t know existed but all of a sudden knew had been there all the time.

I felt as if a part of me had been lost but now was found. I felt more whole. I felt holy.

I realized, later, that I had been in the midst of an experience of a “thin place”.

I experienced a “thin place” the first time I held my first-born child in my arms. And, the first time I held my second-born, and youngest child in my arms. And, the first time I held my first grandchild in my arms. And, each time I have held a grandchild in my arms.

It is a “thin place” experience to see yourself in another and to have another see a bit of themselves in you. In that moment, you are both caught up in wonder and awe.

It is a “thin place” experience to see yourself in part of creation and to know that this bit of creation – this rock, that tree, the blue sky, the white-capped water, this quiet spot, that hill where people were killed for their faith, that path where millions of pilgrims have walked before you to be found only after they lost their way – is also part of you in some mystical way that is beyond your knowing.

And yet, you know. You just know.

Beautiful places like Galicia and Iona are “thin places” because their natural beauty allows those experiences to happen more readily.

But, you can be in a "thin place" and never have a "thin place" experience.

They are “thin places” because residents there have created a spirituality which honors the holiness of creation. They are holy places because pilgrims come to them, year after year, to bless them with more “thin place” experiences.

I am reminded of a passage from Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot from Four Quartets

If you came this way,

Taking any route, starting from anywhere,

At any time or at any season,

It would always be the same: you would have to put off

Sense and notion. 

You are not here to verify,

Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity

Or carry report. You are here to kneel

Where prayer has been valid.

I am kneeling on the beautiful soil of Iona, adding my valid prayers to the prayers which  millions of pilgrims have prayed over the centuries that have been valid.

I am walking in the beauty of creation all around me that I might find the beauty of that which God has created in me.

I am here to find parts of myself that I never knew existed but recognize immediately when they are discovered. Or uncovered. Or recovered.

I am here to be more connected with the whole of creation in the world and the world of the creation of my self that is within me, and be made more whole.

I am here to become more authentic so that my integrity can be made strong.

In that thin space between what was and is and is yet to come, I am more of who I am meant to be.

I am here because I belong.

Because of the thin place experiences I've had, I know that, no matter where I am, I am home. 

Saoghal Nam Ban

A day spent among the ruins of an ancient Nunnery is a day well spent.

This place is known as Saoghal nam ban – translated to mean “World of Women”.

This ancient place was once the realm of Iona’s religious women, where a community of anywhere between 20-30 religious women worshipped in a strict round of services and private prayer.

They would gather in the Chapter Room first thing in the morning, where they would confess their sins, say their prayers, read scripture and then read aloud portions of the writings of St. Augustine before they would conduct the business of the community.

The part about reading portions of St. Augustine’s writing made me giggle. I mean, given what St. Augustine thought about women, it sort of makes me wonder if they didn’t just skip over those parts.

These were not ordinary nuns and this was no ordinary convent.

Many nuns came from noble families. The convent provided refuge for unmarried daughters, widows, girls born out of wedlock and estranged wives.

Far from leading lives of poverty and seclusion, these women lived well by the day’s standards and had daily contact with the outside world.

They supported themselves financially, living off income from nunnery lands on Iona and beyond – no doubt originally purchased for them by the fathers of young women as a dowry of sorts, or from the inheritance of rich widows, or possibly as alimony from their philandering husbands.

Being educated, literate women, they also no doubt bought and sold land as investment and were able to support themselves quite nicely.

Founded around 1200, the convent flourished for more than 350 years. Until the 1600s, the south shore of Mull’s Loch na Keal was known as “Leirnacalloch” meaning ‘hillside of the nuns’.

One of the fascinating aspects of the structure is evidence of the fact that these were Christian women of independent thought who treasured their Celtic history and lore.

If you go ‘round to the street between the convent and the community sheep-sheering center and look up at the outside of what was once the refectory, you will see the now very faint but unmistakable form of ‘Sheena-na-gig’ (naked woman with her legs apart) carved above one of the windows.

Common in Ireland, these symbols were meant to ward off evil. The name comes from the Gaelic, ‘Sile nan Cioch’ meaning, ‘Sheila of the Breasts’.

Imagine a convent today having a Sheena-na-gig carved anywhere where anyone could see it! I think that tells us a little something about these women that one might not find written up in any religious history book.

I like to think that one of the noble women who had become a nun commissioned that carving one morning after having heard just about enough of St. Augustine’s writings read in the Chapter Room.

Lots of people get very romantic about this place. It is enormously important to many women who describe it as the thinnest of thin places of this thin place island.

It is clearly a place where one is given just enough information as to tantalize the imagination and consider something about the women who once lived here, walking the grounds, tending the gardens, preparing the food, visiting with neighbors, welcoming the stranger, praying and living together.

