Heather Miranda: The Isle of Innisfree

I wish I had actually been able to stand upon the lake isle of Innisfree.

Because our day only allowed for about an hour in the area, we only got to look across at the island and watch the waves and a few boats paddle by. It’s funny because that’s probably how Yeats felt too--all those miles away in London as he wrote his poem. As much as he could see it in his mind or remember its smell, he couldn’t touch it. The dream stood, like Gatsby’s dream, green and across the lake and made better in idealization than reality could ever construct. I think that’s how anything just out of reach tends to be--highly idealized as it tantalizes us with its closeness. And this makes me wonder how God sees our capacity for dreaming unrealistic treasures into existence. It is solely a good, creative capacity? Or would it be more accurate to dub it a silly, human affectation?

       In our pilgrimage reflections, we are encouraged to ask ourselves how places or experiences pertain to loving things or people or places well. So how does Innisfree teach me to love the world well? Honestly I think we need to go out onto the lake and stand upon the isle. Or we need to drive around the sound and look Daisy in the eye. There's no better way to shatter your illusions than to see for yourself the fraud you've created. And maybe it's better not to dwell on Innisfree when you're in London, because it's right to love London while you're there. It's not good to dwell always on where you are not or the person with whom you aren't spending your time. We mustn't always soak in the nostalgia of either the past or of the future. So being present and content in any one season of life is one way I'm personally learning to love well this one wild and precious life of mine.

In the end, Yeats is not at fault for his poem, but I want the desire and the action to go and to do. There's certainly something out there, across the lake. But as Eliot says: do not ask, "what is it?" Let us go and make our visit.

 

Katherine Kwong: Blenheim Palace: A World of Gardens and Art

This past weekend was dubbed our “Self-Pilgrimage,” weekend where chose a place in the UK (within reason and means of course) to go, which held significance or purpose for us. I chose Oxford.

It is a marvelous place. With 38 different colleges it is more of a town in a college rather than a college in a town. You can go down one street and be surrounded by a main thoroughfare of shops, take a left and pass a residence hall, turn right and pass a lecture hall  walk another block and find some quaint cafes. Oxford is full of wonders. Speaking of wonders, Blenheim Palace, the birthplace and ancestral home of Sir Winston Leonard-Spencer Churchill, is only five miles from Oxford.

On Sunday morning, the last morning, I journeyed (by brilliant bus) to the residence of an orator whom I greatly admire and who was the subject of a report I did in 8th grade. Stepping off the bus, I was greeted by a splendid tree-lined gravel driveway. Entering the palace I was immediately struck by its grandeur and scope as it stood like a majestic island against the ocean of lake, gardens, lawns and grounds.


The first exhibit focused on Churchill’s life from birth to death, highlighting some of his accomplishments such as his military service, war correspondence and biography writings. We know Winston Churchill as the dogmatic, witty-tongued hero of WWII, but something I didn’t know was that Winston Churchill was a very good artist. In his spare time he would paint. Subjects included: landscapes of the Blenheim Palace grounds, his dogs, the staterooms in the palace and scenes from the surrounding country. After meeting him during WWI, Paul Maze became an artistic mentor for Winston Churchill. Even a good friend of Churchill’s Sir Oswald Birley once stated, “If Sir Winston Churchill had given the time to art that he gave to politics, he would have been all odds the world’s greatest painter.” Isn’t that what friends are for? His art was so good in fact that Churchill attracted the attention of Joyce C. Hall, then head of the Hallmark greeting card company. She visited Churchill at Blenheim Palace and asked for permission to reproduce his art on American greeting and Christmas cards! Such was the reputation of the Hallmark Company that Churchill readily agreed – charmed by the fact his art was being enjoyed in America.

The palace and Churchill’s art weren’t the only pieces of art on display that day. An exhibit of 50 art pieces done by Chinese political artist Ai WeiWei (I-way-way) were placed throughout the palace and grounds. One of Ai’s goal is to use the ordinary, mundane artifacts from Chinese history and to transform them into something that makes a statement about China or against the current Chinese government. Thus, his famous pile of spray-painted crabs lay out on a beautiful rug. Chinese glazed vases adorned a hall. Gold plated zodiac heads stared in the dining room. The juxtaposition of Ai Wei Wei’s pieces throughout a palace that once held monarchy and was the epoch of royalty was highly intriguing and charged with layers of meaning. The result, in the words of a kind warden of the palace, “We want to make sure this place doesn’t seem like it’s frozen in time (what with Downtown Abbey and all that) we want to bring in new interests, it’s good for people to see."


