a call to come over

Long ago, on the island of Iona, a meeting had been called. An angry brother spoke about his failure, telling of the hardness of the heart in the kingdom of Northumbria - a land of darkness refusing the life-giving light, inhabited by a stubborn, unreachable people. And one man heard, and his heart was stirred with compassion for that land and its people. To open his heart to this could cost him everything: leaving the island he loved, the companionship of his brothers, their prayer and work. Were there not others still to be reached much closer to home? If he stayed seated among his brothers no one would notice him, no one would know what he had heard in his heart: the cry of the desert, 'come over to Northumbria and help us.'

'O Lord,' he prayed, 'give me springs and I will water this land.' A moment later it was his own voice, the voice of Aidan, that broke the awkward silence. 'Perhaps, my brother, if you had spoken with more gentleness, and of the love of Christ, giving them the gospel to nourish them like milk is to a tiny baby, then you would have won them and remained among them.' [Celtic Daily Prayer, 158]

If I open my eyes to the world around me,
if I open my heart to the people that surround me,
then I feel pain and brokenness,
I see suffering and injustice.

Open your eyes, make the crossing to your 'Northumbria'.
Come over.
Open your eyes, and see the waves of hopelessness just beyond your knees.
Come over.
Open your heart, hear the voices of lost children and a battered creation.
Come over.
Open your heart, feel the dankness of leadened skys, frozen minds.
Come over.
Come over to your 'Northumbria'. Come over and help us.

Speak with gentleness, speak with hope - but speak.