Here’s what I’m coming to understand about Celtic Spirituality – and today’s time spent at the convent and contemplating the lives of the nuns who once lived here provided more insight and revelation about that for me.

Much of what passes for Celtic Spirituality in America is a very Westernized version which has been co-opted and modified from the original.

People read a few books or wear a Triqetra or Celtic knot or have them tattooed on their bodies and think, somehow, they’ve got it.

It makes me feel as uncomfortable as seeing folks co-opt Native American symbols like Dream Catchers or Smudge Sticks or Buddhist singing bowls and think they’ve got it.

Well, that’s fine, I suppose. If it makes you feel closer, somehow to God, it can’t be all bad. I just always wonder about the Buddhist or the Native American or the person who actually practices Celtic Spirituality and how they must feel when they see someone using their symbols of spirituality. 

If you ask an American about Celtic Spirituality they will probably respond that it’s “all about nature” and “sea and stars and sky and season” and “the Trinity”.

And, that wouldn’t be wrong. But, as I’m learning, it’s so much more than that. Indeed, it’s so very much more that the deeper you go the more humble you feel.

I am learning that a the very core of Celtic Spirituality is justice, which is all about making into reality the Jesus prayer which the disciples taught: “thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

That is justice – that is right-eouness - in Celtic Spirituality. It’s bringing about God’s realm here on earth as it is in heaven. The justice of Celtic Spirituality means that the hungry are fed, the thirsty are given drink, the naked are clothed, and the homeless are given shelter. 

Everyone works for the common weal – the common wealth (Commonwealth) – for peace on earth, good will towards all humankind.

It’s not that creation is not important to Celtic Spirituality. It’s that when we live in harmony with God’s creation, we live in harmony with each other.

Or, as one teacher of Celtic Spirituality says, “Creation is the first book of Revelation”.

Columbanus, an evangelist of Columba, taught, 

“Understand, if you want to know the Creator, created things.” 

Pelagius wrote: 

“Look at the animals roaming the forest: God’s spirit dwells within them. Look at the birds flying across the sky: God’s spirit dwells within them. Look at the tiny insects crawling in the grass: God’s spirit dwells in them. Look at the fish in the river and sea: God’s spirit dwells within them. There is no creature on earth in whom God is absent . . . .When God pronounced that his creation was good, it was not only that her hand had fashioned every creature; it was that his breath had brought every creature to life. Look too at the great trees of the forest; look at the wild flowers and the grass in the fields; look even at your crops. God’s spirit is present within all plants as well. The presence of God’s spirit in all living things is what makes them beautiful; and if we look with God’s eyes, nothing on the earth is ugly.”

You see, it’s not just the creation. It’s that if you can see God all around you, you can see through God’s eyes. And, if you see through God’s eyes, nothing on earth – not even other people – are ugly.

You see beauty everywhere.

And seeing beauty everywhere in every thing is the beginning of the work of justice.

I love this quote I found from Rev George MacLeod, the man who established the Iona Community. Reportedly, he said this to Esther de Waal:

“Everyone today keeps asking, ‘What is the matter?’ and the answer is MATTER is the matter. It is our view of matter, the extent to which the church has spiritualized faith and set it apart from the material world – that has brought us to where we are today.”

So, Celtic Spirituality is not a means unto itself. It does not exist for itself, for the satisfaction of the self; rather it is quite dead if it does not lead to a life of service which lifts the lives of others from their lowly status.

Celtic Spirituality is not about devotion to a life of prayer that leads only to the steps of a church or the private chapel in one’s home or garden. It is, rather, a life of prayer that leads to a devotion to achieving the justice of God here on earth.

It is not about the Triquetra as the symbol of the mystery of the Trinity; rather it is the welcome sign on the door post of a faith that is radically relational, that calls us into a community which loves the world that God has made so much that it works so that all of God’s creatures to live in peace and harmony.

I am deeply moved by this sense of justice at the heart of Celtic Spirituality. And, I must say, the closer I moved to that heart of justice, the more deeply I felt the joy which the mystics taught is at the center of Creation.

The spirit of the women of the ancient nunnery, Saoghal Nam Ban, came to visit me today as I came to visit them. They revealed much to me as I prayed among their ruins and graves.

The spirit of the sisters here helped me more deeply understand the spirituality which shaped and formed their lives. The spirit of ‘Sheena-na-gig’ opened herself to me to help me open myself to new life.

My prayer is that, with this understanding, I might better shape and form my life in the justice of God, beginning by being in better harmony with creation.

I understand this sort of thing happens in ‘thin places’.

I don’t know about that.

I only know that a day spent among the ruins of an ancient Nunnery is a day well spent.

I discovered things that have been hiding in plain sight.

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