a spiritual practice for wandering...

Whenever we travel throughout Montreal and the Eastern Townships, I find myself journaling here often. It has become my spiritual discipline for wandering. Not only does intentionally sitting down to write give me a container to explore thoughts, feelings, and experiences, but it also affords me a way to insert quotes and wisdom from the various sources that fill my days. Along with a highly fluid use of A Book of Hours that summarizes some of Fr. Teilhard de Chardin's insights into bite-sized morsels that I can digest, this practice encourages me to synthesize each day's encounters in pursuit of what poet William Stafford calls those "small strands of synchronicity woven through my life."

Yesterday we strolled down Mount Royal from our current digs to the always lively and never serene Avenue Ste. Catherine. If you have read any of Louise Penny's Inspector Gamache novels, you know that Ste. Catherine is where the wild side exists in all its splendor and sadness. It's currently enduring a six-year renovation and renewal project that has turned the center of the avenue into an open pit filled with jackhammers, hydraulic drills, and brain-breaking metallic screams as concrete and piping are destroyed and replaced. By 2030, city officials promise a return to its former "walk on the wild side" ambiance, but currently it's a mess. Still, Ste. Catherine's sidewalks are filled with all types of hard souls. 

We were out to find Montreal's oldest Anglophone book shop: Argo. Our journeys are defined by a quest to find a city's best independent bookstores, jazz clubs, and old churches. Argo is a gem surrounded by an eclectic morass of Vietnamese soup shops, hair salons, doner kebob vendors, and weary children of God sleeping rough on benches, in doorways, or discarded mats. I came away with a Can-Lit mystery (always a fav) and a collection of homilies by the Rev. Maggie Helwig, which she calls Instructions for the End of the World.  

Holy synchronicity, Batman! On this sojourn, I also brought with me David Bentley Hart's retranslation of the New Testament, in which he strives to literally return the koine Greek of Christ's first disciples into the fury and angst of the original fractured syntax of men and women who also found themselves teetering on the edge of the apocalypse. Hart writes that after finding himself retranslating passages of the New Testament for students in lecture halls... because whatever translations they were using:

... obscured aspects of the original text I thought extremely important... I have come to believe that all the standard English translations render a great many of the concepts and presuppositions upon which the books of the New Testament are built largely impenetrable, and that most of them effectively hide (sometimes forcibly) things of absolutely vital significance for understanding how the texts' authors thought... what perhaps (impressed me most) with an unexpected force was a new sense of the utter strangeness of the Christian vision of life in its first dawning - by which I mean, precisely, its strangeness in respect to the Christianity of later centuries,. When one truly ventures into the world of the first Christians, one enters a company of "radicals" (for want of a better word), an association of men and women guided by faith in a world-altering revelation, and hence in values almost absolutely inverse to the recognized social, political, economic, and religious truths not only of their own age, but of almost every age of human culture. (The New Testament: A Translation, second edition, David Bentley Hart, revised introduction)

In other words, believers crafting instructions for how to live into the way of Jesus at the end of the world. Candidly, this simple truth knocked me on my butt. For while knowing this abstractly and accepting that my faith has long been shaped by the wisdom and biases of bourgeois, white, male Reformed theology, I never fully grasped that my ancestors in faith believed their end was imminent. I've been aided by various liberation insights, including second-wave feminists, people of color, the sociological analysis of Latin American believers, the wisdom of the indigenous people of the Americas, and those accompanying people with intellectual and physical disabilities, only to discover that once again, "I once was blind, but now I see."  Or more accurately, "only when the student is ready does the Buddha appear." Perhaps the ever encroaching wildfires, political corruption, cultural chaos, and jarring dualities of this era woke me up. All I know this morning is that that still small strand of silent synchronicity once again emerges, yes? 

After Easter this year, I started spending time with the apophatic wisdom-keepers of Christianity. Seeking the God Beyond by J.P. Williams continues to be a useful guide. He writes: "The goal of the spiritual life is to meet God and to keep meeting god, walking together as friend with friend. Knowing about God isn't the goal." And so the journey continues just as Rumi said:

Who makes these changes?

I shoot an arrow right.

It lands left.

I ride after a deer and find myself

chased by a hog.

I plot to get what I want

and end up in prison.

I dig pits to trap others

and fall in.

I should be suspicious

of what I want.

a time for reflection in montreal - redux

Fr. Richard Rohr has written that the story of Job teaches us that: "Ultimately, God cannot really be known through theology, the law, or common sense. God can only be related to and known through relationship." We can gather and accept information about the Sacred, we can collect volumes of wisdom distilled from the experiences of others about the Divine, too. But, as Rohr insists, unless we are ready, willing, and able to "feel deeply we can not know deeply either. It is only because Job is willing to feel his emotions that he is able to come to grips with the mystery of suffering in his head and heart and gut." And that mystery, as Fr. Teilhard de Chardin writes, is that:

Not only our unavoidable ills but our faults, even our most deliberate ones, can be embraced in a (holy) transformation, provided always that we repent of them. Not everything is immediately good to those who seek God; but everything is capable of becoming good.

