Mackinac Island

Every three years (or is it two?) the Episcopal clergy and spouses/companions of the four Michigan dioceses are invited to spend, at a reduced rate, two nights at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. This is an effort on the part of the Bishops to promote “clergy wellness,” since the clergy are generally understood to be obsessive workaholics whose need for approval drives them to neglect their own families and health, thus rendering them vulnerable to all the wretchedly familiar forms of priestly misbehavior. So our collegial visits to this posh old hotel, where we must dress up like peacocks to eat lavishly-prepared meals served with equally lavish solicitude, are actually a form of preventive medicine, something we must swallow for our own good, whether we like it or not.

What’s not to like? The best part is the opportunity for Nancy and I to spend time together without the beloved distractions that normally attend us. We especially enjoy thinking up new ways to describe the Grand Hotel’s famously eccentric décor. We are baffled by the public’s willingness to pay $10 a head for the privilege of touring the place, which reminds us of how out of touch we are with our own culture. No wonder the congregations I have served failed to attract megachurch-size crowds! I just don’t understand what most of my neighbors want to do with their money and time. Oh well.

Every so often, as we admire the stolid draft horses and stock up on fudge, we become conscious of the wind swept waters of the Strait that define this island, that embrace it with wide-waving arms of water and, for much of the year, solid ice. For a very long time people have recognized the special character of this island, and sought to use it for their own purposes, whether religious (for it was sacred to the Indians long before the Europeans came), military (they still fire ceremonial canons from the fort), or commercial (as evidenced by the fudge and fancy food).

It is not too outlandish to suppose that someday Mackinac island will revert to its ancient state, before the forts and hotels and shoppes, and its only visitors will be the descendants of tribes who come to dance out long-neglected liturgies, or perhaps the descendants of priests and bishops will make their way across the ferry-less Straits to prowl among the ruins and share whatever food they find where their ancestors once feasted.