Sgeul na Slí , A Tale of the Road

 

Sgeul na Slí , A Tale of the Road

Ah now, gather in close, a chairde, for I’ll spin ye a yarn, soft as turf-smoke and sharp as the wind off Carrauntoohil. ’Tis a tale of a soul’s wandering, a story of a man who set his face toward the Ever-Living Christ, and found that every footstep of his life, whether on stony boreen or soft meadow, was bend for bend a journey toward Himself.

Sure wasn’t it known to him, as clear as a winter star, that long ago our first folk strayed from the good road, and all the misery of the world came spilling after them like sheep through a broken hedge? And so, says he, we’re free people, we can take the crooked tracks of our own stubbornness, fall flat on our faces, and carry the ache of our foolishness. Or we can turn, slow or sudden, and follow the Christ-path, the only one that leads us home.

Now this wise man spent many a dawn and dusk with the Gospel open before him, testing each thought against the living memory of the Church and the hard-won wisdom of generations. And one day he set his heart upon the word from Luke, the seventeenth chapter, how Christ Himself spoke of His suffering before His glory, and how His followers must not look backward like the poor woman of Lot, frozen in her longing for what should be left behind.

First, he looked to the folk of long ago, those who walked the dusty roads of Galilee, expecting a mighty king who’d toss the Romans into the sea. But Christ told them plain there’d be no uprising, no sword, only the sudden blaze of His Coming, bright as lightning streaking from one end of heaven to the other.

And yet, listen now, that brightness must come after sorrow. For He would suffer many things, and be rejected, and His suffering wouldn’t end on the hill of skulls. No indeed, says the holy teacher, for the Christ suffers yet in all His own: in the heart that’s turning toward belief, in the soul wrestling its way out of the briars, in the one beset by enemies seen and unseen. For His bond with His people is living, keen as a blade, and their wounds strike Him too.

So he spoke of the pains of the early ones, the apostles and disciples, the martyrs, the folk who took the Word into their bones when the world was set against them. But no sooner did he speak of the old times than he leapt straight into his own day, saying: “The Lord suffers still, though no emperor hunts His Church.” For nothing grieves Him more than the fall of a believer, or worse, a wandering away from faith entirely.

And the man painted fierce pictures of the unbelief of his time, words and writings crafted like fiery arrows, forged in hidden forges of darkness. He saw how the learned lads and lasses were lured by books that scorned the living God, and how such poison seeped even into the cottages under the disguise of fine knowledge. But he knew well that true learning was never the enemy; the real foe was the shadowed power twisting minds away from the path of life.

Yet he never left the listener in despair. “Bear up,” says he, “and pray. For patience lifts you out of the muck when you fall, and prayer anchors you to Christ so tight no jeer or jibe of unbelief can tear you loose.” For a praying soul knows Christ not by hearsay but by meeting Him, heart to Heart.

And then he spoke to each listener as though to a single soul sitting by the hearth:

“Watch yourself, even for a day, and you’ll see how self-pity ruins half your good intentions. You want to do what’s right, but you’re too soft with yourself. You want to avoid what’s wrong, but you’re too fond of your own whims. And so you stop. Aye, that’s where you stop.”

He gave a task fit for any day, young or old:

Live even one sunrise to sundown without indulging self-pity. See how often it holds you back from prayer, from kindness, from rising after a fall. Fulfil the Word as best you can; thank Christ for every step forward; repent for every step missed, but without moaning, and without the soft cushion of excuses. That’s how the path opens before you.

And lastly, he laughed a small, sorrowful laugh at how people manage their time. There’s work you must do or go hungry, so you push through it, even if you’d rather lie in bed. But the work of the commandments? Sure, that gets tossed aside like last year’s hay. Meanwhile, sinful desires get done at once, with no delay at all! Self-pity spurs you to feed your belly and spares you from feeding your soul.

But the man didn’t learn all this from ink and parchment alone. He lived it. He walked the Gospel road day after day, falling, rising, praying, giving thanks, repenting, and starting again. He knew the Word of God as a lamp held high on a dark night, a lamp bright enough to show ancient folk, folk of his time, and ourselves today exactly where the true road runs.

For the Word, he said, shines from God’s own lips and lights the whole way of life. And the one who truly longs to walk that way will see, clear as dawn on the Reeks, where he’s meant to go.

Slán go fóill, and may the good Christ guide every step of your own wandering road.