Liturgy and the thinning of the veil

I sat in a park near the Seattle zoo with my friend Wendy last week. I was still brimming with Scotland, cows, life on the road. She’d just returned from a long backpacking trip with her boyfriend in the North Cascades. They’d ended their hike at Holden Village, a former mining village, now Lutheran retreat  center where Wendy and I had spent some time together last spring.

“Do they still have morning and evening prayers? Did you attend at all? What did you think of them?”  

“They were alright, but I didn’t get much out of them.” Wendy, like myself, grew up in the evangelical Christian background. “They’re pretty different.”

“Let me guess, was it the liturgy?” Wendy’s nod reminded me of me, or rather, the me of the beginning of the summer.

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I struggled in the beginning of my time on Iona with following the words in the worship book. The concept of worship in the liturgical context is entirely different from my evangelical American construct. I used to think ‘worship’ was simply the singing of songs. But I understand it in a fuller way now: worship is the entire act. Singing, yes, but also reading prayers in unison with the body of people around me. Sitting in silence. Hearing the names of Iona community members read out loud in prayer. It’s passing a communion cup to my neighbor and hearing more prayers about crucial issues, like the riots across England. Worship is all of us.

I was uncomfortable, in the beginning, with liturgy, too. Like Wendy, I wrinkled my nose at the thought of it. This was a concept I also needed to relearn, and in fact, I brought it up in meal-time conversation frequently throughout the week.  I had childhood images burned into my brain of visiting my granny’s Catholic church in Miami as a kid. We’d stand up, sit down, shuffle through prayer books, kneel, and take communion (which I actually wasn’t allowed to take because I was both young and not Catholic). I recall always being a step or two behind everyone around me, the blush of embarrassment burning my cheeks. Where was God in all of that? The discomfort of the unfamiliar clung to me. I thought that reading nearly the entire church service from a book, back and forth between the congregation and the minister was uncreative and stuffy and left no room for the Holy Spirit to speak.

I brought this darkened, complicated view of liturgy to the worship services on Iona. But evening though the morning and evening worship services were optional—and initially uncomfortable, I attended every one.  Something about the green, well-worn covers on the worship books compelled me to keep returning.

Within a day or two, I got over my feeling of being a lost tourist in a big city, map spread wide open on the city streets, locals walking confidently all around me. Repetition brought familiarity and growing comfort. And as I stopped being worried about which page to turn to next in the green worship book, I actually paid attention to the words. Phrases, different ones each time, jumped out and spoke to me.  Phrases about the forgiving myself for the harm I do to both myself and the world. Prayers for people in the community. Calls to remember the God of creation as well as the God of people.  

Finally, by the end of the week, liturgical worship had become something I could lose myself in. Here’s what I mean: the words printed out in the green worship book were the framework on which the experience hung.  My physical participation kept my mind engaged enough to pay attention to the words. And even though the morning prayers were nearly the same every day, different words resounded each time.

Here’s what I learned: the beauty of liturgy is that everyone participates. We stand, we sit. Half reads, then the other half responds. We listen, we sing. The teacher in me gives a a great nod of respect to whoever came up with that idea hundreds of years ago, because I know that in order to keep the students engaged, you have to keep them involved.  And what I’d previously thought was stuffy and uncreative, allowed huge space for the Holy Spirit to breathe life into me.

I miss the rhythm of morning and evening prayers. I miss the communal reading of powerful words. Margit the song leader led us through so many new songs, many in three- or four-part harmony. To sit in the Iona Abbey, packed with people staying at both the MacLeod center and the Abbey, singing old hymns, new English ones, and African praise songs in harmony, felt as though the veil between heaven and earth momentarily blew open.  I learned that the high crosses on the island were erected in places where people had experienced the presence of God in palpable ways. If I could, I’d plant one in the middle of the transept of the abbey.

Transition

I walked to the only pub on Iona for the last time with Bruce and Ellie, a middle-aged couple from Colorado chaperoning a group of college students. Our Iona community was disbanding the next day, never to be together again in that same, special context. I remember our conversation:

“I’ll ride the train with you guys for a bit tomorrow, but I’m heading up to Fort William. It’s supposed to be the adventure capital of Scotland, but I’m not all that excited. I’m ready to go home. For me, the trip is over, but the journey isn’t complete yet.”

