Literary Islands

Not weary of island-stuff yet? How about this from John Donne...

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee. 

         So it's as much about bells as islands. If you are thinking, "wait a minute... John Donne would not relate to your obsessive ruminating about islands! He wants you to connect with other people, not hide out on some island in the North Sea." 

          OK. But the lyrical Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral in London (where I intend to hear Evensong at least once, provided that "Occupy" activists do not appear and compel my conscience to join them in some disruptive action... conscience can be a big problem when trying to worship God in peace) would not, I am sure, take issue with hanging out on an island in order to become more "involved with mankind" in the big picture. 

  This was Thomas Merton's approach when he wrote

"The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image."
― Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island   

Which, now that I ponder it, is an observation of the sort one often encounters in the writings of great spiritual luminaries like Thomas Merton and John the Dwarf. And, in yet another literary example, no less a spiritual luminary than RuPaul has said, "If you can't love yourself, how the hell can you love anyone else?"   

       What better reason does one need to obsess about islands? More literary references tomorrow...

                                            Central Courtyard at St. Stephen's, Troy
                                                    

The churches I have served have been"islands," functioning in a way similar to how Holy Island (aka Lindesfarne) did in the 7th Century C.E., i.e. havens of peace, but also staging areas for mission.Islands and churches both have boundaries provided by water.

In the end, the boundaries break down, and we see (in the words of Eucharistic Prayer C) "this fragile earth, our island home", not in terms of its boundaries, but its center. 

Biblical Islands

Biblical Islands

Actually, there are very few. Biblical islands, that is. The Bible likes mountains, rivers, and deserts, but  makes few references to islands.  As it happens, the Hebrew word for “coastland” appears to be the same as for “island,” which suggests that the ancient Israelites were not sailors, or even beach-goers.   Many biblical passages suggest that they were afraid of the ocean. Does the Bible say anything about an Israelite navy? No wonder they had no interest in islands.

 While I was attending Oberlin College I attended a service at St. James Church in Cleveland where there was to be a guest preacher from Southeast Asia. The preacher turned out to be an English missionary whose broad shoulders and intense “five o’clock shadow” of a beard gave him an appearance more like a stevedore than a priest. This impression was offset, however, by the transparent lace surplice he wore for the service, sort of like Popeye modeling a nightgown for a Victoria Secret catalogue. The contrast became truly startling, however, when he began his sermon by crying out (from Psalm 72:10) “The kings of Tarshish and of the isles shall pay tribute, *and the kings of Arabia and Saba shall offer gifts” in such a squeaky little high-pitched voice everyone present flinched in pain! For a moment, we all thought he was doing it as a joke, something unexpected to get our attention… but no, he preached the entire sermon in a voice that sounded like Alvin and the chipmunks.

The point of that sermon was that he was a missionary on the island of Saba, which is one of the few islands mentioned in the Bible, and of no other consequence than that. 

Other than a few more passing references in the Hebrew Scriptures and in Acts, the most significant biblical island is the Isle of Patmos, where the Book of Revelation was composed. A quick reference to Wikipedia confirms my recollection that Patmos, one of the multitude of Aegean islands, was used as a penal colony by the Romans, particularly for the confinement of political prisoners. The island itself does not appear anywhere in the narrative, however, except to say, in Revelation 16:20, that “every island fled away” when the seventh angel poured out his bowl of wrath.

There is a fine monastery on Patmos, established in 1088 by a fellow named Christodoulos, known to the Orthodox Church as “The Wonderworker.”

                                                                     Patmos

John the Revelator did not choose his island as a location for his epiphanies, he was (most likely) sent there, as a punishment for crimes against the state. Christadoulos , on the other hand, did choose Patmos voluntarily, presumably because he wanted to locate himself on the same trajectory as where the Revelator had been revelated to, as it were.

It is in that same spirit that I will make my way to Holy Island. So what if the Bible isn’t interested in islands? I will take Christadoulos as my patron, and having located myself in a place with water on all four sides, wait to see what happens.  

  

                      Abba Jonathan says: “An island you seek? To Coney Island

                                                                     I once went. Or was that a hot dog?

        

Islands: Prelude to the Holy

For me, there has always been an island.

