Walking the Edge

There are places here in New Hampshire that are important to me spiritually. My Celtic heritage calls them “thin places.” Mostly, they are places of natural beauty. Some of them have a panoramic view. My hiking days are over, so nowadays I drive - or take some other form of transportation - to get high enough for a decent view.

One of those places is Cathedral Ledge in North Conway. (An appropriate name for a spiritual spot!) It is a steep rocky cliff, which is popular with rock climbers. Fortunately, the summit can also be accessed by a winding road to the top. My wife and I went up there the other day for a picnic.

We picked up a sub from a sandwich shop and made the short hike from the parking lot to the rocky outcrop overlooking the Mount Washington Valley. Rather than following the main path to the designated, fenced-in, safe, viewing area, we took a path “less traveled by” (to quote Robert Frost).

An unmarked path circumvents the chain-linked fence, which is erected to protect tourists from falling off the mountain, and comes out on an unfenced stretch of ledge. That way I could pretend I had hiked up the ledge and was alone on the summit. I luxuriated in the silence and expansiveness before me.

It is no accident that mountains play an important role in many religious traditions - from Moses on Sinai, to Jesus’ Mount of Transfiguration, to Muhammed on Jabal al-Nour. There is something about mountains that evoke spiritual experiences. On this particular occasion, my thoughts turned unexpectedly to the first clergyman who inspired me.

His name was Reverend Robert Penbethy. He was a Methodist minister and the chaplain at Tilton School, a college preparatory school in New Hampshire. At that time the school was still affiliated with the Methodist conference and had required chapel services. The chaplain also taught two required courses: Ethics and Philosophy of Religion. They were my first taste of an academic study of religion.

Although it has been nearly sixty years since I sat in his classroom in the basement of the chapel, something he said has always stayed with me. It is a war story. Before he was a minister, he was a US Marine who fought in the Korean War. He served as staff sergeant in the First Marine Division at the Inchon Landing and the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. One day he told the class a story about his experience of war.

I don’t remember which battle he was talking about, but his squad was ordered to advance. As they were going over a ridge, his buddies on his right and his left were both killed by enemy fire. He survived unharmed. He said that this moment made a lasting impression on his life.

In talking about the experience, he called it “the razor’s edge.” Perhaps he was making a reference to Somerset Maugham’s book of that title. I am not sure. But I remember the vivid mental image of a line of soldiers on a rocky ridge. For some reason, that scene popped into my head while I was walking on Cathedral Ledge.

Perhaps it was because I had to be careful where I stepped. I could imagine how easily it would be to lose my balance and roll over the cliff. For that reason, my wife refused to join me on the ledge. She is unsteady on her feet these days, as I am to a lesser degree. So, she stayed where it was safer. That is why the photo at the top of this post is of me and not her on the ledge.

Anyway, the ledge and the vista felt like “a razor’s edge.” I thought of the Sirat Bridge in Islamic eschatology, which is “thinner than a hair and sharper than a sword.” In the Islamic afterlife all are required to cross that bridge on the Day of Judgement. Not all make it across. “Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leads unto life, and few there be that find it,” as Jesus said.

Walking along the rocky ledge is a metaphor for life. Life is a razor’s edge. Life is fragile. I feel blessed to have made it this far. We walk on the edge every day. Every time we get on the highway, we take a risk. Every time we go into the operating room, we might not come out. That is why they make us sign those permission papers right before they roll us away!

Every time we speak against the government, we risk our lives. Renee Nicole Good, a mother of three, and Alex Pretti, an intensive care nurse lost their lives at the hand of ICE gunmen for engaging in nonviolent protest. Every time we make a seemingly mundane decision, it may be a life-or-death decision.

Those rock climbers I watched scaling Cathedral Ledge were risking their lives ... for fun! Extreme sports are dangerous! My heart skipped a beat just watching them vertically ascend the cliff with their ropes and pitons. My stroll across a relatively flat piece of ledge was nothing in comparison.

Yet walking across Cathedral Ledge elicited the truth that all life is risk. Being human is a risk. Being an advocate for peace, justice and human rights is a risk these days. Speaking against evil in government is risk. We are all walking on the edge all the time. Awareness of that existential risk is the source of the spiritual life. It requires “the courage to be,” as Paul Tilich said.

Yet that risk is mitigated by seeing that we are ultimately safe in a deeper sense. When we discover that we are not bodies or minds, but Spirit expressed as bodies and minds, then physical risk is worth the price. The missionary martyr Jim Elliot said, “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.” He spoke those memorable words from a traditionally Christian perspective.

I would express the sentiment somewhat differently. We cannot give what was never ours; we cannot gain what was never lost. Eternal Life is not a possession to win as a prize or receive as a gift; it is our nature to be realized. Nothing we do - or don’t do - can change that reality. We are Eternal Life expressed as human life. So let us walk the edge together. But watch your step!

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