Ellie: “You know, you may really need that transition time before you return to your life back home.  Time in between for processing could be a good thing for you right now. We’ve just had an intense week.”

As we parted for the very last time on the train the next day, they again reminded me to live boldly into the coming days of transition, and see what God had in store for me.

I guess what I feared most, after leaving Iona, was the complete vacuum of people that I’d come to love as we’d spent the last week together.  Splitting up was hard enough, but facing the next five days completely on my own again was daunting. I was also not excited about being a transitory backpacker again: changing hostels and cities every one to two nights, repacking my bag (which got heavier at every city or town I stopped in, and my least favorite, sharing hostel dorm rooms with up to twenty people.

The next five days (two in Fort William, three in Edinburgh) did indeed become valuable transition time. I stayed in a small hostel just outside of Fort William, in a town called Corpach. And as Brianne, the manager of the hostel told me, there was nothing to do in Corpach except walk or bus the three miles to Fort William. Perfect. The rain and my exhaustion that first night forced me to stay in, ruminate over photos, reintroduce myself to the world via the internet (it’s amazing what one week on a remote island sans internet will do for that little addiction), and talk to Alex, the chatty Finnish guy who’d just moved there for three months to attend commercial diving school.  Had I stayed in Fort William, I would have missed all that.

 I realize now, that I needed those first few days on my own again to be quiet. I needed to not be surrounded by a million things screaming for my attention, ie, the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh. It was tough and sort of scary to step into that space of reflection, to face the pain of longing and missing. I’m glad I wasn’t surrounded by such interesting, numbing distractions. It made that choice to enter into reflection easier.

And so I wandered around Corpach and Fort William for two days doing nothing but that, wander. Okay, I toured a whisky distillery, too. But Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in all of Scotland and England stood in my front yard, and I didn’t climb it. There were adverts everywhere for river rafting and canyoneering, and I didn’t do those either. I just took long walks in the sun, caught glimpses of the Highlands through the low-level clouds, explored the ruins of an old castle, took a nap in the sun in a park by the lake, ate mediocre fish and chips, and cooked for myself for the first time in two months in the hostel.

I somehow managed to book a hostel in the epicenter of all things festival in Edinburgh: a block away from the Royal Mile and a view of the castle from the front door. I could hear the bag pipes, marching, and fireworks from the Tattoo on the castle grounds every night. The road in front was blocked off each evening so the pipe bands could march by. (I never did catch them, so don’t ask! J ) Fringe Festival events (comedy, music, acts) swarmed all around me. All I had to do was hang a right from the hostel door, and I was met by street performers and musicians and plagued by people handing out leaflets for performances. (I quickly learned to say a polite, “No thanks” to the leafletters. Some looked surprised to be turned down) I’m sort of sad that in my transition to Edinburgh, I didn’t carry that peaceful, melancholy remembering. Once I got to that spot, I guess I wanted it to continue.  But I know, too, that to expect that was pretty unreasonable.

Quiet reflection and mediation on my summer experiences vanished, but God filled in the gap pretty creatively. In the masses of people, I began to see familiar faces and hear voices I knew. Or think I did. A second glance, every time, proved each person was just another stranger. But instead of choosing to think I lost my mind, I decided to live into the weirdness.  I heard the voices of Mike and Matt, a father and son on Iona. I saw Karen, one of our week’s leaders.  I even did a triple take on a man who was so very clearly not Ruth, one of the daughters on the farm. He just sounded so much like her, and was even wearing Wellies, those indestructible rubber boots I wore for a full month in North Yorkshire. And finally, I saw these three men who reminded me of no one I knew, but gave me a glimpse of the kingdom of God on earth, and a glimpse of what is to come.  One was an old guy in a kilt playing a bag pipe. Another was an African man playing the djembe. The third was a man I’d seen before playing the pipes and dressed up as a fawn. He wore pointy ears and little stilts that were covered with fur. He even had tiny black hooves peeking out from under the fur. This time though, he was playing the drums. All three were jamming together. I thought to myself, so this is what heaven will be like. People of all nations gathered together, making a joyful noise for the Lord.

It was indeed strange, “seeing” so many familiar faces all over Edinburgh, and then the airport, and even now occasionally in Seattle. It’s been pretty awesome, though, because I felt like I was carrying these people I care for in my heart.  I never felt lonely in Edinburgh, which was what I feared. Ready to go home, yes, but not lonely.

