Iona

June 22

It’s been a few days since returning from Iona. Ah, Iona, the final Y.A.V. retreat of the year. When I went to the office to look at the pictures on my camera, what I had gotten photos of, what the pictures of sunset came out like, etc. etc., I found that I didn’t have a single picture of all 6 Y.A.V.s together. How telling.

Iona was a trek. It took about 13 hours to get there, and the same to get home. 13 hours of travel (mostly in buses). I hate travelling in buses. It’s always cramped, smelly, too quiet or too loud, slow, frustrating, everything you don’t want when travelling. Once at Iona, the place was impressive. Beautiful, majestic, quiet, compact, spiritual. It was a fantastic place for a retreat/conference center.

As the week went on, I found the worship services really great. They were very inclusive, very modern, filled with good music, good messages, and enthusiastic participants. I recently watch (for the first time) Eddie Izzard’s stand up. For those of you who don’t know, he’s a British transvestite comic. So, he’s doing stand up about how the most joyous, exciting, energetic church music comes out of African Americans, whose cultural history is chock full of racism, discrimination, oppression, rape, murder, slavery, etc. A still their music is loud, frenetic, and uninhibited. Whereas white protestant churches sing these dirges where they plod through, at a snail’s pace, some of the most beautiful lyrics in religious music, “Joy….ful, joy……ful, we a...dore…thee…” This Sunday while attending Macrory, it was EXACTLY like that. There were a hundred stuffy, self-possessed, moderate Protestants over 50 all mumbling and moaning their way though lyrics like, “I will…sing…of the love…and joy…of…my Hev-nly Kin…g”. It was pitiful, simply pitiful. So, I digress back to Iona:

We went on walks, a pilgrimage (a walk including God), another walk, and a few hikes. I also drank (bleck) instant coffee, a lot. I need to confess that I did partake of the unholy thing that is instant coffee. It is an abomination on the senses: a sick, hideous, satanic tincture that should be avoided at all costs…and yet; drink it I did. One of the finest parts of the week was the fellowship with the other men in my room. They stuck seven of us men (I was the youngest) into a room called, “The Nunnery”. Har De Har Har. We got along swimmingly. There was a 6’5” Canadian College Prof., who the girls concluded was me in 30 years. There was a very quiet, mousy, retired bank clerk named ‘paul’. There was a 27-year-old Aussie named Matt who was a great guy to get to know. We had two ministers (I think one was Anglican, the other was Methodist), Rob and John. Both were fantastic conversationalists, fun, exciting, engaging, academic and paternal. Finally we had Eidrig (spelled phonetically), it’s a Welsh name and I’m not sure how it’ supposed to be spelled. He worked for ‘Friends of the Earth’-Scotland. He was a long, curly -haired hippie environmentalist, who once wore a shirt that read, “Jesus loves you, but I’m his favourite” If I’m lucky, each of them will read this blog and know how cool they all are…unlikely, but it might happen…If any of them do read this, I really had a good time bonding with each of you, I thought the fellowship and discussions we had that week were some of the best I’ve had in months and I really appreciate our week of close friendship.

That week I had conversations with both Melissa and Whitney about going home, how we felt about that, what we thought it was going to be like, and all the fears and apprehensions that go along with that. At Iona there were a LOT of Americans. There were easily more Americans than any other nationality. There were the 6 of us, and then there were 9 pastors from the P.C.U.S.A. calling themselves, “The Austin Sacred Sisters”. There were probably a few more thrown in the mix, too…

One of my fears about coming home, the portion of reverse culture shock I’m dreading most: is other Americans. I’ve been out of touch with American culture, society for a good while now and I am honestly scared to come home. This doesn’t mean I don’t want to come home, but that I know that it’s going to be a major challenge for me. I remember how hard it was for me to adjust the summer of 2000 when I came home from Sunderland and put my family and friends through hell dealing with me. At that point I’d only been away for a few months. This is a year, and I can only expect the feelings to compound and be more complex than they were five years ago. I’m scared.

Here’s an example of the kind of thing I’m talking about: We were having a discussion on the climatological effects of travel, learning that plane travel (specifically taking off and landing) are very damaging to the environment. Immediately, one of the Americans in the room said, “Well, then we all just need to stay home and not travel.” I was floored. The woman was serious, and I couldn’t wrap my brain around how playing the turtle, and pulling your head back into your shell at the first sign of trouble was a solution to ANYTHING! What I found so disturbing about this, is that I’m putting myself on the line this year, getting into the world, learning more about it than I could have in a lifetime of book-research. I’m in the mission field, working to solve problems in small ways, working in a small part of a big city in the midst of an even bigger problem, and the immediate response from this woman was, “HIDE! Run away! Cower and tremble! Ignore the issues!” And perhaps that’s what I’m really afraid of:

I’m not so much scared of returning to living amongst Americans, or the so-called ‘American attitude’, so much as I am apprehensive of insular, obtuse, well-meaning but ultimately uninformed people…American or not.

But, gentle reader, here’s a thought for you: When I was preparing to come here, I kept thinking to myself, “How am I going to be able to communicate what I know to the people of N. Ireland? How can I transmit my skills, knowledge, passion, and training to the people I serve?” I think that the question facing me now, is the exact opposite, “How do I take what I’ve been learning for the past year, and apply it at home? How do I inform lovingly, caringly, honestly? How can my growth help others grow?” Because, if I can’t answer those questions, if I can’t get what’s in my soul into the hearts and minds of others, then a big part of this past year will have been in vain.

The good, bearded men of the Iona weekend.

Our final retreat to Iona: the last night's sunset turned the monroes in the distance pink.

On an afternoon's trip to Stafa, we saw hundreds of puffins. Some of them came quite close.

BEACH COW!