How quickly two months pass!

It has been a very busy two months, but it is coming to an end tomorrow when I fly back home to Greensboro. The weather here in Merida has been surprisingly cool—a few days over 100 degrees but most between 80 and 90. I’ve been able to get out almost every day for my 12-25 mile bike ride, but not once was the weather hot enough to entice me into my favorite swimming hole, Noc-ac cenote. The weather and busy schedule have even kept me from my annual weekend diving in Cozumel—but there is next year!

I have finished the three classes I was to teach. Homilética IV (fourth year Preaching) was a small class, with students I have had previously. Las Cartas Paulinas was much larger, with second year students, an in Extension I taught Las Parábolas de Jesús to a group of eight interested and engaging pastor. The preparation work for these classes involved creating PowerPoint presentations for the class sessions, preview presentations for the students and a final presentation which I posted on the web. For the Parábolas class I also put together a small booklet on the parables. And all in less than perfect Spanish. Adding to the mix was grading and testing. In short it has been a very busy time! But a wonderful one…

In between class work I did have wonderful opportunities to share in the life and ministry of the people and churches here in Merida and the villages of the Yucatan. I was invited almost every weekend to preach in one of the local churches, and accompanied my hosts Dave (Bito) and Jean Legters on several of their trips to big and small churches all around the state and beyond. I was the chauffeur a good deal of the time, including every Thursday night when I took Jean downtown to her choir practice, where she has served Divino Salvador as accompanist for many years. On those nights I ritually marched down to the center plaza of Merida to a small pizza place and enjoyed what I consider to be the finest pizza in the city. Bito and Jean enjoyed a piece or two as well. I was able to attend a 50th wedding anniversary celebration in one village (as I related last entry) and a 3 year old baptism (which was riotous as the one being baptized was so terrified that he fled the sanctuary just when he was to be baptized…) in another. I ate at the festivities and watched as children and adults scrambled for the goodies pouring out of a broken piñata.

Nancy was with me for about half the time I have been here, but had grandma duties back home plus a TESOL conference in Boston. Of course life is better when she is around, but sometimes other duty calls.

The highlight of the two months has to have been the short visit of all the family. Emily, Steve, Jacques, and Colette were here for a short 5 days, and JJ was here for the weekend they were here. JJ´s coming from San Francisco was a surprise we arranged for the Content family—they did not know that she was coming. I wish I could have seen the face of the two little ones at the Houston airport when they turned around and saw a very familiar face (tía) in a very strange airport and learned that they were all going to be on the same flight! In any case we spent one day in Celestún, on a boat seeing the flamingoes and maneuvering through the jungle to the Ojo de Agua where we could swim in the place the springs fed fresh water to the salty sea marsh. That plus ruins plus hunting down acquaintances Emily had made while here on mission trips—it was a full and wonderful time.



As life goes on I continue to revert to the same theme, that our sojourn on earth is made up of chapters, each with a beginning a middle and an end. Some are short and some are long, some are wonderful and others are challenging. And now this short chapter ends and another begins. It is always a joy and honor to be received in this part of the world. The Legters are an example of faithful ongoing service that challenges me, and their deep friendship and amazing hospitality (including let me invite 20 or more students over several nights to watch a movie) means much to me. The commitment of the seminary faculty and staff, and the hard work of the students, inspires me and makes me grateful to be able to say that I am a part of El Seminario Teológico Presbiteriano San Pablo. And the life that people live here, often a hard life, but one that with faith in Christ has hope and meaning—that is something to marvel at.

In the class I taught on Paul´s letters, I once again was challenged by his writings, and particularly by his final letter, 2 Timothy. That letter contains little systematic doctrine or correction of church life, it is a farewell from a senior church leader to his most beloved companion and apprentice. It is a book to be felt more than to be analyzed. It is a book of pain (he is in prison, deserted by many, and awaiting his execution), but one of tremendous hope as well. Much of that hope is in the promise of God to him, the promise we all have been given and which we read about in Paul´s writings. But much of that hope and confidence was also in his ability to look back at his life, with its various chapters, and say, I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith… To be able to say that at the end of life ought to be our goal at the beginning. When the gun sounds and race begins we should keep our eye on the finish line and run towards it. And when the way gets hard and the energy gets low, we should keep our eye on that line as well. That is the purpose of life, and that purpose gives it meaning—plus what Paul soon received, the crown of righteousness.

Udhekryq

Mountains Outside Erseke

Just over a week ago Nancy and I were saying goodbye to friends in Ireland. We vacated our home in Cahir on Sunday morning and headed north to Dublin to see friends at Adelide Road church. After the services there we went out to the airport and flew to Bologna, Italy, for the night. The next morning we flew to Tirana, Albania, where we were met and taken directly to the town of Erseke and the Udhekryq (Crossroads) Bible School. My first class on The Parables was that night and Nancy’s first English class the next day.

