The Abbey that Refused to Be Forgotten

Iona Abbey Church, Isle of Iona, Argyle, Scotland

If there has been one humbling thing about this journey thus far (well, there have been many, though!), it's the realization that, as a pilgrim from America, we are just young 'uns.  There have been visits through castles one thousand years old, hikes along the way that monks traversed fifteen hundred years ago, crossings of the water by ferry that, in another age, would've been life or death propositions.

So when we crossed the threshold of Iona Abbey's Church, it was important to understand just how old were the bones of the place.

Saint Columba founded the monastery in 563 (do the math in terms of how ahead of his time was this man in terms of the civilization of Europe).  It did not take long for this foundation to become a hub of industry, education, art, and most important – prayer.  Any doubt about this legacy to a continent and its culture can be explored in Thomas Cahill's How the Irish Saved Civilization.

But a place of industry and success also becomes a place of potential gain for others, and such was the case when, about 200 years after Columba, the first Viking raid took place on Iona.  Three such raids took place; the second one, in the early ninth century, saw the slaughter of more than 60 of the community (the beach on Iona where this took place is now called Martyr's Bay).  

The church that we entered is not what Columba had created; by the early 13th century it had changed hands of several Scandinavian lords, but then Benedictines were invited to rebuild, and to do so over the ruins of what Columba had originally brought to life.  And then, once more, a raid took place – this time not by Vikings, but by Irish bishops who were laying claim to Columba's legacy.

Centuries past, but not before the Abbey, once again, was rebuilt – this time by the Macdonalds clan.  Then came another raid, but not by Vikings.  With the Scottish Reformation, most of the abbeys were broken up, their artwork and libraries scattered to the four winds.

Which brings us nearly to the present time.  A visionary Presbyterian minister from Glasgow, the Rev. George MacLeod, was convinced that his ministry wasn't reaching his congregations.  Considered to be the founder of the present-day Iona Community, he set out to rebuild the long abandoned church.  His efforts still go on... and even though it remains one of the more challenging places in the world to reach, on the days we were there we met people from Kentucky, from the Carolinas, and from all over Europe.  

Iona has now created a worldwide community of prayer. Even in my own parish in North Carolina, we use the music of their congregation.  What a remarkable legacy, all of which began with a monk in a leather boat, one thousand, five hundred years ago.  May we never falter when our turn comes to face the questions and challenges of the sea....

To Iona, By Way of a Hymn Tune

Iona Abbey, Isle of Iona, Argyll

It is an island off an island.  Getting there, even from Edinburgh, Scotland, is an adventure: more than three hours' drive through the Highlands, on to Oban, then a ferry to Craignure.  After this the fun begins, because for the next more-than-an-hour you're treated to a single lane "thoroughfare" which has little turn off bays every quarter of a mile or so.  Think of it as a long let's-play-chicken road.  This road leads you along the Isle of Mull, and heaven help you if you meet a lorry, farm machinery that's twice the size of your car, or a tour bus (which happens a lot).

For years, I have been following the trajectory of Iona Abbey, its witness to ecumenicism, lay ministry, and the music created by one of her contributors, John Bell.  (Look for the black dot on the map to the left to give you an idea of its location in the Scottish Hebrides).  But up until now, I'd never visited this place.  It is old – St. Columba (Colmcille) founded the community in the latter half of the sixth century.  Quickly becoming an industrious center, it then became a favorite raiding stop for a certain Nordic bunch of men with longships.

All along this present trip, I've been surprised by facts and happenstances over and over again, and here was another one along our route to Iona.  It seems that the road to the second ferry (Fionnphort) takes the pilgrim through a very, very little hamlet, which bears the name Bun Easain – or Bunessan, in English.  

For those who are sacred music geeks (or, actually, music geeks in general), you would know this tune, for it is the beautiful melody to hymns like Morning Has Broken, catapulted to fame by Cat Stevens in the 1970's.  But the hymn tune has also inspired new texts as well, like the one based on the Lorica of St. Patrick, Christ Be Beside Me, and another text by Michael Saward, Baptized in Water.

So here we were, on our way to a center for prayer on the edge of the then-known universe, and our way was marked by one of my favorite Celtic tunes.

The present church structure dates from the 13th century, and on the day we arrived it rose up out of the mists not unlike the mystical village of Brigadoon.  I kept wondering to myself "how did they survive here?"  We had a simple pod for four people, and walking the mile up from the ferry were blasted with gale winds and horizontal rain.  The fact that a thriving monastic community, one that went on to illustrate manuscripts and serve as a template for other communities throughout the Isles, is a miracle in and of itself.  

Upon arrival, we set out to explore.  The Abbey Church itself was a welcome respite for the weather, so we headed there first.  More on that amazing house of prayer tomorrow.....

