Is There Room For an Altar?

Last week, I visited grandmother’s house.

It is crammed with memories for everyone who ever lived in or visited this home.  There's probably not a single member of my family who would not like to take a few things from it for his own grandchildren. Unfortunately, our  family is too large for that. If we each took a few things from grandma's house, there would soon be nothing left. That's why it looks pretty much they way she left it, twenty-five years ago. 

We can take pictures though, and that's what my daughter did.

We have been sharing those pictures with other family members and they have been making comments about how the scenes affect them. Every one of my fifty-four cousins (and all their children) know what they are looking at when they see them. They evoke old emotions and irrepressible sensations.

Grandma's house was modest.  Her belongings were few. However, during the time most of us were growing up, she kept the same things in the same places. That's why they bring back a lot of memories for us.

Take her picture of the Last Supper. It is an inexpensive reproduction, like ones most of us have seen at countless flea markets. It has an aluminum frame that scrolls around its subject like metal lace. On top  is a light, which gets its power through a cord that hangs down the wall.

Woven through both sides of the picture frame are plastic flowers.

Grandma was a Pentecostal Protestant. She would not have been comfortable with historic Christian iconography. Nonetheless …

My blog is not about icons though.

It’s about a larger question: whether one should purposefully order his or her living space in such a way that acknowledges (and encourages) sacredness.

To put it another way: does the way we decorate our homes say anything at all about our values or our faith? If so, what sorts of things should we leave out? What sorts of things should we put in?

That leads me to another question: what about the way we decorate our churches? Does it even matter? 

There was a time when all churches, however simple and unadorned, were unmistakably arranged for one thing: worship.  Even the most iconoclastic denominations ordered their worship space in ways that set church buildings apart from other kinds of buildings.

For most of Christian history, church architecture has been a sermon, preached in concrete and wood. As a worshipper’s mind wondered from the sermon, his eyes would take in the message the building was preaching. A cross here, a stained glass window there, a verse of scripture, a banner or the communion table – something instructed his soul from every part of the room. 

At the center of everything, in every church, was a table; an altar if you prefer.

Now, what we called “the altar” in our little Pentecostal church was actually a kneeling bench. As we sang, “Is you all on the altar of sacrifice laid,” we imagined ourselves kneeling in front of that bench. That’s where we submitted ourselves to God. It was, therefore, an altar.

The table was there too, often covered with a cloth, bearing the words “Do This In Remembrance of Me.” 

The area around the kneeling bench and table was called "the altar area." It was sacred space and little children did not run or joke up there.

Over the front of the pulpit was a cloth, with a picture of a crown and a cross. I later discovered this cloth is called a "parament," though I never heard that term as a child. 

We Protestants have always been cautious about the ways we use art in our worship space. We remember the medieval excess that violated, or that we believe violated, the first and second commandments. However, it is only very recently that we decided worship space ought not be set apart at all, that space cannot be, or should not be 'made sacred." 

For many years, we have been asserting that worship space is not different in any way than other kinds of space. Now, even the concept of sacred seems strange to many people. 

So, am I saying that ‘contemporary’ just another word for ‘secular?’

No.

After the Second World War, the British debated about rebuilding the Parliament Building.  When some English leaders proposed a contemporary design, Winston Churchill thundered, “No! This is our nation's heart. Human beings design buildings but then those buildings mold the people who use them! We must rebuild this building as it has been if we want our descendants to be truely English.”

It is an important concept.

There is nothing necessarily unholy about contemporary architecture. Some buildings, even beautiful ones, are profane. Some contemporary buildings are sacred. The issue is not about style. It is about intention and impact.

Do you know what the worship space of your church (or the decor of your home) says to the souls of those who enter it? You can be sure your home and church says something, but what? Do you know? 

Grandmother’s house was not a shrine. Most of her art was not even religious. For example, in her dining room was three pictures of China, or at least China as the artist imagined it. All around the rest of the house were pictures of our family, which, although many interior designers say is some sort of grave sin against the god of aesthetics, the Scott family insist is the heart of the home.

Why does that simple little house hold so many of my earliest thoughts and dreams? For one thing,  I know all the people in the pictures. A lovely little voice told me who they were a thousand times. She told me because I kept asking her, as I walked from picture to picture, from room to room who they were.

“And that soldier? And that little boy? Who are they?”

“Oh, that is your uncle Benny. He was a sailor in the war. That is your daddy when he was little, like you.”