As I strolled outside onto the ocean of green lawn, I thought about what I had seen. There was Winston Churchill with his dogged steadfastness and political charisma. There was Ai WeiWei whose keen eye for artistic disruption juxtaposed nicely with the lavish palace. Two very different men, with their ideas side by side. Blenheim may have been a palace, but now it is a place where families and grandparents can stroll the magnificently large grounds for free. Children on scooters and dogs on leashes capered happily about. It is a place that was once closed to common people, but is now a palace for everyone to enjoy.

Kate Mena: Self-Pilgrimages

Now that we are half way through our semester, there is a range of emotion spread throughout the group. The honeymoon stage was over long ago yet some of our friendships are growing stronger by the day. Home-sicknesses has entered into our conversations and the sarcasm has increased now that we know each other's quirks and antics. For us seniors, senioritis has never hit so hard since most of us will be finished this December. Our juniors are either worried about spring housing and/or classes or wondering how the remainder of their time at Westmont will be as fruitful as England Semester. Then finally our sophomores are still exploring the opportunities ahead of them while being open to new and different possibilities. Basically, the general consensus is that we are all nostalgic since our experiences have been so surreal as time passes swiftly and naturally.
 

It's about that time when responsibility creeps into all of our minds, but for now, let's continue to be nostalgic.
 

Recently, all of us had our self-guided pilgrimage weekends. We left Birmingham and webbed throughout the United Kingdom. Some of us explored the villages of northern and southern Wales. Some stayed in England and visited places such as Liverpool to experience more of the legendary Beatles and some ventured to the coastlines of Brighton or the Isle of Skye. Some traveled as far as Ireland or Spain to the great cities of Dublin and Barcelona. During this weekend, we all had the opportunity to explore the idea of pilgrimage whether internal or external. I, like many students, have struggled with the concept of presence and how to achieve a mental and emotional presence during a busy and mobile semester that pushes for an ability to process quickly. I speak for many of the students when I say this self-guided pilgrimage could not have come at a better time.
 

Our pilgrimage course requires us to constantly ask ourselves "What am I being called to pay attention to today? Or this week? Or this semester?" I had the privilege of going to the small village of Betws-y-coed in northern Wales with one of my peers. I don't know how or why we chose this location and I don't think many other students could answer that either. However, all of us could probably answer, or at least attempt to answer the more important question of "looking back, why do you think God sent you there?" This questions has been a theme for our entire semester. We are all called to pay attention to and be receptive to God's will. With that said, take an hour out of your day to pick up a good book, go for a walk or do whatever it is you believe God is calling you towards and pay attention. Listen. See. God is calling you.

Abby Lombardo: Homecoming

 This weekend felt like a continuation of themes discussed at Tintern Abbey: themes of returning to a place filled with memory and the span of time that marks the growth of a person. These themes became extremely salient to me as our coach full of England Semestrians pulled into the quaint rivertown of Stratford-upon-Avon, which I had visited a little over a year ago in May 2013 while attending Westmont’s London Theatre Mayterm.

Though my previous stay in Stratford consisted of introverted, bed-ridden days of rest, recuperation, and solitude, I felt a tug on my heart. I felt the warmth of familiarity flow from tip to toe. I felt the spilling of stored-up memories previously reserved within my mind. And as I stepped over the threshold of the same bed-and-breakfast where I had stayed a year previous, my cell phone instantly connected to the lovingly remembered and not forgotten Wi-Fi network! My mind knew. My body knew. My phone knew. I was home.

One of the main reasons Stratford-upon-Avon feels like home to me is my love of the Royal Shakespeare Company and Royal Shakespeare Theatre. This weekend’s Love’s Labour’s Lost would count as my 4th Royal Shakespeare Company production I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of viewing. With so many memories encapsulated within the wooden halls, plush red seats, and brick walls of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, walking through the doors Friday night felt like I could tangibly connect to my past experiences. All of the joyous laughs (there were many) humble critiques (if there is such a thing) and reverent praises (who could stop?) experienced in this sacred space whelmed me in a flood of remembrance.

