Historical Setting: 793 C.E. Lindisfarne Monastery
The robes of murdered Christians are laid out on the sand. I can see from the silks and brocades they also raided the vestry. In another heap are the robes of monks delivered to these sands unbloodied. I can imagine these monks were stripped of their robes before they were driven through with these weapons. What will I see at the altar when I return the gospel to its rightful place? What has become of the monks of Lindisfarne?
Gunnar would have me wear the finest garb to return the book, but I would rather pretend my way into the church as a monk than a father with higher authority. This is no task for a saint. As I choose the monk’s robe from the heap, there is talk among the raiders about the value of the haul and the risk of letting a slave possibly escape into the monastery wearing valuable fabrics. I leave the red shirt on the sand to assure them I am not coming back. It is obvious I am “escaping” and I will leave as a monk.
I’m sure they were already of a mind that I wouldn’t be returning to the boats. Gunnar acknowledges a farewell to me, as the ships prepare to sail back on the westerly winds. So now, I wear a borrowed monk’s robe and take up the weighty treasure to follow the path back from the sea to the church. I don’t look back.
It is a steep climb with a heavy book and a robe too big. I climb onto each wide stone, setting the great book ahead of me for each step upward. All this way I see where the feet of the marauders left their footprints in the sands between the large stones.
Now, reaching the edifice walls that saved no one, the path of the raiders returning to the sea tells the gruesome story. Stains of blood – droplets & stained footprints, become more intense as I near this summit. And here is a place with sanctified debris – ashes and teeth and bits of bone – this is where the marauders stopped to open the reliquaries when they found no jewels. They, no doubt, kept the golden and bejeweled boxes anyway.
Dear God, I only come as a borrowed monk, not a true pilgrim seeking miracles, forgive me if I don’t seem appropriately devout. You know my heart, and for all the terrors and losses in this, I still grieve. Stay near. Amen.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 