And finally there was the picture of the unseen part of our family, having a last meal together. And, on top, a plastic flower hanging on an aluminum frame. 

A little boy looks at it all in wonder, not knowing or caring what others think about what he sees. This is his grandmother's home and it has a story to tell to those who live here. That's why every piece in it evokes a tear or a laugh from the fifty--nine year old that the little boy becomes. He is a child of a certain time and place and these inexpensive artifacts anchor him to all he treasures most.  

Why I Believe in Classical Christian Education

It is an honor to speak to you today who teach and lead Providence Christian Academy. You offer something of great value to the people of Middle Tennessee and I appreciate the opportunity to tell you why I think so. 

Jesus once blamed lawyers for “taking away the keys of knowledge.” He said they had blurred the meanings of words, which had, in effect, blocked the common people's ability to learn what they needed to know to survive and thrive. 

            

If the Lord were speaking to modern Americans, I think he might blame our media, preachers and educators for doing the same thing. There are ways in which these people of influence often obscure the way to learning and make it difficult, or at least unpleasant, for children to acquire knowledge and wisdom.

The accumulation and retention of knowledge, and the ability to use that knowledge appropriately for the benefit of one’s self and one’s community, depends on how well one learns fundamental things.  For centuries, the guardians of civilization taught those fundamental things to their children in their earliest years. They assumed that children should first learn how to learn; should be given the “keys to knowledge” in other words. 

By “keys of knowledge,” I mean the basic elements of civilization, the building blocks of thought and discourse; the ideas, habits and disciplines that make the common life of a people possible. Without these fundamental elements of our common life, we retreat into the ghettos and jargon of our isolated occupations and private preoccupations. We keep learning more and more about less and less. We lose understanding, a word that means, after all, “knowing what stands under.”

           

The aim of a classical education is to teach children “what stands under” civilized life. A Christian institution like Providence Academy does this from a  Christian perspective.

In a classical education system one learns Latin, the linguistic foundation of Western European culture. Knowing Latin allows a person to gain fluency in most modern European languages, including the three major languages of our own hemisphere.  Even if one does not go on to become fluent in other languages, he will understand his own language and culture at a deeper level than those who have no knowledge of its roots. 

By studying grammar, logic and rhetoric a child learns how to acquire knowledge in any subject and to effectively communicate what he learns to others. Because he understands – knows 'what stands under' – he instinctively looks for the structures and rules of any discipline or skill he may wish to acquire.

A classically educated child is likely to excel in the rest of life because he has the keys of knowledge. He knows how to open the doors of this great mansion we call Western Civilization.

     

Furthermore, contrary to all the clichés of modern film, a classical education is not a luxury accessible only to people from wealthy families. In fact, the children it benefits most are often those from families lacking material resources.

Children from educated and wealthy families usually pick up bits and pieces of Western civilization by osmosis. Armed with even a superficial knowledge of historic names and cultural jargon, they learn to be at ease with cultural protocol and language in ways that communicates competence, whether or not that competence actually exists. (Watch Melodie Griffith's movie, Born Yesterday, to see a delightful picture of how that works.)  In contrast, children from less affluent families often stumble through school and graduate only to experience continual difficulty finding even menial employment. Because they don't pick up on the subtle phrases and mannerisms that mark those from more privileged backgrounds, they may appear incapable and unreliable to potential employers and peers.

A classically educated child however, knows how to unlock society's doors. He enters those doors with confidence, regardless of his background. He has a sense of belonging in a world of work and discourse. He knows he is a legitimate heir of civilization and has learned how it works.

I hope it is obvious by now how much I believe in classical education. In fact, I believe that in order to offer an education that is truly Christian, a school must be classical, both in form and content. The reason I believe this is because a Christian education will not hide children from reality. It will not teach children to be fearful or hostile to the community, or the times, in which they live. A real Christian education will teach children to view all their experiences of life, all their knowledge of the world, all the facets of civilization that they discover, through the lenses of a Christian world view. However, it will also recognize that we are heirs of a specific sort of Christianity, formed by the Greco-Roman world it converted and absorbed. The structures of thought developed by this history are precisely what makes our culture work as it does. There is no basis for hostile sectarianism if one understands this.

A classically taught child learns how to articulate his beliefs with confidence, kindness and integrity. He learns how to respectfully process difference with others by analyzing the content of that difference instead of reacting viscerally, which a fear of others naturally provoke. By knowing his own culture well, he knows how to respect, appreciate and evaluate other cultures.