Co Teacher Jack Dabney

Now we have been here for just over a week. In that time we have renewed relationships, made new friends, taught numerous classes, enjoyed wonderful food—and Nancy even managed a couple days of English seminars in the Albanian city of Berat. Since coming the rains have been falling most of the time and the roads have turned into flowing streams, but the school is comfortable and dry, with all the amenities of a school at home.

School Cooks

Albania is very different from Ireland and Greensboro. In the architecture and infrastructure it bears the unmistakable marks of its communist past—marks which are not very pretty. But it also has an air of newness and life. In the midst of decaying apartment buildings there are new buildings popping up, and the roads are bit by bit being smoothed, straightened, and expanded. It is a very beautiful place, with unspoiled Adriatic white sand coastland giving way to incredibly rugged Balkan mountains. Where we are these mountains rise just outside of the town, separating us from Greece, and the beginning of winter has started to cover them with a dusting of snow. Sunsets are dramatic and the air is clear and clean (except when the cheese factory just outside the school belches out its daily dose of smoke). Buildings in the town are often not heated, so their doors are left open even in these cold days, but in the school a modern and innovative system keeps everyone comfortable and the water always hot.

Street Leaving Erseke

All this is to say that the world in which God has placed Nancy and me continues to be an interesting, challenging, and rewarding one. We are blessed to be here in Erseke once again, and are grateful to God for the opportunity to serve and be served. As I experience the road on which God has placed us, I marvel again at how good it is—and thank him for the place and the people, and the chance to continue with the adventure of following him. Come, let us sing for joy to the Lord; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song… Psalm 95:1,2.

Lisburn, N. Ireland

It has been a while since my last posting, and life has been busy. Emily, Steve, Colette and Jacques flew to Paris on the 12th, and we joined them there that afternoon. We were together for three days, taking in the sites and sharing two very small hotel rooms just off rue de Cler, a small but very French walking street. The first day we all took a long boat ride on the Seine and the next day Emily, Steve, Jacques and I walked the major sites of the city center while grandma had special time with Colette. Then we all went to Versailles, though grandma and grandpa returned early with Colette and Jacques, while Emily and Steve toured the great palace. The weather was cool but clear, just right for our purposes, and the crowds were not great. The visit was wonderful, the length just right, and Emily and I were able to get the third in a series of dad-daughter having coffee in a Parisian café—the first when she was 1, the second when she was 11, and this time when she is 35.


Next we all flew together to Dublin, picked up a rental car, and headed back to Cahir, where we spent the next week and a half. I continued to lead services in Cahir and Fermoy, plus a men’s gathering in Cork, and a wonderful evening with Carlow friends, and the family joined in. We had lots of walks, several tourist mini-trips, and special one on one time with each other. Steve found a gym just around the corner from our home and Emily found a park, while Colette and I did several morning walks which included coffee for me, a cookie for her, and chances to visit the cattle and sheep market on the way into town.

Sunday the 25th, after the services in Cahir and Fermoy, we all headed north, with an assist from David Bruce who picked part of our troupe up as they returned the rental car at the Dublin airport. We are now in Lisburn, enjoying the wonderful hospitality of the Bruce family until the Contents fly back home on Thursday. Yesterday we even made it to Bruce's seaside caravan in Donegal, on the west coast of the island. Nancy and I will head back to Cahir that day to enjoy a last gathering with new friends from the Fermoy church, then Friday we have our last prayer time with Cahir people and Saturday prepare to vacate our Cahir home in advance of our leaving for Albania on Sunday—after attending the services at Adelaide Road in Dublin.



In other words these past several weeks have been full and rewarding. We have deepened our love for the people we have been sharing with here in Ireland, and revisited some we have shared with in the past. We have had wonderful times together as a family, particularly with the little ones who grow up so fast. And we have seen more of this beautiful land. At times over these past weeks Nancy and I have turned to each other in amazement at the wonder of the gift of the people, places and experiences God has been giving us. And we marvel at how he works our being blessed by others together with the sense of our being a blessing to others. As God weaves the fabric of life into a pattern, it is wonderful when the two happen together—when we offer what he has given us and we receive what he has given to others. That seems to be the way he has designed things, and for that we praise him!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009—Belluno, Italy

We have reached the point in our trip where we need to slow down. Our flight back to Ireland will take off Friday evening, which means we have four days to get to the airport. But the Marco Polo International Airport (Venice) is only around 100 miles away, which should not take four days. So today we stopped after only 24 miles at Belluno, a pleasant but rather ordinary city and capital of the Dolomite area of northern Italy.

To use the word grandeur to describe the Dolomites is perhaps using a cliché, but it is an apt one. The roads follow deep valleys cut through massive mountains which tower over the rivers and roads below. The valleys end, of course, and when they do there is a pass to climb to get to the next valley—which means first a climb then a downhill run. The mountain slopes are steep and peaked, often consisting of bare rock which glistens in the morning or evening sunlight.

