Walking to the Holy Island
Living Stones
I am
clearing a space / here, where the trees stand back.
I am making
a circle so open / the moon will fall in love
and stroke
these grasses with her silver.
I am
setting stones in the four directions, / stones that have called my name
from
mountaintops and riverbeds, canyons and mesas.
Here I will
stand with my hands empty, / mind gaping under the moon.
I know
there is another way to live.
When I find
it, the angels / will cry out in rapture,
each cell
of my body / will be a rose, a star.
If
something seized my life tonight, / if a sudden wind swept through me,
changing
everything, / I would not resist.
I am ready
for whatever comes.
—from “Clearing” by Morgan
Farley
There is a moment when the tide starts to recede,
and the ocean floor is revealed as solid ground connecting two land masses
that, otherwise, remain separated by the North Sea when the tide rolls back
in. Every day—the tide rolls in and
out—hiding then revealing, hiding then revealing, that path that connects those
two bodies. And at some point over the
hundreds, thousands of years of this separating and connecting, someone—or a
community of someones—erected huge stakes marking the clearest path connecting
the two bodies when the tide goes out.
And so, pilgrims have walked this journey from Lindisfarne in
Northumberland to the Holy Island for well over 1500 years. Walking to have their deepest and most
important callings revealed to them.
And by its very nature, the walk is perilous. There are countless stories of people through
the ages miscalculating the tides and getting stuck or being washed away into
the North Sea along that 4 mile stretch.
And even today, although there is a one-lane causeway connecting the
mainland and Holy Island, it is also submerged with the tides. If you’re on the island when the tide rolls
in, you are staying on the island! And
yet, despite the perils—for those who understand the importance of the
journey—and who are willing to prepare themselves for the risks—that perilous
pilgrim path can lead to heightened spiritual awareness, moral clarity, and
fierce courage in the face of obstacles.
And there is a moment when the tide starts to
recede, and that grossly infected and enflamed wound of racism, white
supremacy, and unchecked bigotry is laid bare for all to see. We might wish it would remain hidden. It is such an embarrassment. We want to look away in disgust. No, this is not us. This cannot be happening. . . . We might be tempted to think, “Where did THIS
come from?” But, really, we know. And there it is. Revealing itself over and over. That festering wound with that precarious
scab that rubs away and allows the wound to ooze its pus everywhere. All over us.
We can never just walk away from that intensely
embedded racism within and around us. It
just can’t be done. But facing
it—honestly, faithfully, forthrightly—is not without peril. By its nature, racism and white supremacy and
unchecked bigotry aim to strip us ALL of our humanity again and again and
again. But for those who understand the
importance of the journey—and who are willing to prepare themselves for the
risks—that perilous pilgrim path of facing down racism and supremacy can lead
to heightened spiritual awareness, moral clarity, and fierce courage in the
face of daunting obstacles.
What I am suggesting, friends, is that we must own
our own stories—to their core—no matter how painful, inconvenient, or
embarrassing they may be. Or those
stories will own us and dictate our movements and behaviors—limiting the
possibility of the life-giving transformation God wants for us.
We have to acknowledge that as faithful pilgrims on
the path toward God’s vision for us and our communities, many of us carry
invisible backpacks of privilege.
Sociologist Peggy McIntosh documented this concept some 30 years
ago. And these invisible backpacks of
privilege are part of our stories. They
include special provisions, maps, passports, codebooks, visas, clothes, tools,
and blank checks, which white people do not usually want to acknowledge, and
which leads to our being confident, comfortable and oblivious about racial
issues, while non-white people—lacking these tools—more commonly feel
unconfident, uncomfortable and alienated by issues of race.
For example, I can always find a band-aid that
matches Clivie’s skin color. And I don’t
have to educate him about systemic racism for his own daily physical protection. I never worry in the slightest about being
pulled over by the police without just cause.
And I had no concern that my skin color would raise any questions or
restrictions when booking an airbnb for a large group in remote parts of
Scotland. These privileges I have go
largely unrecognized; I carry them around with me in an invisible, weightless
backpack. . . .
We witness racial violence and racial prejudice in
big and small ways every day—from hearing that off-handed remark in
conversation to watching heartbreaking, soul-numbing news from Charlottesville
and our own White House. Racism and
white supremacy play out all around us . . . and within our own hearts. And it is up to us to acknowledge it, confess
it, repent from it, and work to end it.
This, my friends, is a deeply important spiritual issue. Despite the perils. Because there is a moment when the tide
starts to recede, and we see that there is an opportunity before us. . . . An opportunity to be authentic and real. An opportunity to acknowledge our privilege
and put it to use for the common good.
An opportunity to build relationships that have the capacity to
heal. Let us be pilgrims together on
this path.
See you in church,
Christy