A classical Christian education teaches a child to retain his or her sense of wonder at the marvelous world God has made. It teaches him to honor all people. It teaches him how to to learn. It teaches him to love learning. It teaches him that learning never ends. It teaches him that formal education is merely a training in how to keep acquiring and utilizing knowledge. And, in the end, classical education makes the final acquisition of wisdom a less remote possibility.

A classical Christian education presupposes that a child has been created for a particular calling that will become clear as he walks through life. Classical education, in other words, prepares children to discover his or her vocation (Latin for calling) instead of merely preparing him or her to enter an occupation (meaning “staying busy.”)

Why should a Christian education be classical? Because classical education builds on a foundation carefully developed over two thousand years from the teaching of Moses, the prophets, Jesus, the apostles and the teachers of the church. It builds upon the work of a Christianized Greco-Roman civilization. It builds upon the principles that have developed modern science, technology, and abstract disciplines of all sorts; economic systems that have made the sustenance and advancement of complex modern societies possible; and political systems that have made it possible, for the first time in history, to protect the personal independence of a nation’s citizens within a stable social order.

Classical education offers the child the heritage won through the ages by his or her ancestors. It teaches him how to access the ever expanding knowledge humanity continues to acquire. It teaches him how to discover and then express the unique vocation that God had in mind for him before He created the world.


This is what you offer our community. It is one of the most important contributions one could possibly make to our culture at this time. It is worthy of support because, in the end, it is what supports every facet of our future. 

   
                 

Protecting Our Border

Immigration is a hot topic now. Actually, it has been a hot topic throughout our nation’s history, beginning with John Adam's administration.

At the heart of the debate is how we define and control our borders.

A border tells us where a thing begins. It tells us how a thing differs from its neighbors. It outlines the territory under its control.

Every material thing – every abstract belief come to think of it -- has a  border of some sort.

We feel the difference when we cross a national border. The flags are different. The currency is different.  Sometimes, even the language is different.

When we cross the border into another country, we may feel excited. 

Or, we may feel apprehensive. 

Having lived as an immigrant for long periods of my life, I have felt all of these things. 

Once, after having spent two weeks in the Soviet Union I was relieved when we flew out of Soviet air space. I had been treated well. I enjoy Russian people and their culture. It was just that I had grown up fearing what seemed to be an unavoidable war with the communist block. Things had changed but my emotions were still responding to old fears.

Borders establish what (or who) belongs within the borders and what does not. The influence that comes from inside those borders may extend well beyond them. However, influence is not control and enjoying something from the outside is not the same as submission to it inside.

One will discover all sorts of difference within a nation’s borders. Massachusetts doesn’t feel much like New Mexico. But such differences are held within common boundaries. New Mexico can’t establish a monarchy. West Virginia can’t make Swahili its official language.

Some people get intense about protecting borders. They want to know the exact inch where New York ends and Québec begins. They want what’s over there to stay over there. They want what’s over here to stay just as it is.

Others think of borders as gradual shifts of influence and control.

The influence of Mexico extends well beyond the legal boundary that separates it from the United States. Hundreds of miles before one reaches that border, Spanish place names, language, food and other cultural markers inform us that our country is not merely Anglo-Saxon. Cultures mix and mingle like this on both sides of most national borders.

Nonetheless, there is a border. There is a place where one nation’s control ends and another nation’s control begins. If we do not protect that border, people will stop respecting the nation it defines.  That is why border areas often feel lawless, as though no one on either side of it has enough authority to establish order.

Religions also have borders. Buddhists do not make pilgrimages to Mecca. Hindus do not observe Rash Hashanah. One does not shout out “praise the name of Zoroaster!” in a Christian worship service.

Beliefs and practices sometimes migrate across religious lines through a process that takes a long time. The process radically redefines those beliefs and practices however. For example, early Northern European Christians borrowed the word “God” from early religious traditions. The actual word “God” is not linguistically related to Hebrew or Greek words used to call upon the Creator. Now, English speaking Christians think nothing of referring to the deity of the Hebrew scriptures as "God." The old pagan word "God" got baptised, so to speak.

In many countries, missionaries get into fights about this. In the early stages of Christianizing a people, missionaries often worry about using local words for God. Most of the time, they end up importing a word from holier languages – such as English.  “God” sounds right to them. “Zakox” or “Achapichiti” sound scary and unholy.