This insight is almost always absent from traditional Reformed theology and its various spiritualities. In both Eastern Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism, however, it is known as the Pascal Mystery, where even something as deadly as the Cross can become a life-giving blessing by God's grace and even an iota of faith/trust. Fr. de Chardin writes:

The flower I held in my hands withered in my hands. At the turn of the lane a wall rose up before me. Suddenly, between the trees, I saw the edge of the forest which I thought had no end. A flame burnt up the paper on which my thought was written. The testing time had come. But it did not bring the unalleviated sorrow I had expected, of being pulled up short by the uncertainties and limitations of every single particular good. On the contrary, a glorious unsuspected joy invaded my soul. And why was this, Lord, if not because, in the collapse of those immediate supports I came so dangerously close to accepting for my life, I knew with a unique experiential certainty that I would never again rely for support on anything save Your own divine consistence. (Teilhard de Chardin A Book of Hours, pp.147-8)

Two practices help me trust such a mystery: sitting silently with the wisdom of our wound. Silence is vital. Incrementally, it strips away my excuses, illusions, and defenses if I sit with it long enough. It is a strict but compassionate master that will not let me deflect or deny truth. And the truth that is always waiting to be born within the pregnant wisdom of my wounds is that my angst, my fury, my resentments, and addictions really are not what they seem. They are not a destination, but rather the doorway to grace if I am willing to let them teach me. And their lesson is so absurd and counter-cultural that I want to reject it: namely, that whatever I am feeling is usually the exact opposite of what I should do. When I want to lash out, it would be better to take some time out. When I want to scream, it would be best to shut up. And when I want to run away, the Sacred invites me to stay put. 

Sitting silently with the wisdom of my wounds takes practice. I still mostly hate it. Yet, without practicing and honoring the paradoxical wisdom of my wounds, I bring more hurt and darkness into the world. Fr. de Chardin adds:

Human suffering, the sum total of suffering poured out at each moment over the whole earth, is like an immeasurable ocean. But what makes up this immensity? Is it blackness, emptiness, barren wastes? No, indeed, it is potential energy. A price has to be paid for the struggle. The earth groans in travail with Christ. Like a wagon that creaks and grinds, progress advances painfully, bruised and tearful. Suffering holds hidden within it, in extreme intensity, the ascensional force of the world.

In one of his most vulnerable songs, Springsteen puts this well in "Living Proof."

a time for reflection: montreal 2026

We travel to Montreal often: at least twice a year - and sometimes more. Annually, we make a point to spend some time in the Eastern Townships of Quebec as well. It has become a place of refuge and reflection. Our first encounter occurred almost 20 years ago in pursuit of the trip hop band, Cinematic Orchestra. While in London the year before, we heard their brilliant synthesis of rap, jazz, electronica, and rock while browsing a shop at the Camden Market. Their groove blew me away. It was the heart and soul of "genre-bending" in all its transformative power. So, when the band hit Montreal, we joined them at a tiny venue, Club Soda, in a seedy section of town saturated with sex shops and souls who "only come out at night."

Since then, we've regularly returned both for inward and outward exploration. I've gone deep into a spirituality of tenderness here. We renewed our wedding vows with new rings here, explored an extended jazz sabbatical, basked in the brilliance of Lisa Fischer, Wayne Shorter, Alex Bellegarde, and studied the music of both Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell. Initially, I planned this pilgrimage to be about the universal consciousness of Fr. Teilhard de Chardin and the apophatic spiritual wisdom of the Eastern Church, with a short break to celebrate our granddaughter Anna's 9th birthday. But as happens so often, especially if you're at all familiar and resonant with the ways the ancient Celtic monks made pilgrimage, a deeper need has emerged: taking another step towards making peace with the mystery of Di's multiple maladies. Those sacred sojourners of old did not have a goal or even a destination for their peregrinations; rather, they wandered freely until they sensed a place of personal resurrection and stopped to enter the real, albeit obscure blessings of that place.

In retrospect, I might have sensed this was coming. Our trip from Massachusetts to Montreal included listening to a podcast about the unexpected death of Glenn Hansard, plodding our way carefully through multiple blinding downpours, and then discovering I'd forgotten a few necessities. Earlier in the week I'd shared a conversation with two of our friends from L'Arche Ottawa about how illness can include a more contemplative rhythm within it. I know this to be true abstractly but continue to find it much more difficult to affirm incarnationally. To be sure, I've long confessed to being a slow learner who shows up late to the party, and once again that truth is taking up residence within. So, what did I read at the start of this morning's quiet time?

Like an artist who is able to make use of a fault or an impurity in the stone they are sculpting or the bronze they are casting so as to produce a more beautiful tone, God, without sparing us the partial deaths, nor the final death, which form a essential part of our lives, transfigures them by integrating them in a better plan - provided we lovingly trust God. (Teilhard de Chardin: A Book of Hours, eds. Kathleen Deignan, CND and Libby Osgood, CND)

And just so that I wouldn't miss this challenging invitation, Fr. Richard Rohr added this from his reflection on Job:

No piece of religious literature teaches the way of “descent” more daringly and effectively than the book of Job. The story cries out against a darkness that refuses to reveal itself—and a path that does not feel at first like life at all. This makes it a challenging but important text for those of us in the West who tend to resist the archetypal and necessary journey of “descent.” We have been able to manufacture a kind of “ascent” unlike that of our ancestors. Reason, medicine, technology, and speed have allowed us to avoid the ordinary “path of the fall.” Now we are unpracticed and afraid of all kinds of suffering—big and small.

And in case I wasn't paying attention, Fr. Richard Rohr adds:

If the postmodern crisis is above all else a crisis of the self, and I think it is, then the story of Job realigns the “self”—correctly, humbly, and truthfully. What both Job and Jesus seem to say is that truth is finally a person and an encounter—much more than a concept that can be argued. It is not quick or easy to encounter the true self or the true God. Both encounters require a gradual unveiling that is both sacred and full of suffering. Every movement toward union with God will feel like a loss of self-importance and self-control. We are realigned with truth when the real person meets the real God—which is exactly the stuff of spirituality, good theology, and transformation.

I guess Sheryl Crow was right...

finally...

