Gaillimh

A rather painless first experience with Ireland's railway system brought me into Galway in the late morning.  I left the train station and headed straight to the farmer's market.  It has been nearly three years since I lived in Galway for a semester, yet my memory of the town was spot-on, right down to the location of the donut man, whose booth was still situated next to the painter's stall in the shadow of the church.

He and the girls in line behind me were amused that I had gone to him for my first stop.  "Three years?  Ah, my prices haven't changed either - that'll say something about the economy, to be sure!"

Next, a call to Nathan and a wander through Shop Street while he wove his way through traffic to come collect me.

I spent the next few days with Nathan and Jenna, recently-married friends who I'd met in the Christian Union while at the college here.  It was wonderful spending time with them:

Videos about bowl cuts featuring Chris Tomlin

Wandering through the nearby forests

Trad at the Crane

Driving the Clifden Sky Road

Meeting Paul and his parents and listening to their stories of faith

It was a true blessing to be the recipient of their hospitality and share many adventures with them.  Soon, however, it was time to head on.  They were back to work and I had more to see.  Tuesday began early, at 5:45 AM, as Nathan graciously drove me to the bus station so my next leg of the adventure could begin.  And so I was off to Lacken House, the headquarters of OM Ireland.

Sixmilebridge

I arrived at 6:30 AM after a longer-than expected flight (mention of headwinds spun my mind back to aircraft performance courses at VT), awake enough to ask the information desk for tickets, go to the Bus Eireann kiosk to purchase, and find the Adshel bus stop out on the curb.

Seven hours prior, stopover in Boston, I'd decided to spend the day in Sixmilebridge, so named for the bridge at the center of town, a near exact six miles from Limerick.  We drove in the darkness as the bus driver and other passenger talked about Halloween.  The other passenger was looking forward to giving out candy for about a half hour or so, then turning out the lights and closing the curtains - children clamoring for sweets were not going to separate her from her nightly soaps on the telly.

Others got on and off and then did I, round 8 AM while dawn still waited to get off at her stop.  She did, eventually, and the sky brightened.  I ate breakfast at the Centra and then wandered from the town center to the hostel, gave the door a ring, no answer, wandered miles outside of town until the path ended, turned back, gave the hostel a ring again, no answer, up the hill to the library for email, back to the hostel, ring, no, quitting, ringing the B&B this time, no, then coffee next door, inquiry, around back the B&B, found the caretaker, set my things down in Number 5.

Rest: a nap, some reading.

That night, off to one of the town pubs.  A 7up for the unsettled stomach and a grand conversation with a local couple.  Talk of Munster rugby and the American elections and Irish economy and what was I doing there? and music and more.  They were off then and so was I, to bed as the caretaker practiced her accordion downstairs.

In the morning, a full Irish breakfast - my first full meal in country.  Warm goodbyes to the kind, helpful caretaker of the B&B and off to the train station. Fan Taobh Thiar Den Line Seo.

Next, Galway.

Musings on Chimney Rock

This past Sunday, a few friends and I visited Chimney Rock in Catoctin Mountain Park, a 3-mile round-trip hike to a wonderful view of the valley.  It being Sunday evening, we saw no one else on the trail.  The feeling of solitude and peace in the fairly young forest was refreshing.

Along the way up the trail, we conversed about all sorts of topics, before taking a detour at Wolf Rock, a spine running along the ridge that almost breaks above the treeline.  From there, it was clear that the sun had nearly set, and we walked quickly on, so as to reach Chimney Rock in time.

We watched the sunset for about half an hour and then hiked back to the car, walking to the beat of the cicadas - "All nature sings and round me rings the music of the spheres."

On the drive home, our conversation turned to spiritual things.  One of my friends voiced the question, "Why does God seem so different in the New and Old Testaments?  In the Old, He just seems mean."  It's a good question.  A fair question.  I, too, often struggle to comprehend how the God who became a man and died on a cross to ransom me from death could also condemn entire cities and nations to destruction.  Why would He, in giving the Israelites their promised land, command them to destroy everything and everyone in their path - including children? How does that fit with the notion of a loving God?

