There’s a vacillation between garden and wilderness, orientation and disorientation, throughout Scripture. There is prosperity and exile. You know, Gardens symbolize health—floral blooms and broccoli. But every gardener knows that no matter how hard you try to keep wilderness out, wilderness always finds a way into the garden, like a groundhog that sneaks in and eats all of your freshly planted cucumbers.
In the beginning of Genesis, the cosmos was chaos, a wilderness, until God ushered in this order and formed a world. On the sixth day of creation, God plants adamah (Adam), or these divine-dirt people, in the garden of Eden. That’s fine until they’re cast out into the wilderness. In the wilderness, Cain murders Abel. That’s the way it works. A Psalm of praise is quickly followed by a Psalm of lament—or two—or three. Don’t forget that there’s more prayers of lament than praise.
The wilderness conjures up different images in our imagination, usually Arizona or New Mexico. Tumbleweed, cacti, and the Breaking Bad RV with its methamphetamine exhaust billowing out of cracked windows.
In Scripture, the wilderness takes innumerable shapes. It’s the Israelites wandering for forty years before entering the land of milk and honey. There, they learned about sharing bread. Or, it’s Noah rocking on the ark through wind and wave on the ark as he cares for creation by scrubbing donkey cages and feeding camels. Elijah flees to the wilderness, Jonah enters the wilderness through a fish’s mouth, John the Baptist goes to the desert to call for repentance. Jesus was hurled there Spirit in the wilderness for forty days of temptation. All of these periods of wilderness were used to remind the people of their identity.
We’re in the season of Lent, which is the church’s wilderness season of fasting, repentance, and self-denial. Couple that with a pandemic, and we’re in the middle of a desert without any streams of water or toilet paper. Except my older brother, he bought a bidet this year and now he’s just relishing his good fortune. There’s no anesthesia this year; we go all the way in and there’s no trail out.
People have asked me, ‘how do I be a Christian during this season—the wilderness season?’ The real answer is this: I don’t know. None of of us have lived through a pandemic. We’re all making this up as we go along. We follow the best advice given to us by physicians, like practice physical distancing, which doesn’t mean social distancing. Hugs are illegal, relationships aren’t. You can still connect with each other through screens and cards with stamps.
Those are all good things, but they don’t seem very heroic. A lot of people I know wish that they could do more. It makes the church feel a little puny, right?
I wonder if we’re forgetting about one of the greatest streams in the Christian tradition—monasticism. The wisdom of our tradition reminds us that we have mothers and fathers who know the spiritual nourishment of being alone. I mean, these are the kinds of people who voluntarily quarantine themselves into deeper union with God. They choose wilderness.
What would it be like to practice a kind of monasticism for a season?
In the 3rd Century, ancient Christians escaped to the desert just as Christianity was gaining a degree of prominence. The church began to cozy up to the Roman Empire and disciples of Jesus had to flee metropolitan centers to live out true discipleship in the deserts of Syria, Palestine, and Egypt. This is the rationale: if everyone is a Christian, is anyone really a Christian? The original hipsters. If everyone wears flannel, does flannel even mean anything anymore?
Many Christians began to worry that they were more faithful when they were less comfortable—like when they were being eaten by lions or burned at the stake to light up Nero’s dinner parties. They had to leave their comfortable houses to really practice Christianity; they had to get away to take stock of their lives. It’s as if the stars in the sky can only be seen when all of the lights are turned off.
These Christians began to live simply; all they needed was a set of clothing, a Bible, and some straw to weave a basket. One of my professors used to put it this way: people started taking Christianity seriously enough to give up money, sex, and power. That’s crazy. But it’s an interesting kind of crazy. They found their sustenance in the one thing that can’t be taken away—Jesus. Everything else is in this world is up for grabs, so you might as well put it to death now. The monks made their homes in tombs and caves, dying to themselves, and emerging out of the dark born again. And the wilderness was transformed—no longer a desert, but a sanctuary of God’s love. 1
Sometimes God calls Christians into solitude—to be planted so deeply into the soil that they can’t be seen. But when they sprout they’ll provide shade for the whole church. Soon, the desert had become a city, as Christians began to flock to the wilderness to experience something of God.
This was the beginning of a tradition that bled into new expressions of monasticism. Later, the church gave us St. Benedict who developed a rule for an alternate way of communal life together based on ora et labora, or praying and working, together. Francis renounced his father’s wealth and began to beg for alms; a decade later there were five thousand friars in Europe. And then, there’s Ignatius and Teresa and Luther and Julian of Norwich and on and on.