These past three months have taken their toll. Grief and anxiety will do that even if you don't fully recognize the signs. I certainly didn't after Di was first diagnosed with CAD and chronic hemolytic leukemia. That news did not come to us gently, but rather in an anonymous announcement on her patient portal. To say that a wave of terror washed over us both, albeit in different ways, would be a gross understatement. It was more like an emotional tsunami of bleak and relentless despair. I'm a person of prayer - and immediately called upon the Lord - but still awoke at 3 pm every night for nearly a month, totally disoriented, and close to a panic attack. It wasn't a crisis of faith. St. Paul notes that "we do not grieve as others do who have no hope," but that doesn't mean we don't grieve. Or weep. Or feel as if the ground beneath our feet has shifted. (For those unfamiliar with CAD, see the chart below.)

I've only recently regained my inner equilibrium - and a bit of my energy, too. I wasn't really aware of how unsettled and periodically unfocused I'd become. But grief and anxiety are exhausting - for the one physically afflicted, for sure - but also for their loved ones and caregivers, too. Thank God for my church community! They have been patient, tender, supportive, and oh so loving. My bandmates, too. And our children and grandchildren! All down-to-earth angels of compassion and encouragement.

Earlier in May, after about one week of physical pain and loss of hearing in my right ear due to a double ear infection and another two weeks of slow recovery, Di and I took our bi-annual retreat around the time of our anniversary. I immediately came down with a wicked head cold (which I lovingly shared) and found myself sleeping for 10 or 12 hours all week. Then, maybe five days ago, I woke up, and I felt focused. Not energized, mind you, but without the fog of weariness dragging me down. I had a measure of perspective on work, life, family, church, music, and love again that I hadn't realized had been buried for three months. I had energy for more than just going to church, doing music rehearsal, and then collapsing into bed for an all-too-short night's sleep. We're not out of the woods yet; there's a follow-up visit to the hematologist on Friday, but finally, there is perspective. Dare I even say hope that we have more life and love to share together? More time to care for those most dear to our hearts? More songs to sing? More prayers to craft? More compassion, too?

As I looked around my study, where about 75 books sit on the floor awaiting shelving, my eyes went to this, and I laughed out loud.

It's one of my interfaith home altars made up of a few of my late father's Buddhas, my favorite menorah and kippa, Shiva, a few dozen crosses from around the world, the Virgin of Guadalupe, an Islamic prayer I bought in London, an Eastern Orthodox icon of Jesus, some "healing soil" from the shrine at Chimayo, NM, stones from my granddaughter Anna, and some dried cactus from Tucson. My laughter - and energy - impelled me back to our deck for this photo of our garden and the surrounding wetlands.

Today, I rejoice that we got this year's crop of herbs planted on the deck. We finally eradicated the sickening smell of some dead animal that had died somewhere in the house, too. The sun was out. My hands and heart felt alive after digging in the dirt. My back ached from digging and planting. And after finishing this Sunday's homily, I had the chance to get our outdoor lights lit. Lots more to be done in the time we've been given - and I am so grateful. 

it's been a long, time comin'

Once upon a time, a wise soul suggested to me that one way to discern God's will l involved the witness of Scripture, the confluence of insights from time-tested mentors, encounters with synchronicity, and the possibility of actually accomplishing something. The overarching metaphor was nautical, in which a sailor aligns markers on the horizon to guide the boat safely to shore. And while I am a land lover par excellence who gets seasick with the mere mention of boating, this notion has been useful for decades. Not only does it offer a corrective to my inclination towards spontaneity, but it also broadens the lens through which I conduct my evaluations. In an era defined by chaos, the abandonment of ethical norms, and the quest for individual freedom, G.K. Chesterton's quote about tradition rings true:

Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. (Orthodoxy)

So, color me surprised but attentive when last week I came across a meme on Facebook quoting a comparable insight from C.S. Lewis in The Abolition of Man that not only mirrors Chesterton's sagacity but resonates with a portion of Charles Taylor's masterwork, A Secular Age, and echoes the acuity of Robert Pirsig's second novel, Lilia: An Inquiry into Morals. Lewis states that as contemporary society continues to confuse ethics and morality with being "nice," culture does not become more tolerant:

It becomes manipulable... (or what Lewis poetically describes) as men without chests. People with appetites and intellects, but no courage, no honor, no trained moral instincts. They can calculate everything and defend nothing... for once we reject inherited moral law, we don’t become free. We become raw material… easily shaped by propaganda, pleasure, and fear. Modern man prides himself on compassion while quietly surrendering every standard that once gave compassion meaning... a civilization that educates clever cowards who will eventually be ruled by tyrants or technicians. Because when nothing is worth dying for, every-thing becomes negotiable… including human dignity. (The Abolition of Man)

How did St. Bob Dylan put it in "Ballad of a Thin Man?" Something's going on all around you, and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones? (Take a listen to one of the most scalding screeds of the bard's life works here: 

https://youtu.be/63ucJmVonAc?si=t50IEgkj13V-vgIk) Well, something is starting to line up for me from these varied yet time-trusted mentors. And while our current moral confusion is different from the decadence of the Weimar Republic and its later descent into the evils of Nazi Germany, there are cautionary parallels. Currently, the United States is flirting dangerously with a pseudo-theocracy that looks backward to the good old days of a sanitized Christianity, much as the Nazis harkened back romantically to a restored Aryan paganism. Both are nostalgic for purity, both consciously and creatively seek to ignore and deny our shadows, and both promise a restoration to stability and grandeur. 

Taylor writes that in the US, this has incrementally taken place by elevating science as our new god, viewing nature as autonomous, "thing that doesn’t just exist as a means for God to act in this world, as a tool in God’s toolbelt. Nor was nature to be understood as occupied by, acted upon, or the playground of various extra-human powers. So, nature could be spoken of without reference to God, or any of the other powers previously imagined." He adds that the triumph of individualism as the goal of life, and the rejection of stories of morality rooted in faith, are married.
In the days when the entire culture was viewed as being informed by God, when all of life was ordered in line with divine revelation, the task was to align ourselves with those externally provided moral sources. But new ways of knowing developed as we began to understand we could know things by the application of thought, independent of external revelation from God, gods, or the cosmological order. From Christianity, our Western ancestors had been deeply formed by the concept of benevolence and justice. When, though, the old religious, meta-physical beliefs are discarded, when God’s role in the social order is diminished, new explanations must be produced to account for those values of benevolence and justice, and the motivation to act in those ways. The way to do that was to explain them as inherent characteristics of human beings; there all along, not dependent on the old religious mythologies for their justification.