The short ride from Cimolais began with an uphill pull over a steep rise then a wonderful ride down the other side, past several small villages and one massive dam and reservoir. When the road reached the town of Longarone it turned south and changed from a beautiful rugged rural road to a heavily traveled main artery. And because of the character of the topography it was necessary to take that road almost all the way to our stopping point—a rather anticlimactic end to a remarkably beautiful day.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009--Hamburg, Germany

Today was a warm up day for our cycle trip from Hamburg to Venice. I began at the White Sands Hotel with a modified Full Irish Breakfast. What that means simply is that I did not take any of the selection of cereal and went past most of the fruit. And I declined the black pudding and the bacon, while accepting the eggs, toast, rolls, sausage and juice. When the Irish use the word full to describe what they eat in the morning, they mean it…But it may not be the best for the start of a day that will involve some cycling.

After breakfast I took a 30 minute ride on the 102 Dublin City Bus from the hotel back to the airport, where I picked up my bike from Left Luggage and made my way to the waiting area for check-in for the flight to Hamburg. My friend Brian arrived a few minutes later, with his bike in a rather disheveled box and the tickets. Checking in was easy, the walk to the gate not long, and the standing in a queue to board the plane, while in a lounge adequate for about one third the number of people who were in it, was not bad. Once we took off, the flight from Dublin to Hamburg was quick (1 ½ hours) and uneventful, although it involved sharing a three seat row with not only Brian but also the largest person I have ever sat next to on a plane. It must have been uncomfortable to him, particularly,

We arrived in Hamburg around 3:30, and made our way to luggage and collected our bikes. Once in our hands it took about a half an hour to unpack them and put the pieces that had to be disassembled to satisfy the airlines and fit in the box back together. That is always a task that begins any trip, and it was not unpleasant as the luggage hall was fairly deserted for most of the process. The last of the preparation was changing into cycling clothes in the restroom and abandoning the boxes they had come in. I always feel a bit awkward just leaving a large cardboard container in a restroom, but there is no alternative—the boxes hold the bike well but the bike would not do well carting the box around.

As we walked our bikes out of the terminal I turned on the gps I have brought with me, and it soon synced in with strong satellite signals and Ken’s voice calmly directed us to turn right. From that point on, and with great faith in Ken and the gps, Brian and I wound our way through the streets of Hamburg, a city of 1.8 million people, the second largest of all German cities. You could navigate without a gps, but in an urban area of this size, it sure helped…


After just 19 flat miles, a distance pre-set based on the arrival time of our flight and the desire to just get out of the city on our first day, we made our destination--a small hotel that I had booked over the internet. The hotel backs onto a canal that is part of the Elbe River system, and caters to travelers of all kinds—cyclists, motorists, walkers and barge enthusiasts. It has a beer garden on the riverbank and one of the strangest pear trees I have ever seen (looks almost like the pears have been hung on the tree like Christmas ornaments).

The room is clean and simple, and because the restaurant specializes in Croatian cuisine, along with the local brew I had a dish consisting of mince (hamburger in US) stuffed with a white sharp cheese, which was more than enough.

In short, everything looks good. All is well and I am grateful to God for the good beginning which he has given us…

The other day it rained. And it rained hard and long. Two days later I went out on my bike to do my little 12 mile circuit and I noticed a gorgeous tree. It was large and well shaped, and covered with beautiful bright pink flowers. It was particularly striking because it stood out in the stark environment of this area of the Yucatan. Being so taken by its beauty I wanted to take a photo to share with others, and to remember myself. So I told myself that the next day I would be sure to take my camera with me on my ride.

But the next day I forgot and the next day I was out of town and it wasn't until the third day that I remembered, took my camera and headed out to capture the beauty. However, when I came to the tree it had changed. The flowers had fallen off and it was now as stark and bare as anything around it. I had lost the chance to take the grand photo and was left with this one instead...

And as I thought about that I thought about life and the opportunities we have and our response to those opportunities. I thought about how time-sensitive some of those opportunities are--about how if we do not take advantage of them at the moment they are in front of us, we may never be able to at all.


Long ago I made a vow not to live life with a lot of "if onlys"... What I mean is not that I should try everything there is to try, because there are plenty of things that should not be done and which if done will inevitably lead to serious problems. But what I mean is to try to live life in such a way that I say "Yes" to positive opportunities when they present themselves. What I mean is that at the end of life I do not want to have to look back on a long list of things I could have done, doors I could have walked through, experiences I could have had--and that would have been positive--but that I failed to do or try.

Long ago I heard a story of a mother who was preparing supper when her young daughter came in and said, excitedly, "Mommy, come out and look at the beautiful sunset with me!" Busy with the food the mother replied, "I will in a minute, but first you go and wash up for supper." Slowly the daughter walked obediently to the bathroom and emerged just moments later, with clean hands. Then, after finishing the final details of the meal, the mother took her hand and walked out--only to see the faded tail end of the beauty that had been the sunset. The moment was missed... I do not want to miss the moments!