In every generation, God uses monasticism to teach us how to be the church once again—that simplicity, solitude, and prayer. The rhythms of grace. Now, let me be careful not to romanticize the wilderness; it usually sucks. And it hurts. The desert fathers battled with demons—constantly. And the world laughed. By the way, do you know what they complained about most often? Boredom. Instead of running from it, they faced this ‘noonday’ demon head on.
This season is incredibly lonely, but I think we can start to learn how to become alone in the right ways. The Christian tradition has made a distinction between loneliness and solitude. When you are alone, does it feel like loneliness or solitude? They’re so similar, yet they’re antonyms. Loneliness is being alone with despair, while solitude is being alone with a purpose—with God. Paul Tillich puts it this way, “loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone.” The monastic communities teach us about solitude, not loneliness.
Solitude teaches us to be with ourselves. Think back to your life three weeks ago and the pervasive busyness. Now, many of us are wide open. Here’s the bad news: you can’t distract yourself. Not with meetings, extracurriculars, or even church—loud music by Hillsong United. We can’t cover our nakedness, as did Adam and Eve when they became conscious of their humanity. One of the gifts of this season, if we can call anything a gift, is the chance to take a step back from the busyness and consumerist values that rule our lives like a grueling slave master.
The desert fathers used to have this mantra: “Go sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.” There, in our cells, we’re face to face with things we cannot escape. Mother Teresa used to say that “God is a friend of silence.” And our problem is that we’re enemies of silence. Silence makes us profoundly uncomfortable. And I don’t mean external silence; it’s the internal silence that is difficult. We get quiet and suddenly there’s anger, fear, distraction, self-doubt. When all of that is uncovered, we’re forced to take it to God or a neighbor for consolation.
Evagrius, a desert father, advised his followers to divide oneself into two parts: “a consoler and the other, the object of the consolation.”
Sounds a bit like cognitive behavioral therapy.
I’ve also noticed this: the church is moving back into rhythms of prayer. At any given moment, I’ll pull up facebook or instagram and one of my friends is praying. Granted, I have a lot of friends who are pastors. Still, we’re lifting our voices to God in the morning, midday, evening, and at night with compline. They have simple, paired down music—a cappella voices or a simple strum of the guitar. A few candles flicker in the screen. It’s as if the church is learning to love Scripture and prayer again. It feels a bit monastic, doesn’t it?
“By our prayers, the world is kept moving,” said the early desert fathers. Can we treasure this time alone in the quiet with God? Structure your life in the rhythms of prayer. Pray in the morning. Pray at noon. Pray before bed. Let prayer be the lifeblood of your day.
One last thing on solitude: tribalism has evaporated at least for a season and we’re acting like the church—together. Though we’re alone, we’ve been brought together by virtue of wireless internet and the waters of our baptism. We’re starting to realize that guests and strangers are to be received as a new incarnation of Christ. How monastic of us! Some of the desert fathers would say, “We don’t retreat from the world, we retreat for the world.”
Our inwardness is meant to turn us outward and compassion becomes the fruit of solitude. Maybe the Corona virus is leading us to realize just how deeply we need each other and how intertwined our lives are with one another. We can’t live alone. Maybe most of all we’ve learned that we can’t live without God. The God who created us out of community, won’t save us without community.
And so may the church learn again the rhythms of solitude, prayer, and community. In other words, may we learn something of monasticism.
1. This was Jason Byassee's observation--somewhere.
Moses is only a few feet away from the land that was promised to Abram and Sarai when he dies.
It was a heartbreaking, movie’s ending to a life well-lived. This is the same child who was rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter while floating down the Nile in a woven basket to escape infanticide. God raised him up and spoke to him through a burning bush until he freed his people through the Red Sea and entered the long, wilderness journey. Moses received the covenant from God at Mt Sinai. Here is the man who taught his people, interceded on their behalf, berated them, forgave them, and loved them till the end.
After forty years of wandering in the wilderness we find a strong, 120-year-old man whose knees don’t even wobble as he takes his final hike up a mountain. Scripture says that Moses was full of vigor (use your imagination) as reaches the top of the mountain, with vision so strong that he doesn’t even squint to make out the new home for his people. He has nothing left to do but walk down the mountain. Instead, Moses makes his home in an unmarked grave, left to rot by the people he loved dearly.