Home is where you take your backpack off

After extensive field studies in towns and cities across England and Scotland, I’ve developed a few thoughts on hostels.  Not one where I stayed in York, Grasmere, Stirling, Corpach, or Edinburgh met all of the following criteria for my ideal:

-sturdy bunk beds that don’t wiggle or squeak when your bunkmate rolls over (the one in York had bits falling off of it!)

-individual reading lights (York tried, but the hinge was broken and it kept flopping into the wall)

-a sink in the room

-no more than ten people sleeping in one dorm room (twenty in Stirling was a bit much)

-free wifi, and with a fast enough connection to upload photos (it took an average of five tries in Stirling to even get online, and when I tried to upload a video in York, it initially said the upload would take 20 minutes, but then kept getting longer. I gave up around seven hours)

-free breakfast, or at least cheap ones (it was only 70 pence in Edinburgh for a massive bowl of cereal)

-free coffee and tea, AND milk provided for the tea (I’ve developed this little afternoon tea habit…)

-loosey-goosey cleaning schedule (the hostel in Corpach asked all guests to vacate the premises from 9:30-4:30 every day for cleaning. Really? Not cool when it pours on a regular basis and there’s nothing to do in town. Or if you just want to take a nap.)

-lockers in the dorm rooms (in Edinburgh, there were even little lockboxes inside the lockers)

-no snoring! (there was stereo snoring in Grasmere for all three nights I was there. Several of us were awake for hours. I could even hear it with the volume cranked up on my iPod. Surprisingly in Edinburgh, the city where three different festivals were going on concurrently, no one snored in my room, that I could tell. Maybe I was just too pooped to hear)

-no one steals my food from the fridge (ie, most of my blueberries in Grasmere and my milk in Corpach)

-a manager who will flirt with you, then arrange for you to meet a retired American professor of English literature living in town because he thinks you miss talking to Americans (Grasmere)

-lower bunk with enough room to actually fully sit up without danger of braining yourself

-pillows that are thicker and softer than communion wafers (Corpach, York, Edinburgh...)

-roommates who don’t wake up at 5:30 and proceed to pack all their belongings in crinkly plastic bags (Edinburgh)

-roommates who don’t wake up at 6 and proceed to have loud conversations in Lithuanian before finally leaving (Corpach)

-cool guests who like talking to the other ones. I met travelers from Russia (Ivan was getting a PhD in physcis in London. Just a little smart), Finland (Alex was living in the hostel in Corpach for three months going to commerical diving school), Austria, Australia, the Philippines, America, Canada, England, France, and Scotland. I met some ladies from Manchester when I was staying in Grasmere. They couldn’t believe I was actually working on a farm. They recommended I completely skip visiting Manchester. I had an interesting conversation with a bunch of colorful, middle-aged Scottish men staying in my hostel in Corpach. They were part of a hiking club, and had just climbed Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the British Isles, along with several of the other Munros that day, 22 miles in all. I’m pretty sure they were Glaswegians, in other words, people from Glasgow whose accent is so broad you need a translator. Of all the people I met over the last two months, their accent was the most difficult for me to understand. They seemed to like me fine, though. One guy had visited Seattle a few years ago, and I could understand him fairly well. He translated the others for me. I got a little worried, though, when I said I’d worked on a farm in England for a month. These guys do not like the English. In fact, they taught me what they like to call Englishmen: F.E.B.s. (I’ll give you a hint, the ‘E’ stands for English). I guess they liked me well enough to give me a bowl of their homemade stew, called “stovies.” I’d already eaten a full dinner, and I only wanted a little. But they dished me up a full bowl, and swore I’d eat the whole thing. I did. It was delicious. Apparently, stovies is any sort of stew with meat and potatoes and whatever else the cook decides to throw in. When I asked them the question I asked as many Scots as possible—“Is haggis really worth it?”—they gave me a resounding “Yes.”  I think they may have also invited me out for a drink in Fort William too, but I’m not sure. Even with my translator, I only got about 80% of the conversation.