I asked myself why and how a theatre building made out of sticks and stones could make me remember so much and feel so much familiarity! And then I realized the answer—Shakespeare, DUH! In my time at Westmont as an English Major, I studied Shakespeare and his works every year. Deep discussions about characters’ choices, behaviors, and motivations fostered an intimate connection between character and reader. I became very comfortable and familiar with the Bard and all of his lovable and not-so-lovable characters. To push my point further—they became family. Apparently, I am not the only one to connect in such a way to Shakespeare’s plays, for they have lasted over 400 years and have become some of the most familiar plays (in the English language) of all time! Now—I figured—my love of all things Shakespeare may or may not have had an impact on my mental, physical, and emotional reaction upon my return to the RST.

Though I had missed my hometown high school’s homecoming football game (which happened to take place on the exact same October weekend) I had experienced my own homecoming of sorts when I made my way through the theatre, found my correctly numbered plush red seat, and bounced up and down as my 4th RSC production began.

Kaitlin Kinney: Liverpool

This weekend we had the amazing opportunity to create our own pilgrimages in and around the UK.

As you can imagine we all struggled to pick just one place to travel to considering there are so many beautiful and noteworthy destinations at our fingertips. I found the music lover in me gravitating towards the “World Capital City of Pop,” Liverpool.

We arrived on the early morning train and jotted down to Albert Dock straight away. As we
meandered across the beautiful boat-lined docks, we found ourselves hopping in line for one of the most touristy things I think I have ever done in my life. It was in Liverpool that I became THAT tourist. I found myself climbing aboard a giant yellow, psychedelically painted Magical Mystery Tour bus and I felt absolutely no shame.

We spent the following two and a half hours touring beneath the blue suburban skies of Liverpool seeing where John, Paul, George and Ringo lived and went to school growing up, going to Penny Lane and the strawberry fields gate, seeing Eleanor Rigby's grave and ending at The Cavern Club where The Beatles played 292 times while they were in the beginning stages of being a band. All the while we were listening to Beatles songs and singing at the top of our lungs with about twenty strangers who were all easily 30 years older than us. It was awesome.

Not only is Liverpool the home of The Beatles, but it is also home to a multitude of museums. We were lucky enough to get to 5 of these- including an extension of the Tate Modern, the Museum of Liverpool and the Walker Art Gallery. Being up close and personal with the amazing works of the greats such as Monet, Picasso, Degas and Rembrant is absolutely riveting. Seeing art in person allows
you to see the depth of brush strokes, different pressures applied, how colors are blended, the size of the piece.

Leaving this marvelous cultural center was definitely one of the hardest goodbyes on this trip for me thus far. Liverpool is full of inspiration. It brings to life the world that cultivated and inspired one of the most influential bands in music and the world. You find ancient and modern culture fused together, living as one. People come from across the globe, shoulder to shoulder, experiencing all this beautiful city has to offer. In the words of The Beatles, “There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed.” I truly do believe Liverpool is one of those places.

Katherine George: Book of Kells

Unexpected detours are almost always the proverbial cherry on top of the cake.

The things you don’t expect to see or experience in a day usually make the day worth living through. The particular surprise waiting for our group at the end of our pilgrimage last Wednesday was the Book of Kells at the Trinity College Library in Dublin, Ireland.

I must admit, I didn’t know what this was until I learned we were going to see it. On the surface, the Book is simply the four gospels recorded by monks in Latin, around 800 AD, with pretty pictures. But to find its true value, one must look further.

The exhibit at the college was extremely conducive to its purpose. First, visitors are invited to read about the making of the Book of Kells- and what that process entailed in the 9th would have to be agonizing. The entire book was written by scribes and the images and symbols were slowly and intentionally done by illustrators. The amazing care and precision was plainly evident, and the quality is unmatched.

Then, after reading all of this information, people trickle into the room where the book is kept under careful inspection and watchful eyes. I slowly inch my way around the table until I am staring directly down at the open pages. It is breathtaking. I am struck by the vibrancy of the illustrations, even after all these years. The monks that created this had to have had some kind of an idea as to the importance of what they were partaking in. Why else would someone put so much effort into a thing? Us and millions of others see this and think, who would ever have the patience to finish something like this?

In our culture, we seem to have forgotten the value of the handmade, the painstaking process of creation. So much of our lives is governed by and because of efficiency that we can’t imagine anyone wanting to go through with such an involved task. We can look at this book and other artifacts like it, and hopefully take to heart what it teaches us about what we see as being worth something in this day and time. After seeing this amazing slice of history, I would like for everyone to see this treasure, or pieces equivalent to it, so they may learn to appreciate this high level of craftsmanship and quality, and lay their eyes upon the exquisite possibilities.

