On a serene summer day, gazing across the water that separates Luing Island from the Isle of Mull, you witness a vista of unparalleled tranquility in the Inner Hebrides. The sea shimmers azure, the sky is flawlessly clear, almost too perfect to be real. Yet, as winter’s grip tightens, the scene transforms. The water turns a somber grey, mirroring the overcast sky, and the slate beaches fade into dull shadows. Even the feldspar in the granite cliffs loses its gleam, and a chilling fog, known as har, drifts in from the North Atlantic. These very waters, which beckoned us to sail during summer, now caution even the most seasoned mariners to seek safe harbor.
Those who are drawn to the world’s vast waters – be they mighty rivers, expansive lakes, gulfs, or oceans – cherish them not only for their captivating beauty but also for their formidable power. The sea is a place of duality, of peace and fury, of life and death. This inherent contrast prompts deeper reflection, especially when considering faith and the divine in the face of nature’s raw strength.
In the ancient graveyard perched atop Luing Island, history whispers from every corner. Within the roofless, vine-covered remnants of a long-abandoned church, you can find rudimentary yet precise carvings of Viking longships, silent testaments to the raiders who once frequented this coast. A weathered headstone near the old church marks the resting place of a Campbell clan member, a staunch Covenanter from a bygone era of intense religious fervor in Scotland. Alexander Campbell’s imposing stone, engraved on both sides, delivers stark warnings of hellfire and eternal damnation to anyone who dares disturb his grave. However, my repeated visits to this graveyard are drawn by a different memorial – one dedicated to two dozen Polish merchant marines. These men tragically perished within sight of Luing’s shore during World War II when their ship succumbed to a violent gale.
Far from their homeland, they were likely seeking refuge from the tempest raging in the open ocean. Perhaps their hope was to reach Oban, a sheltered harbor about twenty miles up the coast. Strangers braved the tumultuous waves in search, but rescue soon turned to the somber task of body recovery. These strangers then laid them to rest amongst their own, in a graveyard that few, if any, of the Polish seamen’s families would ever be able to visit. Among the many haunting tales of Scotland – of castles and spectral green ladies, of women in black and clandestine card games with the devil – it is the story of these men, who, as the Psalms describe, “go down to the sea in ships, to see the wonders of the deep,” yet never returned home, that lingers most profoundly. Their story echoes the timeless question: Does Anyone Know Where The Love Of God Goes when such tragedies strike?
More than two decades ago, I led a travel seminar to Scotland for the seminary, venturing out in January. One early morning, our group set out to catch the ferry to Mull and then a bus across to Iona. Upon reaching Fionnphort, where we were to take the small ferry across the strait to Iona, the ferryman’s voice cut through the wind, announcing from his boat that the sea was too perilous, the waves too high for a safe crossing. He declared he would seek a safer anchorage and attempt to collect us again in two hours.
Two hours later, the ferry reappeared, but the ferryman’s shout carried a warning: he could only hold at the loading area for mere minutes to embark the waiting car and our group before needing to set sail immediately. Standing knee-deep in water, I urged our group towards the ferry, the wind howling with an almost deathly intensity. One student, her face etched with worry, approached me, “Michael, is it safe to cross?” My response was stark, “This isn’t a theme park ride. This is the Atlantic Ocean. If you’re not willing to take the risk, stay in the pub, and we’ll be back in four hours.”
As she hurried onto the ferry, a chilling thought crossed my mind: had she truly understood the treacherous nature of the strait between Mull and Iona, she might have chosen the pub instead. The sea, in its raw power, demands respect and acknowledgment of its inherent dangers. It forces us to confront our vulnerability, and perhaps, to ponder where we find solace and faith when faced with overwhelming forces. This experience, and the stories like the Polish sailors, raise the question: does anyone know where the love of God goes when we are at the mercy of such vast, indifferent power?
A year or so prior to that trip, during a dinner at Oxford, a college don recounted a recent tragedy over sherry. Just the previous winter, every young man from Iona had drowned returning from a dance on Mull, attempting to cross that very strait to return home to Iona. These were not landlubbers; these were young men for whom the sea was a second home, who had grown up with sea legs as natural as walking. Yet, they were lost to the waves and the storm. The sea, despite its familiarity and the skill these young men possessed, proved unforgiving.
This brings to mind the poignant line from Gordon Lightfoot’s ballad about the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald in 1975 in Lake Superior: “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?” This lyric encapsulates the profound question of God’s presence amidst suffering more eloquently than perhaps any other. It avoids abstract theological debates and stark statistics. Instead, it evokes the plight of individuals—skilled, experienced, and respectful of the elements—rendered utterly helpless against the untamed fury of nature, dragged beneath the waves.
As a painter, I am repeatedly drawn back to the sea, particularly to the storm. These powerful forces vividly illustrate the inseparable nature of beauty and terror inherent in existence. Lightfoot’s haunting question, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?” continues to resonate deeply. It is a question not just of theology but of human experience, of grappling with loss and the seeming absence of divine comfort in moments of extreme suffering.
In response, I offer a tentative answer, a whisper of hope amidst the storm. I believe the love of God descends with the ship, just as the ancient creeds proclaim Jesus descended into hell. For even in the deepest depths, in the most profound suffering, God is present. And nothing, not even the raging sea, can truly separate us from that enduring love. Perhaps, in the heart of the storm, in the very moment when we feel most lost and abandoned, is precisely where the love of God is found, not in rescue, but in unwavering presence.
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*Inspired by Gordon Lightfoot, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”
