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