And therein is the linkage: without an objective, shared moral compass, we each become our own deity. A slippery slope, as Niebuhr would put it, where we not only fail to recognize our own selfishness but also refuse to anticipate the unintended consequences of even our most noble activities. Pirsig spoke to this in Lilia when he observed that early-20th-century free-thinkers like Bertrand Russell were schooled, trained, and conscientized by traditional morality. Their rebellion was guided by time-tested ethics. When the next generation rebelled, however, there was no moral consensus to oppose - and all hell broke loose. This continued same in the 50s and 60s where free thinkers like Ginsberg could write: I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. Wikipedia correctly observes that Pirsig concluded:

That until the end of the Victorian era, social patterns dominated the conduct of members of American culture. In the aftermath of World War I, intellectual patterns and the scientific method acceded to that position, becoming responsible for directing the nation's goals and actions. The later occurrences of fascism are seen as an anti-intellectual struggle to return social patterns to the dominant position. The hippie movement, having perceived the flaws inherent in both social and intellectual patterns, sought to transcend them, but failed to provide a stable replacement, degenerating instead into lower level biological patterns as noted in its calls for free love.

So here we are: longing for a non-existent past, afraid and righteously angry with the limitations and defects of organized religion and government, uncertain about the spiritual emptiness of our souls and culture, and addicted to distractions. Neil Postman's prescient Amusing Ourselves to Death continues to cry out for a wider audience. Nevertheless, I refuse to see this moment only as a time of despair, but rather as one where small and tender acts of compassion, born of Christ's love and God's grace, hold an alternative to the status quo. Not in any obviously heroic way, but softly, quietly, and humbly.  Small wonder that I've found solace and support in the words of Fr. Jon Swales:

I don’t want to be a Christian who forgets how to feel—
who hides behind answers, quotes verses like shields,
and silences sorrow with a song.
I don’t want a faith of romanticized abstraction,
where resurrection is polished and the cross is theory.
Give me something real—flesh and blood, grief and grace.
I want to weep with eyes wide open. Tears that speak truth.
Tears that rise from the ground of compassion,
from the jagged knowledge that the world is not
as it was meant to be.
I have seen it—the wounded souls, the haunted eyes,
the bruises beneath the surface.
I have felt the weight of injustice that crushes and isolates,
while the world looks away.
These are not tears of despair—but of resistance, of aching love,
of holding the pain when no one else will.
I want a hope that isn’t saccharine. Not hopium.
Not denial in disguise. But a defiant, dirt-under-the-fingernails
kind of hope—the kind that walks through the valley, sits in the ashes,
and still whispers, “Even here… God.”
I want a gospel that holds the wound.
A Christ who draws close, a Spirit who groans,
a God who gathers every tear in a bottle,
holds every sorrow like a fragile flame,
and knows what it is to break.
I want to believe—not cheaply, not loudly—
but with trembling trust, that one day, every tear
will be wiped away. Not erased, but remembered,
redeemed, and transfigured.
Until then, let me be the kind who weeps.
Who walks in holy realism.
Who holds vigil in the shadow of the cross
and waits, with aching hope,
for the dawn.

when the student is ready...

One of the resets that has become vital to me during our bi-annual quiet retreats involves daily prayer. For decades, I practiced regular centering prayer (https:// centeringprayer.com/) and then one day I quit. There wasn't any clear reason for this, except that it prefigured a midlife meltdown of sorts, in which I questioned most of my longstanding commitments. The late Robert Bly, channeling C.G. Jung, regularly told his men's mythopoetic gatherings that if men didn't address our puer aeternus archetype (https://www.jungian-confrerie.com/ phdi/p1.nsf/supppages/8209?opendocument&part=17)  by about age 50, facing and owning our shadow side honestly and abandoning our desire to live as an Icarus for the 21st century, we would either reach old age as cranky, old cynics or else embarrassing fools buying red convertible cars, chasing young lovers, and dressing as if we were still 22. His book with Marion Woodman, The Sibling Society, described generations of contemporary sisters and brothers without many competent mothers, father, and wisdom-keeping elders anywhere on the horizon. So, while my crash was ugly, and took a ton of counseling, tears, and contemplation, in retrospect, I give thanks to God for it.

Part of the collateral damage of this journey for me, however, was my disconnect from the discipline of daily contemplation and lectio divina. As some of my Zen friends say: only when the student is ready will the Buddha appear - and I sense that this student is once again ready. Currently, I'm using Prayers for the Domestic Church by Fr. Ed Hays. Today's liturgy struck a deep chord within:

The redemption of the world, the removal of injustice, and the spread of unity among all peoples is beyond my limited abilities. Lord, help me to examine how I have failed to redeem that small part of the world that did touch my life today. (pause for silent reflection and sacred gesture) In holy unity, with my heart at peace and surrounded with gratitude, I now enter into a sacred stillness.

After nearly a decade of avoiding the practice of deep contemplation, I pray that I am ready again to be still and know... Walking quietly by a Vermont waterfall in the cool sunshine yesterday provided another gentle affirmation - as did today's rain - and St. Jon's gospel for the Feast of the Ascension. Lord, may it be so within.

no accounting for happiness...

