FEEL FREE TO SKIP
STRAIGHT TO THE STORY.
This story is about the journey to faith. A lot of the friends I’ve grown to love on this trip have said things to me a bit like my mate Lara said today: “You’ve talked about having an amazing experience of God when you got baptised – I think if something like that happened to me, maybe I could have faith like you do. But I’m not the kind of person who could convince myself of something like that, unless something happened to me like what happened to you.” The basic idea is that my faith is a consequence of my big supernatural experiences of God, and for someone to believe, God has to give them that sort of experience. As if faith is a desert island, separated from the mainland of uncertainty by a mile or so of shark infested water, and the only way to get to it is to be carried across by divine airlift. I can absolutely see where this idea comes from, and I need to explain my journey to faith better – but, as you’ve probably guessed, I don’t really think it works like that. Faith is not an airlift; it’s a pilgrimage.
What follows is an attempt to describe how it’s worked for me and the people I know – in the form of a story.
The Journey
This story is about the journey to faith. A lot of the friends I’ve grown to love on this trip have said things to me a bit like my mate Lara said today: “You’ve talked about having an amazing experience of God when you got baptised – I think if something like that happened to me, maybe I could have faith like you do. But I’m not the kind of person who could convince myself of something like that, unless something happened to me like what happened to you.” The basic idea is that my faith is a consequence of my big supernatural experiences of God, and for someone to believe, God has to give them that sort of experience. As if faith is a desert island, separated from the mainland of uncertainty by a mile or so of shark infested water, and the only way to get to it is to be carried across by divine airlift. I can absolutely see where this idea comes from, and I need to explain my journey to faith better – but, as you’ve probably guessed, I don’t really think it works like that. Faith is not an airlift; it’s a pilgrimage.
What follows is an attempt to describe how it’s worked for me and the people I know – in the form of a story.
The Journey
Anna lived at the foot of Too-Tall Mountain. She lived in a
little town on the flat ground in the shadow of the mountain, and it was the
whole wide world. To Anna, its cobbled main street was the great Silk Road, its
old well was the ocean, and its people were the human race. The only other
thing was the mountain.
One day a little boy, about Anna’s age, nine or perhaps ten, wandered up to her as she was mending her raggedy doll on the back step of her little house. He introduced himself as Cescu. She told him her name was Anna, and then suddenly, as if there was no time for small talk, he rushed up beside her and whispered something in her ear. And what he whispered was a rumour. But not your average every-day nasty rumour. This was a beautiful rumour. A glittering rumour that made her heart leap and her eyes grow wide and her toes wiggle. He whispered that he had met a man – a strange and wonderful man – who claimed to be from the top of the Too-Tall Mountain. Not only that, but he said that he had not been alone up there, that at the very top of the Too-Tall Mountain, above the clouds of fog, there was a great city of gold. A shining city, where the people laughed and danced and feasted, where their faces almost seemed to reflect the light of the sun. And as the whispers poured into her head like a sparkling stream they seemed to awaken a startling array of dreams and hopes and hungers that somehow she knew had been there inside her all along. It was as if the whispered words were the first songs of spring, and now a hundred tiny creatures of her heart, that had been in hibernation for a winter that stretched back as long as she could remember, were stretching their dewy limbs and joining in the chorus. Yes – they sung – there might be a city beyond the clouds! There could be a land where the sun was warmer, and the soil was deeper, and even the tears were brighter! There should be. But then a new thought loomed up on her like a big, dark cloud.
“It must be a very long journey to the top of the mountain. Far too long. We’ll never make it.” But then another thought, “Maybe this man you met could carry us? He must know the way. Maybe he could carry us up the mountain while we sleep – I’m sure we couldn’t make it by ourselves!”
The little boy looked puzzled for a moment, but he slowly shook his head. The strange man had spoken about the way up the mountain. He said that to reach the city – to truly reach it – a person had to walk. Even a person with little legs. He said that in the days long ago some people had been carried to the city in their sleep, but when they awoke something was always wrong. The richly coloured streets and houses seemed dull to them, almost translucent, and they could never bring themselves to sit, or lean, or lie down to rest on anything in the city for fear that they would fall right through. He said the only way was to walk the mountain.
She wondered, rather loudly and with a troubled frown, how on earth, if they were not to be carried, they would ever find the way.
But Cescu remembered what the strange man had said about that as well. He said that the way to the city was easy to recognise. The path that leads to the city, he had said, is the steepest, narrowest path, and also the most beautiful. If you find yourself on a path that is easy, or wide, or ugly, you have taken a wrong turn.
Now Anna was not sure she liked the sound of that at all, but as she looked up at the Too-Tall Mountain, she found herself unable to stem the awful flood of hope that gushed through her chest and into the tips of her toes.