 (this was the label outside one of the rooms in the York hostel which was a former mansion owned by super-rich people)

Simple Offerings

I’ve been thinking a lot the last day or two about what I bring to the table. What I mean is this: I spend a lot of time beating myself up. Much of my processing this summer has been to realize and re-realize aspects of myself that aren’t all that healthy, for example my tendency to drive myself into the ground with busyness before I stop for self-care. But as I’ve been living in this short-term intentional community these last few days, I’ve begun to consider the things that I add to a community. Not the sort of things I ‘work at,’ but that I naturally bring because I am who I am.

So when Karen, one of our leaders, asked the other day for several people to act as “supporters” on our 7-mile pilgrimage around the island today, I volunteered. I thought, I’ve led lots of hikes. I’m fit and strong. I can do this! She didn’t give any details in her asking, but I suspected it would be related to helping Timothy, a young man living in the community this week who is blind.  His father David, for this week at least, has served as his eyes. It’s a full-time job, and I’m sure he appreciated the break.

 I was right. I and the five other volunteers paired up to guide Timothy on our off-road pilgrimage today. We took turns being his eyes, telling him about turns in the path, mud puddles and cow pies to avoid, and stood ready to catch him if he stumbled on the steep, wet path.

(I took this picture on what was the steepest bit of the day. Even with two working eyes, it was muddy and slick. Guiding a blind guy down that narrow, rocky path was a challenge.)

But here’s what I discovered: I may be an experienced mountain guide and I may be fairly fit right now, but those things were irrelevant.  I needed a set of working eyes. But more importantly, I needed a willing spirit.  That other stuff really wasn’t important.
In reflecting with Karen after supper just now, I remembered the definition of ‘pilgrimage’ that was given us at the end of our journey around the island. It’s a trip people go on together, yes to a specific place, but for the sake of the experience together as well. I could have walked to those places on my own, as I’m prone to do, but in traveling with a group of forty-odd people, but then in a smaller nucleus of “Team Timothy” as well, I had a different experience altogether. This day’s pilgrimage, for me, was about giving the simple abilities I have to someone who doesn’t.

Seeds of Community

Iona is a place that upon arriving, I knew I’d be coming back to.  It’s really not the place that assures me of this, though it is indeed beautiful and breathtaking on this island. It’s about five miles long, and the rain, thankfully, has held off for my stay thus far. It’s very green here, with cows and sheep that seem to wander at large. The terrain is either very flat or very steep; there doesn’t seem to be much middle ground.  It’s a beautiful place, but it’s really the people gathered here and our common bonds that would bring me back.  Even though I don’t know anyone here, I feel like haven’t yet met a stranger.

 There is a growing sense of community here. We gathered for our first meal together Saturday night as strangers. Over the next several meals, I quickly tired of asking and answering the same questions: Where are you from? What brought you to Iona? How did you hear about it? But while the questions felt repetitive and tiresome, they were essential.  For what is now in the germination stage, just two days into our week’s journey together, is a community. While I still ask and answer those same questions, the seeds of some of those early conversations have begun to sprout.  I now mark a meal or the passing of an afternoon by the significant conversations I’ve had.

 I believe others are also going through a similar process, such that I’ve been able to skip the entry-level questions with some, and go straight to the deep stuff.  Just this evening, I had an awesome conversation with Graham, one of the week’s leaders, and Fran,  another guest like myself. Graham started the meal by asking me the un-boxable and flattering question of “What’s your story?” We talked about travel, the faith communities I’ve come from in both Seattle and New Hampshire, and now the idea of community on Iona.  He helped me try to wrap my mind around the Christian churches in England and Scotland, and the role liturgy plays in them.

 I am learning the meaning of an ecumenical community. I am learning about the beauty in it. People have gathered here at the MacLeod Center on Iona from many different countries: the U.S., Canada, Ireland, Scotland, England, Australia, Germany, the Netherlands. We come from many different faith traditions. We speak a common language, though, of adoration of our Creator, a desire for building community, seeking justice and peace, and sharing good meals together.

Fear Not

“Darling do not fear what you don’t really know.” Words from a Brett Dennen song have been cycling through my head all morning as I’ve begun the last leg of my pilgrimage: Iona. The unknown, for me, can be so intimidating sometimes. Intimidating, yet magnetic and enthralling. Why else, then, would I heave off for the entire summer to travel around the UK all by myself?

