on poetry, great educators, patience, and passion...

One of the many truths about contemporary life in these periodically "United States" is that we have monetized everything - including educating one another for the future. What was once the essence of a well-rounded education - exposure to and celebration of the arts as partners with science, mathematics, and technology - has now become an extravagant incidental placed on life-support as we pay obeisance to the golden calf of "reality" as defined by the market. Intellectual depth, moral clarity, individual creativity, cultural breadth, and an awareness of long term consequences have been sacrificed to the idols of so-called efficiency in a vainglory rush to the bottom. (And lest you think I exaggerate, even the word "vainglory" now shows up first on Google AI as a video game developed by (no kidding) Super Evil Megacorp that can be bought and sold to the highest bidder.) In the 21st century, we have chosen to forsake transcendence because we don't know how to get free of the freaking transactional monkey on our backs. 

Many of our schools continue to be resourced by scores of self-sacrificing, valiant, and courageous educators who are dedicated to nourishing the common good as they empower young hearts and minds with the skills and awe necessary for a full life. Nevertheless, education at every level now resembles Star Trek's "the Borg" more than Plato's Lyceum: when students are rendered replaceable cogs manufactured merely to serve the machinery of consumption rather than discrete beings created just a little lower than the angels - and when students themselves only see school as a hoop to jump through to qualify for employment - education no longer helps us all rise to the call of illuminated citizens crafted the common good. Back in 1985, Gary Trudeau prophesized this in his "Doonesbury" cartoon:

https://www.nedgallagher.com/courses/documents/teaching.html

In his 1992 anthology of poems for men, The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, the late Robert Bly makes this case in his foreword:

The relation of poetry to culture has been debated as far back as Plato's attack on Homer, through the Renaissance and the Puritan's Reformation, and continuing with the Romantic Shelly's Defense of Poetry and today's argument's for a core curriculum of great books. While our European-American traditions questions and argues, and has to teach poetry to sullen students in English classes, other cultures speaking Spanish, Russian, and Arabic, to say nothing of the many tongues of African and the India subcontinent, grow up inside poems, drenched through with poetic metaphors and rhythms. As we learn to criticize, to take a poem apart, to get its meaning, they learn to listen and to recite. By drawing this sharp contrast with other cultures, we are pointing to a defect in ours.   Men blame their own lives for a deficiency in the culture. For, without the fanciful delicacy and the powerful truths that poems convey, our emotions and imagination flatten out. (Bly, p. xxix)

One of my life's transformational epiphanies took place on a miserably cold night in a bookstore in Cleveland when I stumbled upon this very volume of poems. I was in the midst of a complicated divorce looking for a distraction. Outside, the freezing rain mimicked my inner bleakness when I inadvertently (or so I thought) stumbled upon these words from Rilke: 

Sometimes a man stands up during supper

and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,

because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.

And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead.

And another man, who remains inside his own house,

dies there, inside the dishes and the glasses,

so that his children have to go far out into the world

toward that same church, which he forgot.

It was, for a time, as if I were in a trance. I don't know how long I went missing. All that was clear is that when I returned from who knows where, my heart had been warmed and those long-feared tears that freely ran down my face had become friends. Biblically, this was akin to what Job confessed to the Holy in the final chapter of that wisdom tale: Once I had heard, but now I know from the inside out. For twenty seven years I have cherished Bly's anthology for this awakening - giving it as gifts to countless other men struggling for light in the darkness - and continue to claim its contents as holy ground. My experience with poetry, however, seems to be shared all too rarely these days as all too often men and women move all too fast to linger in the land of poets yearning to freely share their hard won blessings with those who have eyes to see and ears to hear.  Inevitably, our DNA insists that before we can see beyond the obvious, we must face a death, a descent, or some other depravation. Only then are we able to discern that our "time in the ashes" is simultaneously a searing loss as well as sacred portal to new life. Michael Blumenthal puts this positively in "A Man Lost By A River."

There is a voice inside the body.

There is a voice and a music,

a throbbing, four-chambered pear

that want to be heard, that sits

alone by the river with its mandolin

and its torn coat, and sings

for whoever will listen

a song that no one wants to hear.

But sometimes, lost,

on his way to somewhere significant,

a man in a long coat, carrying

a briefcase, wanders into the forest.

He hears the voice and the mandolin,

he sees the thrust and the dandelion,

and he feels the mist rise over the river.