Call of the Crown of Thorns

6 Parvis Notre-Dame, Pl. Jean-Paul II, Paris

Most times, I can show up at a liturgy and know what's going on: Trappist Lauds, a Parish's Evening Prayer, a service of the Word, Eucharist (in whatever language, with or without a priest). But on Friday, the fourth of July, we stumbled into Notre Dame de Paris, the newly reopened Cathedral.

And I had no idea what was taking place before my eyes.

Liturgy at Notre Dame is a unique thing, in and of itself.  Any kind of prayer has to take place while there are thousands of pilgrims swirling around the periphery.  The actions of these pilgrims can cover the entire behavioral spectrum: some are waiting in line to purchase a bauble from the gift shop; some want to jump the ropes and join in the prayer; some are taking selfies (watch out for those accurséd sticks!); some are wide-eyed and intent on the sacredness of the moment; some are playing word games on their cell phones.  Holding back this tide of humanity is the happy task of dozens of docents, and their job is to both firmly but compassionately keep these hordes in line.

I was part of that horde last Friday, watching what appeared to be a Communion procession.  But there were no vessels on the altar, and the color being used that day was red – even though in the liturgical calendar there was no martyrdom intended to be observed. 

Carefully acknowledging the docent who had his eye on me, I moved closer.  Then I realized that this was not a Eucharistic procession – yet it was a procession.  It was the first Friday of the month, and on those days, at three o'clock, the encased crown of thorns is taken from Notre Dame's reliquary.  It is then held such that all the faithful can come before this relic and either kiss or touch its glass encasement.

The liturgy that was taking place was a Veneration of the Crown of Thorns.

By way of background: the Crown of Thorns came to Paris through the efforts of King Louis IX (sainted by the Church), who somehow managed to bring it to France by way of Constantinople.  He then built the Church of Sainte Chapelle to house this and many other relics.  

My wife and I managed to join the procession that was unfolding before us.  Step by step, we approached this ancient artifact that was so intimately a part of the Crucifixion.  I bent down, lightly kissed the glass protective ring, and touched it with my hand.

What did this mean for me?  What did I take from this moment?  

For years, I have been toiling to create a musical setting of the Gospel of Saint John – the Passion for Good Friday – one that could be used in a liturgical setting.  I started out with the NABRE, which was accepted by Oregon Catholic Press but ultimately rejected by the copyright holders of the text.  After more negotiations, I am now using the ecumenical translation, the NRSV, and publishing the work through Simply Liturgical.  

There was a personal rededication that took place last week, being in that procession, and reflecting on the action of reverencing the Crown of Thorns.  It was a rededication to the task I now am facing.

Our liturgy is filled with stories, with music, with actions.  To restrict those artistic endeavors is to restrict the movements of the Spirit.  I came away from that procession all the more dedicated, as both an artist and a person of faith, committed to the task of setting this pivotal story to song, such that it could be proclaimed by most parish choirs.  

The Arms of a Mother: Cradle and Bastion

6 Parvis Notre-Dame, Pl. Jean-Paul II, Paris

I was first here in 2012.  Back then, the walls were covered in a greyish-yellow hue, a silent witness to the centuries of dust, devotion, incense and incantation that had beckoned pilgrims from the start.

But then came April 15th, 2019. And just as Parisians were on their way home from work, fire became visible to onlookers along the Seine.  Quickly burning out of control (there were never adequate fire notification devices in the ceiling before the blaze), the temperatures soared to more than 800ºF, vaporizing the protective lead that sheathed the forest of oaken timbers.  An hour and a half later, the spire was totally engulfed in flames, while thousands upon thousands of city dwellers gazed on, helpless.

By the time I caught up with the news feed, the cameras were focusing not only on the inferno, but on the faces and reactions of the witnesses.  Those faces – young and old – told as much of the story as did the flames shooting up from high above the sanctuary space.  No matter what the age, no matter the faith stance (or lack thereof), it was like the heart of the city was being destroyed before their eyes.  The interviews were telling – most responses were bordering on the ineffable, with lack of words speaking more than any description could provide.

What was happening here?  It wasn't just a fire.  It wasn't just a big fire.  It was the city becoming a bystander while the flailing arms of her mother were reaching out for help.

Paralysis seemed to grip the city and her inhabitants (save for the first responders).  People were kneeling in the streets, tears in onlookers' eyes.  This time, incense was not swirling around the altar.  It was billowing up above the city, a lead-laden pall of noxious fumes.

Yet we have seen how communities react to paralysis before: that, in the face of tragedy, the response can exhibit a face of humanity that illustrates just where one's priorities lie.  

Within days, French President Macron made an appeal, and the subsequent international response yielded more than a quarter of a billion euros within twenty-four hours.  And while some experts predicted that the damage could take up to 40 years to repair, Macron pledged that Notre Dame de Paris would be reopened in time for France's 2024 Olympics – a mere five years away.