What once was unfamiliar becomes known, and thus, comfortable. After a full month on the farm, I was ready to push on into the glorious unknown. I was sad, though, to leave new friends and my temporary home behind. Even the small caravan that had been my sleeping and personal quarters had become dear. What I initially perceived as a leaky tin can that recently had mushrooms growing around the windows, was a haven. Who wouldn’t love being able to reach all of one’s possessions without having to get out of bed? I’ve missed Whistle the Wonder Dog, who when seeing me each morning, would flop on her back at my  feet, paws in the air, because she knew I’d give her a belly scratch. I’ve missed John with his super-dry sense of humor that usually caused delay-reaction laughter in me. And Rachel, too, my new good friend who was excited to hear about Vampire Land—Seattle—and took very little convincing to return to the pub in Robin Hood’s Bay with weekly folk music.

With both nostalgia and excitement, I’ve pushed through the screen of comfort into the unknown. A day and a half in York to soak up Roman, medieval, and cultural history.  And then my first foray into Scotland was to the town of Stirling, home of the castle where “he who holds Stirling, holds Scotland.” The castle is currently held by Historic Scotland; I’m not sure what that says about the country.  Unfortunately, the weather matched a Seattle spring day, cold, gray, and rainy. My mood matched the weather, and the bird of loneliness had come to lay some eggs in my heart. (I wish I could claim that wonderful word picture as my own, but I must give the credit to the author of one of my favorite books, Bryce Courtnay)  I passed the day overwhelmed by new things and knowing that everyone I met was a stranger.

But it’s a new day today. I approach Iona, finally. The sun peeks through the gray and I’m excited once again to be riding the rails. I woke this morning having slept surprisingly well, considering the hostel was on a busy street and the dorm room held around 20 beds.

It might just be me, but it seems like there are far more strangers chatting on this train car than any other I’ve traveled on in Britain. It makes me wonder how many others voyage to Iona. Are they strangers? Or old friends seeing each other after a long absence? Maybe that will be me again someday. Once again, I head into what I don’t know. Today, though, I have the hope that comes from being called to this place, to a community that gathers under the common heraldry of heaven.

A solitary, rolling stone

I met a young woman from Salzburg, Austria last night. We were bunkmates, actually, in our hostel in York. We discovered several things in common right off the bat: she is a teacher and has lots of time off that most of her friends don’t share. She was in Seattle just a few weeks ago, on a trip to Vancouver that she’d won in the lottery and Seattle was just a day trip.  She thought it was cool that I’d lived on a farm in the Alps a few years ago. She too is traveling solo through England, though her trip is only 17 days long.  We reflected for a moment on the idea of traveling alone versus with a companion.  She has recently been on two different big trips with her sister, after which they both decided they needed to part ways for a while. Her sister kept complaining that my bunkmate was moving too fast; she wanted to slow down.

 I reflected that traveling solo is easier, in some ways. I don’t have to deal with the communication challenges that traveling brings out. What do you want to do? Why are you frustrated with me? Was I snoring again last night? Solo travelers are also more approachable. I had a lovely chat with a Turkish man in his sandwich truck in York two days ago. It was raining and I was hungry, so I sought shelter under his canopy. He wanted to know what life in America was like. I wanted to know what parts of Turkey I should visit. He was grateful for the American invasion of Iraq in ’03 because, according to him, it enabled the Kurds to finally have some rights.

Traveling alone can indeed be lonely business at times, though. I enjoy getting a good meal in a restaurant, and slowly lingering over it while reading and people watching. But sometimes, I’d just like to have a conversation with someone I know well.  Or experiences seen through two sets of eyes just make more sense. I spent way too much money yesterday to get into the York Dungeons. I spent an hour in the queue to then go through a 70 minute-long gory experience that was intended more to frighten than to enlighten.  Having someone like my big brother, for example, to poke me in the ribs from time to time would have helped me feel like I’d gotten my money’s worth.  As an antidote to the York Dungeons, I saw “Legally Blond: the Musical” last night. It was entertaining and rather inane, but like any good chick flick, best seen with a girlfriend. 

Here’s what I believe: God has not made us to be alone. Rather, we’re created to live in community, and a life shared together is really far sweeter than life alone.  Just as a large, home-cooked meal tastes even better in the company of others, so does traveling.