The Lord says to him, “I have let you see it with your eyes, but you will not cross over into it.”
And Moses dies on the mountaintop.
Our culture is absolutely terrified of running out of time, but I suspect COVID-19 is teaching us something about stolen time. Most of us tend not to think about time until it’s taken from us; we don’t appreciate the gifts until they’re gone. The kids are now thirty, I’m sixty five, and I’ve only blinked twice. That’s the truism, anyway.
In our case, a whole crop of students had no idea that they were walking out of classrooms for the last time this semester when they left for spring break. Our goodbyes were stolen. Pledge periods abruptly changed. Sports seasons were cancelled before they even started. What about the recitals and performances from the stage? There was nothing left for the seniors to do but to walk across the stage and receive a diploma. I don’t get to fill out a bracket for March Madness so as to lose five dollars in the family pool. And we forget, blinded by our selfishness, that entire lives are being cut short every day.
For a while we fooled ourselves by living as if time was a commodity that we could control. We talked about ‘spending and saving time’ like it was a piece of money. ‘I need to find a way to buy some more time,’ we said, as if it was something we can purchase more of when it runs out. We talked about ‘making time’ as if we could somehow create more. We had sun-dials, calendars, watches (by the way, stop looking at your Apple Watch when you’re talking to me) to get our hands around time, but all they really did was try to measure our location as we revolved around the sun.
It was all a farce.
Time overwhelms us and then, it eludes us.
We have experienced some kind of death on the mountain—some worse than others. A thief in the night snuck up and took our most prized commodity: time—the one thing we can never get back. This one of a series of profound disappointments that life will bring. There is an unfinished quality to life—there will be births unwitnessed, trips not taken, relationships left broken. Life is never fair. And the platitude that we deserved more time and better time was put to death when Moses died on the mountaintop.
Can stolen time be redeemed?
The God of Israel, the God who led Moses up the mountain, is the same God who redeems all of our time and refuses to let it go to waste. The God of temporal infinity makes possible all the time in the world to make our time, our memories, redeemed.
Another Scripture is helpful, here. Paul says that there is a way to redeem time. He writes in his letter to the Ephesians: “Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil” (Eph. 5:15). The days are evil, so make the most of your time. I’m sick of those memes, to be honest. “Make the most of your time” is a fine byword for our culture. It’s the ancient version of YOLO. Isn’t this why ‘social distancing’ is so difficult? It’s a waste of time! Let’s go on vacation. Become insta-famous. Write a novel in the span of this three month hiatus. Can’t we just lament?
But Paul is not saying that we should fill every moment of every day with some kind of instagram-able moment. Unfortunately, the Greek word, exagorazo, means literally to “redeem” or to “buy back” time. Redeeming time is more difficult to get our hands around. How do you buy back wasted opportunities or closed doors and dormitories? How do you redeem Baccalaureate or a spring formal? Once it’s gone, well, it’s gone.
The word Paul uses, exagorazo, was a word used in the market place. It meant something like, “snag every bargain on the sales table.” In other words, rescue the moments that you are given now, the moments that will otherwise be lost. It’s a fitting word because all we’ve got left is the sales table, the leftovers, the moments that no one wanted. These are the moments that are marked down 75% off because they didn’t sell. He’s telling us to go to the sales table and get the WebEx classes, the FaceTime cocktail parties, and the group text message threads and transform them into service of God. Paul believes that even these cheap, plastic, mass-manufactured moments can be made holy. Every moment is pregnant with possibility. In other words, transform what’s left of your time together into something Godly, because nothing is wasted in God’s economy of time.
Can we be creative in our social distancing, this wilderness season, so as how to learn to love God and our neighbor in a new way? Can even the dark moments of our lives be bent into service of God? How will the last six weeks of your semester become holy? Will we live as beautifully as we could? Or did we take even the sales table for granted? Will you waste what’s left?
The days are evil, but our love is stronger. Let us have the obstinate hope that no one will rob us of our love for each other, even though we are physically separated. And so, our time will be redeemed.
As always, we’d do well to pay attention to Jesus. Folks constantly asked Jesus when their time would run out. What did Jesus say? He said,
“I don’t know. And you don’t know. So just repent, ok?”
Live fully and love deeply and know that the time will pass by too quickly. There’s never enough time. Even if we returned to campus for six more weeks, it wouldn’t be long enough. We could try to catch each present moment, but they’d disappear before we could grasp them in our hands. Redeem the time and give your moments to God.