During our bi-annual retreats, I find myself peculiarly open to poems old and new. This morning, after a cold snap last night, this gem from Jane Kenyon called to me. As someone far wiser than I noted: "Kenyon was a master at exploring the heights and depths of everyday life, focusing on what she called 'the luminous particular.'"

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon,
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.

It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

After last night's near frost, this morning's sunshine feels like a gift. It's not quite warm outside, barely 45F, but clear, crisp, and delicious. Soon we'll hike by a local waterfall so I can soak up my second-favorite sound in all creation (the first being my grandchildren's laughter). Perhaps I'll get to practice a few guitar changes before cogitating on this Sunday's gospel text. Or take another nap. Nothing too challenging for either of us this week.  Serendipitously, while reflecting quietly this morning, I stumbled upon these words from the late John O'Donaghue:

When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
time takes on the strain until it breaks;
all the unattended stress falls in on the mind like an endless,

increasing weight.
Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
dragging down every bone.
The tide you never valued has gone out...
you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
and you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
and patiently learn to receive the self
you have forsaken for the race of days..
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.
You have travelled too fast over false ground.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone at ease
who feels they have all the time in the world.
Gradually, you will return to yourself,
having learned a new respect for your heart
and the joy that dwells far within slow time.

Now your soul has come to take you back.
Take refuge in your senses, open up
to all the small miracles you rushed through.
Become inclined to watch the way of rain
when it falls slow and free.
Imitate the habit of twilight,
taking time to open the well of colour
that fostered the brightness of day.
Draw alongside the silence of stone
until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.

And so we will...

hallelujah any way...

It is so incredibly quiet here. We are on our bi-annual get-away-and-reclaim-our-sanity retreat that corresponds with our wedding anniversary. For decades, we have made time and space to step back from our routines, work, and commitments for a time of reflection and reconnection. Sometimes it's only for a few days; last year it was for three plus weeks. This year, we've set aside six days to savor the solitude of rural Vermont. Nothing special happens on these sojourns except we avoid crowds as much as possible, find time to walk in the woods, sit by a wood fire, watch a few European mysteries, talk about what's been going on since our last retreat - and rest. We slept for 12+ hours last night and later took an extended late afternoon nap. 

To say that 2026 has been full would be a wild understatement. Di's health concerns became more complicated. I've been working vigorously at the beloved Palmer congregational church and playing a lot of music gigs in both All of Us ( https://www.facebook.com/james.lumsden/) and Wednesday)'s Child (https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61575902260523) all of which has been rewarding and creative - but demanding. And then, just when one health problem plateaued, another arrived for such is the joy of aging, n'est pas? The Queen of Provincetown, the late Mary Oliver, wrote:


Everyone should be born into this world happy
and loving everything.
But in truth it rarely works that way.
For myself, I have spent my life clamoring toward it.
Halleluiah, anyway I'm not where I started!

And have you too been trudging like that, sometimes
almost forgetting how wondrous the world is
and how miraculously kind some people can be?
And have you too decided that probably nothing important
is ever easy?
Not, say, for the first sixty years.

Halleluiah, I'm sixty now, and even a little more,
and some days I feel I have wings.


I concur, albeit with a few qualifications: these days, I am more fragile than before; my diminished hearing is a pain in the ass; and my heart becomes weary as loved ones cross over into eternal life, and my country goes through yet another spell of cruelty and crudity. This, too, shall pass, I know, and I look to Mother Nature for reminders. But like George Harrison sang 57 years ago: "Isn't it a pity, isn't it a shame, how we break each other's hearts and cause each other pain." In his masterwork, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," he adds: "I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping... while my guitar gently weeps." Some days that's all I can do: weep. Mostly, however, I give thanks for the beauty and joy that remains for that is what shall endure. Again, our beloved Mary Oliver, got it right when she wrote:

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

My prayer for myself and all of you during this retreat is simple: may we incrementally relinquish our worries, take our old bodies out into the morning sunshine, and sing.

(di's picture from the balcony of our retreat cottage)

reflections on doubt, trust, and getting out of our own way...

EASTER 2 Worship Message: Learning to See by Faith NOT Sight

(with gratitude to the SALT Project and Richard Rohr for their wisdom)

One of the truths about living into faith is that it is more of a journey than a destination – and no matter how well we plan, there are always surprises, problems, interruptions, and sometimes unexpected blessings. Some of you know I have an OLD car – almost 16 years old to the day – and, outwardly, it’s in pretty good shape, with minimal rust and a strong disposition. That said, making my commute from Pittsfield on a regular basis has awakened me anew to the very real challenges of making this journey by faith. I TRUST that God has called me to be with you – and I give thanks to the Lord that I am here – and yet there have been times when the trip has been trying.

· After worship and meetings one Sunday during my first year, I discovered that the new brake job I had done on Friday was defective when, no sooner did I get ON the Pike, than I had no brakes. That was a wild time in prayer, and I rejoiced that I was carried home safely that evening.

· Another time, about two months ago, I couldn’t figure out where a weird rumbling sound was coming from until, after getting home, I saw that my left rear tire was barely hanging on by two out of five lug nuts.

· And no sooner did I get home from Maundy Thursday this year than the power steering, AC, and muffler gave up the ghost as soon as I pulled in the driveway. Now, I’m NOT saying that God caused these problems to test me. That would be superstitious. What I AM saying is that each of these – and a variety of other challenges of my journey – prompted me to pray, act with extreme caution, and then return thanks to the Lord each time I got home safely. Please, do not worry about the Beast or ME – a new vehicle is in the works relatively soon!