She looked at Cescu.
“Well,” she said, “I still don’t think we’ll make it.” She thrust her grubby hands into her pockets and grinned. “But it looks like we have to try.”
Now, to tell the tale of all their twists and turns, of all their bruises and blisters, would take many more words than I am prepared to write, or you are prepared to read, and perhaps will serve to make a tale of its own one day. So for now we will hear of just the greatest incident of the long, steep road.
The two young travellers had begun to notice, as they passed out of the foothills and into the real mountain, that more and more they swore they saw distant glimpses of the strange man on the path ahead of them, and although it seemed improbable, they began to stumble across marvellous gifts – sometimes big and sometimes small – piles of refreshing wild-fruits for them to eat, or little shelters of branches and leaves for them to rest in. And this strange and unexpected kindness came and went until one day they found a note, carved into the sticks of a shelter they had found:
SOON COMES THE CREVASSE.
YOU MUST NOT LEAP TOO SOON.
BUT YOU MUST SURELY LEAP.
Now this message both confused and worried the young pilgrims. So much so that they carried the engraved sticks with them as they continued in hopes of deciphering the mystery as they journeyed. And indeed they did, when the path brought them to a great divide in the mountain. The rock they were walking on suddenly plunged away in front of them, and only emerged again what must have been nearly ten metres away. Lying flat their two little bodies put together couldn’t have bridged the divide. They edged fearfully up to the brink, and peered down into the deep, terrifying darkness of the crevasse. They quickly stepped back and stared at each other, eyes wide and hearts pounding. Anna looked down at the stick she was holding.
“You must not leap too soon,” she said, calming a little.
“But you must surely leap,” said Cescu, fear heavy in his unbroken voice.
After a moment though his eyes wandered past Anna’s to what lay behind her. A rocky path along the edge of the crevasse, littered with boulders and uncertainty. As Anna’s eyes turned to follow his they both knew what they had to do. This path was harder work than any they had travelled so far, and they lived in constant fear of losing their footing and tumbling into the abyss that never strayed from the left-hand edge of their vision. But they balled up their courage and they kept their eyes on the obstacles ahead. They clambered and they crawled and they kept, anxiously, moving. And as they did, it seemed to them that the crevasse beside them was growing thinner. The far edge was creeping closer and closer until, after many days, many nights, many bumps, many scrapes, many scares and many dares, they looked to their left and saw a gap that looked – though their hearts hammered harder and harder – small enough to jump.
They knew that this gulf – once so utterly impassable – was now small enough for even their little legs. Their eyes and their brains knew this. Their legs and their hearts were less certain. Their knees shook and their hearts raced like the knees and the hearts of the heroes in their mothers old legends. Anna felt dizzy. Cescu felt sick. The abyss of uncertainty that had been threatening to swallow them up for days now stood before them – smaller now, weaker, but still utterly terrifying. They looked across to the other side. They saw the new path – still steep, still narrow – leading up and up to the city. To the city of gold. To the rumour of the city of gold. The strange man was nowhere to be seen. The fruits, the shelters, they seemed somehow foolish. They might have been made by animals. They might have been anything. They looked at the note on the sticks in their hands. It might have been a joke. It might have been a trick.
YOU MUST NOT LEAP TOO SOON.
BUT YOU MUST SURELY LEAP.
Anna felt dizzy. Cescu felt sick. They held hands. Tightly. They fixed their eyes on the solid ground beyond the darkness.
***
One day a little boy, about Anna’s age, nine or perhaps ten, wandered up to her as she was mending her raggedy doll on the back step of her little house. He introduced himself as Cescu. She told him her name was Anna, and then suddenly, as if there was no time for small talk, he rushed up beside her and whispered something in her ear. And what he whispered was a rumour. But not your average every-day nasty rumour. This was a beautiful rumour. A glittering rumour that made her heart leap and her eyes grow wide and her toes wiggle. He whispered that he had met a man – a strange and wonderful man – who claimed to be from the top of the Too-Tall Mountain. Not only that, but he said that he had not been alone up there, that at the very top of the Too-Tall Mountain, above the clouds of fog, there was a great city of gold. A shining city, where the people laughed and danced and feasted, where their faces almost seemed to reflect the light of the sun. And as the whispers poured into her head like a sparkling stream they seemed to awaken a startling array of dreams and hopes and hungers that somehow she knew had been there inside her all along. It was as if the whispered words were the first songs of spring, and now a hundred tiny creatures of her heart, that had been in hibernation for a winter that stretched back as long as she could remember, were stretching their dewy limbs and joining in the chorus. Yes – they sung – there might be a city beyond the clouds! There could be a land where the sun was warmer, and the soil was deeper, and even the tears were brighter! There should be. But then a new thought loomed up on her like a big, dark cloud.