Last week I was at an evening chapel service in the seminary when someone came in and said that there was a lunar eclipse in process. I hurried outside, saw it was true, and then ran back to the house where Nancy was. I shouted at her to come outside, which she did, and together we watched as the shadowed moon grew bigger and bigger. It was beautiful. Had I waited long to tell her what was happening, she would have missed it and watching it together would not have happened. That special moment was not missed.

I don't know if the tree I saw in all its glory will bloom again while I am here. I doubt it. But if it does I will most assuredly take a photo right away! I missed that one, and may never have a second chance. But I want that to be the exception, not the rule...I want to say "Yes" to the opportunities God places in my way, not "No" and, perhaps even more importantly, not "Later". I want to remember that sunsets fade and trees lose their blossoms. I want to remember the words of Ecclesiastes 3, There is a time for everything under heaven. I think that is part of God's plan for each of us--part of making the most of the days, the hours and the minutes we have been given on this earth. I think that is at least one piece of what the Adventure of Living is all about...

Last week I had the privilege of sharing in a celebration. It was a celebration of the life of a good friend and of the promise of resurrection. That friend was Andy Montana, and he died early Thanksgiving morning after a lengthy battle with disease. Andy was a chemist par-excellence, a university professor and co-developer of a computer-based chemistry curriculum. With a smile on his face he had told me that his motivation for developing this material was, “It is a lot better to blow something up in a computer program than in the chem. Lab.” How true…

It is ironic that at memorial services we learn so much about people we thought we knew well. But usually our data about a person comes from only one slice of their lives, one time or one place. We know them as a teacher or a student or a fishing buddy or a pastor or parishioner or whatever, but there are always other people who know the same person from a different perspective, in a different place and role. And when a memorial service invites people to share memories a whole lot comes out that makes the person much more multi-faceted than we alone could ever know. Such was the case last week as long-time friends and new acquaintances alike shared with all the moments that stood out in their memories of Andy.



Over the years I have been a pastor people have often asked about my feelings regarding performing funerals/memorial services. My semi-stock answer has always been, “I’d rather do a good funeral than a bad marriage any day…” And that is absolutely true—because one is final while the other could be just a beginning of a long and tragic period. But this raises the question, what makes a good funeral? And to me the answer is pretty simple, and it is reduced to three basics.

First, a good funeral is one which remembers someone who has made a positive difference in the lives of those he or she came in contact with. Of course this includes the immediate family cluster, but I look beyond that circle to see how the life we are remembering impacted other people outside the family. And particularly I listen for words from people whose relationship with the deceased reflects an intentional reaching out on the part of the one being remembered. To me this indicates a life that consciously gave to others.

The second thing that I believe makes a good funeral is one in which the things a person is remembered for move beyond the inconsequential. By this I mean that the things noted at a service indicate that the person offered something of substance to the world and other people in it. Gardens are good and golf is fine, but there is more to life than those, and people whose lives intersect with other people at these more substantial points leave behind the most lasting and positive memories. They leave behind impressions and imprints on people that make the living better people than they would have been had the deceased not been part of their lives. And when those things are noted in a service it can be a good one.

The third thing that I believe makes a good funeral is a clear and honest declaration of the motive behind the life that is being honored, and that motive is Jesus Christ. Grief is an important part of a funeral service, and its absence speaks volumes. But the gospel is that death, while a bitter enemy, is a defeated enemy—and defeated by Jesus on the cross and in the empty tomb. Most memorial services reflect some hope in a positive after-life for the deceased, but too often that hope is some vague and undefined feeling. When Christ is honored, on the other hand, hope is grounded in the great reality of resurrection—it is not just wishful thinking but promise-claiming. And when a person has lived a life for Christ and in Christ then through Christ there is resurrection. And a clear affirmation of the deceased person’s faith in Christ and trust in his promises lifts a memorial service beyond one in which the deceased is remembered to one in which the greatest hope of humanity is celebrated.



Because of these feelings, I have a specific form of service that I have usually used, and that I commend as the most helpful and appropriate in a time of loss. The first thing is to have any graveside/internment component prior to the service in the church. The second is to have a short message end the service in the church. It has always seemed to me to be contradictory to move from a church or chapel where Christ’s message and its resurrection hope have been presented to a graveyard. The Scripture of hope and a message of promise should be the last words that ring in the ears of those who attend a service. The eulogies and personal comments are important, as is the emotional symbolism of a grave, but the last word should be resurrection—a celebration of that promise and a challenge to those present to consider their lives in its light.

The words of Jesus, spoken long ago, are the most important words that could be spoken in any memorial service, "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.” And the question that he appended to it, “Do you believe this?”, should be echoing in the ears of every attendee as they leave… When that happens, a funeral can be truly labeled a good service.