Kat Kendall: Things Unseen

Before visiting Ireland, I had never considered believing in curious paranormal happenings or the idea of natural spirits. Who knows if I’m right, but this past week has made me question everything I once thought sounded crazy.

The other day Liam, our sensible, wonderful host, walked us through the Kilbroney Cemetery. We met up around a shrine to St. Bronagh, one of the three local women who led religious settlements sometime in the 6th century. Liam told us remarkable stories about a well whose water gives sight to the blind, a ringing bell concealed in a tree for decades, and a final story about a local reverend.

Reverend Canon McGinn was a family friend who stayed with Liam’s grandparents while on his deathbed. Moments after the reverend died, three knocks sounded on the second story window of his room. Liam’s grandmother began attempting to contact McGinn’s family by telegram when the reverend’s brother showed up that evening at their doorstep. Surprised to see someone so soon, she asked him how the message had reached him so quickly. His response? “I heard three knocks on my window this morning, and I knew my brother had died."

It seems we’ve been talking a lot lately in class about what is visible and what is invisible, particularly in the context of a place like Ireland where spirits and the supernatural seem to be a very natural part of life. We read sections of Julian of Norwich’s Revelations of Divine Love and reflected on non-rational approaches to spirituality. Is there a way to approach God and life in a way that does not primarily rely on reason and logic? In the merging of the seen and unseen worlds, we wondered if there is a way our more Western emphasis on hyper-rationality leaves us somehow missing some aspect of an experience.

I had the opportunity to present on John O’Donahue, a poet, philosopher, and priest from the West of Ireland earlier this week. One quote stood out to me as particularly applicable to our ongoing discussion of the spiritual and invisible. He writes, “The world quietly offers to each of us invitations that enliven and enrich our onward days. May we cultivate the patience and reverence needed to enter beauty’s invisible embrace”. The idea of a reverential and deeply respectful approach seems key to being trusted with the hidden beauty that is concealed to arrogance and impatience. While I still cannot say I am a firm believer in the unseen world, these questions and more have left me wondering about the ways I choose to limit myself and my spirituality to what is comfortable and seemingly rational. Instead of giving into the temptation to connect everything logically, I’d like to train my eyes and heart to see more clearly things unseen.

Hannah Johnson: Conwy, Wales

After bidding the Emerald Isle farewell on October 10th, our little group of pilgrims set sail on a ferry bound for Wales–fittingly situated smack dab between Ireland and England. The sleepy, rugged beauty of the Welsh landscape quickly stole little pieces of our hearts as we sat transfixed by Conwy unfolding before us through our coach windows. In the morning we made our way down the hill from our hostel to explore the loveliness of this tiny town encircled by a medieval wall, overshadowed by a castle, and outlined by an ocean-feeding river. The homey scent of salt air ushered us in as we canvased the main points of interest: an Elizabethan manor called Plas Mawr, the 14th century Aberconwy House, the gravesite that sparked William Wordsworth’s “We Are Seven” poem, the Smallest House in Great Britain, and Conwy Castle. Conwy is an enchanting place.

However, as we walked around–entranced by the loveliness of time gone by mingled with tea and the sea–history caught up to me. The charming castle and its surrounding walls rising high above the merchant village became, in light of the town's troubled past, dimmer than the fairytale-laced images that originally ran through my head. As magnificent and inviting as Conwy is now, it was once a place of exclusivity and strife. The lovely walkable city walls that remind me so much of our first England Semester home in York have their own history of separating the “us” from the “them.” During the later part of the 13th century, Edward I of England set out to gain Wales as a conquest. Conwy is living proof of this land-grabbing mission; the walls of the city were constructed for the very purpose of keeping the Welsh at arms length in their own land. The weight of this discovery made every Welsh craft/gift/trinket/pub/tea shop a little victory in and of itself. Here was a town that once shunned everything connected to the Welsh identity fully embracing its birthright.