Jesus’ time ran out when he was in his thirties. He went to the top of a mountain, like Moses, and he was put on a cross. There, he showed us exagorazo—that forgiveness is stronger than hatred, Paradise is brighter than hell, love is stronger than death. That’s what it means to redeem the time. At the top of the cross, he saw the promised land and three days later he rose from a tomb and brought it to earth. There will come a time, like Moses and Jesus, when we’ll climb up a mountain and we won’t walk down. But the good news is that we’ve already been shown the promised land—it’s resurrection.
COVID-19 has taught us that time does not belong to us and our futures are uncertain—but it never did and they always were. But we’d also do well to learn this: the future is good, because the future is in God. And God has chosen not to be God without you. You are a part of God’s time—eternally. And because God’s story never ends, yours won’t either.
If this is true, then time has been redeemed because time has been resurrected. And now, we have all the time in the world.
Love all of you,
One of my only memories of Pappy is of him talking to the man in the mirror. Who could blame him? The man was congenial and handsome—jet black hair, muscular physique, either clean shaven or designer beard stubble. Pappy routinely saw a stranger in windows and mirrors as he slowly became a stranger to himself and the world, which isn’t abnormal behavior for someone with Alzheimer’s disease. He looked at the puzzling, familiar face and invited the stranger inside for a place to stay. But the man could never come back inside.
I learned at an early age that when our bodies betray us that the brain can be particularly vindictive. When a neuron died, so did a memory. People and places disappeared as if they never existed. Alzheimer’s disease doesn’t discriminate—it took his PhD and his ability to swing a hammer. Finally, an entire history evaporated like a puddle of water on a sunny day.
Augustine notes that memory is the warehouse of time, but what happens when the warehouse is robbed? We are taught as children to leave a legacy, but our loved ones who suffer from dementia teach us a painful lesson: we will forget and be forgotten. Textbooks go out of print and gravestones crumble. Even Google, the world’s biggest brain, can’t retrieve a copy of his dissertation.
I’m told that there’s a remnant of his life incarnated within me, giving shape to my own identity. None of us are as unique as we think. He is enfleshed in my five-foot-nothing stature and other quirks like an affinity for chamomile tea. Gratefully, I inherited the story of Jesus that he told his daughter who then, faithfully told it to me. Somehow Kierkegaard hitched a ride with Jesus into my consciousness, even if he skipped a generation. I’m not complaining.
I can retrieve snapshots of his illness that don’t fit together to create a full portrait. Mostly, I remember how his body cried out on his mind’s behalf. As Pappy’s dementia grew worse he picked up the newspaper and underlined important phrases and paragraphs—a habit that was ingrained in his muscle memory after years of reading and studying. His bird flew around the house to my terror and sang ‘Jesus Loves Me,’ preaching the good news that he could never lose, even when he forgot it. I don’t remember much more.
After he died, Meemaw threw out all of his papers and sermons which could have given us access to his heart and brain. I’ve often thought about what he underlined in his Bible or wrote in the margins of the text. Did he prefer to preach John’s Gospel or Luke’s? What’d he say about the slaughter of the Canaanites? It’s a shame that she didn’t realize that she’d have a few grandchildren in vocational ministry who would’ve loved to know their pastor-grandfather. And the extra sermon material wouldn’t have hurt.
Twenty-five years later, all I can do is borrow another’s imperfect memory from those who knew him best.
I’ve since learned that Pappy was not a preacher or priest. He was foremost a pastor, which means that he was a shepherd. He loved to be with people—whether over coffee or on the softball field. Relationships whisked him off to bars before ‘theology on tap’ was trendy or socially acceptable. Pappy didn’t drink the stuff, but he made friends with those who did. No surprise, it got him in trouble with the churches. One thing hasn’t changed in the history of Christianity: religious people will complain if you eat and drink with ‘sinners.’
But Pappy knew that transformation was worth the headache brought by pious church ladies. His own father, who no joke had the street name “Doggie,” was an alcoholic until God made good on a bargain made over a sick daughter. Both he and the daughter were healed. Pappy must have learned that Jesus changed water to wine, but he also changes wine to water when necessary. And someone needs to be present to pray over the barrels.