Spanish Pyrenees/Pass between Spain and France




He was probably in his mid twenties and he was traveling fast. He had a big smile on his face and his hair was streaming behind him in the wind that his downhill run was creating. As he passed me he turned and shouted Allez! Allez!, which, pronounced Allay! Allay!, is the classic cyclists’ word of encouragement and camaraderie. I managed to grunt out a half-hearted responsive Allez to him, but just barely—and only one. You see I was on my bicycle on the cusp of the hardest part of the uphill climb to the col (summit) from which he was descending, the col de Peyresourde, one of the famous cols traversed often by the Tour de France. Brian and I had chosen our route from Barcelona to Brittany with one purpose being to cross one or more of these famous cols and that is what we were doing.

Looking back from the top of the Col de Peyresourde

As the young smiling rider passed me I once again faced the profound question—Why am I doing this? The day was warm, the climb had already been long and grueling and I had far to go to reach the top. I had chosen this route, paid money to fly to Barcelona, and was taking time I could spend in other ways, and all to face what was one of several torturous days in the Pyrenees. My encourager was in his twenties, I am facing 64 years old at my next birthday. He was free of any gear besides his bike, and I was carrying all the gear I would need for three weeks cycling. He was fit and trim and I was only hoping to get somewhere close to that as the days would proceed. I was hurting and he was smiling. Why am I doing this?

French Countryside
Fast forward now to two weeks later. It is a perfect autumn day and Brian and I are cycling along the south bank of the Loire River. The river itself is not visible most of the time, but farms and fields and forests are all around us, and the colors of autumn are beginning to show. There is a slight breeze at my back and the skies are brilliant blue and the air crisp but not cold. There is no pain and no torturous path awaiting me, all day will be like this. And with this day my earlier question is answered. With this day the earlier climb makes sense, and with this day the whole comes into focus.

And that focus is not simply that the idyllic days make up for the painful ones, or that it is worth enduring the hardship as a necessary adjunct to the pleasant, but rather it is that the different parts that make the whole so rich. At the end of the trip some of the suffering will fade and the reality of having made it to the top—and on for weeks longer—will be as rewarding a memory as the recollections of the tranquil days nearly effortlessly cycling through the fields of France. The views from the top of high passes to the valleys below will be as memorable as the vast fields of sunflowers and corn drying in the fading sunlight. The easy and the hard, the beautiful and the not so beautiful, the verdant and the dry, the suffering and the pleasure, it is all part of the journey, and all together it makes the trip so much richer.

Brian Enjoys a French Snack

And that is like life, and particularly the life of the believer. It is the whole which, when seen as part of the journey of faith, makes it so rich. It is the hard and the easy, the painful and the pleasurable, all together, when seen as part of God’s call and God’s path, that form a collage of beauty and worth. It is the cross and the crown that come as a package, that together make up the stuff of the abundant life that Jesus said he came to bring. And it is the recognition of this that causes us to keep on in our journey of faith—and even pray for the strength for more, even to plan another trip over new mountains and through new meadows…

French B & B

I have just returned to Greensboro for a week before heading off to Albania next thursday. Difficulties in accessing computers in France prevented reports from the road on the cycle trip referred to here, but here is a bit of what happened on the road from Barcelona to London.....

Fields, Forests and Farms of South-West France


French Castle Turned B&B

A comment about Irish roads by one writer has proven accurate as Nancy and I have worked our way around the west coast of the country and back to Dublin. That comment is that Ireland has two kinds of roads—busy and deserted. I would add to that another word—bumpy. Having just completed a ring from Dublin to Clifden (far west point or the country) and back, I would agree. Driving on the left (some say the wrong) side of the road takes just a little getting used to, but the curves and bumps on the small roads or traffic on the larger are a continual adventure. And sometimes there is even traffic of a farming kind on the smallest roads...


After hunting down ancestral places, rocks and names, we headed towards the southwest of Ireland. That part of the country is dominated by three peninsulas, each of which has its own unique personality. Having already experienced the middle of the three and its main road, commonly called the Ring of Kerry, both by bicycle and car, Nancy and I agreed that we would not make a repeat visit. That route is one of the prime tourist routes on the island, and for good reason. Its beauty is legendary, but the crowds are also, and we decided that we could bypass both.



So we headed for the southernmost peninsula, Baera—and we were not disappointed. The roads out of Glengarriff, the gateway to this peninsula, were small and winding, but spectacular. The mountains that form the spine of the peninsula loomed on one side, while the glistening sea lay on the other. We passed through forests, rock-covered hillscapes, and small villages, with brightly painted houses

in general enjoying every minute. As the day moved towards late afternoon we rounded a curve and saw in front of us a small hotel nestled next to a small pier and facing the bay and the sea beyond. Bunaw looked like a perfect place to stop for the night, and we did and it was. The room rate was less than half of what we were accustomed to paying, but what we were given in site and experience was much more than we had received before.


The only activities were walking and cycling, and, although the weather was threatening, Nancy and I did both. I cycled up Healy Pass, the high point on the peninsula, finding the panorama from the top amazingly beautiful. The wind from the sea was strong, and walking on the pier exhilarating. And to top it off, as we were having late afternoon tea in the hotel bar, we met a delightful couple who were cycling in the area. The husband was writing a book about life in a village in Mayo County, Ireland, and we carried on quite a conversation—one joined in on by a local taxi driver who was eager to tell us about both the area we were staying in and his recent commitment to Christ.