And his life is never the same,

for this having been lost -

for having strayed from the path of his routine,

for no good reason.

Rumi offers an ironic take on the path of descent.

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.

And Goethe covers the same terrain in tragedy in Bly's translation of "The Invisible (or Erl) King":

Who rides at night, who rides so late?

The father rides on, his child in his arms.

His arms are curled and firm round the boy,

He keeps him from falling, he keeps him warm.

"My boy, why is it you hide your face?
"Dad, over there do you see the King?

The Invisible King with ermine and staff?"

"Dear boy, what you see is a rolling mist.

"HEY THERE, MY BOY, COME ALONG WITH ME! there, my boy, come along I HAVE THE NEATEST GAMES YOU'LL EVER SEE.

ON THE SHORE MY DAISES BLOW IN A LINE.

MY MOTHER HAS SHIRTS ALL GOLDEN AND FINE."

"Dad, is it true you don't hear at all

The little gifts the King is offering me?"

"Calm down, my boy, no need for all this -

It's a dry oak leaves making noise in the wind."

'CHILD, GOOD CHILD, DO YOU WANT TO GO?

MY DAUGHTERS WILL CARE AND WAIT ON YOU, SO.

THE GREAT CIRCLE DANCE THEY DO EVERY NIGHT,

THEY'LL SING AND DANCE AND TUCK YOU IN TIGHT."

"Dad, it worries me that you don't see

The Daughters there at that ugly spot."

"I see the spot very clearly, my boy -

An old gray willow, that's all there is."

"YOUR BODY IS SLIM, AND I LOVE YOU

COME NOW, OR SEIZE YOU IS WHAT I'LL DO."

"Dad Listen, please Dad, he's got hold of me!

He's done something bad to me, he has!"

The terrified father rides wilder and wilder;

The boy i now groaning as he sits slumped over;

In grief and fear at last the father got home.

The boy lay dead in the father's arms.

Bly suggests that in the wisdom of the romantic era, "the rationalist father denies, frantically, any suggestion of the 'other realm' or the spiritual world, and the result is that his son dies. This poem is a miniature history of Europe." I would add it is also an agonizing example of our current addiction to an ethics of atavism which lures us towards the lowest common denominator and starves our souls of tenderness in the process. When everything and every one becomes a commodity destined for purchase, God's inclination to help us evolve beyond our most primal urges is twarted. 

Cut to Ted Gioia's insightful observations in s Substack essay: The Three Bad Typses of Humanities Professor. (https://www.honest-broker.com/p/the-3-bad-types-of-humanities-professor?utm_source=post-email-title&publication_id=296132&post_id=213132923&utm_campaign=email-post-title&isFreemail=false&r=49p8n&triedRedirect=true) I'll leave it to you to enjoy his description of what makes for a good and bad professor. It's his closing comments that are particularly enlightening for me as he notes that helping students go deep, encouraging them to listen to their hearts as well as their head, and seek out what previous generations once discovered to be true, virtuous, and beautiful is vital. Sadly, this style of teaching is no longer normative in the United States but IS in... China!

The curious thing is that the passionate way of teaching that was once vital to Western culture is thriving right now—but outside of the West. In the US, the insiders who speak candidly will tell you that the humanities is in crisis. You can measure it in many ways—declining enrollment, shrinking departments, poor test results, increased cheating, resistance to reading, etc. All the metrics are bad. But that’s not what’s happening in China. The study of western culture is in the ascendancy there. You could even say it’s hot and trendy...there are good reasons why Chinese scholars take Western culture very seriously. They live in a world where discussing ideas is a dangerous vocation. The whole tradition of democracy and human flourishing, which we inherited from the ancient Greeks, is taken for granted in the West (foolishly, I must add, because it’s quite vulnerable right now). But these things are more obviously fragile and elusive in China. So when Chinese scholars grapple with the classic works of the Western canon, they are dealing with matters of life and death.