I recall this simply to note that I have some experience with the uncertainties of a journey, whether physical, emotional, mechanical, international, or spiritual. So did St. Paul, who likened living into Christ’s resurrection as a pilgrimage – not something that happens all at once – but through practicing seeing by FAITH, not sight. TRUSTING God rather than just what is obvious. Honoring the Spirit’s grace and guidance deep within

· That’s what the Scriptures of Eastertide are all about: learning to see and trust God’s loving presence by faith, not just by sight – and doing our part to honor this mystery. During the seven weeks of Eastertide, poetically one week longer than Lent, we read stories of the risen Jesus appearing to his followers in order that we, too, might embrace the teachings of Jesus and share intimacy with God as they once did.

· And a recurring theme in these post-resurrection stories is how, from the very outset, Christian communities struggled to perceive and believe that God had truly raised Jesus from the dead. For starters, the risen Jesus isn’t recognized at first. Magdalene thought he was the local gardener.

Later in John, the disciples don’t recognize him on the beach. Next week, in Luke, two of Jesus’ followers have an extended conversation with and about Jesus without realizing who he is! Both John and Luke go out of their way to suggest that the resurrection means something more mysterious than simple resuscitation: Jesus has risen and, at the same time, is somehow different. Part of what’s going on is the early Christian community wrestling with the fact that great numbers of people didn’t notice Jesus' return because “resurrection” defies conventional categories. Jesus was clearly back, but only a few had eyes to see that it was really him, his closest followers needed help, and we, too, are asked to learn to see by faith, not merely by sight. (SALT Project)

Today’s story begins by telling us it’s the evening of “the first day of the week,” a day of fresh starts. Mary Magdalene has just declared to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord!” and Peter and John have gone to the empty tomb in confusion. But as night falls, the disciples are perplexed, huddling in a locked house for fear of the religious authorities. (NOTE: these words ought to warn us about ANY talk of creating a theocracy in the USA, Israel, Iran, or anywhere else! Forcing religion on another is always trouble and thwarts rather than supports the cause of Christ.) So, to start, this is a story of one type of Easter doubt: the fear that all is lost – a very human reaction.

· Suddenly, Jesus arrives and stands among his frightened friends unhindered by the locked doors, saying, “Peace be with you,” which is an astonishing greeting — these are the same men who denied and deserted Jesus just a few days ago, when it mattered most! (SALT Project) And now he brings them a holy blessing because HE sees each of us by faith rather than sight.

· And immediately after this blessing, Jesus shows the disciples his wounds. “Does he look so different that the wounds act as identifying marks? Does he look more or less the same, but the wounds prove he is the person they saw crucified, rather than a doppelganger? Or is he trying to assure them that torture and death have indeed been overcome — that he has somehow, like Lazarus, come out of the other side of the tomb alive? Whatever the details, Jesus addresses another kind of Easter doubt: suspicion that death still has dominion, that physical resurrection is impossible, and that no one can die and rise again.” (SALT Project)

According to St. John, sometimes our journey LOOKS and FEELS as if all is lost. At other times, it floods our minds with the fear that God’s loving power is NOT greater than death. Some Bible scholars also suggest that there’s a third type of Easter doubt. “This one isn’t so much focused on confirming that it’s really Jesus or the plausibility of the resurrection — after all, according to St. John, the disciples have only recently witnessed Jesus raise Lazarus from the dead (the very reason the powers-that-be mobilized to have Jesus killed.) No, this third kind of doubt focuses on whether Jesus is truly the Messiah, for to some, the genuine Messiah would not arise from death in triumphant, invulnerable splendor, but rather as a suffering servant still marked by vulnerability, by fragility, by wounds.” (SALT Project)

· You may recall that the prophet Isaiah spoke of a suffering servant, a Messiah who will make intercession for transgressors. This would be the true Messiah, acting on behalf of a wounded world and showing up as a wounded savior.

· From this perspective, it would make sense that Jesus immediately displays “his hands and his side” to show his friends that God’s Beloved comes not as a military conqueror without blemish, but rather as a strong and peaceful shepherd bearing the wounds of the world, a child of God and a child of Humanity. Jesus is the Word made flesh — and “flesh” means vulnerability, wounds, struggle, and challenge. (SALT Project) Womanist theologian Yolanda Pierce writes that:

By sharing his wounds, Jesus reveals that our wounds are places for God’s healing presence and love, too. This is a blessing for the wounded, for those who are still healing, and even for those who aren’t quite ready for healing. The risen Savior insistently welcomes the doubting, the uncertain, and the grieving to touch and see that he is real and present and here with us. (CAC)

The risen Savior, who had been abandoned, denied, betrayed, and crucified, doesn’t hide his wounds or rush their healing (so that our wounded souls) encased in the frailties of human flesh might also summon enough grace and kindness to acknowledge that our own very human wounds need time to heal? Seeing by faith is living INTO Christ’s resurrection – striving to incarnate our better angels – getting out of our own way so that God’s grace might triumph, albeit imperfectly or haltingly. Practically speaking, that often boils down to learning NEW habits, acquiring NEW inner tools, and interrupting our emotional reactivity for more silence, patience, and compassion. Again, St. Paul is at his best when he articulates what it looks like to be born from above, or servants of the Lord Jesus who seek ye FIRST the kingdom of God, or simply disciples of faith, hope, and love. This contemporary restatement of Romans 12 is spot-on!

So, here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you. (The Message)

Did you know that before he became the Apostle to the Gentiles, welcoming non-Jews and Jews alike into the community of Christ, St. Paul spent three years in TRAINING in the Arabian desert? The opening of Galatians chapter one states:

When God, who set me apart from my mother’s womb and called me by his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son in me so that I might celebrate his way among the Gentiles, I did NOT consult with many. I did not go up to Jerusalem to see those who were apostles before I was but instead went to the Arabian desert. After three years, I returned to Damascus and later went up to Jerusalem to get acquainted with Cephas – whom you know as Peter - and stayed with him for conversation and prayer for fifteen days.

No one is precisely sure who taught Paul the spirituality of the desert, but a few clues are embedded in this short text.