Additionally, while we were in town, we had the incredible privilege of spending time with Lord Roberts, an esteemed member of Parliament and a local to Conwy. In the opening lines of his discussion with us, Lord Roberts mentioned the tension of Conwy’s past and present by making a lighthearted joke about how the English may have built Conwy up to flaunt their dominance, but English tourists now make up the main source of the town’s revenue. (Somehow I doubt Edward I would approve.) Later, as I looked out from a chink in a wall of the castle that day, I could see Wales splayed out before me–green hills unfurling in the horizon like the bottom half of the Welsh flag–each part stubbornly beautiful and completely Welsh.

Jeff: Giant's Causeway

I stood alone on a platform in Ireland. Constructed by geological forces that have influenced history’s greatest architects. A causeway with such grandeur that there are stories told of its origin in folk stories to child and adult alike. I am of course referring to the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland.

 

It has been nearly two months since arriving in the UK, and the aspects of history and culture, just not as relevant in my spheres in the US, are constantly provoking my notion of “common experience.”

 

My breath was taken as I felt the smooth texture of an individual stone that sat closest to the “Giant’s boot.” It was then that the thought occurred: “there are many people who have grown up close to this natural wonder.” I didn’t have the chance to speak with any of these locals, but it did present an interesting follow up question: “are there things in my life, magnificent and awe inspiring, that I peer over because of familiarity?” I study in an institution that is mounted on a small hill that has a view of the Pacific Ocean. I am engaged in material that studies the literary work of those who have lasting shadows in the consultations of language, even centuries after their deaths. Yet I have had my share of mornings where all of these things seemed as humdrum routine.

 

I suppose locations such as the Giant’s Causeway evoke this two-fold beauty- peering at something truly majestic which then forces one to reexamine the things of the past with a new eye. If I recall correctly, it was G.K. Chesterton who wrote, “the object of travel is not to set foot on a foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own land as foreign.”

 

It is strange how being a stranger in a foreign land can establish how weak one’s apprehension of the beautiful truly is.

Devon Johnson: Rostrevor Life

There’s something about living in a small town in the hills of Northern Ireland with no easy access to anything besides your tea and kettle that makes you appreciate some of the smaller things life has to offer. For instance, biking on the “wrong” side of the road in the rain (more like a torrential downpour for Californians) suddenly becomes romantic as you drip your way into the nearest chemist’s shop. Having enough milk chocolate Digestives for your afternoon tea suddenly becomes the highlight of your day and the bat’s you find clinging to your curtains at midnight is as close to a movie as you can get.

But really, we’re in Northern Ireland in a quaint seaside village with a surprising amount of beautiful sunny days. All twenty-five students are divided into different cottages and are learning to cook for each other, live with each other, and be intentional with each other. Living with seven other women in the house is much more challenging than I would ever expect (let’s not start about the hot water), but there is still a time when we can all come around a meal at the end of the day and appreciate one another.

Living in Rostrevor was definitely the part of this trip I dreaded the most, being one of few extroverts on this very English semester. However, I have found it has challenged me in some ways I never expected, mostly dealing with a lot of alone time that I never really wanted. But Rostrevor has helped me be productive in my alone time, whether it be getting out frustration about friends, or talking with God, or even just learning how to be comfortable in silence, I have definitely become better at it here. A saving grace has been the Ceili nights hosted by Liam (the Rostrevor Cottages manager) and several of his musical friends. It has been so fulfilling to all come together as “Friedmanders” and squeak out songs in Gaelic, tweek our voices singing “The Belle of Belfast City” and try out some of our own musical/poetical talents. I have loved being surprised by everyone on this trip as we share a new talent with each other through an old Irish tradition. Good’on youse!

Liz Hardeman: Holy Cross Benedictine Monastery

On Monday, September 29th, our group visited the Holy Cross Benedictine Monastery just up the road from our lodging in Rostrevor, Northern Ireland. We entered the church and were led to the room in which Brother Thiery would give us a two hour talk on the life of a monk. He entered the room shortly after we sat down, a spring in his step and a broad, welcoming smile on his face. As he launched into his spiel about what the everyday life of a monk looks like, I was immediately drawn and absorbed by the honest, raw, and passionate manner in which he spoke. His eyes were earnest yet joyful as he unpacked the core values of St. Benedict.