I call this to your attention because my life was changed by one most excellent humanities professor. To say that I was an uneven high school student would be a gross understatement. I was energized by history and literature, but captivated by rock'n'roll and miniskirts. So, what I didn't like or understand, I just skipped. I negotiated with my teachers, as was possible in the swinging 60's, to write my own poetry and music rather than endure the sentimental slop being crafted by some of my peers who were in love with Rod McKuen. I cut a deal with a young social studies teacher to record a history of American topical songs rather than endure the pro-Vietnam War propaganda rants of our Phys. Ed. coach - and weekly travelled to the University of Bridgeport with him to access their historic vinyl recordings. I was able to do an independent study of French songs so that I wouldn't fail that subject yet again. And, when all else failed, snuck away to hang out on the beach with my bandmates as we listened to the Stones, Beatles, and Yardbirds as it was far more satisfying than enduring one more interminable study hall. All of which is to say that I graduated in the bottom third of my high school class with limited college options. Yes, I'd read Kafka's In the Penal Settlement, all of the theater of the absurd plays by Becket and his peers, to say nothing of most of the fiction penned by Albert Camus, Eldridge Cleaver, John Steinbeck, and Richard Farina with a healthy doss of Ginsberg, but I was not on the fast track for success.

Thanks be to God for the attention given me by my high school guidance counselor, a former Franciscan monk who was once employed to do espionage for the US during WWII, who managed to get me accepted at Lakeland College in Sheboygan, WI. There, as part of our core curriculum, I took humanities and basic English writing with a young professor not a lot older than myself: Ms. Martha Baker. There's much too much to tell about her influence, so let me just note that her January seminar designed for upper class people on the works of both D.H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf changed my life. Eight intense novels in four short weeks, combined with hours of lengthy afternoon discussions, broke down all the barriers to higher education I'd ever constructed. Mother of God, it was heaven on earth! Finally, I was empowered to listen carefully, read profoundly, have my lazy ass challenged time and again by students dedicated to wisdom, and invited to become a part of a cognoscenti that had never been open to me before that bitter Wisconsin winter.

Somehow, by passion and the Holy Spirit, passed some of that drive and verve on to my two daughters - both of whom became master storytellers in their own right. These dedicated students with creative minds are now writers and educators entering middle age who are paying it forward. It thrills me to say that I literally passed on some of those life-changing Lawrence/Woolf novels to these precious women. So now, we are entering a second decade of ignorance, prejudice, anti-intellectualism, and fear-mongering. Having studied history, spirituality, and the arts, I know it won't last forever even as I accept that it will all become more cruel and violent before it gets better. My solace is to become  ever more monk-like in my quest to keep the light of the classics burning. 

Check out Gioia's essay when you can. Send me a note of your reaction. And reach out to an educator who saved your life and give him or her thanks, ok?

let's be still for a spell...

Someone's going to slam me as some kind of neo-con for this, but here goes. A few days back there was a reel posted on FB with a message that went something like: "If you aren't hearing about Cornell this week in worship... or ICE, the never-ending war in Iran, the various levels of pain this war is causing to Iranian civilians, US soldiers, or those of us on limited budgets in the US... there's something wrong with your church or its pastor because what good is faith if it isn't healing the wounds of the world?" That's not an exact quote, mind you, just what I can recall. 

Most of the time when rhetorical bromides appear on FB, I sit in silence for a spell. I suspect that I am as distressed by our cultural and political disintegration as the presenter. I just choose to give my energy, attention, resources, and prayers to people and events I can do something about. I sometimes share a check with a relief organization that's far away - most recently to Palestine - but only periodically. As noted elsewhere, I strive to practice the "10-Foot Rule" of solidarity. Or, as Pete Seeger used to say: "Think globally and act locally." Not only is connecting with people close by a strategy that strikes me as more effective than either/or diatribes, it also diminishes some of the cultural fallout that's been created when elitist and privileged souls whine in public about problems beyond their control. 

Is that too harsh? Let me explain: I've forgotten who first observed the phenomenon of confusing carping out loud with meaningful social and spiritual transformation, but it's become epidemic among 21st century liberals and conservatives alike. I don't know if it started with mistaking reading for knowledge - or equating words and ideas with embodied revelation - but it's become a social disease with dangerous consequences that has only been exacerbated by the flood of selective "information" we consume on the Internet, the triumph of a zero sum transactional economy, and the denigration of awe and wonder in popular and academic culture. Without a training in complex, critical thought and the capacity to experience mystery, everything from religion, politics and culture becomes an either/or, win/lose proposition. Such obfuscation has caused polarities to vanish, nuance to be erased from consideration, and paradox to be discarded into the dustbin of history. 