My uncle recalled that he often stopped at the hospital and asked about who wasn’t getting visitors. He also asked about struggling students at the local high school. That’s not the sort of thing I’ve ever done in my ministry. I’m too busy. Pappy knew he had nothing to gain from spending time with these people except meeting Jesus.
Others have said that Pappy wanted to win at everything, especially life. He started with little and worked hard to be respected on the field, in the church, in the public’s opinion. The line between arrogance and confidence was as thin as the frames of his white-rimmed sunglasses.
At the height of his ministry, Pappy wore the latest fashion and drove a bright red Triumph Spitfire. His congregation claimed that this made him arrogant. Pastors don’t drive sports cars; they drive a beat up Bonneville Catalina that squeals when it takes a right turn. Then again, a parishioner painted a portrait of him with Jesus and he had no qualms about hanging it up in his office. Maybe they were on to something.
Pappy’s life has never been told to me as a hagiography. We all sin and our families will know our mistakes best. Many still struggle to make sense of his shadow side, especially his aggression and strict abuse that passed as spanking. Was he a product of a different era of child rearing—spare the rod spoil the child? Was this a vestige of his own gambling, heavy drinking father who also abused his family? Actions are complex and motives are often pure. Regardless, we fail each other.
One of my uncles told me that understanding a person’s history doesn’t condone the past, but it sure helps with forgiveness. Luckily, Christianity is comfortable with people who make mistakes.
I treasure these fragments, even if they’re subjective and short-sighted. We all have a bit of dementia and can’t seem to get our hands around another person. Much is still unsettled about his life and ours, too. The story we tell of ourselves might intersect and cross paths with the story told by another, but it will never line up completely. Maybe our true identity is somewhere in between the story we’ve created about ourselves and the character that we’ve played in another’s.
I wonder if this is why David Keck says that Alzheimer’s is a ‘theological disease’ that reveals how our identities are misplaced in rationality, memory, and productivity. All along one’s true identity rests secure only in God and nowhere else. That’s easy to forget.
While Jesus hung on the cross the thief next to him cried out, “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.” It’s a curious way of asking for help. He could’ve taken his buddy’s advice and prompted Jesus to prove his divinity. Instead, he asked to catch a ride on God’s bus into God’s memory. That’s eternal life.
Salvation is being re-membered into God’s story—in God’s eternal memory. This is the work of baptism, which strips, washes, and then raises us into a new ontological reality that is larger than what we can cram into our hippocampus. It was Rene Descartes who declared, “I think therefore I am.” The Enlightenment got it backward. For Christians, God remembers and therefore we are—eternally.
We’re all looking at strangers in the mirror—familiar, yet inexhaustible mysteries. The stranger Pappy saw, the one who couldn’t come back inside the house he built with his own hands, lives in me in ways I will never know. But the better news is that he had a home all along.
As I left for our pilgrimage on St Cuthbert’s Way through Scotland and England, many folks wished me rest and relaxation. I’m not sure they knew we were walking sixty miles. Nor did they realize that pilgrimage is not about yelping coffee shops and creating manicured experiences that can be caught in a picture, packaged up, and taken home as a souvenir. There would be no margaritas on the beach—only foamy, room temperature ales at night to forget about aching feet. Our intention was to walk, inwardly and outwardly, to see and be seen.
The best way I know to describe the difference between vacations and pilgrimages is this: vacations are about consumption and comfort. Pilgrimages are about wandering and encounter. There is a cost to walking a pilgrimage. My spirit found rest, but my hips and hamstrings paid the price. But if I can learn to discern the peace of Christ while ascending a couple thousand feet up rolling hills, then I might learn to find peace in whatever pains and frustrations await me in the future.
When we boarded our flight out of Philadelphia toward Edinburgh, it wasn’t long until some of us felt drops of water trickling from the ceiling panel and landing on our heads. For many Christians, a few drops of water can be a reminder of baptism and God’s spirit who dwells within us and around us and blows us where it will. I use water to remind myself of my baptism most mornings, but I’ve never wanted a reminder from a cylinder of metal that would lift me thousands of feet in the air over tens of thousands of miles. Thanks a lot, American Airlines.
The pilot clicked on the intercom to tell us that there was an air conditioning issue. Maybe that was true. Or, maybe there was a gaping hole somewhere in the ceiling of the plane. Maintenance worked diligently (we were told) but the pilots timed out.