“It must be a very long journey to the top of the mountain. Far too long. We’ll never make it.” But then another thought, “Maybe this man you met could carry us? He must know the way. Maybe he could carry us up the mountain while we sleep – I’m sure we couldn’t make it by ourselves!”
The little boy looked puzzled for a moment, but he slowly shook his head. The strange man had spoken about the way up the mountain. He said that to reach the city – to truly reach it – a person had to walk. Even a person with little legs. He said that in the days long ago some people had been carried to the city in their sleep, but when they awoke something was always wrong. The richly coloured streets and houses seemed dull to them, almost translucent, and they could never bring themselves to sit, or lean, or lie down to rest on anything in the city for fear that they would fall right through. He said the only way was to walk the mountain.
She wondered, rather loudly and with a troubled frown, how on earth, if they were not to be carried, they would ever find the way.
But Cescu remembered what the strange man had said about that as well. He said that the way to the city was easy to recognise. The path that leads to the city, he had said, is the steepest, narrowest path, and also the most beautiful. If you find yourself on a path that is easy, or wide, or ugly, you have taken a wrong turn.
Now Anna was not sure she liked the sound of that at all, but as she looked up at the Too-Tall Mountain, she found herself unable to stem the awful flood of hope that gushed through her chest and into the tips of her toes.
She looked at Cescu.
“Well,” she said, “I still don’t think we’ll make it.” She thrust her grubby hands into her pockets and grinned. “But it looks like we have to try.”
Now, to tell the tale of all their twists and turns, of all their bruises and blisters, would take many more words than I am prepared to write, or you are prepared to read, and perhaps will serve to make a tale of its own one day. So for now we will hear of just the greatest incident of the long, steep road.
The two young travellers had begun to notice, as they passed out of the foothills and into the real mountain, that more and more they swore they saw distant glimpses of the strange man on the path ahead of them, and although it seemed improbable, they began to stumble across marvellous gifts – sometimes big and sometimes small – piles of refreshing wild-fruits for them to eat, or little shelters of branches and leaves for them to rest in. And this strange and unexpected kindness came and went until one day they found a note, carved into the sticks of a shelter they had found:
SOON COMES THE CREVASSE.
YOU MUST NOT LEAP TOO SOON.
BUT YOU MUST SURELY LEAP.
Now this message both confused and worried the young pilgrims. So much so that they carried the engraved sticks with them as they continued in hopes of deciphering the mystery as they journeyed. And indeed they did, when the path brought them to a great divide in the mountain. The rock they were walking on suddenly plunged away in front of them, and only emerged again what must have been nearly ten metres away. Lying flat their two little bodies put together couldn’t have bridged the divide. They edged fearfully up to the brink, and peered down into the deep, terrifying darkness of the crevasse. They quickly stepped back and stared at each other, eyes wide and hearts pounding. Anna looked down at the stick she was holding.
“You must not leap too soon,” she said, calming a little.
“But you must surely leap,” said Cescu, fear heavy in his unbroken voice.
After a moment though his eyes wandered past Anna’s to what lay behind her. A rocky path along the edge of the crevasse, littered with boulders and uncertainty. As Anna’s eyes turned to follow his they both knew what they had to do. This path was harder work than any they had travelled so far, and they lived in constant fear of losing their footing and tumbling into the abyss that never strayed from the left-hand edge of their vision. But they balled up their courage and they kept their eyes on the obstacles ahead. They clambered and they crawled and they kept, anxiously, moving. And as they did, it seemed to them that the crevasse beside them was growing thinner. The far edge was creeping closer and closer until, after many days, many nights, many bumps, many scrapes, many scares and many dares, they looked to their left and saw a gap that looked – though their hearts hammered harder and harder – small enough to jump.
They knew that this gulf – once so utterly impassable – was now small enough for even their little legs. Their eyes and their brains knew this. Their legs and their hearts were less certain. Their knees shook and their hearts raced like the knees and the hearts of the heroes in their mothers old legends. Anna felt dizzy. Cescu felt sick. The abyss of uncertainty that had been threatening to swallow them up for days now stood before them – smaller now, weaker, but still utterly terrifying. They looked across to the other side. They saw the new path – still steep, still narrow – leading up and up to the city. To the city of gold. To the rumour of the city of gold. The strange man was nowhere to be seen. The fruits, the shelters, they seemed somehow foolish. They might have been made by animals. They might have been anything. They looked at the note on the sticks in their hands. It might have been a joke. It might have been a trick.
YOU MUST NOT LEAP TOO SOON.
BUT YOU MUST SURELY LEAP.
Anna felt dizzy. Cescu felt sick. They held hands. Tightly. They fixed their eyes on the solid ground beyond the darkness.
***
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