It was a dangerous journey—too dangerous to be highly recommended. It was a pilgrimage so marked in my memory that I can still feel the wild movement of that boat, tossing us up and down like an empty can in the hands of an angry ocean.
By the lines carved in his face, I knew that Captain Owen had seen the sea. For over two decades in his orange, dual engine, 30-foot boat, he had taken pilgrims from Port Magee to the Skellig Michael. His father, too, was a captain; and he taught his son everything about the North Atlantic Ocean—the 50-foot waves, the unexpected currents, and, of course, the misconception that a clear, sunny sky meant great sailing weather.
Pilgrimage is an ancient practice in need of modern discovery. It is a tangible expression of a Christian’s journey to God—a discipline for the sole and the soul. Many Protestants are discovering it for the first time, while many Catholics are recovering its biblical interpretation.
For me, pilgrimage is not about when we go or where we go; it’s about why we go—to expand the horizons of our faith, to move us from certainty to dependency, from confidence to brokenness, from assurance in ourselves to faith in God. Forcing us from our comfort zones, pilgrimage exposes us to a radical God who calls us to burn like beacons in this dark and dying world.
Sacred Space Five hundred years after the birth of Christ, Christians built a monastery on the summit of Skellig (Irish for “rock”) Michael, a remote island off the western coast of Ireland. In that time, Skellig Michael was the most distant island of the known world, the last bit of earth one could stand on before falling off its “flat edge.”
There were 12 of us in the boat. After climbing down an iron ladder, I stepped onto the floating vessel. Captain Owen was dressed for the water—thick, brown rubber boots and a bright yellow jacket.
“So the water will be calm today?” I asked, looking at the cloudless sky.
His thick, Irish accent disarmed me. “No, lad. The stomach of the ocean is upset today.”
I waited for the punch line.
“We’ll be lucky if all 12 of us can make it to the island!” he grumbled.
I paused. “But the water is calm. There’s not even a ripple out here!”
Captain Owen smiled. “Young lad, I hope you had a small breakfast this morning.”
Our boat departed, and we ventured into the blue unknown. The green hills of Ireland were greener than I’ve ever seen. Every imaginable shade can be seen from the water—forest green, lima bean green, Granny Smith apple green. I saw shades of green I never even knew existed. It was as if God had cut the grass of the earth and spread the shavings across this country. The sun was scorching my neck, and the gasoline fumes were burning my throat; but the gentle rocking of the boat calmed my nerves. What’s all the hype about, anyway? I wondered. I don’t see any waves.