Adrift in a Coracle

By Pastor Bruce

The Celtic traditions of Scotland, Wales and Ireland are rich with various images of the spiritual life. One such image is the coracle, a small, round boat made of wickerwork or laths covered with a waterproofed layer of animal skin or fabric.

As you can see, the coracle did not have a bow or stern. The little vessel tended to drift with the current. And that is how many monks let God direct them to the place of his choosing where they would land, settle for a time and tell the people of that area about the gentle love of Jesus before setting off again in their coracle to other parts unknown.

When I first learned this tradition years ago, my modern mind rebelled against how aimless and unpredictable it seemed. Certainly, God would want me to prayerfully make a careful plan for my life and ministry and faithfully follow through with it year by year. And yet, as these years have gone by the spirituality of the coracle has been coming back to me. I am finding that as much as I have wanted to control my world, life keeps happening to me and moving me along its way, sometimes without rhyme or reason. This is especially true for all of us living through the uncertain times of the year 2020.

The Celtic monks, however, had their own rhyme and reason which made perfect sense. Their life was hidden with God, and their trust was heavenward rather than earthbound. Consider this rhyme (and reason) from St. Columba:

Alone with none but Thee, my God,

I journeyed on my way;

What need I fear, when Thou art near

O King of night and day?

More safe am I within Thy hand

Than if a host did round me stand.

The islands of Lindisfarne and Iona were rich repositories of this holy tradition. Here is another poem simply titled "Lindisfarne Rhyme."

He is my King;

in my heart He’s hid.

He is my joy all joys amid.

I am a drop in His ocean lost

His coracle I, on his wide sea tossed,

a leaf in his storm.

The book of His praise

in my satchel slung,

the cloak of His friendship around me flung,

hither and thither about I’m blown,

my way an eddy, my rest a stone,

and He my fire.

My meat His work

and my drink His will,

He is my song, my strength, my skill,

and all people I love in good and ill,

through Him, my desire.

Sounds an awful lot like Jesus, doesn’t it? And so I am learning to pray with another English saint of a later time, Julian of Norwich:

God, of thy goodness, give me Thyself;

for Thou art enough for me,

and anything less that I could ask for

would not do you full honor.

And if I ask anything that is less,

I shall always lack something,

for only in Thee do I have everything.