# The World Takes Its Course, and Iona Stays July 22, 2026 ![Student pilgrams from the Memorial Church explore the Isle of Iona. ](/sites/g/files/omnuum7126/files/2026-07/260530Iona20_0.jpg) *Claire Jiang '28 (left), Felix Chen '29, Charlotte Stokes '27, and Jake Dixon '28 on the ferry to the Isle of Iona. Group members not pictured are Indiana Vargas Avellan '27, Louise Kim '27, Marty Martinage MDiv III, Luis Pabon Rico (GSAS '28), Anna Burnham, and Alanna Sullivan. Photo provided by Jake Dixon.* *“I look and look into their vanishing* *See nothing. Departing that perfect ground* *I knew I had been hungry for a blessing.”* *- from “The Swanlight” by John O’Donohue* *By Claire Jiang '28* *Harvard College* After three long hours on a bus, the final leg required for our trip to Iona is a short boat ride. As we boarded the small ferry, someone informed the nauseated members of our group that the make and build of buses in Scotland worsen car sickness – we’d recover quickly. No matter, I was grateful to soon be back on land. From our view on the ferry, the surrounding landscape swallowed Iona Abbey. The air was foggy — enough so that the island’s verdant green dulled to match the abbey’s faded gray. I expected my time at the abbey to be like a black-and-white film. Hours of silent meditation and reflection. Excusing myself past the line of Benedictine monks walking through the cloisters, their heads lowered and arms clasping heavy manuscripts still fresh with ink. A friend remarked on the possibility of witnessing a few Gregorian chants. At night, we’d hear the soft plodding of feet along stone, the whispers of prayer in the early morning. I had expected a quiet island. Solemn. Unfortunately, there are no Benedictine monks at Iona Abbey. No one wears woolen robes tied with a leather belt, and there are no Gregorian chants at service – or at least not anymore, if any. With a cohort of 10 traveling from America, living alongside 19 German pastors, six Dutch women on a girl’s trip, and a few Americans and Europeans scattered in the mix, silence was often hard to find. Much of my imagining of the abbey and our time there was, well, imagination. During one of our group check-ins, we were asked why we decided to come to Iona. We all had and have our reasons for coming to this place, just like the thousands who have made the pilgrimage since Saint Columba’s death at the end of the 6th century. Anna, our student coordinator, had spent a few days on the island during her time abroad as a graduate student. She always wanted to return. Charlotte loved “The Secret of Kells,” and her grandfather had visited Iona once in his youth. Luis, studying for his music Ph.D., had heard of Iona from a choir director back home. He became fascinated with the abbey’s significance in Christianity. To write this piece, I reflected once again on why I went to Iona. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what brought me here: learning about the trip was purely accidental. A few months ago, I had caught my friend Jake outside of Memorial Church. He was on his way to an informational meeting, and I said I’d join. I learned that it was a sponsored trip by a generous donor to the church. We would eat homemade food each day and participate in group chores, joining a community of strangers for little over a week. I learned that people went to Iona in search of meaning. Purpose. Since making it to college, I often felt lost and unmoored. Time in Iona promised change, some life-altering moment. Perhaps I would discover a way to better navigate adulthood and the big decisions looming ahead. Also, as someone in the early stages of exploring religion, I wondered if I would encounter something of the divine in Iona. Some message that carried the reassurance, meaning, and purpose I felt so desperate to have in my life. After a turbulent year at school, a week at Iona felt like winning a ticket to a beachside vacation: a getaway from the troubles of life. \*\*\* They call Iona a thin place. It’s a term taken from the Celts, describing places where heaven and earth seem to touch. I imagined it as a thinning of the atmosphere, the spinning and weaving of past and present closer in this place than any other. After the first few days when no one mentioned experiencing a life-altering moment, we concealed our disappointment and relief in jokes: the scant meals of vegetarian stew and sliced bread were making us feel thin (where’s the protein?!) A spooked scare? Someone was feeling thin. Stepping on sheep poop? Thinness. Our initial expectation to feel something different in a “thin place” could be described as wanting a quick fix. An informed video essayist or college philosophy student might attribute this to the cultivation of misplaced desires in our postcapitalist consumerist society where speed and convenience take priority. Someone older and wiser might say it’s because we’ve yet to experience the travails of life. But thinness didn’t seem discoverable, at least not when we were looking for it. As we became accustomed to the rhythm of the abbey community and our initial expectations quelled, we turned our attention away from the idea of the profound. It became easier to let ourselves be surprised, and we began to relish the small moments. One day, Louise returned from a hike, raving about her journey. The walk to the top of this summit felt different, as if there was something propelling her feet upwards. Though the trek was miles-long, she