· First, the desert as metaphor: in Judaism at the time of Jesus – and many other spiritual traditions as well- the desert is either a place or a period of time set aside for discernment, silence, testing, isolation, and preparation for serving the Lord. It is NEVER a place of punishment, but rather a place to grow in trust, clarify and cleanse both heart and mind, and let go of all the extraneous distractions of life to grasp what is truly important. In the desert, the prophet Isaiah spiritually heard the Lord proclaim:

Seek my love wherever it may be found; and call upon me while I am near; return to the Lord, that I may have mercy on you. But know this: my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but shall accomplish that which I purpose and succeed in the thing for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55) First, the desert tells us St. Paul withdrew to do some inner work.

· Second, the desert reminds us of where Jesus fasted for 40 days and 40 nights: before beginning his public ministry, Jesus learned the wisdom of the Lord incarnated in nature from his Wildman cousin, John the Baptist. Paul also went to the wilderness in the spirit of the Chosen who had wandered for 40 years after being liberated from Egyptian slavery by Moses.

· And third, we’re talking about the Arabian desert, where Mt. Sinai stood in all her majestic splendor. It’s the mystical place of uncertainty where the prophet Elijah fled to listen more closely to the still, small voice of the Lord. Mt. Sinai, you may recall, was also where Moses received the 10 Commandments from the Lord and celebrated the first covenant between God and his people. Some have been so bold as to suggest that one of the reasons Paul went to the mountain was to clarify and comprehend God’s new covenant in Jesus.

All of which serves to remind us that if study, preparation, testing, and discernment were essential for God’s first followers, so, too, then in our era of confusion, challenge, and change. Inwardly, we may have experienced grace, forgiveness, renewal, and love, but to make that feeling and those words flesh takes training, practice, making mistakes, and lots of time. We don’t mature in faith all at once, but incrementally; falling down is just as important as getting back up again. And let me say out loud that just this weekend, I had yet another in a lifelong series of learning experiences involving getting out of my own way so that God’s love might flow through me.

· Some of you know that my wife, Di, was recently diagnosed with a rare blood disease that requires immunotherapy. Her first session was on Friday, and during round one, she had an episode where her breathing became labored – one of the normal side effects of this particular drug.

· Her attending medical helpers were excellent and at the top of their game, and got it resolved quickly. Unfortunately, the spasms returned at about 6 pm, didn’t respond to any of our meds, and necessitated a LENGTHY trip to the ER. Thanks be to God, things worked out, and by early morning, we were back home again, safe and mostly sound.

During the first few hours of this episode, my tendency to freak out was on steroids. I’ve long reacted to threats to my loved ones with a fight-or-flight response – I can be chill and focused with most others – but bring a hurt to those I love best, and I become outwardly ferocious and inwardly terrified. And that old reaction was popping around inside of me that night, which was the LAST thing Di needed from me. She needed comfort and clarity, support and presence – which I knew – but really had to struggle to manifest in the moment. As I was heading out the door, I saw these hanging from a stand by my bedside – prayer beads – a Protestant version of rosary beads I used to make for folk. So, I grabbed them, stuffed them in my pocket, and headed off. And while she was having X-rays & EKGs, I sat and prayed with my beads.

· A lot in our tradition really don’t “get” prayer beads – we’ve been taught that only CATHOLICS use them – and often superstitiously. But that’s hooey and judgmental. What one of my mentors taught me is that praying with these beads not only helps refocus my heart on God’s love but also distracts my habits and brain from simply reacting. They help me get out of my own way so there’s more room for God.

· So, that’s what I did: I prayed a cycle of prayers over 15 minutes, and by the time I was done, she was finished with her tests, and we settled in for a LONG wait for her doc.

I need all the help I can get to get over my unhelpful and inwardly wounded places so that I can partner with the Lord. Maybe you do, too, so that we can see by faith, not just by sight. So that we can serve the Lord rather than deepen the angst. You see, if I simply let my emotions remain in charge, if I relied only on my immediate reaction… well, it wouldn’t be pretty and certainly wouldn’t help the one I love most. Part of being born again, growing deeper in faith, and seeing reality by faith rather than just sight, is practicing letting go and letting God. Going deeper into trust rather than our assumptions, reactions, or limited perspective. Do you know the story of Jesus wandering the desert until he meets an old man?

"What brings you to the desert?" Jesus asked. To which the man replied: “Well, I’m looking for my son. I lost him many years ago.” "How did you lose him?” Jesus wondered. “Can you tell me what happened?" "I had one son – not by birth – but by a heavenly miracle. He had tremendous struggles with temptation. And at one point, he even died and came back to life!" Jesus couldn't believe it. Could this really be his father? So, he asked one last question: "Are you by any chance a carpenter?" To which the old man answered: "Yes, yes, I am!" At which point, Jesus rushed forward, embraced the old man, and cried: "Father, it is I! Oh, how I’ve missed you!" Overwhelmed with feeling, the old man smiled and said, “I’ve missed you, too, Pinocchio!”

Today’s story about Jesus, his disciples, and Thomas's doubts gives shape and form to some of the doubts we all have about God’s loving presence. Thomas personifies what our doubts and fears might look like and shows us that we ALL need time to cultivate and incarnate the love of God in our ordinary lives, habits, thoughts, and prayers. Which brings me back to the idea that following the Resurrected Jesus must include learning to see by faith as a journey – and journeys are always hard. Learning NOT to react but discern can be hard. Knowing that we won’t always get it right can be hard, too. That’s probably why I like the way Kate Bowler put it:

Living into Easter is not a feeling – especially one that tells us everything has been fixed or healed – nor is it a resolution to our wounds or an emotional closure. No, a living Easter is the practice of patient and imperfect trust that empowers us to live alongside sadness, boredom, fear, or despair. Easter expands our capacity to hold paradoxical truths together at the same time. For that’s the testimony of Scripture. Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus even knowing the resurrection is coming. St. Paul wrote that we are sorrowful yet rejoicing, grieving NOT as those who have no hope, but grieving nonetheless. And Revelation 21 promises a future where God will at some point wipe away every tear from our eyes, not a promise that we won’t cry now.

