Here on Holy Island

Here on Holy Island the wonderful tide
cuts off the traffic for five hours twice every day: :
no humming metal boxes driving in or out,
unusual peace and tranquillity emerging instead.

If only the tide could do a similar job on our thoughts,
cutting out the traffic for five hours twice a day,
allowing inner peace and tranquillity to manifest.
How might we not come closer to God?

Here on Holy Island the lives of the saints are all around
and the past brings its ruins into today.
St Cuthbert is gone, as are his warrior kings,
and the Vikings who craved for riches, not God.

The God of St Cuthbert is gone too,
along with the battles, the demons, and the killings.
Cuthbert’s bones are relics now, curiosities;
our healing miracles now take place every minute in the NHS.

You will not find his God here on Holy Island.
You will not find his God in the sea or waves or birds,
nor in the beauty of the seals singing.
His God is not in the warmly read words of the bible.

The past will deaden you if you let it.
In this moment when I know I am God,
and we know we are God,
and all knows it is God, then God is.

Our language is not old English, or biblical;
our monastery is global, our teachings wide-open to truth;
our God is not-two, not separate;
our Cuthberts are alive, and contemplating
in the fullness of all that is now known.

The wonderful tide on Holy Island turns again,
and again, and again.

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