The reason missionaries argue about what to call God is that they know words carry connotations and influences. They don’t want to import an alien concept into their faith. Others are less concerned. They want to communicate with their new converts and don't want to burden them with a lot of imported, foreign-sounding terms.

These kinds of disagreements have been going on for two thousand years. It’s why some American believers get upset when they learn that Arabic Christians call God “Allah.”

Because of our long history of making adaptations to local culture, we have all sorts of differences. Some of us make the sign of the cross when we pray. Others raise their hands. Yet others fold their hands. Some make no physical gesture at all. 

We do our rituals differently.  Some claim to not have any rituals. We call the various parts of church architecture different things. We use different words to describe our doctrines.

Just as Massachusetts and New Mexico live within common boundaries, so do Baptists and Copts.

We call the common boundary that includes Baptists and Copts but which excludes Wicca practitioners)  Orthodoxy.

Orthodoxy is a boundary. for example, it defines what writings we accept as Holy Scripture. That’s why all Christians have a common Bible, consisting of sixty-six books. We have another set of writings, which we may read for our devotional benefit and which we honor. We call that small collection of writings the Apocrypha, or more properly, the 'deutero-canonical' (which means ‘almost canonical’) writings.  Some of us use those writings more than others, just as Texans tend to eat more tacos than New Englanders.

No Christian is free to accept the Bhagavad Gita as Holy Scripture. On the other hand, although we rarely read it, we all accept the Book of Nahum. Nahum is within our borders.  The Bhagavad Gita is not. That is what we mean by the concept of 'canon'. It is a border that defines Christian scripture, drawn a long time ago and honored by all types of Christians.

Some of us are rather like religious tourists though. From time to time we visit other religions and see what they are about. We may even learn from those religions. I have read the Bhagavad Gita, for example. I found it beautiful and, in places, inspiring. However, just as a tourist does not vote in the national elections of the country visits, Christians do not participate in rituals that compromise their understanding of God and faith. I do not bow to a statue of Krishna. I do not pray to Thor.

I am a faithful citizen of the kingdom of Christ. I do not try to carry contraband across the border.

Through the centuries, Christians learned the core principles of their faith, that is to say its boundaries,  through a process of instruction called catechism. Christians did this in order to protect its borders. Most denominations have abandoned the practice. The kids thought it was boring. (Evidently, that is also why we no longer study civics.)

As a result of abandoning catechism, Christianity’s borders are shifting. Paganism is creeping in on one side, humanism on the other. The language of Zion is not well understood now by those who live near our borders. They are no longer sure what “redemption” means. They are unsure of the meaning or utility of “canon.” They may halfway believe in reincarnation. They may not be sure how worship differs from a concert. They often do not know the two great creeds of the Church or understand the purpose these creeds served.

If the sections of a nation do not remember that they share a common border, the differences between places like Massachusetts and New Mexico become more like the differences between New Zealand and Ghana.  People in them keep moving away from one another. They forget their commonality or why that commonality was ever important. They forget their shared history and common ancestry.

Without the knowledge that instruction like civics and catechism, borders disappear.

When a tourist decides to become a citizen, he crosses a border. He takes an oath of loyalty to a new country. He learns a new language. He may even change his clothes.

When one changes his religion, he crosses a border called “conversion.”  After conversion, he prays to a different god. He reads different scripture. He adopts different practices.

There is no conversion unless one crosses that spiritual border.

Without learning where the borders are and what purpose they serve, no amount of anger and anxiety will atone for the ignorance.

Unprotected borders will disappear, and with them, the nations those borders once defined.

Mountain Mama Take Me Home

My father’s day gift this year was a drive to West Virginia. My daughter is moving to Ireland and will be gone for a while.  She wanted us to visit one of my favorite places together.

Our family’s roots go deep into mountain soil.  Nothing touches a more primal place in our hearts than a visit to the Kanawha Valley.

Tiffany downloaded Country Roads Take Me Home and played it as we crossed the state line. We were looking at blue and green ridges scraping the bottoms of clouds as Denver reminded us that “life is old there; older than the trees.”

Our mountains are not as high as the Rockies or the Andes. Those far away mountains evoke awe and wonder. But they are not intimate like the Appalachians. In these mountains, you either want to run away or surrender. Ignoring your Mountain Mama is simply not an option.

People from West Virginia will tell you, ten minutes after you meet them, where they are from. If you show the slightest interest they will then give you their genealogy, like Bible characters.

