A MEDITATION ON OUR SCOTTISH PATRIMONY FOR BURNS NIGHT

“I am the Way” in Scottish Gaelic 

O Lord, who hast not despised the heathered hills,

nor passed over the crofter’s hearth,

nor scorned the laughter of the common table,

we give Thee thanks for the Scottish Patrimony

of Thy Ancient Church in the West.

For Thou didst plant Thy Gospel not only in marble basilicas

but in kirks of stone and turf,

among psalm-singing ploughmen and praying fisherfolk,

where faith wore homespun and holiness walked in muddy boots.

Here, the Incarnation was never an abstraction.

Christ was known as near;

near as the fire in winter,

near as bread broken with neighbors,

near as mercy shown to the poor.

Robert Burns, with his merry eye and wounded heart,

saw what theologians sometimes forget:

that pride is the true heresy,

and that God delights to unmask it with laughter.

“O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us,

To see oursels as ithers see us.”

So prays the poet, and so prays the penitent soul.

For humility is not humiliation,

but truth; 

the soul standing honestly before God and man,

neither swollen with self-importance

nor crushed beneath false shame.

This was the temper of the Scottish Nonjuring way:

a stubborn fidelity without swagger,

a loyalty that refused the shortcuts of power,

choosing conscience over convenience,

truth over survival.

They were not revolutionaries,

nor were they romantics of resistance;

they were simply men who would not sweat

what they could not believe.

They kept the old prayers,

the old sacraments,

the old calendar of feasts and fasts,

not because they were quaint,

but because they were true.

In their hands, worship was never theatrical.

It was careful.

Measured.

Pastoral.

The Eucharist was not a spectacle but a gift.

The priest was not a performer but a servant.

The bishop was not a prince but a father.

This sobriety, this restraint, this preference for substance over show,

is no accident… it is deeply and truly Orthodox.

For Orthodoxy does not shout to prove itself;

it stands, prays, and endures.

And yet…

how human, how warm, how gently comic was this tradition!

Burns reminds us that sanctity need not be salty nor sour.

The Scottish Christian Patrimony could rebuke hypocrisy with a grin,

mock pomposity without malice,

and still kneel in tears before the mercy of God.

Here was a piety that knew its own weakness,

and therefore trusted not in moral posturing,

but in grace.

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft agley.”

So confesses the farmer-poet,

and so confesses the Church at prayer.

Our plans falter; our empires fail;

only repentance endures.

This realism, this refusal of utopian fantasy…

is itself an ascetical wisdom.

It keeps the Church grounded,

patient,

slow to condemn,

quick to forgive.

The Holy Scottish Patrimony of the Ancient Church of the West

teaches us that holiness is profoundly practical.

It is found in honest labor,

in keeping one’s word,

in hospitality without pretension,

in worship that forms the soul for daily life.

It is not suspicious of culture,

nor intoxicated by it,

but baptizes what is good and laughs off what is foolish.

And so we love this Patrimony: 

not as an ethnic possession,

not as a bade of tribal honor,

not as nostalgia for a vanished people, 

but as a gift entrusted to the whole Body of Christ.

For the heather belongs not only to the Scot,

but to any pilgrim who walks humbly before God.

The psalm sung in Gaelic or Scots

is no less true when sung in English, Chinese, Arabic, or Swahili.

The faith that took root in Scottish soil

was never meant to stay just there,

But was meant to spread like a Scottish Thistle on the wind!

Like Burns’ own heart… wide, aching, generous;

this tradition is catholic in the deepest sense.

It welcomes the stranger,

defends the poor,

and refuses to measure worth by blood or birth.

It knows, with quiet certainty,

that Christ did not die for a race,

but for the world.

Therefore, O Lord,

grant that we may keep this inheritance faithfully:

with humor that disarms pride,

with humility that invites grace,

with piety that is real,

and with a love that crosses every border.

Make us heirs who share,

stewards who give freely,

and witnesses who proclaim,

not with arrogance,

but with honest warmth, 

that the Ancient Church of the West still lives,

still prays,

and still belongs to all who seek Thee in truth.

And may we be like beloved Rabbie Burns, who could see himself and laugh, 

knowing that Thou, O Lord, 

Dost love Thy children… even in their frailty! 

Amen.

- By Bp. Joseph (Boyd) of Loveland