With all the news and chaos surrounding the recent spread of the Coronavirus, you may have forgotten that today is St. Patrick’s day. I sure haven’t. March 17 is an opportunity for the people of the Emerald Isle to celebrate their history and cultural heritage. It’s also an opportunity for those of us who wish we were Irish to do the same thing vicariously. I’ve been a wannabe Irishman for a long, long time.
Where did this weird longing to be Irish come from? Part of it springs from a lifelong preference for the color green (which may spring from the fact that when my siblings and me were young, our parents color-coded the family’s plastic cups, and I got stuck with the green one). Another part of it springs from a love of rain, thunderstorms, and the sea. A big chunk of it springs from an appreciation of Irish music, which is one of my love languages. No other forms of music wake my heart up like Celtic reels, jigs, and ballads do. Come to think of it, a good seventy-five percent of my love for Irish culture is probably traceable to the bagpipes (I’m only slightly kidding). I’ve told my family and close friends that when I die, I want my body to be laid on a raft, set on fire, and pushed out into Lake Michigan in the traditional Viking fashion, preferably to the tune of bagpipes (I know that Nordic and Celtic cultures are pretty different, but they’re also linked in my mind because of the How to Train Your Dragon movies. Who knew that Vikings had Scottish accents?).
Despite my desires, I can’t claim to be bona-fide Irish. My grandpa on my mom’s side was raised in the Dutch culture of West Michigan, and he always used to joke that his family was “English, Irish, French, German, and one-hundred percent Dutch.” A relative of ours recently did the DNA tracking thing, and while it turns out that our biggest percentage is Irish (sorry, Grandpa), our ancestry is actually, as with most Americans, a hodgepodge. Nevertheless, the longing for deeply-rooted ties to a specific place and people runs deep. Whether or not most of my ancestors actually sailed across the stormy Atlantic from “Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore,” I like to believe that they did, and I view Ireland as a kind of ancestral homeland.
The Story
Last week, my little sister and I watched my all-time favorite animated movie, The Secret of Kells. If you haven’t seen it yet, you need to. Set in medieval Ireland, the film is based on the true story of Catholic monks who preserved and illustrated sacred Christian texts during the Viking invasions of the 9th century. Its story follows Brendan, an orphan boy who lives in a monastery called the Abbey of Kells. Once, the land surrounding the abbey was a place of peace and beauty. Farmers tilled the soil, children played on the grass, and monks decorated their scriptures with breathtaking illuminations. But those days are gone. Viking tribesmen are wreaking havoc along the shores of Britain, pillaging and plundering wherever they go. With the threat of destruction looming nearer, the abbot of Kells – an imposing fellow named Cellach – has enlisted his people in a desperate project: the construction of a massive stone wall encircling the monastery and the surrounding farmlands. As the abbot’s nephew, Brendan is instructed to assist with the building of the wall.
However, another monk has recently arrived in Kells and captured Brendan’s attention: Brother Aidan, a spry and whiskery old scholar whose illuminations of Biblical texts are the stuff of legend. Fleeing from the ruins of his island home, which was ravaged by the Vikings, Brother Aidan has carried a treasure to Kells: a copy of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John that is called the Book of Iona. The wizened artist is working to finish the manuscript’s Chi-Ro page (Chi and Ro are the first two letters of Christ’s name in Latin), which is to be his masterpiece. He asks Brendan to help him by gathering ingredients for ink from the nearby forest. Dazzled by the beauty of the book, Brendan agrees to help, even though he has been forbidden to leave the abbey. When he ventures beyond the wall, Brendan discovers something incredible – a world of magic and mystery, of fairies and fantastical creatures, buried deep in the tangled heart of the woods.
You can probably guess where this is going. Conflict soon ensues between Abbot Cellach and Brother Aidan, both of whom feel responsible to care for Brendan. In Cellach’s mind, Aidan’s priorities are deeply misplaced. These are dark times. Many lives are at stake, and practical threats demand practical solutions. While they may have filled life with meaning in the past, things like artwork and leisure have no relevance to the present. In Aidan’s mind, Cellach’s priorities have been ensnared by fear. For the illuminator, the stuff that the abbot has chosen to ignore – things like art, wonder, and the appreciation of beauty – are just as relevant as they ever were, if not more so. As tensions rise, Brendan is forced to choose where his loyalties lie. If he continues to visit the forest and help Brother Aidan illuminate the Book of Iona, he risks facing his uncle’s wrath. All the while, the Viking invaders march steadily nearer.
