Sacred Enchantment

Two basic ideas, categories of experience, ways of seeing-feeling-believing.  One has to do with “Sacred Irreverence,” and provides the over-all theme for www.theramblingrector.blogspot.com.  The other I call “Sacred Enchantment,” and has to do with all that island-paradise stuff from my childhood, mythic images of my father in uniform, our dog named Chief who guarded me from the numerous snakes that shared our yard in Green Cove Springs, Florida, feelings of cosmic wonder and amazement, love and sex,  solemn dread in the presence of a dead boy named Winfield Scott, whose drowned body I helped to find under an old railroad bridge on Broadheads Creek in the summer of 1958. Things like that.

 For me, sacred enchantment came first, before religion, before belief of any kind. When I first went to church I recognized it, along with other familiar feelings such as revulsion, boredom, and physical pain. After almost sixty years of churchgoing and professional  churchcraft I still experience all those things (except for the pain, because we don’t kneel as much), and still find myself periodically ambushed by an enchantment I can only call sacred.

Such an ambush occurred last time I was in London, in 2007. We had gone there for the marriage of our daughter, Caitlin, to Michael Lester, a Scotsman and our esteemed son-in-law ever since.  For an agonizing few days it appeared as if the wedding would not take place, since immigration authorities in the United States had not issued the documents necessary for Michael’s reentry. How to celebrate a wedding without a Bride or Groom?

While waiting for this to get resolved, I frequented a large parish church near our hotel in the Kilburn section of London. In terms of church politics, St. Augustine’s, Kilburn, is very far from my own viewpoint, but its worship and devotional atmosphere affected me in ways that transcended politics. At the time I wrote in my journal,

“…I found myself with disbelief suspended, watching my own imagination take flesh before my eyes, regretting the end of every psalm and every reading, every canticle and every prayer. If it were not for Nancy and the children to hold me in existence, I might have disappeared for good into the silence between the psalm-verses, and become another mute spectator among the apostles posted along the chancel walls. In a way, I am there still, suspended somewhere between the vaulted ceiling and the frescoed walls, a lingering molecule of incense-flavored air, having been burned alive and martyred on hot coals at that place where (as my brother Bob says) myth and reality intersect, and (as I have written before), “…all the stories and the rivers merge, and sleep rolls like breakers on an unknown shore.”

     I intend to visit St. Augustine’s on this present pilgrimage, but have no preconceived notions of being whisked off into mystical ecstasy at the first whiff of incense and candle wax. Sacred Enchantment is my avowed goal, but can only be trusted when accompanied by its acolyte, Sacred Irreverence. More on that tomorrow…

     

The Last Island

This will be the last item I will post on the general subject of islands. I have written about my personal history with a particular island, biblical islands, liturgical islands, literary islands, and now the island that gave birth to the hybrid version of Christianity that has nurtured me, confused me, annoyed me, intrigued me, and employed me for the past fifty plus years.

As unlikely a church as it is, I cannot imagine myself as anything but an Anglican. Maybe that’s because of my history with islands. I am not familiar with any major branch of Christianity other than Anglicanism that is so closely identified with the life and history of an island. In terms of global faith traditions, only Japan has a similar connection to Shintoism.

So forget the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral! Forget the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Anglican Consultative Council! Most of all, forget the misbegotten and hopefully forgotten “Windsor Covenant”! Anglican identity is not theological, ecclesiological, or any-sort-of-logical… our identity is that of islanders.

     Shakespeare, in Richard the Second, has one of his characters pronounce this well-known invocation of English exceptionalism:

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…

OK, Shakespeare was laying it on a bit thick in that passage, but it does call attention to the unique role geography has played in Britain’s development. Along with everything else British, Anglicanism evolved in a setting just isolated enough from its continental neighbors to permit unique forms to flourish, but not so isolated as to result in something utterly disconnected.

In other words a Via Media…balanced, nuanced, holistic. Or, depending on how you look at it, chaotic, conflicted, and confused.

When asked his opinion on the essence of Anglicanism, Abba Jonathan said: “ Essence? On the wrong side they drive.”   

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

The Lake Isle of Innisfree I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,       And live alone in the bee-loud glade.    And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,          5 Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,       And evening full of the linnet's wings.    I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;   10 While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,       I hear it in the deep heart's core. William Butler Yeats I was an English major in college, but failed to thrive as such.  When it came to the scholarly analysis of literary texts, I never  seemed to “get it.” I was, however, immensely affected by some  of the material we studied, such as the poem shown above. No   matter that my professor regarded Lake Isle of Innisfree as an  interesting  example of Yeats’ immature work, but scarcely worth  serious scholarly attention. It got serious attention from me, and still does, because when I  read it I am once again standing on the shore of North hero Island  with my grandson, discussing  the merits of voluntary fasting;  I am once again on that same lake, fishing in a  boat with my sons when they were younger; or with my father,  when I myself  was young. Speaking of my father, it so happens that he died on this day,  August 21, in 1981. I was with him, and few moments before  he died,  he roused himself from a deep coma  and cried out,  “Jonathan! The boatman!” And now, when I read of “…lake water  lapping with low sounds by the shore,” I am once again in a boat  with him, and he  s rowing while my sister and I fish, lines trailing  out behind. “I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”

	5

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.