“I am Dan, the son of Daniel, the son of John, the son of James, the son of Richard, the son of John” (I can go back further if you like.) I actually know who these people were, where they lived and where they are buried. I even know many of their living descendants.

By the time Tiffany and I entered the Kanawha Valley, relatives were waiting to take us up Slaughter’s Creek. We went miles back into the woods and after a while, we ran out of pavement. So we left our car and climbed into the back of the truck. Then we kept on driving.

They were taking us up Scott Mountain, where Richard and Rebeca Scott lived and are buried. My ancestors made their home up there decades before the civil war. After a while, they sent for their parents who had been living on the other side of the Appalachians. Rebecca’s father was Bales Cooper. The people who drove us up the mountain are his great-great-great grandchildren. They took us up the mountain because my uncle was busy on the tugboat. He couldn’t take us, so he asked the Coopers to take us. Makes all sorts of sense. 

“I don’t think we have met,” I had said to Richard Cooper.  “But you seem familiar.”

“Well, I ought to be familiar, “he replied. “Scotts and Coopers are the same family. Just got different names.”

“How’s that?” I asked

‘Well, there wasn’t anybody else up there on the mountain for a hundred years or so. By now, Coopers and Scotts are pretty much the same people, if you know what I mean.”

I did.

At Scott mountain, they showed us the graves and told us how we were related to each person buried there. Then they took us to the Cooper cemetery and told us how we were related to those folk.

When we got down off the mountain, we went to my uncle John’s house.

“Lets go get something to eat,” he said, as he walked toward the river. 

We got into his boat and headed toward Scott Island. As we circled it, as I rehearsed a thousand memories about my grandparents and their fourteen children. All of us fifty-four first cousins are tied to this piece of dirt. We know it. All of our children and grandchildren know it too.

To us, the little house on the side of the river is still “grandmother’s house.” We all visit it from time to time. Our cousin, John lives there now. But like he says; we are all welcome. If he's not at home, we know where the keys are. 

Strange stuff for our cyber world. Southern West Virginia feels odd to some people.

Not to me. 

“All my memories gather round her, miner’s lady stranger to blue water.”

Coal is everywhere we look. It’s in the barges on the river. It’s on the trains that run by every few minutes, making a loud shriek and rumbling past like the buffalo that once rushed by on that very same trail.  The grandpas and uncles of most of us from here were coal miners or at least worked in something relating to coal. Some of them went into the hole one morning and never come back. We all know stores about things like that.

My uncle John is one of those rare West Virginians who never left this place. He is married to the river. He knows its every turn. He knows how deep it is in each spot. He knows where each creek empties into the Kanawha and where up on the mountain it begins. He tells us stories about my father, his older brother, who also loved the river and the land but who left this enchanted valley to serve another mountain people far away in the Andes.

I listen and watch, sometimes too full to speak. Beside me is my daughter, the mother of my grandchildren, two of them named after one of their ancestors and the other suspiciously called Isla – which of course, means Island.

Their mother is Tiffany, whose mother and grandmothers are children of these mountains and who are descendants of the mountain women who have lived in these Appalachian homes for three hundred years.

Tiffany’s children have not visited here yet.  But when they do, the Mountain Mama will pull them in. They will not understand at first what it is that keeps calling their names from a place so deep in their soul they can hardly breathe.  They will peer at the sunset on the water and lift their eyes to the mountains; dark and dusty, painted on the sky. 

Its a Long Way To Iona

I'm a bit sad today because my children and grandchildren are moving to Ireland.

Trish and I have another daughter and granddaughter in Phoenix. When we visit them a couple times a year, it is always difficult to say goodbye again. The years have not lessened the pain of separation. Now, to think of day-to-day life without any of my grandchildren around, has upped the ante.

I know: this is how modern lifeworks. This is how millions of Americans experience family.

It’s still difficult.

My son-in-law is enrolled at the university in Galway. He will do graduate studies there in classical languages as he keeps preparing himself to serve in ministry. As a fellow language nerd, I am happy for him. Besides, I want my children to carry out their call to ministry in ways that will not force them to work at a church. The times have changed what many congregations expect from their pastors, and this makes marriage and family difficult for church workers.

I don’t mean that I never want my children to work for a church; only that I don’t want that to be their only option. I want them to have the dignity of knowing that they have freely chosen their line of work. I don’t want them to be imprisoned by it. I want them to minister to others out of a healthy sense of dignity.