covered the distance in what felt like minutes. So, the world became smaller in Iona, our legs grew stronger, and we grew more capable. There were other moments. Jake and Charlotte planned to run the entire perimeter of the island. Felix and I joined, but we soon found ourselves trapped in a brutal rainstorm. The flat, grassy terrain quickly morphed into slick rock. Instead of running, we scrambled over small hills, attempting and quickly failing at avoiding sheep poop and wet spots. When a few of us took a day trip to the Isle of Mull, Indiana and I stayed behind to sit as the others trekked forward. We got so close to a Highland cow that we could see its belly expanding and contracting in the heat. As it lapped at water, the cow produced a loud, satisfied slurp. The Rev. Alanna Sullivan forwarded this video to her family, later telling us her youngest son asked his dad to play it almost every day. Alongside another visitor, Morgan, Anna was asked to plan and host the Iona talent show. She spearheads our group’s rendition of “So Long, Farewell” from “The Sound of Music,” and the performance does spectacularly. Alongside a parody entitled “Another German Pastor in Paradise,” the instruction of a traditional Dutch song called “De uil zat in de olmen,” and a presentation on the superiority of burgers over cheeseburgers, the Iona volunteers told us this was the best talent show they had ever seen. Halfway through our stay, the abbey took everyone on a hike to the western tip of the island. Luis scrambled up to a small hill. His red rain jacket beat the gloomy gray, and as we began to take photos of him from below, he stretched out his arms and grinned. Marty, on their way to becoming a great minister, became our group’s official sheep whisperer. On another one of our hikes, we found them crouched in front of a fence, scratching the head of a sheep. Its eyes squeezed shut in contentment, and Marty visited the site every day after. I spoke with some of the German pastors, curious about their views on religion and this pilgrimage. When I asked one of the pastors what he wanted to find in Iona, he told me that his son is struggling. He hoped to return home invigorated, supporting his family with greater strength. Then, he told me that he believed our interaction to be no accident. I was still considering his words when he had already sprung up and away, camera in hand to capture the large cows grazing in the pasture. Another pastor, when asked about when she has experienced the divine, recounted growing up with weighty expectations from her accomplished parents. She always felt driven to succeed without ever knowing what that really meant. Only a few years into her first career did she feel ready to do something different. Today, she works as a youth minister, guiding teens and young adults as they navigate their own big questions. And so, I left Iona feeling rejuvenated and, yes, changed. In writing this, I am reminded of a conversation with a friend back in Cambridge. We were walking along the Charles River and paused on one of the bridges to admire the fluorescent-lit water. She told me she didn’t believe in God. At least not right now. She said that the things I was looking for – meaning and purpose and a sense of direction – she had already found. I find it in other people, she said. They give me hope. I thought of her friendships, the stories she’s told about her mother and brother. The art she makes. The histories she studies and the work she hopes to do. Yes, I thought, that is right. And then I recall another conversation, where someone told me that it is through other people that we experience the divinity of God. Yes, I think, that is also right. Having spent time in Iona, I think that I have experienced thinness – or the spiritual or divine, whatever you may call it – everywhere. In many places and with many people. I found it in the moments and places that aren’t listed in a guidebook on Iona. I found it in the friendships I made there, those whom I will see back in Cambridge and those I may never encounter again. It’s in the work I am doing this summer in Louisiana, learning about the criminal justice system as I work to help represent indigent clients. It’s in the kindness of my host family that invited me – a total stranger – to stay in their home while I was away from mine. Perhaps the isolation of a small island, and the posture we carried on pilgrimage more easily allowed for transformation and change – or that we were more attuned to these small shifts. Yet Iona’s promises cannot just be limited to the small 3.4 square mile island. \*\*\* The last time we summited the hill near the abbey before our departure, it was sunny. We’ve walked this route many times: the first, fog covered almost everything, even our own feet. This time, the sky was clear. We feasted on smoked fish, day-old soda bread, and roasted peanuts. Perhaps that’s what we do – in life. To be a little cheesy in what’s become a very long metaphor: you keep walking up and down the same path, weathering sun and storms and sheep poop. Sometimes, you stop at the top of a hill, admiring what’s below and thinking of what’s ahead – because when you reach the top, there’s no more up to go. The world takes its course. And Iona stays. [Return to main page.](https://memorialchurch.harvard.edu/news/2026/07/green-shores-quiet-souls-students-pilgrimage) See also:- [ News ](/news-topics/news) Share on:- [ Facebook ](#) - [ Twitter ](#) - [ Linkedin ](#)