Pilgrims in a Thin Space

Pentecost

May 20, 2018

Last Sermon at St. Aidan’s

I love the humanness of the start of our story from Acts today.  There the disciples gather, huddled together in sadness over the loss of their beloved leader and friend.  Fearful that the authorities may be coming for them next.  Unsure what to do or where to go.  They can’t imagine carrying on Jesus’ ministry on their own — who were they after all?  Just ordinary people — fisherman and tax collectors, brothers and friends.  There was nothing particularly holy about them other than their association with Jesus.  And so there they were, all clamped shut in that room, with their broken hearts and their tense shoulders and their befuddled minds.  Sheep without a shepherd. 

I picture another group feeling a lot like that.  A group of pilgrims to Iona, after our beloved Ian Roberts collapsed in our midst.

Someone once said that “[t]o journey without being changed is to be a nomad, to change without journeying is to be a chameleon, to journey and be transformed by the journeying is to be a pilgrim.”  I do think our group lived into the word pilgrim. 

We certainly journeyed.  We spent about 24 hours getting to our first hotel.  Planes, trains, and buses finally got us to Oban, Scotland, our overnight stop on the way to Iona.  We had just a few hours in the evening and a few more in the morning for exploring the little fishing town - climbing the tower on the hill, sampling our first native beer, indulging in fish and chips.  Then the next day we were to ferry to a bus to another ferry to get to Iona.  

And we definitely were transformed.  Until the moment Ian collapsed, anyone who knows him will not be surprised to hear that he was our enthusiastic tour guide and spotter of beautiful and interesting things hidden in plain sight every waking moment.  He was back in his native land and so glad to have brought us all with him to share a place he loved so much.

Even after his heart attack, there was something about Ian that continued to create community, even among the countless incredible EMTs, doctors, and hospitality staff from the rest stop that attended to Ian and to our stricken group.  These strangers were honored to be with him, willing to do anything for him.  Ian was just that kind of person.

And so when we finally reached Iona — described as “an island off an island in the middle of nowhere,” a place held dear for almost two millennia by pilgrims who have found it to be a “thin space” between earth and heaven — when we finally arrived we were bereft.  Heartbroken and afraid for Ian, worried for Kathy, unsure about what to do next.

But maybe we were also ready to be pilgrims.  

When we arrived, we were, or so we thought, ordinary people.  People with jobs, people retired; people married and people widowed; husbands and wives; mothers and daughters; strangers and friends; seekers and explorers.

But as we traipsed around the magnificent island, we began to sense the sacredness of every inch of it.  The abbey that St. Columba founded, the crumbling remains of the nunnery across the green field, the wide-open blue sky, the clear teal waters, the marbled rocks on the shore, the craggy outcrops where purple flowers made their surprising homes, the mama sheep grazing with their skittish lambs, the shaggy shetland cows, the wind blowing our hair into messes, even the bogs that sucked our boots off and brought us to our knees.  And as we interacted with the people, we began to sense their sacredness as well.  The shopkeepers who wanted to hear about our experiences, the bartenders with stories to share, the members of the Iona community who prayed for Ian and Kathy.  The entire island seemed to have heard about what had happened.  To them, we were “Ian’s group.”  

We helped each other with our suitcases and we shared our special rocks.  We prayed and hugged each other through hurt and hardship and we shared bottles of wine and tastes of ginger cookies and toffee pudding.  We listened to each other as we spoke of uncertain futures and losses and decisions to be made and we handed out bandaids.  We laughed.  A lot.   And sometimes we cried. 

And it wasn’t long before we began to wonder if maybe the sacredness that we could so easily identify here in this mystical place and in these kind local people, wasn’t confined to Iona.  Maybe it included us, and every place in which we found ourselves, and every interaction we had.  Maybe we were holy people, all of us.  Maybe the thin space could be found everywhere.

As Mary Jane Guffey, one of our pilgrims, wrote in her journal on our silent morning towards the end of our stay, “We go through our day doing things, meeting people, but you can hear a hymn or read a prayer and suddenly you are crying as if a great gate to your hearts has been lifted.  But why the great rush of emotion?  Do we have our hearts clamped shut most of the time?  And if so, why is it shut?  Are we trying to keep out all the things we can’t control - the fear of loss or uncertainty, the fear of rejection or vulnerability?  I wonder.  And if we do keep our hearts clamped shut most of that time, how then do we live?  And what would a life less clamped look like?” 

There were the disciples.  An ordinary bunch, not particularly holy, not particularly wise.  They were sad and scared and unsure.  And, I bet,  somehow also hopeful and brave and wondering.  I’m guessing they were a lot like all of us.

And then the Holy Spirit came whooshing into that room, the wind messing up their hair and the flames of fire burning their hearts.  Or maybe that wind and fire had been there all along and somehow their sadness, their fear, their uncertainty, unclamped their eyes and their hearts just enough to see and hear and feel anew.  And suddenly they were so full of God’s abundance that they were opened up to share what burned in their hearts.  Suddenly they were so certain of Jesus’ love for them that they were freed to rush out into the streets to love the people around them.  Suddenly they became the Body of Christ, the Church.  

Pentecost wasn’t just something that happened in an ancient story in a far-off place to people long-dead.  It happens in our stories, right here, to us. The Holy Spirit is the wind that makes every space thin.  The Holy Spirit is the spark that makes every person holy.  We can’t catch it, contain it, control it, or confine it.  But we can be changed by it.  We can live as pilgrims, transformed on our journey with God.  

Normally I would say “Amen” and stop there.  But since this is my last sermon in this place, I want you all to know that St. Aidan’s has been a thin space for me, and I know all of you to be holy people, even though I know many of you wouldn’t describe yourselves that way.  I felt it the first time I wandered in with my family twelve years ago, and I have continued to feel it, whether we are celebrating or mourning, praying or gardening, planning or studying.  The laughter and the tears and the truth and the openness and the welcome and the depth of this parish have been like wind and flame in my heart.  My family and I have been so blessed to have been on this pilgrim journey with you all.