At the suggestion of the couple we had met, Nancy and I drove around the corner to a lakeside pub/restaurant for dinner. The food was good, but the highlight was the owner who was more than happy to tell us anything we wanted to know. On the wall was a photograph of an elderly gentleman carrying long oars, and we asked about him. Seems that he was a boatsman when boats could be hired (rented) on the adjoining lake, and he was carrying the oars for his boat to his house. He could have left them with the pub owner, but would not trust anyone to properly care for his precious cargo. We asked if boats were still for hire, and the pub owner answered no. He said the boats were there but that some time ago the pay for boatsmen had sunk so low (25 pounds for half a day, plus lunch and drink) that no one would do take the jobs. He also added that tourism itself had been sinking over the past several years, primarily due to increased accessibility of other (and sunny) places thanks to the proliferation of low-fare airlines.


The next morning we left our find behind and, with a stop at a nearby glorious waterfall and park, with ancient standing stones, headed towards the northernmost peninsula, a place with a conflict about name that is a story in itself. Next time I will fill you in on that story. But the lesson for this time is simple, Psalm 102:25, In the beginning you laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands.

Today marks the fourth Sunday I have had the privilege of preaching at Adelaide Road Presbyterian Church in Dublin Ireland. I have chosen to share messages from one of my favorite books while here, the letter of Paul to the Philippians, and the study guides for these messages are being posted on the web site of the church, www.adelaideroadchurch.org. If you are interested, feel free to log on and take a look.
The past week began with a visit to some interesting sites around Dublin, in the company of friends from Lisburn who had shown up for worship at Adelaide Road. It was great to see them, and to spend the next day with them in the Wicklow Mountains, just south of Dublin proper. The word mountains is a little deceptive from the point of view of the mountains we knew in the Seattle area, but when I ascend the winding road through them on my bicycle I know why they bear that name. In the space of only a few miles the road rises above the tree line to Highland-like countryside and vast panoramas of the world below open up beneath.



Our most interesting stop on this trip was at Glendalough, a place of both natural and historical beauty. Glendalough gets its name from the Irish phrase Gleann dá locha, which literally means the ‘Glen of the two lakes’. Situated in the heart of the Wicklow Mountains, and designated as a National Park, it is one of the most visited locations in Ireland. People like us go there to enjoy the lakes and surrounding forests, and also to visit one of the most important sites of monastic ruins in Ireland, an ecclesiastical village known as The City of the Seven Churches.


The story behind this city centers around a 6th century monk named St. Kevin who, in a desire to get away from worldly distractions made his way to the Glendalough Valley, at the time a desolate and remote site. The saint’s piety and devotion attracted others and soon a monastic community grew up around him. St. Kevin died in 617 AD (supposedly at the age of 120), but the community continued for the next 500 years (Ireland's Golden Age) as one of the country’s greatest ecclesiastical foundations and places of learning. The Danes who were based in Dublin regularly attacked and burned the city, but it continued to prosper until the 13th century when the Normans destroyed the monastery and placed the area under the jurisdiction of Dublin. The buildings fell into decay and more than 600 years elapsed before a reconstruction program was started in 1878. Further work was carried out in the 20th century.


At Glendalough several ecclesiastical buildings from the 6th century survive, including one of the oldest high towers in the country. These uniquely Irish architectural features puzzle current scholars, who are not certain what they were used for. Some say they were for storage, others for a place of safety during a raid, and others to lead the pilgrims’ way to the holy place. In any case the whole site is impressive, and the glimpse into an important part of religious history is fascinating. If you want to know more about this history I recommend reading How the Irish Saved Civilization, by Thomas Cahill. It is not only interesting and informative, but also very readable.
On Thursday Nancy and I went north to Northern Island (part of the UK) and visited several friends who we knew from our time in Lisburn, including the Bruce clan. Years ago a number of us from Calvin combined cycling and missions and helped in a seaside youth club at Cranfield, south of Dublin on the border with the Republic. David Bruce was the speaker for the morning this past Friday at the same camp, so Nancy and I went there. It was good to see the work continuing, and to reconnect with some of the team I knew from our time years ago. On the way to the camp, just outside Cranfield and up the road a few miles, we passed the place where CS Lewis spent many childhood summers, and the hill which he immortalized as the site of the castle from which the kings and queens of Narnia ruled, Cair Paravel.


So, all in all it was a very full and interesting week. And it was bookended by a Sunday the 15th visit to a summer mission at Greystone (a town on the coast south of Dublin) which has been held there for the past 111 years…And a Sunday the 22nd Irish picnic—complete with a barbeque sheltered by umbrellas to keep the driving rain away.


Living here is a privilege and a gift, and Nancy and I thank God for it. We are in a position to learn from the people here today, and from those who were here over a thousand years before our nation was begun. And those two forces—the present and the legacy—are important for us to know and learn from. And I guess such is the case wherever we are and whoever we are.