In talking about this, I was reminded of a story in the book of Genesis (please read it here), in which God had just made a covenant with Abraham and promised him a son, Issac.  Now, God has decided to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, for "the outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is great and their sin is very grave."  But Abraham bargains with God, asking if He would save the cities should He find 50 righteous people living there.  God says He would do so, and Abraham keeps asking, until God says, yes, He would save those two cities if just 10 righteous people lived there.

Much could be written at this point.  I wish to remain brief, and for that reason, I will only focus on one aspect of this story, at the expense of several others.  What must be made clear, in this instance, is that God does have the right to judge sin; that is, rebellion and deliberate pursuit of evil.  However, God is also a God of mercy.  Were there just 10 righteous people in those cities, 10 people to intercede on behalf of all those who had deliberately chosen to defy God, God would relent in His anger and spare the city.

This, here, is the key.  God hates sin.  Not only is it a rebellion against Him, but it is also enslavement.  In this story, we see that Sodom and Gomorrah are enslaved by sin.  God's justice commands that it be eradicated and, if there is no one righteous to intercede on behalf of the sinner, that justice commands the death of the sinner.  But, if there is someone who can say "let my righteousness cover these who have sinned, that they may not be destroyed," God shows mercy.  This is His heart.  This is the Gospel.

In this conversation with Abraham, we see a foreshadowing of Christ.  Christ, the sinless Son of God, who interceded for the entire world, whose righteousness covers all who will trust and take for themselves this gift.

"For the sake of ten I will not destroy it," says the Lord, of Sodom and Gomorrah.  Ten righteous people will save a city doomed by its own depravity.

One perfectly righteous man will save the entire world doomed by its own depravity.  That is God's mercy to all mankind - in Christ, we can be free from enslavement to sin.  His righteousness covers us.  His death absorbed God's wrath towards sin.  His resurrection is proof of the defeat of sin and death.  We can be free, if we turn to Him.

The story of Sodom and Gomorrah, as you may well know, ends with their destruction.  Only Lot, Abraham's nephew, and his two daughters escaped.  The rest of the inhabitants were destroyed, their utter sinfulness a loud testimony against them.  There was no one to intercede on their behalf (See also Ezekiel 22:23-31 for another example).

Enter the mystery of Christ: God Himself comes to intercede that both His justice and love should be satisfied through the cross.  Sin is defeated and destroyed, the sinner can once again come before God, covered by Christ's righteousness.  The echo in God's conversation with Abraham is now a loud, loud shout.

Did You Hear About the Magic Tractor?

I studied in Galway, Ireland, in the fall of 2009.  I had hoped that, at some point in those four months, I'd have a "stereotypical Irish adventure," which, to me, meant that I'd go somewhere and meet amazing people and have an experience that no guidebook could even hint at.  When my fellow exchange student, Mike, told me that he was going to spend a weekend trying to find his grandfather's house, I had a hunch that this could be it.  Somehow, I ended up joining him.

Our trip began Saturday morning at 8:30, as we walked to the bus station at Eyre Square and bought our tickets to Ballinlough, which required a 2 hour stopover in Knock.  Mike told me more about his family history as we rode; how getting any information to confirm the family tree would absolutely delight his grandfather, who hadn't seen his childhood home in many years.

We arrived in Knock around 10:00, to find the place mostly deserted.  Knock is a beautiful little town where, in the early 1900s, about fifteen people saw a vision of the Virgin Mary in the sky.  Since then, a huge Catholic shrine has been built and Knock has become a place of pilgrimage.  Shops on the main road sell all sorts of figurines and images of saints.  Mike, a Roman Catholic, found all of this intensely fascinating.  We wandered around the shrine, through the gardens and Stations of the Cross paths, while I, from a Protestant background, had the chance to ask him about all these traditions and rituals of which I knew nothing.

After visiting the shrine, we went to find a place to eat before the arrival of the next bus.  One restaurant proudly proclaimed that it was open, so on we went, until arriving at the door to find it locked, all lights off.  Amused, we moved on to a little coffee shop and got some drinks.  Time ticked away and we began to get agitated, not seeing any wait staff to ask for our check.  I looked out the window to see the bus arriving three minutes early.  "Let's go!" I said, as Mike and I indiscriminately threw coins on the table, hoping it would be enough to pay the bill.