Nonetheless, they are moving. I don’t know if we will be able to live close to one another ever again. I have my palce of work, here in Nashville. My family is somewhere else. I realize that the Roman Catholic requirement of celibacy doesn’t make sense – biblically, morally or practically. But I also know that church work places a considerable strain on marriage and family life. At least, if the statistics are reliable, this is the experience of a huge percentage of church workers. Most of us believe that leading churches creates challenging family situations.

I am called to do church work. I carry that call within my heart every day. I doubt that in my entire life I have missed more than ten Sunday services. I certainly do not regret following this call. But my wife and family have often carried the weight of this work as much, and perhaps more, that I. It makes the medieval Catholic decision to forgo trying to care for both a family and a church understandable, at least at some level.

As a young man, I fell in love with the church; as deeply in love as any man ever felt for a woman. I saw in the ordinary congregation a germ of greatness. It could transfigure people, if they truly believed. And, I saw many evidences of that hope. People stumbled into our doors weary and broken. Some of them found healing. They discovered some passion for service that seriously altered their lives and the lives of others.

I also caught a glimpse of that transcendent glory in the universal Bride of Christ; a global body that transcended time and space. I saw it in contemporary stories of transformation and grace, to be sure. But I really saw it in history. And, for me, no place or time epitomized that glory better than the Island of Iona. Some of my ancestors lived on that Island, but I didn’t know that back then. It was something else that caught my attention.

In 563, St. Columba founded a mission there. He and his spiritual descendents evangelized the western islands of Scotland and finally the mainland itself from these. Columba was seeking forgiveness for a few things in his past. However, part of his past was the Celtic Church of Ireland, where Patrick, arguably the greatest apostle since Paul, had converted pagan Druids into Christian saints and scholars.

When I first read about the crazy, God intoxicated Irish of those centuries, my heart beat like an adolescent who has just seen, really seen, for the first time in his life, a beautiful woman. I wanted whatever it was that calling me from that ancient place.

It’s probably a kind of madness. It is certainly impractical. The real Island of Iona is nothing more than a small Island. But it is not really Iona itself, it is Iona as an icon that works magic on my heart.

All these years, I have been walking toward that image. I have tried to ignore all the squabbles about worship music, church and national politics, what pastors should wear when they preach, and tons of other real issues that are the actual experiences of church life. Some people think I am hopelessly idealistic. But I can’t help it. When I think about the church, my eyes are on something beyond what is and fix themselves on what ought to be and actually can be.

A person once told me that the way to avoid getting disillusioned is to avoid illusions in the first place. But is that what Iona is; an illusion? Are there really thin places in the world, where the distance between earth and heaven is less; where one can taste of the powers of the world to come? Is that really a fantasy?

I heard an Irish priest once warn Christians about the dangers of making places into idols. Our hearts are the holy places where God dwells, he said. Our churches are the thin places. Worship, anywhere at any time is how we travel to the thin place.

He was right. And yet, we seem to need symbols, even exaggerated ones, to remind us that our churches really can be that if we can rise above the stuff that seems to sap our joy and batter our hearts. That priest, after all, talked about how he had once experienced God praying where Patrick had preached.

Well, I for one must have my visions. If I lose them, I will not care much about what other people call practical reality.

If church is about how much money is coming in, or how many people show up each Sunday, or whether the right people are joining it, or whether it is relevant, or whether the décor is up to par, or whether the pastor dresses correctly – or any of this other kind of practical stuff – what, really, pray tell, is the point of keeping it going? Who cares to come to a church where there is nothing from the beyond to touch?

If, however, there is an Iona behind all of this; if church can be a place of transcendent glory in which the poor are comforted, the weary find strength, the brokenhearted are healed; if the church can be the place where lost people meet the risen Christ – then any burden we bear is worth the cost of maintaining the thin place that makes all of this available.

So, I’m a bit sad today. I can’t bring myself to think about putting my children on the plane. I had hoped, really hoped, they would be around me as I got older; that they would working together with me in this church I serve. Evidently this is not to be. But they are doing the right thing nonetheless. They are following the dream that breaks our hearts but which nonetheless makes life worth living.

They are headed for Iona. My heart goes with them.

If you would like to know more about their mission as they study and afterward, please drop me a note.

We all have an Iona.  Pursuing it is what makes life work. And what makes life hurt.

It’s a long way to Iona

And the sea may grow wild and cold

The waves may rock and your ship may roll

Before you reach the shores of home.