It is 7 o’clock in the morning. I decided to watch the sun rise over the horizon of Sliema. The spectacle was even more beautiful than I’d imagined. It’s an ocean of gold, overhung by an immense sun. The beauty of creation is revealed day after day. It is we who don’t know how to appreciate it. With my eyes filled with the sun, I thought I’d already had the treasure of the day. But then a big caramel-colored wooden rig took us to the island of Gozo, where we heard the call of the sea.
We sailed along the coast. It would be a lie to say that Malta is free of the seaside developments that have mushroomed in coastal resorts over the past 50 years. However, during my morning walk I saw a Maltese couple having breakfast in front of this sublime landscape. How I understand and envy them for being able to enjoy this wonder every morning! Perhaps we can console ourselves with high-density urban architecture by saying that it also provides some access to some beauty. But the magnificent ship, undulating on the dark blue sea, makes me think of the Knights of Malta, who were exiled at sea for seven years before Malta was finally entrusted to them.
The ship is a rider on a horse called Mediterranean. It leads the pilgrims in a slow, deep gallop that splits the wind and the silvery mist that the light creates on the water. What I felt when I looked at the archipelago from the plane comes back to me: the feeling that the island is a familiar and safe harbor for a departure to somewhere else. I think of these knights, 1,500 of them per boat, 2x2 meters per person, and this call of the sea, as uncontrollable as it is sometimes uncomfortable. But what is this call? An invitation to accept the unexpected? The life of a sailor is like the spiritual life. You give yourself. Completely. To the immensity. To give just a little of oneself is to coast. Faith is the call of the high seas. Without knowing whether the weather will be calm or stormy. As on the high seas, we are certain that something beyond our control is at play.
The Island of Gozo
The island where St. Paul was shipwrecked appears before us. A simple rock with his statue on it. A few knots away, the sea swells in an instant. The boat undulates harder, sinks deeper and rears up higher. It’s easy to see how the sea can change its mood in the blink of an eye, tossing an apostle on his way to Rome toward a shore that will save him and to which he will bring salvation.
We dock on the island of Gozo and climb to the sanctuary of Ta’ Pinu. This is the Maltese Lourdes. Here, in 1883, the Virgin Mary made a gentle appeal to a humble woman returning from the fields: “Come! Come!” It was with these words in mind that I entered the church, which became a basilica in the 20th century, looking for their echo. I found it, not in the walls, but in the Stations of the Cross written by Pierre-Marie Dumont for pilgrims. This “coming” is embodied in very human, unusual mediations. They break the hum of familiar words to penetrate the heart with blunt points that, on the way to Calvary, evoke abandonment, betrayal, denial ... all the failures of which we are capable, even in the face of infinite love.
Fortunately, this infinite love is given back in every Eucharist. And to deepen the analogy between the sea and the spiritual life, the Mass will be celebrated ... on the boat! The Host will be raised between water and sky, on the living chalice of creation of which Teilhard de Chardin spoke: “Receive, Lord, this total host which creation, moved by your attraction, offers you at the new dawn.”
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