There was a young boy around seven years of age named Sylas. Now Sylas was an underwhelming character: about three inches taller than a cereal box, freckles camped below his eyelids, a nose the size of a cherry, and two innocuous twigs for arms; but he always carried a smile so big and bright that it appeared as if there were three Sylas’s in a room when, of course, there could only be one Sylas in a room. In addition, he had fairly large and strong feet, which would later prove to be quite useful for him.
Sylas’s father Jack, who looked nothing like his son, never treated him as anything other than his beloved boy. Now Jack, while exquisitely handsome he was, was unable to walk and had been since his youth. But Jack never let his inability to travel keep him from going magnificent places. What I mean is this: Jack read a lot of books about reality and non-reality, which allowed him to visit more mountain ranges, exotic jungles, and sandy beaches than a person could do with a hundred legs.
Sylas’s favorite part of the day was actually the day’s end: around nine o clock at night, Sylas would go to the bathroom, wash his face, brush his teeth, change into his jammies, and move rather quickly to his bed, which was at all times decorated by glass-colored sheets, as the invisible color of glass was his favorite. After wrapping the sheets around himself twice over, like a double wrapped burrito was he, Sylas pressed the tiny blue button on his night stand right next to the bed. For a few minutes nothing changed, but Sylas did not appear disappointed to say the least—for he was a patient boy. Eventually, the bedroom door creaked open, and in came Sylas’s father on his wheelchair, carrying what he always would carry at a time like this: a good story.
Sometimes Jack told true stories, other times he told make believe stories, but Sylas was not of the age where he could really tell the difference. But there was something out of place about Jack at this particular moment that Sylas had to acknowledge with the utmost concern: “Papa, where is your book that you always bring for story time?” Jack locked the gear on his wheelchair, leaned forward towards his son, and responded with these words:
“My son, what I am about to tell you tonight is the most important story I could ever tell you about, as it is both important and true. The story is about a very special island. This island is unlike anything you’ve ever heard of, unless you have heard of a place where the sky is always blue; where the sun never burns your skin; and a place where time stops altogether. The island is the island of Zoé, which is Greek for ‘life.’”
“Many things about Zoé are impressive, but the king surpasses them all. He is always placing the needs of his people first. His wisdom is the highest of its kind: like a culmination of all of the known ethical systems—he satisfies them all. The king, like all of us, has his enemies. The enemy of the king has his own island, which is the same island we live on. The king of Zoé, knowing there are people on the enemy’s island, devised a plan to create a bridge allowing people to come to Zoé. The bridge was made out of glass because the king of Zoé did not want the enemy to even know about it. Now the king told his son to build the bridge because he loved the people on the enemy’s island. The son built the bridge with his bare hands without any help. Just as the king of Zoé sent his only son to build the glass bridge to the island, so I am challenging you to go and find that bridge and cross it.”
“I tell you this Sylas because there is a way back to this place, a way back to Zoé. I know the precise coordinates of its location, but it is quite far from our backyard shores—a few hundred miles or so and only increasing as I now speak. The reason I am telling you all of this, Sylas, is because I believe you are mature enough for it. I have told many others about this place and the exact way to get there and some have believed me and attempted to get there, but many have been distracted and decided to chase after other things. The trickiest part of the journey to the island of Zoé is (1) finding the bridge and (2) walking it.”
“The bridge is partly underwater and made of the finest and clearest glass ever seen. It is not the kind of glass you are used to, or that any human is used to for that matter. The glass is so clear that it is quite impossible to find the bridge using your own intuition without being told where to look. Next time you go out on the shore, go out at a dark time—either early in the morning or sometime in the night. While on the shore, go to that tall gnarled palm tree you’ve always loved to climb. Climb it as high as you can and look for the largest and brightest star. This may take you a while and you should not rush the process because you must find the brightest star—anything less will do you nothing but harm. While it will be difficult in the beginning, you’ll know it when you see it and you’ll feel like you knew it the whole time. It is a strange matter that all must undertake to reach the island.”
“Be sure you have the right star, mark it in your mind, and climb down the tree. Look up again, find your star, and start walking without taking your gaze off the star. It might be rather uncomfortable to hold your gaze to such a vibrant celestial object, but it is of the highest kind of importance that you do. As you walk, you will feel something strange as your feet come to touch the chilling waters of the Atlantic—but be not alarmed, just keep your eyes fixed on your star as you walk. When you get about knee deep in the waters, you will suddenly not feel the soft, crunchy sand under your feet; instead you will feel a warm and smooth platform. You made it on the glass bridge. Once you feel this sturdy glass under your feet, you can take your eyes off the star, looking up only when you feel in doubt about your next steps. Keep walking the glass road and you’ll make it to the island of Zoé.”
Behind The Story
I wrote “Getting to the Island of Zoé” to illustrate the biblical balance of faith and works. Sylas has to have faith in (1) his father’s words, (2) that he has the right star, and (3) that the invisible bridge will safely get him to the island; and of course he had to work (a lot of walking) to get there. The bridge, being invisible and on the waters of the Atlantic, was inspired by the Apostle Peter attempting to walk across water to meet Jesus (who was already walking on water, Mt. 14:22-33). Peter walked a few steps but then he fell, and Jesus told Peter why he fell: “Oh you of little faith, why did you doubt?” (Mt. 14:31).
I’m not sure if I will finish the story, but I enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoyed reading it.
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