I’ve long said that the best thing about Presbyterian General Assemblies is the summer vacation season that follows after adjournment. After spending so much energy and expending so many words, there’s nothing like time away in the mountains or on the beach to quell the cacophony, to renew the spirit and to remember that God is still in control. This year, the post-GA season issued into eight holy holidays for my wife Barbie and me in the Ireland of my roots – my Irish Catholic roots, that is.
Not that the land of Erin is free of conflict — especially in my family. My great-grandfather was one of those Irish Catholic “Gangs of New York” immigrants who were rabblerousing for independence from the bloody Brits. Decades later, my rabid, IRA-supporting godmother boycotted my ordination into the enemy church.
But an hour after landing in Dublin, we walked to Trinity College to view the fourth century Book of Kells and then to the Chester Beatty Library to see second through fifth century biblical texts. I was reminded that my two Irish denominations are one in Jesus, like it or not.
The subsequent days of touring the Cliffs of Moher, the hills of Kerry and the ruins of abbeys and castles also quieted our souls. Even the frantic driving on narrow streets, while working a stick shift with the left hand and steering from the right side, was subdued when a town would welcome us not with the familiar sign, “Speed Zone Ahead” but with “Traffic Calming.” Blood pressure calming, too.
Particularly soothing were the locals’ voices that speak with that melodious lilt we could never vocalize. Their pianissimo volume also helped us to lower the shrill decibels we normally blurt.
My favorite conversation began on Saturday afternoon when we turned off the engine to wait in the queue for a ferry on which to cross from Killimer to Tarbert. The fellow driving behind us jumped out of his car, so I did, too. We jumped into a conversation. He’d retired last year from the Dublin police force and was now living in the middle of the country. I told of my ministerial/editorial vocation. He spoke of past visits to the States. We blathered on about the wonders of his home country.
He went back to the matter of religion, saying, “You know, the liberals aren’t as liberal as they claim, and the conservatives aren’t as conservative as they say either.”
“Funny that you say that,” I responded. I then tried to whisper, “I wrote a book about that.” We got to talking about my “GodViews” book, and he made a note of it. “I’d like to read that.” He then added, with a guilty grin, that his wife was at mass at that very hour — but that he doesn’t go much anymore.
When the ferry pulled up, we drove on board, then climbed up to the balcony area to take in the view. I handed him a copy of the Outlook (I never leave home without them), and he said with a laugh, “Ah, you’re going to convert me.”
“What would your Catholic wife think about that?” I laughed in response.
We shook hands, said our fare-thee-wells and, while driving back onto the country roads, I was reminded that the particular branch of the church over which so many of us fret and sweat may also crumble into ruins – and yet, the God who reigns in heaven above causes the rains to fall and the grass to grow and the folks of polarized opposition to find common callings and for God’s mission to advance in spite of ourselves. Yes, in spite of our failures to steward the trust entrusted in us.
So while we turn our attention to stewardship, let us remember that it’s mostly about God’s faithfulness and only slightly about ours.