I can’t remember when I saw the Aran Islands on a map for the first time, but I do remember that their draw was magnetic. Maybe it is because I like the far-distant places, the corners, the edges—for no explicable reason except perhaps because they are there. And the Aran Islands are that kind of place. Only a few miles from the mainland of Ireland, but unconnected to it, they jut out into the Atlantic, leaving nothing but water between their western shores and North America. That position makes them susceptible to the harshness of winds, surf and rain, and the barren rock that they are made of leaves no place for forests or fields—but that just makes them attractive to me.

Several times, on various trips to Europe, I had planned on visiting these islands, but not until yesterday did it happen. Every other time something came up or another destination took precedence or whatever—I never made it. But this time Nancy and I did, and it was wonderful. Some times when you look forward to something you are disappointed with the thing itself when you finally get it, but not this time for me. The years of waiting proved worthwhile, and the visit, short as it was, satisfied.
To describe the Aran Islands as remote and hard to reach was the case for centuries, but it is no longer true. There are three Aran islands (the big island—Inishmore; the smaller island—Inishmaan; the smallest/most easterly island—Inisheer) and all are reached by ferries that shuttle people and goods from the mainland several times a day. There is even regular air service to the two largest islands—by a very local airline. But that did not detract from the experience. Being there was the goal, not suffering to arrive.
Nancy and I took the train from Dublin to Galway, a trip that took just three hours and covered the entire width of the island of Ireland, from east coast to west coast. We arrived in Galway in the afternoon, immediately found our way to the tourist ticket office for the Aran Islands, and booked the bus/ferry plus a Bed and Breakfast on the island. We had a couple hours to wander Galway, but the pouring rain made that less than positively memorable. The bus trip to the ferry lasted about an hour, and the rain continued, but as we went west I could still see that the signage was increasingly Gaelic and decreasingly English. That is because this part of Ireland is the Gaeltacht, that is the land where Gaelic is spoken, and the more remote the location the more dominant the Gaelic seems to be. After a wet and choppy hour long ferry crossing we arrived at the pier in the largest town on the largest island, Kilronan/Cill Ronain. The way to our lodgings was well marked, but while only a short walk it was a very wet one.

After settling in we headed out for dinner and music at a local restaurant/pub. The atmosphere of the place was fitting for its location, and the music, slated to begin at 9 but finally starting in earnest after 10, was local and enjoyable. Whether the Irish reputation for music is currently accurate or something for the tourists to enjoy I do not know, but the evening was just what one would imagine in a somewhat out-of-the-way Irish pub.
The morning greeted us with something we have not seen much of since arriving on the Emerald Isle—sunshine. We wanted to see the island, which since it is only 9 miles long and 2 ½ miles wide is not that hard to do. The choices offered for such discovery were: walking, cycling, horse-cart tours or mini-bus tours, and we chose the latter, knowing that the explanations of a local would give us the history, geography and traditions of the island better than traveling alone. The tour operators are all local, probably all family, and cooperate with one another, so we had no problem asking one for a ride and being shuttled to another to share the experience with a second family.
On the tour we learned about the harsh life on the island, the ancient inhabitants, how all the soil had been human-made by carting sand and seaweed up from the beach and depositing it on the solid limestone surface of the island.

We visited Dun Aonghusa, an impressive ancient stone fort built on a high cliff, the ruins of churches dating back to 800 AD, looked for seals and had tea and scone. The tour was so complete, we covered almost all the roads on the island, that all that was left to do was walk the coastal path, which we did—then we departed, taking the ferry then the bus back to Dublin.

The time on Inishmore/Inis Mor was not long, but the experience was all I had thought it might be. It was satisfying and it was informative. While in Ireland we may return , particularly to visit the other two smaller islands, but returning is not as important as having been there once. They say that in the winter there may be only 25 visitors on the big island, whereas in the July-August time the number can swell to 2,500. They also say that in the winter the weather may cut the island off from the mainland for as long as two weeks. I can imagine what that must be like. But the time and the crowd, and even the weather, was not the issue for me. It was just getting there. I could say finally getting there, but looking at it now I guess the time was just right. Ecclesiastes 3 tells us that there is a time and a season for everything, and yesterday was my time for the Aran Islands…And when the right time is filled with the right activity, something special happens…
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THURSDAY, August 31
This morning the station master assured us that the next train to
Ljubljana would indeed accept bicycles (it was not Yugoslavian), so we
took it. And he was right. In short order we were in Slovenia's
capital, the sun was bright, there was a festive feel in the air, and
we were on our way. A quick look around the city and a lunch on the
river bank, then on we rode. It was fairly late, so we did not go far,
but we found a small pension and settled in for the night.
Slovenia was part of Yugoslavia and when that nation split up it went
its way peacefully. It was a fairly prosperous part of the united
Yugoslavia, and has since grown well and become part of the European
Union. Much of Slovenia is forested, much agricultural, and on the
whole it is a wonderful place to cycle. And tomorrow we would start
out in earnest.