As I reflected on The Secret of Kells, I couldn’t help thinking about its resonance to our current social climate. Like the Viking raids of medieval Europe, the spread of Coronavirus has caused a tidal wave of fear and sparked controversy regarding how people should respond to the threat. Should we brace ourselves for the epidemic, or should we continue life as usual? Is Abbot Cellach right, or is Brother Aidan? The conflict between these two characters is a deeply illuminating one. When examined closely, it has some important things to teach us about our responses to life’s threats and about the mysterious thing that Christians call “the Kingdom of God.”
The Abbot
Let’s start with Abbot Cellach. Underneath his grim exterior, the abbot is an easy man to sympathize with. As the social and spiritual leader of Kells, Cellach feels deeply responsible for the well-being of his parishioners, and he works tirelessly to protect them. Furthermore, the Vikings are a real and terrifying threat. If the people of Kells don’t take action, they’re likely to be slaughtered like those who live nearer to the coast.
Like many others, I was quick to downplay the seriousness of Coronavirus and reluctant to change anything about my daily routine. However, regardless of what you or I may think about the actual scope and danger of the Coronavirus epidemic, the fact remains that many reasonable people are very concerned about it. Additionally, many well-trained medical personnel are urging caution out of concerns for the elderly, the immunodeficient, and the chronically ill, all of whom have a significantly higher risk of severe sickness. Several members of my family fall into the second and third categories, and our family knows several other chronically ill families who are both concerned about the virus and discouraged by Facebook posts and articles that downplay the threat as “only affecting old and immunodeficient people.” While the virus may be significantly less dangerous for those of us who are young and well, this is no excuse for us to minimize the fears or suffering of those who are not. Even if some of the dangers of the virus have been exaggerated by the media, are we praying for those who have been or could be deeply impacted by the virus? Are we choosing to ignore the headlines and continue life as usual out of a desire for normalcy, or are we taking time to consider how our actions (or inaction, in the case of social distancing) could contribute to the well-being of the vulnerable?
According to the Book of Ecclesiastes, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). If this is true, then it follows that there are some times in our lives that require caution. Despite its beauty, our world is a dangerous and deeply broken place. Sometimes, caring for those we love requires carefulness, hard thinking, and a willingness to make some uncomfortable personal sacrifices. Abbot Cellach understands these things very well.
However, the abbot’s dispute with Brother Aidan sheds some light on the darker side of Cellach’s wall-building project. While leading his people, Cellach stands tall. Inside the seclusion of the monastery tower, where plans for Kells’ defenses are scribbled over the walls, Cellach’s shoulders are slumped. He carries a heavy burden. His remarks to his fellow monks are terse, and his willingness to listen to others is wearing thin. Once, the abbot was a gifted illuminator. Now, he has no time to spend with his nephew, no time to notice the remarkable book that Brother Aidan carries, no time to read the scriptures that once inspired him, and no time to glimpse the beauty of the trees beyond his wall. While his efforts to protect Kells are well-intentioned, it’s easy to see that they’re also driven by fear.
You and I have read enough news headlines, seen enough social media posts, and witnessed enough political and economic squabbles to know that our culture is saturated with worry. In times of peace and plenty, we’re told that life is short, that we have to “get ahead,” do something “important,” and insulate ourselves against any discomforts that could possibly come our way. In times of conflict and calamity, we’re told to protect ourselves, our belongings, and our way of life at any cost (even at the cost of a toilet-paper famine). While there’s nothing wrong with thoughtful preparation or stocking up on necessities, our constant stress and frenzied shopping sprees should prompt us to consider: Where have we placed our hope? When trouble comes, what do we instinctively turn to? If we’re relying on our own strength, our own brilliance, and our own resources, what do we do when these things aren’t enough?
Worry has a tendency to make us myopic, drawing our focus inward until all that we can see is our own problems. When we’re worried, we tend not to listen well to others. We tend not to notice the small moments of beauty and wonder that are woven throughout the fabric of our days. We tend to approach God as someone who can give us what we want, rather than someone to share life with. We also tend to devalue things that formerly filled us with gratitude – things like stories and songs. One of the reasons that I dropped my English major in college was the sinking feeling that it wasn’t useful or important – that the world had enough storytellers and that there were far more pressing things in the world which needed attending to. In some ways, my attitude mirrored Abbot Cellach’s: What use could pen and ink possibly have in a world that seemed to be falling apart everywhere I looked?