The bus drove away just as we got out the door.  Still another minute until it was supposed to arrive.  Mike muttered something to the effect of "Irish efficiency is either an oxymoron or deviously true" and we stood there at the bus stop wondering what to do next.  Then our waitress came out and said, "Sorry, but you're two euro short."  We imagined now that all of Ireland was laughing at our expense.

Paid in full, we decided there was nothing to do but start walking.  What would have been a 20 minute bus ride would now take about 3 hours by foot.  Thankfully, after about 10 minutes, a woman stopped to ask where we were headed.  "Ballinlough," we said.  As she happened to be passing by there, she offered us a ride.  We put her just-purchased giant portrait of St. Someone in the trunk and climbed in.  She was a quiet person, so we had an awkward non-conversation before arriving in Ballinlough around noon.  After profuse thanks on our part, she drove off.

"So, this is Ballinlough at noon on Saturday," Mike said.  Not a soul was out.  No cars on the streets.  No shops open - except, finally, a little newsstand, nestled amidst the larger storefronts.  Mike asked for directions to Grange, a nearby region where the house was supposedly located.  The clerk had no idea, and pointed us to the pub that had just opened.  We crossed the street and entered, greeting the barman and explaining ourselves again.  "Up that road about a mile," said he.  "Take a left after the fuel station, and go another two miles; you'll find yourself near the right spot."

Turned out the fuel station was the only place to get lunch as well, which felt fairly Appalachian to me, although the fish and chips we had were distinctly Irish.

We continued our journey, hoping we'd stumble upon the house.  After a short walk from the station, a woman suddenly appeared from a side road.  We greeted her, to which she replied, "Oh, are ye strangers?"  We conceded the fact and Mike explained our mission.  "Oh, the Naughton house!  Well, let me take you to the Burkes, they live just this way.  Relatives of the Naughtons, they are."

Mike and I looked at each other, each thinking, well, why not? and followed.  We arrived at the Burkes a few minutes later, and awkwardly stood in the driveway while the woman went to find Mr. Burke, who was tinkering with something in the shed.  "Descendents of the Naughtons are here," she said, for apparently I was now grafted into the family.  Mr Burke, to our astonishment and delight, was willing to drop everything and drive us to see the house Mike was looking for.  Not only that, but he took us to several graveyards where Mike's ancestors were buried.  On the way, he described the woman who had met us as "the odd bird in the village."

We arrived at the Naughton house, and Mr. Burke took us to the door.  Our knocks were greeted by two brothers, who were happy to see Mr. Burke and looked at us as if to say and you are?

Once they determined Mike was a distant relative of theirs, they began collecting all the photos they could find while poring over the family tree Mike had in an attempt to correct errors and piece together missing links.  Throughout the visit, they kept saying, "If we had known you were coming, we'd have gotten all this together already!"  As if we would have been able to give them advance notice!

Soon, all five of us were seated in an dark, old kitchen with a wood-fired stove.  The three Irishmen were smoking and I still hate myself for not taking a photograph of these three weathered men wreathed in smoke.

I also wish I had photographed the horse that decided to nose the front door open and walk right on in the house while we sat there.  Especially since I had a second opportunity to do so not 10 minutes later.

After a grand discussion and several photographs taken for Mike's records, Mr. Burke took us back to his house, where we had tea and Halloween Brack (a kind of raisin bread) with him and his wife.

It soon came time for us to return to town so as to not miss our bus.  Mrs. Burke, who had to take her younger daughter somewhere, offered to drive us.  Gladly, we agreed.  She took us on a short tour of the area, showing us the ancient church at Kiltirlough (Irish: Kil - church Tir - dry Lough - lake), and other remnants of past days.  We went into town and stopped at Fitzmaurice's for drinks and a wonderful conversation with the bartender, as no one else was there.  He told us uproarious stories of the two brothers we had met, imitating their thicker West Irish accent perfectly.  "Did you hear about the magic tractor," he asked us, saying it was the favorite joke of one of the brothers.  "It turned into a field."

We left after that, so thankful for the incredible hospitality of all the people we had met.  The whole ride back, Mike and I rehashed the events of the day, laughing at the improbability and wondrousness of it all.

Mission Accomplished.