Remi

I was in for a surprise.

We arrived for our scheduled horseback ride on the Caribbean beach and while I should have been excited, part of me didn’t want to go. Yes, the views would be memorable, but I was distracted by the “cares of the world,” as the church puts it. We had recently purchased a property that would challenge us financially, the bills from this trip were plentiful and waiting for me at the check-out desk, and, as always, I missed my kids (who I miss even when I’m not traveling). Climbing onto my horse, I realized I was carrying as much of a load as he was. Then it happened. I met Remi.

He was a lanky, black Frenchman, born and raised on a nearby island. Dressed in all black, including his sunhat, his teeth were as white as the breaking waves whenever he smiled, which was pretty much all the time. He spoke throughout the ride, describing his life in abundant detail. “I have the perfect life,” he professed. “I once had a job than made me want to stay in bed. Now I jump out of bed to do what I do. My boss sees me like an airport bottle of water. Very valuable.” My wife and smiled at the imagery. It reminded me of a time when I was a boss and saw people that way.

My load lightened.

He went on to describe his life. “I live right over there,” he said pointing to a valley on the island across the way. “I live with my wife and two sons who we raise right. We can see the ocean and mountains from our home. What more could someone want?” Indeed, I thought. I couldn’t see his house but imagine it was a humble dwelling that was more than a mansion to him.

My load continued to lighten.

Then he described his childhood and the mother he loved. “Every birthday, I buy her a present. I wrap it and give it to her. I look at her and thank her for all the nice things she’s done for me.” The simplicity and the authenticity were priceless. I doubt they had much but were enormously wealthy.

Then he did something that was surprising. He put his head down near his saddle and hoisted his long legs and bare feet into the air. It made him look like the court jester entertaining the king and queen. “You should try it,” he said looking back at me with a grin. I couldn’t have done it, even if I wanted to, which I did.

I follow someone who promised to set the captives free. I felt anything but free as I began the ride, but witnessing this soul that was as free as any I’ve known invited me to lighten my load, to release all the things I was carrying. He was as unburdened as his legs in the Caribbean breeze, as grateful as a child, and as peaceful (and joyful) as a monk.

I wanted to be like Remi.

Climbing off the horse, I couldn’t remember one vista on the ride because all I could see, all I needed to see, was riding right in front of me.

Another World

For this to make any sense, I need to say a bit about where I am. Located off of St. Martin in the Caribbean is an island called Anguilla. It’s a spectacular island with no ports for cruise ships and no hotels with cassinos. Glistening light green seas reflect of the soft sand and stark white buildings. In other words, it’s a different world, or at least a world far away from the one I know. In fact, as I sit on our balcony with my coffee this morning and watch the sun rise behind the mountains across the bay, I’m incapable of comprehending the scene before me.

As beautiful as it is, part of me wants to open one of my devotionals, turn on my phone, or listen to my spiritual music. I know those things. I get those things. I use them every morning, but what lays before me is beyond me - beyond past experiences, beyond the usual practices that help me make sense of the world . . . therein lies the valuable lesson.

I believe there’s much more to life than what we see, or at lease more than what we allow ourselves to see. I suppose my sense of this is why I consider myself a spiritual person, but this morning reminds me just how little I know about that “something more.” It’s as if I’ve gone through life beside a wall. I’ve heard about the world on the other side. I’ve even heard sounds and seen glimpses of it when I’ve tried to climb up the wall, but I’ve never looked at it head on like I did this morning.

My hunch is, seeing the “something more” is unsettling and incomprehensible. I’ll want to reach for a devotional, check my phone, or play music rather than sit and experience something beyond my imagination or control. Life on the other side of the wall “surpasses human understanding,” someone once wrote. To hear about a place where people live as one, love all, forgive all is beyond me. To hear of a place where we are not in charge, where we live at one with the one who created us, where the meek inherit the earth and God’s love extends to the most unlikely, is to encounter a place where the horizon of grace extends beyond my touch and none of the things I use to ground me will work to make sense of God’s world.

I imagine this is how it’s been for those who’ve ever encountered the world not as we have known it, but as God created it. It must have been all over Moses’ face when he came down the mountain. It must have animated every conversation people had after seeing Jesus and hearing about this thing he called the “kingdom of God.” He was describing another world, one he knew, and it must have been as exciting as it was frightening to witness it. Like us, people back then must have wanted to run back to the world they knew rather than toward the one they’ve just encountered.

This morning, I sure would like to become one of the latter.

Silent Cheer

Cars were lined up for miles, others pulled onto the median and on the sidewalks lining the route of the Tibetan monks. It was a scene unlike any I’ve ever seen. Thousands of people gathering in frigid temperature to see these pilgrims on their way to Washington. Then came the greatest surprise: silence. Despite the countless people lining their route, it was quiet - like a cathedral, temple, or other sacred space. (Yes, some felt the need to speak to friends on their phones (on speaker mode) but they were the exception.)

I walked alongside the monks and tried to make sense of all that was going on. I thought about their decision to make such a journey, thought about the overwhelming response, and I listened to the silence. Like a good book, movie or sermon, I’ve been thinking about the experience ever since.

The size of the crowd revealed how starving people are. For what, I am not sure. The monks were walking for peace, so maybe it’s peace they’re hungry for.

The monks were just a bunch of guys walking a really long way with nothing but their shoes and clothes. Maybe people came to witness and celebrate such simplicity, or maybe they came to honor their faith.

I’m not sure what they plan to do when they reach our nation’s capital, but maybe the journey is as much a statement as what will be said or done when they arrive. Maybe people came to support the monks’ wisdom in knowing a long walk might speak to someone, might turn a heart or two in a new direction.

But it was the silence that said the most. In a world where those who lead seem to only shout, they didn’t speak. In a world where we are told to run, they walked. In a world of possessions, they carried nothing. In a world of division, they brought people together, if only for a brief moment.

The cynic in me thinks such a walk is not enough to change the world, but maybe it is. At least they’re doing something, I said to myself, and that gave me hope. In fact, I think it gave a lot of people hope. So much so, we wanted to stand and cheer, but silence was a better way to cheer.