Easter is a reality AND a journey – and it is hard. So, let me teach you a prayer song from South Africa that you can use to step back from reacting, interrupt your default position, and open your heart to the blessings of the resurrection. It’s simple… and I use it a LOT while driving and I can’t access my prayer beads…

Come with me for the journey is long (4x) 

The journey, the journey, the journey is long (4x)

alas, I wish I'd never read Niebuhur...

I wrote the following paragraph a month ago - and today it rings more true than before:

After playing a truly uplifting gig with All of Us last night at Pittsfield's best live music venue, Methuselah Bar and Lounge (http://www.methbar .com/), I wearily sighed, "Damn, I wish I'd never read Niebuhr..." My sweetheart smiled knowingly and replied, "Now THAT'S an overheard!" But alas, it is all too true: no matter how hard I try, his paradoxical Christian Realism continues to shape my thinking, ethics, and my all-too-modest activism. Would that pure simplicity and/or ideology were options!

That said, my hope today is NOT to rant. There's already too much of that swirling all around us. Some consider Niebuhr a cynic. Others, an elitist. And still others an ally be they conservative or liberal. My take is that he is none of the above, just a public intellectual who recognizes the challenge of following Jesus and the necessity of compromise in our public commitments. One of his most famous quotes restates the words of St. Paul:

Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore, we must be saved by hope. Nothing that is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we must be saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness. (The Irony of American History)

Here's my challenge: my world, heart, mind, life, and soul are no longer defined only by politics. That's almost ALL many of my progressive and conservative friends seem capable of discussing. Politics. Spin. Despair. Disdain. Who is winning and who is losing. Those who have accepted the heresy of Christian Nationalism celebrate the overt cruelty of their leaders and work overtime trying to separate the Jesus of Scripture from their warped MAGA ideology. My liberation colleagues spout a variety of radical critiques and concerns about the current regime that cost them nothing and are essentially irrelevant to the challenges of 21st-century men, women, and children. The vast majority, defamed by some as the Silent Majority and others as closet supporters, reject both extremes and see no point in arguing against reality. They are working too hard to love their children, earn a decent living, pay for unaffordable health care, and maybe have a beer at the end of the day.

To which Niebuhr would say: where's the hard-to-find middle ground? At the moment, it appears elusive - and that's a reality we have to endure. But, as Little Steven of Springsteen's E Street band used to sing: EVERYBODY wants the same things, don't they?

If you opt out of empty arguments, liberals say you're part of the problem. If you engage with any degree of sophistication and/or compassion, conservatives call you a victim of woke disease. And so it goes. Often, I want to join Lou Reed and say: Stick a fork in ALL of them. They're DONE! And then I hear that still, small voice of the Resurrected yet Wounded Messiah: whatsoever you do unto one of the least of these, my sisters and brothers, you do unto me. 

Today, and most days, I trust that small acts of tenderness matter. I believe, Lord help my unbelief, that community and conversation matter. And I have seen how practicing seeing by faith, not sight, can be a game-changer. I trust that God's love is greater than death. I look for where to go next by contemplating God's first word: Mother Nature. I play music with my mates to advance the cause of joy and solidarity. And I wait in the challenging company of Brother Niebuhr who keeps telling me:

Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore, we must be saved by hope. Nothing that is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we must be saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness. 

the triduum has quietly arrived...

Today marks the start of the Christian Triduum - the three holy days before Easter Sunday - that give shape and form to the blessings of God experienced in Jesus. The journey begins tonight with Holy Thursday - or what the Reformed tradition calls Maundy Thursday, from the Latin maundaaum for commandment. My high-church siblings in the Spirit get it right, starting with washing one another's feet, celebrating Eucharist, and then stripping the altar until the Feast of the Resurrection on Easter Sunday. This is followed on Friday with a service venerating the Cross and Saturday with the earliest night liturgy: the Easter Vigil.

My low-church friends tend to avoid footwashing like the plague, but have now added an ancient monastic set of readings and actions from the 9th CE called Tenebrae. This was only added to the Reformed realm in the early 20th century, but has become wildly beloved even as the most scripted liturgical act in our repertoire. Initially, Tenebrae took place in monastic communities during matins and lauds - the first two community prayer cycles after midnight at the start of the Triduum. It began with 15 candles but has now been simplified in contemporary Protestant churches to between 8 and 12. The readings in the Reformed version have also changed to foreshadow Christ's crucifixion on Friday. There is drama and grit to this service, and I would hate to lose it, even though I much prefer the order of my liturgical sisters and brothers. As Carl Jung put it: "The symbols of the Catholic liturgy offer the unconscious such a wealth of possibilities that they act as an incomparable diet for the psyche."

No matter how one observes the Triduum, however, it is a time for deep and sober reflection. I look forward to doing this in community - a genuinely counter-cultural commitment - in this age of hyper-individualized bottom lines and obsessive multitasking. What a shallow culture we've created with neither time nor encouragement to ponder and discern. We rush off to war without counting the cost; we speed-dial and date; we relentlessly binge-watch our favorite video distractions; and forsake the dinner table for a bag of burgers and fries in the car. Nevertheless, the Triduum quietly creeps into being and patiently invites us into alternative ways of thinking, speaking, and living. The poet, Jane Kenyon, put it like this:

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper....

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name... .

Tonight, whether Catholic or Reformed, in a high-church haze of incense or a low-church encounter with Tenebrae, I give thanks that some will pause to call your name,