Like the fear-driven perspective of Abbot Cellach, my devaluing of the artist’s vocation was born out of a major blind spot. I had forgotten another truth in the Book of Ecclesiastes, one that Brother Aidan tells Brendan during a late-night conversation in the monastery – “There’s nothing in this world but mist, and we will only be alive for a short while.” Our short lives are, as the author of Ecclesiastes repeatedly puts it, “vapor” or “breath” (hebel in Hebrew). This applies not only to the tools of our trades, but also to the big things that we fix our hopes upon – to the achievements that the world applauds and to our most determined efforts to heal the world’s brokenness. We have far less control over our lives than we like to believe. In the end, nothing in this world lasts. The tide comes in, the Vikings arrive on our shores, and time lays waste to our best-laid plans and projects. We may be able to insulate ourselves from suffering and death now, but not forever. Even Brother Aidan knows that the peace of Kells is temporary. He tells Cellach regarding the Vikings: “When they come, all that we can do is run and hope that we are fast enough.”
The Illuminator
In contrast to Abbot Cellach, Brother Aidan is sharply incongruous with the somber atmosphere of Kells. Though he understands the weightiness of the times (many of his Christian brothers were killed by the invaders), he carries himself lightly. He cracks jokes, strikes up conversations, and cares for his cat, Pangur Ban. While most of the adults of Kells are far too busy to play with children, Aidan invites young Brendan to participate in his work of illumination. While everyone around him is focused on big things – Vikings, invasions, and a giant wall – Aidan challenges Brendan to notice small things – the emerald ink of a tiny berry and the lace-like pattern on a butterfly’s wing. In spite of his surroundings, Aidan has chosen to live in gratitude and contentment, savoring God’s simple gifts.
Aidan’s character reminds me of another person whose life and teachings were marked by an appreciation for small things: Jesus Christ. Jesus lived during a time of great turmoil. And yet, when his followers were busy with more pressing matters, Jesus spent time interacting with little children (Mark 10:13-16). Rather than treating these kids as second-class citizens (as most in his culture would have) or pushing them to grow up and make something of themselves, Jesus honored and celebrated them where they were at. In a temple where rich people were donating huge sums of money, Jesus called his followers’ attention to a poor widow who was giving a single coin, which was all the wealth that she had to offer (Mark 12:41-44). He saw beyond the size of the donation to the heart behind the gift. Jesus also made time to share meals and conversations with “little people” whom his society devalued: beggars, prostitutes, disabled people, the chronically ill, and even a literal little dude like Zaccheus. He did this so regularly that some people called him “a glutton and a drunkard” (Matthew 11:19). Unlike the religious elite of his day, Jesus recognized the value of everyday activities to relationship-building. Additionally, he taught that the Maker of the universe was interested not only in the big stuff that society defined as “important,” but also in tiny things like the meals of birds and the colors of flower petals.
How should we respond to the troubles that come our way? While Jesus never told people to ignore weighty matters, he often pushed them to look beyond the surface of things. He encouraged them to slow themselves down and notice God’s handiwork in the mundane. He challenged them to see the significance of the simple: the beauty of nature, the joy of childhood, and the power of fellowship around a table. In short, Jesus taught people that God cares just as much about small things as he does about big things. Why did he do this? Jesus understood our tendency to become myopic. He knew that in times of suffering, we would forget the fact that God’s gracious hand is continually at work in the world, that even now Christ is sustaining the smallest parts of creation, right down to their molecules – “in him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). Jesus reminded people about God’s interest in small things to emphasize God’s control over big things, and to comfort us in the midst of our struggles with worry:
“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?… And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you – you of little faith?” (Matthew 6:26-30).
While the verse about flowers outdoing “Solomon in all his splendor” might seem like a slam on King Solomon (How would you like it if someone said that some plants were cooler than your royal wardrobe?), Solomon himself acknowledged the fleeting nature of worldly pursuits in the Book of Ecclesiastes – the “vanity” of things like fame, knowledge, achievement, wealth, and material pleasure. Like Christ, Solomon urged people to “fear God” above worldly threats (Ecclesiastes 12:13). Like Christ, he encouraged people to savor the simple joys of life, which are God’s good gifts to humanity: “Go, eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do… Enjoy life with the wife whom you love…” (Ecclesiastes 9:7,8).