Growing up, my family spent all our summers at a place in Pennsylvania where my grandparents owned a cabin onfthe Delaware River. On the maps it is identified as Shawnee Island, but to us it was simply, “The Island”. To reach it we had to go by boat across a narrow branch of the River known locally as “The Binnekill,” a Dutch word peculiar to the region and used to identify the smaller branch of a divided river.

Crossing a barrier with such an exotic name may have contributed to the enchantment which the Island cast over us, whether we were actually there or not.  Everything about our life there was different, starting with the outdoor toilet facility, and including the hand pump in the front yard. To preserve our food we put it in an Ice Box, for which blocks of ice had to be purchased in town and brought over by boat like everything else.

For many families, all that inconvenience might have been a bad thing, but for our family it worked exactly the opposite way. Every activity became an occasion to be celebrated, whether it was a fishing expedition or was going into town once a week to take a hot bath at our grandparents’ house. In those days we never went to church, but, looking back, it seems that the simpler life on the Island was almost like a proto-religious catechumenate that cleared our minds of distractions and opened our eyes to see the wonder in ordinary things.

It wasn’t only me. As I have often said and written, at the Island it was as if “things were as they should be, and people were at their best.”

It was at the Island that I first began to pray, although I knew neither God nor holy text of any sort. At age seven or eight, upon arrival at the Island I would run down the path through the woods shouting to the trees, “I’m back! I’m back!” I didn’t think of it as “prayer,” but I knew it was a strange thing to do. At night, the river whispered to me through the thin walls, reminding me of its flowing presence on every side.  For that to happen, it had to be an Island.

Those were happy times, the happiest we ever had as a family. At night, while the river flowed, the adults would converse softly between hands of bridge, like retreatants during the Greater Silence in a monastery. Their purpose was to keep from disturbing us, but there was little danger of that, because there was a porch-swing suspended from the ceiling that creaked and groaned with every movement, however slight. Far from disturbing, the creaking of that swing was one of the most reassuring sounds I have ever heard, and, in the silence of the night, I hear it still.

It was also at the Island that I learned to fear and respect the world. In 1955 there was a sudden flood, an unpredicted disaster that drowned hundreds of people and very nearly drowned us, had we not left the Island in a rowboat just as the river over-topped its banks, and only hours before our cabin was swept off its foundations and washed downstream to where it came to rest among some water birches. I was twelve, and for the first time felt the cold power of death surging around us, power my father could not tame with reasoned words, but only ride upon and desperately hope, like the boat he rowed across the Binnekill numerous times, rescuing stranded tourists from our soon-to-be-submerged Island.

Now I am poised, with Nancy my wife, to travel to another Island, this one with the overtly numinous name of “Holy Island.” It is far from Pennsylvania, off the northeast coast of England, surrounded by the North Sea. One does not have to take a boat to reach it, but must be prepared to drive across a causeway that is dry only at low tide. Once upon Holy Island, one must stay until the tide permits return.

What will we find there? I know there is a parish church, and the ruins of a long-abandoned monastery. There is a village with pubs and shops. And there is the North Sea, on every side. It was here in 635 C.E. that Celtic monks took refuge from Saxon invaders, and from here that they went back to the mainland to reintroduce Christian ways to their conquerors.

Will the North Sea whisper like the Delaware, and will the treeless landscape coach my prayers as did the Pennsylvania water birches?  Will there be some random, reassuring sound like the creaking of a rusty porch-swing? If, as I most sincerely hope, no life-threatening storm or flood arises to chasten us,  even so the wind and surf will, in league with the spirits of ancient Celtic monks, act in concert to humble us, and bring us to our knees.

Whatever else occurs, Holy Island will speak in one way or another, because, for me, there has always been an Island. 

     

Psalm for Jonathan Daniels d. August 20, 1965

Jon Daniels went down to Alabama * a volunteer, helping black   

                  citizens register to vote.

He left his seminary studies back in Cambridge, * left the hills of New Hampshire,

                  his boyhood home.

At an incense-haunted altar he had a revelation, * and took magnificat to be his creed.

Guileless, he lived among the people; * their children trusted him.

Unknowing, he joined the group that went to Hayneville; * nonviolent, they spent the

                   night in jail.

Released that morning, they went to get a drink: * Coca-Cola, at the nearby little store.

In the street, Tom Coleman shot him, * and Father Morrisroe his friend.

Tom Coleman, a sheriff’s deputy, * believing that he did God’s will.

Jon Daniels placed his body * between the shotgun and a teen age girl;

He died instead of her, * white for black, male for female, him for her.

