Over two or three consecutive summers I journeyed to the small Hebridean island of Iona, a mile from the shores of Mull, its sights and sounds pulling me back. I could walk from one end to the other in an afternoon, three miles from a white sandy beech to a dark grey cliff top--and from time to time I still find myself traversing those paths in my dreams. My first visit was with a small group of young Christians from the Dioceses of York, although we soon became attached to a larger group from across Europe that was evidently heading in the same direction. Catching the early train at York, we travelled northwards into Scotland and on up to Glasgow Queen Street in time to catch the midday train to Oban. The winding journey along the base of vast dark green valleys was painfully slow, but somehow it aroused my curiosity: there was something unique about this journey, I thought. Its ease unapparent, there was a definite sense of journey. We arrived in Oban three hours later. From there, the voyage by ferry around the islands took three quarters of an hour, docking at Craignure on the Isle of Mull. We travelled on by coach, cross country to Fionnphort, another journey lasting two hours. The last welcome leg was the ferry to Iona itself, which turned out to be a pleasantly brief crossing.

Wearied, but relieved we reached the MacLeod Centre on the lower slopes of a hill beyond the Benedictine Abbey in the early evening. Separating from my Yorkshire companions, I found myself sharing a room with characters from across the continent, one of whom stood out immediately. His feet shod in sandals and head covered beneath a wide-rimmed straw hat, this blond-bearded German soon took to playing House of the Rising Sun on his acoustic guitar over and over again.

For the next week I would be a visiting member of the Iona Community, which was founded in 1938 by Rev. George McLeod on the site of a much earlier Christian community. It is believed that Columba--a Catholic saint who had previously established a number of monasteries in Ireland--set down on one of the island's shores around 563CE. Having led an army in battle at home that left three thousand men dead, he had fled Ireland with twelve others, intent on seeking refuge on the west coast of Scotland. His exile may have been an attempt to escape his conscience as much retribution. When he finally arrived on Iona by coracle it was to change the destiny of this small, exposed outcrop amidst choppy seas; he climbed to the summit of its highest hill and looked across the horizon. Standing atop Carn-Cul-ri-Eirinn--the hill with its back to Ireland--he could no longer see his country. Thus Iona became his home.

The modern community is centred upon a tenth century abbey which post-dated the monastery which Columba built, but its spiritual essence undoubtedly has different ancestry. Although its current incarnation started as a project linked to the Church of Scotland, it is now an ecumenical community which appeals to Christians of many denominations and of different social and cultural backgrounds. This liberal approach brings together individuals who are interested in restoring the common life through social and political works, empathising issues of peace and justice. It was the emphasis on social work that appealed to me, more than the call to renew a faith based on the gospels, and it was this that drew me back the following year.

The MacLeod Centre was a modern building accommodating arts facilities, meetings rooms, a kitchen and dining room, a social area and numerous bedrooms. We soon learnt that we were there to live as a cooperative community for the week, each of us given our chores. On one day we would be cleaning the toilets, on another we would be doing the washing up or clearing the breakfast tables. The water we drank was coloured by the peat on the moor, dribbling out of the taps straight from the island's own reservoir. Our food came from the community's own allotments. The living was relatively simple as companions from several nations.

The activities we engaged in were challenging so that we always thought deeply about the issues raised. Meanwhile, Iona's unique liturgy used in worship every day was intensely moving, pulling unexpected emotions out from the depths of our souls, the mid-week pilgrimage around the island focusing on its history and providing pause for reflection. Entering this environment as one whose faith was doubtful, however, generated its own set of emotions, leaving me confused and feeling lost. Conscious of the weakness of my own faith, I demanded the signs that those early saints were said to have witnessed on this island. If old sages had seen Christ before them on these rocks, why could he not reveal himself to me, I asked?

While I travelled to Iona in a group, I soon found that I preferred solitude. Our mornings and evenings were spent in workshops, but our afternoons were free and so I would wander off to explore the lanes and footpaths on my own. Every evening a beautiful service was held in the abbey, but I soon found myself uncomfortable within those stone walls, conscious of my weak faith and the resulting sense of hypocrisy that dominated me. By the middle of the week I was no longer hurrying down to the abbey for worship before sunset, but heading off in the opposite direction instead, climbing the steep hillside to the summit of Dún-I, where I would sit down at the base of a huge rock and survey the scene below me. I would stay there until I saw people--the like of ants from that height--emerge from the abbey's entrance and then I would descend the slopes again while there was still light, the sky already orange, to meet with my companions in the MacLeod Centre in time for our evening activities.

One evening towards the end of the week I took part in a workshop in which we were asked ponder upon what we possessed, whether that was something tangible, a relationship, a collection of material goods or something of emotional value. Unfortunately, despite the many very real blessings I had been bestowed with--my family, my home, my education--I was an unhappy, pessimistic teenager. The purpose of the workshop had been to link what we had been given in life to the existence of a generous God, so that we might find greater focus in our worship, expressing real gratitude in prayer. When my depression broke this linkage, however, my fragile faith evolved into disbelief and I now denied that we had a Creator and an Overseer of our affairs.

That same evening I climbed half way up Dún-I again and stood looking up towards the stars. I drove myself to tears and in a moment's theatre cried out, "You're not real, you're not there"--an irony that was lost on me at the time. If He was not real and was not there, who then was I addressing? It was an act of rebellion at first more than an affirmation of a reality that had dawned on me just then. My faith was weak to be sure, but I was no more convinced by my disbelief as I was by the belief which had been with me throughout my childhood. Yet just as faith can grow over time, my belief in nothingness became almost religious in itself as I served it with the philosophical acrobatics of an immature mind.

I confessed my unbelief to my mother on my return from Iona, half hoping that she would have words to convince me that our faith was true and half hoping that she would accept the conclusion I had reached. It had never occurred to me that I was not alone in my struggle to find faith and so it came as some surprise that my brother had found the writings of the Archbishop of Durham useful in setting him back on track. Instead of feeling reassured, however, I just found myself more confused.