WEDNESDAY, August 30
The weather had not changed, so we did.

We went to the train station
and asked about tickets to Rome or Ljubljana (Slovenia), two places we
knew were outside the weather system settled in over central Europe.
We decided on Slovenia, purchased our tickets, and 10 minutes later
were on the train. Our bicycles were safely loaded in the baggage car,
and we were on the move. As the train made its way east out of
Switzerland and through western Austria, we smiled at our decision to
completely change our route--especially as the rain kept coming down
and we could see snow dusting the hills. Our train ride was
comfortable and uneventful until the last leg, from central Austria to
Slovenia. Waiting on the platform, we watched our train pull in, and
looked for the sign indicating where we should load the bikes--such
signs mark most trains in Europe. When we did not see a sign, we asked
the attendant, and were informed that this train did not take
bicycles. Our tickets said it would, but that made no difference. The
only suggestion the attendant had was for us to abandon the bikes and
board the train, hardly a reasonable option. In the end the train
pulled away without us, and we were informed by the station-master
that "Yugoslav trains refuse to carry bikes..." I wish someone would
have told the Swiss ticket-seller!
So, what to do--just keep going! We decided to take the next train
going in the direction of our destination and get off just before
entering Slovenia. While by this time it was late, we followed this
plan and ended up in Villach, Austria for the night.
I don't know the lesson from all this today. Perhaps, once again,
flexibility is what it is about. Years ago a friend said it this
way--You flex or you break. How true!

TUESDAY, August 29
Today began with the same clouds as yesterday ended with, but no rain.
Brian and I set out from Uster, this time certain of the route, and
proceeded along well marked paths and roads. The scenery was
spectacular as we made our way along lakes, rivers and canals that
were surrounded by high alpine peaks. Our general direction was west
towards our inevitable climb up a high pass to join the river Inn and
its famous cycle path, which we intended to follow for 300 or more
miles to Passau, Germany, where it joins the Danube.
However, as the day went on the rain came down in increasing
intensity, until by the time we reached our stopping point at 69 miles
we were riding in a torrential downpour.
From the warmth of our hotel in Bad Ragaz, and from the Italian
restaurant we feasted in, the sound of wind and rain continued
unabated, the weather reports told only of unseasonably cold weather,
including snow at elevations lower than our intended route, and the
hotel manager only shrugged her shoulders...So...Continued on
Wednesday.
The lesson? What a blessing to have the resources to get in out of the
rain! How many do not have them...

MONDAY, AUGUST 28
Today began with high hopes. I packed easily and was able to stow my extra luggage, what I will need for Albania but do not want to carry around on my bicycle for a month, in the hotel lockers. Then I had a nice lunch and headed out to the airport. I was impresssed with the cycling signage and found the airport easily. After a short wait my compatriot Brian appeared at the arrival point and our journey began...However not only our journey began but the rain did as well. But unstoppable we set off, spirits high...
The first several miles went fine. We followed excellent signage for cycles, the kind the Swiss are renowned for. But then a sign was missing, and the intersection was complicated and we found oursevles completely lost. For several hours we wandered, accosting passersby that tried to be helpful but had never heard of the places we were looking for, despite their clear presence on the map I had. We spoke to people who knew little English, some who knew much English, and I had one complete conversation in Spanish. Each person tried to be helpful, but the best they could do was point back where we had come from--no matter where we had been or where we were.
In the end, as it grew late and the rain grew stronger and we had absolutely no idea where we were, we stumbled across a very small train station. One of the signs noted that a train was due momentarily and the schedule noted that it was to stop at one of the towns on our map, one we were trying to get to but had no idea where it was. So, putting all pretenses of pride aside, we purchased two tickets and got on the train. It only went a few miles, making three or four other stops, before the voice on the intercom said our town was next. We had, in other words, not been that far from our route, but that was of no consolation in our state of confusio. We alit, found a hotel and settled down for the night--hoping the next day would be better, but at least knôwing where we were...Not a very productive day, and hopefully not a typical day, but certainly an adventurous one to remember.
And an obvious lesson in the day...I have been having an extensive email conversation with a friend who used to be part of Calvin. His point seems to be a strong objection against the idea of absolute truth. Instead, he seems to say that truth is in the eye of the beholder, and in a sense we each define truth for outselves. However, I have been trying to say that there are times when we are lost, and when our sense of what is right--where we are, where we are going--is simply so confused that we can not trust it. And there are other times when we are certain we are right, but we are actually very wrong...In either case we need an outside absolute, an authority. We need a sign that says for all time and all people and all places--to get from here to there this is the way. And it may actually be the only way. My contention is that our human condition, and the confusion that is part of our fallen nature, makes it imperative that we have an absolute word from the outside that sets us straight. And I believe that we have that word in the Word of God--lived out in Jesus Christ and written out in the Scriptures...All we have to do is admit we are lost and look up at the sign that tells us how to get back on track...
In His Adventures, Will