What I learned during our session with Brother Thiery was how essential community is in a monk’s way of life, and how difficult yet vital it is to practice the art of being in healthy relationships. Listening was perhaps the most stressed core value, and Brother Thiery’s
commentary on how silence enriches the way we listen revolutionized my understanding of why monks practice silence with such intensity. He expounded on the importance of silence in relationship by debunking the thought that silence is the end goal. Rather, it is a means to an end, the goal being relationship. What is essential to a thriving relationship is the balance of words and silence, of sharing and listening. This is a practice that can never quite be mastered- but a
Christian life is one that starts fresh daily. Each new day, we must strive to create a balance in our relationships, to be better listeners. We must learn daily to seethe people surrounding us with
new eyes- one that offers grace and forgiveness, that offers to see them in all their potential instead of in light of their shortcomings.



As students traveling together, life can feel a bit like a balancing act. We are expected to balance school and travel, homework and sleep, friends and personal time. Brother Thiery’s emphasis on the way in which a monk’s life creates space for balance both challenged and inspired me. I was forced to look at the way I am living in community. Have I been able to carve out time for balance in my relationships? Am I able to dwell with myself and understand who I am so that I can then be enabled to better connect with others? Do I make an effort to give this community a clean slate each day instead of holding them accountable for past offenses?

Alex: Strokestown Famine Museum

On the 28th of September we had the privilege of visiting the Strokestown Famine Museum in western Ireland. After spending the earlier part of the day traipsing around the beautiful Kylemore Abbey, marvelling over the elaborate gardens and luxurious castle, the tragedy of the Irish Potato Famine conveyed at the Museum was a stark and undoubtedly sobering contrast.

The famine, which occurred between 1845 and 1850, was caused by an airborne potato blight that destroyed vast amounts of Irish potato crops. At a time when many of the poorer communities relied on potatoes alone as their main food source (one adult could consume ten to fifteen pounds of potato per day!), this crop failure was understandably disastrous as it left millions starving to death,
unable to feed themselves or their families. Tragically, more than two million people – nearly one-quarter the entire population – either died or emigrated during this time period.

While reading the various displays set up in the museum, I was aghast at the sheer indifference that was so often shown to the poverty-stricken by those who were relatively well-off and comfortable. Perhaps most chilling was the last room, in which were detailed horrors of current famine and poverty occurring in our world today – horrors to which we are so often blind.

On the drive home, I looked out across the wild and beautiful landscape and snapped several photos as Frank, our bus driver, pointed out several of the “lazy beds” and tiny cottage ruins that would have belonged to those affected by the famine. It was hard to believe that a place so picturesque could be the site of such a terrible tragedy, where so many died and watched their loved ones die before them.

Such issues as the Potato Famine have already inspired several difficult class discussions, in which we contemplated how we, as privileged Westmont students, are called to respond in the face of such tremendous suffering. Should we feel guilty? Grateful? Useless? And how can we help those in need without shaming them? These are certainly not easy questions to answer, and I cannot say I have the solutions. But nevertheless I am thankful for the chance to recognise and respond to such exhibits, no matter how difficult they may be to ponder.

Tobin Fikes: Saint Patrick

As we journeyed to the Hill of Tara and the Hill of Slane, there was one figure that was in many of our heads:  Saint Patrick. The British slave that became a missionary is an iconic figure of Christianity, and many people pilgrimage to visit the various sites where he was. As a group we briefly touched on the myths and mystery of St. Patrick and the truths of what he actually did. We not only touched on the mystery of St. Patrick but we also experienced the mystery behind the ancient site of the Hill of Tara. This idea of mystery as it relates to pilgrimage is one that stuck in my head throughout the rest of our day.

 

Mystery surrounds many figures that have come up through history. A major example was discussed in the Chaucer course that some of the students are taking with Dr. Friedman. We discussed the myth surrounding King Arthur and how this mystery enables various people/groups to shape that character how they please in order to benefit themselves. While discussing the mystery of St. Patrick and contemplating the concept of pilgrimage, I wondered if we, as pilgrims, are also susceptible to shaping figures to derive our own meanings from them. It seems that many have taken the figure of St. Patrick and shaped him into a model that is meaningful to them.

 

We see this happen often in the Christian setting with the Bible. We constantly see people manipulate scripture to fit their current circumstance and derive meaning from that.  This leads me to thinking of how we are meant to interact with the pilgrimage sites we are visiting. Are we meant to create meaning from the mystery of the sites we are seeing or the people who are associated with them such as St. Patrick? Or are we merely meant to accept the mystery for what it is and leave it at that? These are the questions that students on England Semester are encouraged to engage with on a daily basis.