That takes me to today.  When we crossed the portal into Paris's Mother Church, I was taken aback.  The walls were gleaming (in part due to the cloudless day outside).  The clerestory windows were trumpeting their colors to the thousands of pilgrims below.  We had arrived in the middle of a service packed with congregants, (more on that tomorrow), and surrounding this was a constant, clockwise flow of people, something like an enormous tide of seekers, moving as if they were water current around the mysteries taking place in front of the sanctuary.

For centuries, it would be safe to say that relations between church and state in France have been standoffish at best.  Municipalities own all Catholic churches built before 1905; all cathedrals are owned by the State. The Catholic church maintains these houses of prayer, but she does not own them.  Yet when faced with the destruction experienced at Notre Dame de Paris, the government was an unquestionable advocate.

Call it what you will, but I would maintain that this cradle of spiritual comfort, this bastion of protection for weary pilgrims, occupies far too great a place in the hearts of those who wander upon this earth.  She is far too valuable to be abandoned by any tragedy.  The doors of Notre Dame were reopened on December 7th, 2024.  Part of the Opening Procession was to pay tribute to the first responders.

She is the Mother Church of a City of Light, her foundations laid in the thirteenth century, built in the heart of a nation that has given the world Genevieve and Joan of Arc and Thérese of Lisieux and Bernadette Soubirous.  Where would the world be without such women?  And crowning them all, the Mother of God....

Ville avec Lumière à l'Intèrieur

Maison Saintonge, Paris 16, France

It is impossible to convey the character of a city in a single blog of some few hundred words.  I shall not attempt such a thing.  But for now, after two days of roaming this ville métropolitaine, I can marvel at what I have encountered.  Now granted, the heat wave broke, and we were treated to walking (about 10 miles a day) with temperatures in the high 70's.  But regardless, what we encountered were cafés bursting with energy and good humor, a city still basking in the success of the 2024 Olympics, art exhibits and a pulsing, creative culture that quite deservedly should be the envy of the world.

Some have described Paris as the "City of Light."  My experiences would be on a deeper level than just storefronts or illuminated bridges, or a spangled Eiffel Tower.  It comes down to a reverence for beauty, a holding up of the pursuit of creativity, a dogged devotion to the arts and to the artist.

We started out our day by crossing the city by Métro and arriving at the former Hôtel Biron – otherwise known as the studio belonging to one Auguste Rodin.  A fun fact to consider: the mystic and poet Rainer Maria Rilke and his wife were the pair who first introduced this hotel to the renowned sculptor.  The rose gardens were in full bloom, matching the perfection of cooler temperatures and cloudless skies. I had been here once before, but was glad to retrace my steps in artistic pilgrimage!

Later on, that first day, we went to a museum that has a deep hold on my heart: the Musée d'Orsay.  Let's first note that this incredible bastion of beauty, once a burned out train station, then rebuilt as part of the preparations for the 1900 World's Fair, is now breathtaking both inside and out.  There, within this sanctuary of artistic endeavor, thousands of pilgrims stood in line to see the largest collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings in the world.  Van Gogh, Degas, Gaugin, Renoir, Cézanne, Toulouse-Lautrec – these and their counterparts can be found under one roof. From the fifth floor (the floor that houses most of the works of Van Gogh), you can look out across the Seine: there is the Louvre, the Jardin de Tuileries (where the 2024 Olympic flame and its balloon are perched), the View Ferris Wheel, and far away, Montmartre and the spires of Sacre Coeur.  

My observation: this is a young city.  Most of its inhabitants have not known a global depression, nor have they known war, at least the likes of WWII.  They have, however, experienced terrorism: the attacks of November and December 2015, attacks that left 130 people dead in coordinated attempts throughout their city.  A decade and a memorial garden later (in front of St. Gervais church), there is, nevertheless, a sense of welcome, diversity and tolerance, a love of food and a delight in gathering that is sadly lacking in other places we've visited over the years. Whoever said that Parisians are rude and abrupt probably never spent a few hours learning some basic words and phrases to help convey their desires.  

It is good to be here! To look upon the Eiffel Tower (and the balcony, where Celine Dion came back from a long illness to christen the '24 Games with her achingly beautiful performance of Hymne à l'Amour).  To walk along the Seine – probably not as clean as last summer, but nevertheless shining as the life-blood of the city.  And yes, to visit the temples of extraordinary art, held holy in shrines like the d'Orsay.  It is not just a City of Light.  It's a city that cultivates a sense of interior light, keeping sacred a joy of life, the need to respect diversity, and celebrating humanity as only this remarkable city can do.  

Tomorrow: a recap of our pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris – one of the compass points of our journey to France.