The
Path to Justice
This
past New Year’s some friends from Minnesota spent a couple nights with us in
Glasgow. One friend, Ann, had recently purchased some land here in Scotland.
One
square foot of land.
As
part of her acquisition Ann had been issued a certificate declaring her Lady of
her land. Lady Ann was eager to visit her new territory, and she had the
geographical coordinates of its location. We entered her coordinates on the
computer and, lo and behold, discovered that her tract was on the mainland of
Scotland, just north of a small village across the narrow waters from a nearby
island.
Being
a frequent visitor to this island, I pointed out to our guests that there were
two ways of getting to Annland: One way required a vehicle which we didn’t own
anymore, while the other way gave us an excuse to take the train and a ferry
and a taxi and another ferry and get in some walking. So, after seeing in the
New Year, we all decided to head to the Isle of Bute the next day.
Being
a seasoned tour guide, I led us to our local train platform and showed everyone
how to purchase return tickets to the coast. We chatted about how easy it is to
get around Scotland without a car, while we waited for the train.
We
waited, and we waited, until we heard an announcement: “Those of you waiting at
this platform, there is no train service today.”
Only
then did I remember that the second day as well as the first day of January is
a holiday here in Scotland, and on certain holidays the train schedule follows
a Sunday schedule when our local train doesn’t operate, in compliance with the
fourth of the Ten Commandments. So I led us to the local bus stop, and we
caught the bus to the main train station, thereby skirting the laws of Moses.
With
our tickets in hand we climbed up several flights of stairs at the station to
the correct platform and waited for the train to arrive.
We
waited, and we waited, until a customer service agent informed us that the
first train to the coast wouldn’t come for another hour, this being a holiday.
Being
the considerate host that I am, I suggested we go get some coffee at the nearby
pub—the coffee shop in the station being closed for the holiday. In the pub we
enjoyed not only coffee but a full Scottish breakfast complete with blood
sausage. While we trespassed against the Leviticus Holiness Code (Leviticus
17:10) two of our friends who were due to fly out of Glasgow that evening debated
whether they should risk taking this trip by train that had so far failed to
materialize:
If
they didn’t use their tickets, could they get a refund?
If
they went as far as the coast, would there be anything to do there, this being
a holiday?
If
they took the ferry to the island, would they be able to return to Glasgow in
time for their flight?
Encouraged
by caffeine and black pudding, and convinced by me that the chance of getting a
refund on train tickets was slim to none, we all decided to throw caution to
the wind and get the train which did finally come and transport us to the
coast. There we purchased return tickets to the Isle of Bute—after checking
with the ticket agent that the ferry was operating on schedule—and we successfully
crossed the Firth of Clyde.
One
of the two friends who had to catch a flight was wearing a watch and keeping
track of the time, and by this time they had figured out that if they spent an
hour on the island they would have just enough time to get the ferry and then the
train and then the bus back to our house, in time to get their luggage and go
to the airport.
That
left Lady Ann and I to continue on our mission to
locate her real estate. After saying goodbye Ann and I took a taxi cab north to
another ferry terminal where we waited to cross the narrow waters over to the mainland.
Fortunately we could see the ferry in operation and thus didn’t have to worry
or wait very long.
Once
we had made the five-minute crossing, we started to walk north along the
two-lane highway. The map indicated that Ann’s parcel of earth was about a mile
and a half up the road and just off to the side.
We
walked and walked and walked.
We
chatted while we walked—we talked about this and that, one thing and another—and
we walked and we walked.
Providentially
we carried a mental picture, from our computer search the night before, of a
short wooden foot bridge that crossed the ditch on the side of the road where
Ann’s plot lay. Periodically we referred to our map and saw where we were in
relation to the body of water beside the road and to a distinct island in the
middle of the water. Occasionally a car would pass us coming or going; we were
walking safely on the side facing traffic and were careful to step out of the
road whenever a vehicle approached.
Being
an experienced walker, I knew we had walked more than a couple miles but we
kept going.
“Let’s
just see what’s around the next bend,” we said.
And
we’d see around the next bend another bend. And around that bend, another bend. Every
bend in the highway looked the same. Yet there was no foot bridge that we could
spot. Perhaps the bridge no longer existed, or was overgrown with foliage and
not visible anymore.
Neither
Lady Ann nor I was wearing a timepiece, and given the refreshing light mist and
the beautiful tweed-colored landscape and the endless twists in the road and
the ever-beckoning prospect of our foot bridge, we moved out of time and into
wait-less-ness. That is, we found ourselves not waiting anymore. We were simply
walking and talking and looking and hearing. Taking in our surroundings and being
taken in by them.
Whereas
the night before we had sat at the computer and, with the click of a button,
zoomed in on our destination, right now, at this moment—this moment that was expanding
around us—we weren’t impatient, or worrying, or the least bit lost.
We
were exactly where we were, doing what we were doing, being who we were being.
Suddenly
there it was: the wooden crossing. About a yard or meter long. Reaching over
the ditch. Precisely where it was supposed to be.
We
crossed the footbridge, went up a ways, took photos of Ann staking her claim,
and then we headed home.
Whatever
the path to justice, we do get there.
Whether
we treat the Bible like a road atlas,
or
view scripture as a moral compass to guide our way,
or
claim the Word of God as certification of God’s steadfast love and claim on us,
we
get there.
Wherever
the landmarks are,
be
they ancient and seemingly unchanging,
or
temporary and seemingly missing,
or
invisible and real as the misty breath of the Holy Spirit,
we
get there.
Whenever
we head out,
as
a child or young person who knows “something’s different about me,”
or
as an adult who comes to understand “something’s different about me,”
we
get there.
Why
ever we make this journey,
because
my very life depends upon it,
or
because the life of my gay brother or lesbian sister or transgender friend or
bisexual neighbor depends on it,
we
get there.
However
long it takes,
decades
of struggling, waiting, talking, walking together, more talking, more waiting,
or
a split-second image of truth we carry with us forever,
we
get there.
Whatever
the path to justice, we get there.
Whoever
we are when we depart, we’re not the same upon arrival, thank God.
According
to the Book of Proverbs (2:7-11, New Revised Standard Version),
“God
stores up sound wisdom for the upright and is a shield to those who walk
blamelessly, guarding the paths of justice and preserving the way of the
faithful ones. Then
you will understand righteousness and justice and equity, every good path; for
wisdom will come into your heart, and knowledge will be pleasant to your soul; prudence
will watch over you; and understanding will guard you.”
