Communities of resistance
Geese in a flock have seventy per cent greater range than a single goose on its own; geese in formation fly seventy-five per cent faster than single geese.
Iona, down through the centuries, speaks to us above all about the experience of the Holy Spirit in community. The islanders who have always had to be dependent on each other, the Celtic monks, the Benedictines and the present-day Iona Community have all learned about the need and strength of sharing.
A key New Testament concept is represented by the Greek word koinonia, meaning communion or fellowship. Communion, community, communicate – these words of shared derivation speak of a shared experience and are at the heart of the Christian message. The church is intended to be such a community of participation, yet the actual experience of being in church is often one of isolation. The popularity of places such as Taizé, Corrymeela and Iona testifies to the hunger for community.
When guests come to live in Iona Abbey today, they come to share in the daily life of a resident community which worships and works together year in, year out. The Celtic and Benedictine insistence that all of life is sacred is reflected in the life of the contemporary Iona Community. The group resident in the Abbey all year round tries to work out ways of living together in which resources are shared, people are valued and listened to, and love and trust can be evidenced, despite differences.
Sitting around a refectory table in any one week may be a professor of theology, a Roman Catholic monk, an unemployed teenager, a Quaker peace activist, an army chaplain, a single parent with children, a businessman, a battered wife, an inner-city gang boy and a Presbyterian minister. Many guests have had that experience common to all too many people in today’s world – that of being buffeted, rejected and hurt so that they can become closed and defensive. The Abbey community aims to be a group where people can feel safe – a sanctuary where they can open out, share their fears, reflect on their lives, share worship and work and join in discussions on the theme for the week, in which contemporary issues are looked at the in the light of the Gospel.
Community life – the life of the people who form each particular week’s Abbey community – grows fast as people wash dishes together, worship, engage in arts or music, and chat – at the dinner table, in the common room or chapter house, on walks and out on the weekly pilgrimage round the island. During the course of the week people can expect to be affirmed – and challenged. The mix of age, colour, gender, background and religious affiliation expresses each week an amazing diversity of Christian community.
It would be easy – and wrong – to romanticise Christian community, especially in a location such as Iona. The tensions of living together are not magically dispersed; indeed, they may be increased because of the heightened expectations. The testimony of so many on Iona is that healing comes through living the questions and not accepting easy answers. Somehow, the Church at large must work at ways of restoring real community to its heart, and intentional communities such as Iona can offer hard-won experience in the quest for such an essential recovery. People are not attracted to communities such as Iona simply because of a need for community. It is a particular style of community which is important.
by Ron Ferguson in ‘This is the Day’ Wild Goose Publications
Iona Weaving
How can we comprehend it, God, this beauty and this pain?
How does it hold together?
Is there pattern our purpose?
On a still day,
warp and weft glimpsed in the gold threads of the dawn sky,
in the blue-grey restless waters of the Sound,
in our laughter and our tears,
in our life together in this place –
your mysterious weaving of the world.
In the song and surge of the waves
and the living silence of the hills.
In the welter of winter gales
and the sheltering space of the church or home.
In angry exchanges that unravel,
and words and spaces that heal.
In isolation and in solitude.
In welcomes at the jetty
and in saying goodbye.
In the wind-bent trees, blasted by salt
and flowers flourishing in the village gardens.
In busyness that leave no time
and folk making time, here and now.
In the richness of all we have lost.
In discord –
and in ceilidhs music,
stumbling in the dark –
and dancing under the stars.
How can we comprehend it:
Your beauty and ours – who are made in your image?
Our pain and yours – who chose to share our lives?
We cannot hold it together – but it holds us.
Help us to see pattern and purpose,
and our part
in the weaving of the world. Amen.
By Jan Sutch Pickard in ‘This is the Day’ Wild Goose Publications