We deplaned and waited in the terminal for a new aircraft that would transport us to Edinburgh. Our optimistic airline officials told us that we were going to depart at one a.m. Then, two a.m and two-thirty a.m. Finally, they told us that we had a 50/50 chance of taking off before the three o’clock a.m window closed and the flight would be cancelled. I couldn’t help but to wonder when airline flights became a Vegas betting game .
Realistically, the odds were closer to 30/70, but the bars had already closed and there was a palpable sense of uprising as a result of cancelled tee times at St. Andrews, which is the home of golf. The new aircraft arrived, but the flight was cancelled despite the “valiant” effort by the heroic airline staff. The issue wasn’t the engine or other mechanical problems, but a flat tire—on an airplane.
There was no air.
The air, wherever it was blowing, was not blowing us to our intended destination.
Before Jesus began his public ministry, he was driven by the air of the Spirit into the wilderness. Likewise, we were blown into Philadelphia, with its desert-like heat, national monuments, and airline meal vouchers that wouldn’t work. The evil one was near. We didn’t choose to walk a leg of Cuthbert’s Way in Philadelphia and yet, there we were walking around national museums and monuments. It's possible we were on the right path, though, especially when we landed on a street named Cuthbert while walking downtown. I still wonder whether this was serendipity or a sadistic joke. Either way, we proceeded to create holy meals of cheesesteaks and ascend the Rocky steps, a shrine for bad 80s movies. Then, we kept walking. And waiting. Then, walking.
One fellow pilgrim reminded me that Celtic monks believed that, ‘It is always better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Once we think we have 'arrived,' our souls have died.’ It’s a nice sentiment when you’re not sleeping in an airport. And yet, like it or not, it’s true.
I felt a strong tie to the early Scottish missionaries who put themselves in small, round boats called coracles and set off to sea praying that the Lord would blow them in the right direction. In other words, they cast lots with wind and water with their lives hanging in the balance. Hopefully, they would arrive somewhere and start their ministries—even if it happened to be a gaming convention in Philadelphia’s Clarion Hotel.
Today’s church lacks that kind of courage. It’s much easier to pray, “Send us, O Lord” and then crank the motor and put your hands on the wheel. We are a people who long for control.
But Christians, and especially Christian pilgrims, know that life’s journey can’t be controlled. We’re all one cancelled flight, one virus, one mutated cell away from purgatories spent in airports or hospital rooms. Most of us have a sense we’re walking in the right direction, but then the trail name suddenly changes and we realize that a u-turn is in order. Christians have aptly named this repentance, which is only the name we use to describe our need to stay on the trail.
I often wonder about the path I’m walking. Is there a more successful one? A more faithful one? One where I'd be happier? It’s easy to get anxious that that I’m not walking in the right direction or worse, that I’m lost completely. Like the labyrinth walked by Christians as a condensed form of pilgrimage, we’re reminded that life is a maze of twists and turns. At some point, the trail will become overgrown and unmarked. That’s ok. The goal is to pay attention to the place where each foot lands, always making sure that our toes are always pointed toward the heart of God.
We finally arrived in Scotland to walk Cuthbert’s Way, though two days later than planned. And we walked—we trudged by sheep in fields, then up rolling hills, through gates, and over walls. We had time to start and stop. Feast and fast. Make wrong turns. Find the trail. Begin again. It wasn't always restful, but it was always grace. And there was no other way to arrive at our destination. This is what it means to be a Christian.
As we reached the shoreline of Northumberland, I took off my shoes and stepped on to the ocean floor to begin the walk to Holy Island, which can be reached by foot during low tide. The soft, ocean mud massaged my blistered feet and thanked us for our walk. I sensed the millions of feet who have crossed the sea before me, and who will walk after me, through the water that joins us as Christ’s body.
St. Cuthbert’s priory on Holy Island is unique because it’s not always accessible. The tides fall and rise, creating access and prohibition to the island. Cuthbert couldn’t change the rhythms of the sea, but he shaped a balanced life of solitude and community around its waxing and waning. The tides pulled him inward and then, pushed him outward into the world.
Cuthbert reminds me that we’ll never control the tides, but we can pay attention to their movements and discern when and where to walk. The tide rolls in and you may very well get stuck in Philadelphia, but when the tide rolls out, God has been known to lead people into freedom.
I continue to walk the Christian way because Holy Island is always on the horizon. One day, I’ll arrive. Until then, I pay attention to the tides and put one foot ahead of the other and continue walking into freedom. I rarely know where I'm going, but I know of no other way to walk.