As we prepare for the arrival of Coronavirus, Jesus’ words should remind Christians that we’re called to live with trust, gratitude, and contentment. Even in chaotic and unsettling times, we have so much to be thankful for. This world remains far more beautiful than it needs to be. Additionally, Jesus’ treatment of vulnerable people should prompt us to ask ourselves: Are we considering those whom our society is neglecting? Many of the homeless folks in our neighborhoods have higher risks of severe illness due to things like old age, mental illness, and immunodeficiency (the latter of which can be exacerbated by drug abuse or lack of access to health care). In the midst of our shopping, are we thinking about these people? Are we praying for them and asking God how he may be calling us to support them? Is our worry causing us to become self-focused, or is our relationship with Christ turning our gaze outward to our neighbors?
Ultimately, in Abbot Cellach’s mind, the Book of Iona is a foolish project. However, to Brother Aidan, it is something of extraordinary importance – “the book that turned darkness into light.” Brother Aidan understands something that the abbot hasn’t yet grasped: the reality of the Kingdom of God. In a time of great darkness, the old illustrator sees the Book of Iona as a beacon of hope. Rather than forgetting the scriptures, he has dedicated his life to preserving and sharing their sacred glow.
Jesus talked a whole lot about the Kingdom of God, which he described as God’s reign in human hearts (Luke 17:21). Often, he did so through stories called “parables.” Jesus described the Kingdom as something that was both incredibly small and incredibly powerful, like a tiny mustard seed (“the smallest of all seeds”) which blossoms into a massive tree, or a tiny bit of yeast that leavens a huge lump of dough (Matthew 13:31-34). He also depicted the Kingdom as something that was both hidden and extremely precious, like a treasure buried in the dirt or a beautiful pearl in a marketplace (Matthew 13:44-45). These parables suggest that God’s Kingdom is often unnoticed and underappreciated by the kingdoms of this world. However, for those who take time to examine its light, it’s a thing of intense beauty and immeasurable value. In the same passage where he urged his followers not to worry, Jesus also instructed them to live with the Kingdom of God in mind:
“So do not worry, saying ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or “What shall we wear?’… For pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Matthew 6:31-34)
To those outside the faith (and even sometimes to us within), the message that Christians preach can seem incredibly foolish. Christians have placed their eternal hope in a Jewish rabbi who was tortured and killed in 1st-century Palestine, in the befuddling notion that this man was God in human flesh, and in the similarly confounding claim that he walked out of his own grave on Easter morning. However, for those who follow Christ, the Christian message is good news unlike any other. This was the same message that St. Patrick, the first Christian missionary to Ireland, carried with him on his journey. It’s an offer of grace that we could never hope to earn and new life that we could never have imagined. We live in a world ravaged by death and despair, by sin and suffering, by Vikings and viruses. However, those who follow Christ cling to the promise that, through the cross of our Lord and Savior, each and every one of these things has been conquered. We may lose the battle, but we have won the war. Through what Mother Theresa called “little acts of great love,” or what Gandalf the Grey called “the small, everyday deeds of ordinary folk” (Gandalf and Mother Theresa were pals, if you didn’t know), God’s Kingdom will continue to spread and take root in human hearts, turning darkness into light. I continue to struggle with worry, and I often forget about the promise of the Kingdom. When that happens, I’m thankful that God has provided gifts like pen and ink, stories like The Secret of Kells, and holidays like St. Patrick’s day to help me remember.
The Dance
I’m still moved every time I hear the music of bagpipes. While the instrument’s mournful, wailing tune may not be your cup of tea (and may even remind you of an enraged goose), I happen to think it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. One of my favorite things about Celtic music is how it can sound joyful and sorrowful at the same time. I mentioned this to a good friend once (looking at you, AA-Ron), and he told me that Celtic songs are often written in a scale that’s neither major nor minor. This gives them a bittersweet tone, which is accentuated by the fact that sad lyrics are often set to the dancing rhythms of jigs and reels.
Those who have placed their trust in Christ look forward to the day when the kingdom will come in its fullness. We yearn for the Great Dance – the restoration of all that has been broken by sin and death. However, Jesus’ teachings remind us that the dance has already begun – indeed, is going on all around us – in the beauty of birds and flower petals, in the transformation of human hearts, and in the deeds of the everyday. If we listen closely, we might just hear the distant echoes of its music, calling to us like a country across the sea.
Words for Wayfarers 