Bridled Zeal

I am back from Ireland. It was a heavy, heart-wrenching, meaningful, formative, fun, exhausting time.

A couple of us were robbed of our hotel room by Rod Stewart. Well, not really, but we’ll blame him anyways. And our traveling companions were redirected by the great ash cloud. And we don’t entirely blame God for the ash cloud (a classic quote from a prayer out of the mouth of Ryan S.).

I fell in love with Belfast. And I hate that I’ve fallen into the typical falling in love while studying abroad thing, but yes, I love Belfast. And I could see myself living there for a bit. I might even go to school there. It’s a vibrant, friendly, progressive, diverse city. It’s a broken, hostile, divided, backwards city.

We were given personal tours of hardcore Catholic-Nationalist-Republican neighborhoods and hardcore Protestant-Unionist-Loyalist neighborhoods by former paramilitary members. And there’s been a lot of healing, but there’s still a lot of sectarianism.

But God is the God of Belfast. And spontaneously, a few friends and I were shown incredible hospitality by the songwriter of God of this City. For a whole day. And he gave us a whirlwind tour of Belfast, both the stomping grounds of his youth, as well as Catholic-Nationalist-Republican areas he had never set foot in before.

We talked to MLAs from both Sinn Fein and the DUP at Stormont (NI’s legislative assembly). And heard first hand some of the theological ignorance that contributes to the division and exclusion.

We spent some time working with organizations that are advancing the Kingdom in Belfast–whether those organizations know they are doing Kingdom work or not.

We were refreshed at Corrymeela–spiritually, emotionally, physically. But we were only there for a night. Far too short.

We tread the same ground where unarmed civilians were gunned down in 1972 by British paratroopers, and heard from the brother of one of those murdered that Bloody Sunday.

I watched as debris floated down following a failed mortar attack right across the street from our bed and breakfast in Derry.

We traced the footsteps of James Joyce and discussed Dubliners in Dublin.

I had a pint of Guinness. At the Guinness Factory. Before noon. On an empty stomach.

We learned that we must respect the fairies.

Some of us were denied communion in Galway, and I understood why, but my heart hurt for the Bride.

We were blown away by the ingenuity of prehistoric people in Newgrange.

I lived in a house with five other men in a cottage in Rostrevor for five nights. And oh, the stories that emerged from that time. We met French (and one Mexican brother) Benedictine monks who live in Rostrevor to pray for Northern Ireland full time.

We played soccer on a tennis court and witnessed one of our companions check one of our professors into the fence in an effort to get the ball.

Jake, Matt, and I huddled around an iPhone outside of Charlotte and Emily Bronte’s father’s church,  listening as the USA held off England to retain a 1-1 tie.

Our house assisted one of us in getting a tick out. And were treated to an… unexpected escapade.

I sat in a bar in Belfast and watched history unfold in Derry as the Saville Report (Bloody Sunday Inquiry) was released and UK Prime Minister David Cameron called what happened 28 years ago “unjustified and unjustifiable.”

I fell in love with Kopparberg Pear Cider. And am incensed that it is not exported to the United States.

I was pushed further along in my ideological indwelling of nonviolence and just peacemaking.

We heard stories. Personal stories upon stories. Of hurt. Of loss. Of torture. Of hope.

I came to a greater appreciation of seventeen other members of the Westmont community.

We were led by two humble, amazing, creative professors who love Jesus and love teaching.

And we only just touched the surface.

Today I was vindicated in my post-trib, pre-millenial eschatology.

The tribulation is over (finally).  Except it was 8 years long.  Funny, I always thought it was supposed to be 7.

Anyways, now that the One is in, let the thousand year reign begin.