By Steven Norris
A few summers ago, our family piled into a borrowed minivan, set the GPS north, and set off. We ate cheesesteaks in Philadelphia, toured the First Baptist Church of America in Providence, and ended up on the coast of Maine. There, in Bar Harbor, Maine, we got a taste of the rugged and severe beauty of the rocky coastline.
Bar Harbor gets its name from a unique geographic feature: a large sandbar that emerges and disappears with the rising and falling tides. As the waters recede, one can literally walk across to a nearby island in the harbor — at least, until the tide returns.
On the appointed day, we set our alarms to arrive just as the sandbar emerged from its salty womb. We trekked across with all the other pilgrims and began to explore the island. The Norrises have a tendency to be the recklessly adventurous type, so we didn’t really notice when the official trail ended and we were trekking through the woods. Before long, we realized that we were lost — no trail markers, no clear trail at all, just four southerners bounding over rocks and sliding down embankments.
I was the first to notice the panicked look in my wife’s eyes. The warning signs posted on the shore had been very clear: if you did not get back across the sandbar in time, you would be stuck on the island. Water taxis were available, but quite expensive. I assured her that I had a plan. (I had no plan.)
That’s when it hit me: use the water as a guide. This was an island, after all. It might be a long hike but eventually, we would make our way back around to the other side. Therefore, we put the sea on our right and started making our way around as best we could. As you might guess, we did make it. We had hiked significantly more than we intended. Worn out, cranky, and few blisters later, we made it back ”home.”
The season of Lent is a time to listen for the voice calling you back to your spiritual “home.” Some of you may have wandered away from the trail and aren’t quite sure how to get back. Some don’t even realize that you have veered off course. This is the time to look for reference points.
I would suggest that the cross of Christ is the greatest reference point for this season. It reorients us to the way of love, for it was at the cross that Christ laid down his life for humanity. It reorients us to the way of vulnerability, for Christ’s victory came not in an overt show of strength, but in his decision not to return violence for violence and might for might. It reorients us to the way of grace, for Christ died for us while we least deserved it.
Wherever the sign shows up for you — atop a steeple, hung on a wall, or worn around a neck, may the cross of Christ guide you back to the realization that you are loved by God and that an eternal home awaits you at the end of your trek.