His novice priesthood sacrificed, * his cup spilled, but covenant unbroken.

The deputy went unpunished: * his jurors, twelve white men,

While, from the dust, another justice worked a silent plan * to heal the land.

Life in the kingdom of the kingdom-less

“...one might speak, in all perversity, of the possibility of a kingdom of the kingdom-less, a kingdom where no one reigns- or, if they do, they have no power- an unkingly anarchic kingdom, a kingdom where the only power that is permitted is the power of powerlessness, where the very condition of power is that it be without power.” John D. Caputo, The Weakness of God, p. 26

On vacation in Vermont our extended family lives a mild version of such a kingdom.

No one is in charge, although many experts are at hand to repair an outboard motor, discuss a dog, or prepare a meal. The weather influences us most, along with the dogs, and the youngest children.

Passionate about what we do at work, we discuss or projects and our problems: “When I worked for state government we had a new commissioner on average every fifteen months,” says my brother-in-law. “We just did our work and waited.” 

While in Vermont my boss and friend calls to say he is leaving, going to be the Dean of a famous cathedral. With this news, all semblance of an ordered future disappears for me, leaving inside a shrunken self, a fishless, future-less, potentially jobless relic of a priest and man, shrunk down like drought-stricken Lake Champlain that surrounds our peninsula on three sides.  When I look inside myself, I see only absences: our absent children, who are busy elsewhere with their own good lives; my long-dead parents; and my absent self.

I go fishing with my brother and his son. I am familiar with these three- they have fished together many times before, as boys and men. The youngest, Benjamin, has grown into a master angler, one who looks at the Lake and feels fish moving through the boat’s hull. I watch this triumvirate as if from some vantage-point along the shore. “Those three must be very close,” I observe, and think I remember how that must feel.

 The wordless process of casting and retrieving makes a sort of mantra, a rosary-like ritual of repeated movements and sounds from which a thought emerges and hovers, unsupported, in the air: “the blessing has departed from us,” is what I hear, imagine, suppose.

And, as if making a liturgical response, a fish strikes my floating lure and bores strong and deep against the drag. It is a heavy bass, a grandfather and a chief who fights hard and deep and then succumbs to a scurry of net and cell phone photos. Inside of me, a twelve year-old boy revives and swells to fill the empty space as we hoist our heavy fish for our father to admire. A strange, unbidden serenity prevails as we release the bass into his own anarchic kingdom.

“The kingdom of God as discussed in the New Testament is an anarchized field, produced by exposing being to the proactive name of God.” John D. Caputo, p. 14.

In the area where we fish in Lake Champlain there is a log that protrudes from the water just enough to be seen in the evening light, just enough for us to position our boat so as to aim casts in its general vicinity. We call it “David’s Log” because it was David, at age twelve or so, who first suggested fishing around it, and David who has caught many bass there, using an old-fashioned jitterbug lure that bubbles and slurps so disruptively  across the water that it seems more likely to frighten fish away than to make them want to bite it. But it works, and so we keep going back to David’s Log, even now that David has turned twenty-one, and rarely has opportunity to fish around his own log.

The Daily Office reminds me of David’s Log. The seasons change, but the pattern of psalms, lessons, canticles, and prayers stays pretty much the same. Our behavior at Morning Prayer is as predictable as an evening spent fishing on the lake. For the Daily Office we stand, sit, recite verses in rhythmic unison, and observe extended periods of silence. On the lake we motor over to the vicinity of David’s log, cast noisy surface lures out onto the windless water, and hope for a strike. Such ritual behavior always renews our connection to the lake and to each other, even when no fish is caught. In a similar way, the Daily Office always renews our connection to the living word of God, and to our spiritual ancestors, and to every living thing.

Perhaps you are thinking: “now I know why I don’t like going to church: it’s for the same reason I don’t like fishing. Boring!” If so, I will not try to disabuse you of your feelings. But I will ask you this: is there anything in your experience that reminds you of “David’s Log?” Is there a place, a symbol, a shared memory that connects you to some cherished current that runs through your life? I hope so, because most people can get by without bass fishing, and God will love you even if you never once show up at Morning Prayer Monday-Thursday at 8:30am in St. Paul’s Chapel, but you really need to have something like David’s Log in your life. 

And that is as about as judgmental as I ever get.

   Peace be with you,

  Jonathan+