I don’t know what to write today. It is all too immediate, too close to me still, and I lack any sense of perspective.
It’s been a beautiful, sunny day. I finally got to St Columba’s Bay – all by myself, after a few hours of wandering about, losing my way every five minutes, then finding it again. I had a lot of time to think about St Columba, about St Cuthbert and St Ninian – all the saints who have taken over my life. I had time to pray, and time ask the questions that grew in me as I walked these sacred hills.
There is a lot in them that speaks to me. Their need to always leave behind what one has built, the fear to allow anything of this world embrace you, and encapsulate you, their obsession with pilgrimages with no destination. I thought, what can constitute a destination? When are we home? What does it mean to be home?
Their home was Christ, and everything else was an idol. Getting home meant overcoming death, entering the life which is Christ, and becoming one with Him. Home meant a transformation of the person who arrived there – not a place of rest, not a place of comfort; in fact, not a place at all. Home is Christ Himself, and they denied everything, everyone and their own earthly selves in order to get to Him and become one with Him.
How is that love for Christ even possible? These saints were made of the same flesh and blood, the same bones and skin, feelings and emotions as I am. What made their love so unearthly? What gave them this holy, wonderful madness? What sort of fire melted their hearts? If only I could light it myself, if only I had the love to at least begin this pilgrimage…