The Path to Justice

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.”