That is how I understand the rise of religious fundamentalism. It's a quest for security not truth in an era of anxiety. So, too, its bastard child: Christian Nationalism. Both "isms" work overtime to give greed, jingoism, sexism, white supremacy, homophobia, and moral hypocrisy a sacred pass. Shamelessly cherry picking Biblical texts taken out of context, the proponents of such spiritual security simultaneously scapegoat their critics while feeding the flocks with fear, fury, and shame. Kate Lore's poem, "Call Back the Holy" amplifies this:

A god who needs cruel men
to bruise the world into obedience
is a god cruel men have made—
shaped from their fear,
crowned with their hunger,
given a voice
that echoes only themselves.
Leave that altar. Come into the open,
where the Holy is still breathing
in leaf and lung,
still rising like dawn
beyond every border
drawn by fear.
God is the open hand,
the widening doorway,
the lamp left burning
to guide the lost home.
God kneels beside the wounded,
breaks bread with the stranger,
and gathers the banished
into the wide embrace
of belonging.
Let the gods of cruelty
crumble into dust.
Let Love rise instead—ancient as breath, gentle as mercy,
strong as the river
breaking winter’s hold.
Let Love rise in us
until every soul is gathered
within the circle of our care.
For God is Love. And Love asks only
that we become
its open hands.

One of the reasons I believe these heresies are thriving, and all too often considered to be normative in the US, is that those holding more generous or compassionate visions of creation are almost as Biblically illiterate as their opponents. Our addiction to binary thinking, you know, is not the sole property of conservatives. Adding insult to injury is yet another unintended consequence of a post-modern bigotry that is saturated in a simple-minded secularism: the obliteration of our historic reservoir of shared stories, myths, and songs. I'm all for expanding the canon of great literature, but why throw the baby out with the bath water? That's what my Protestant kin did with the sacred mysticism and contemplative practices of our Christian origins that are only now being reclaimed. Such intellectual and spiritual paucity now means we live, speak, think, shop, and engage the world primarily from within our respective siloes, denigrating outsiders who dwell beyond our gated communities, political parties, spiritualities, and ideologies, with a toxic disdain. This observation, of course, is not new: sociologist Robert Putnam pondered it in Bowling Alone in 2020, Neil Postman offered a similar analysis in Amusing Ourselves to Death in 1985, Charles Taylor's magnum opus, Secularism, cut deep in 2007, as did the dystopian works of Margaret Atwood, Aldous Huxley, and George Orwell.  

I suppose the catalyst of this essay began after hearing a recently aired radio program produced by New England Public Media's, Michelle Harven, for 1A entitled: If You Can Keep It: Mental Health and Democracy. (check it out here and listen @ https://the1a.org/person/michelle-harven/) The presenting proposition was clear: Since the January 6th attempted coup, Americans have been living through an era of social trauma (with trauma defined as an unsettling experience that has not been given enough time to be digested, grieved, and integrated into our lives.) All of us, regardless of our politics, have been unable to re-ground ourselves in stability and community. Consequently, anxiety rather than trust rules the day which leads me back to my opening frustration with the liberal Christian either/or meme. This moment in our combined history requires more compassion not more either/or religion that demonizes our neighbors. Now is the time to learn to listen to one another with a new commitment to the common good. And that can't happen without time, patience, a willingness to go slowly, and genuinely get over ourselves long enough to hear another's story. 

Liberals, I submit to you, are frantic because we've lost the privilege of influencing and shaping our culture. With rare exceptions, rather than grieve like adults, we've taken the path of cheap grace by carping like spoiled children who mistake noise for meaningful solutions. Since WWII, working class conservatives who have lost their economic standing now believe the promise of the American Dream is an impossibility. They have been caught up in a politics of "gotcha" that blames the liberation movement of the past 50 years for their diminished status; when, in fact, globalism, greed, and deindustrialization are the true culprits. Whether it is realistic to create new alliances between these factions through careful listening and discovering common ground is unclear. 

What is clear, however, is that there's a place true religious pluralism - especially for those who yearn to do what we've always done best: create safe centers for solace and compassion. Without a doubt, social analysis and transformation are integral to healing an infected body politic. And religious people should have a place at the tables where change is being discussed, planned, and protested. But that is not our ONLY role. For at the heart of true religion is a shared tenderness. A hunger for right relationships. A sacrificial trust that builds community. I don't know how many times I have had to point out that the symbol of Jesus over-turning the money changers tables in the Jerusalem Temple with a whip and righteous anger is powerful - but it happened only once - and is not normative. Rather, healing, listening, solidarity, time-tested wisdom, and spiritual practices are what is at the core of our tradition. Like the Taizé community of France likes to say: we are a festival of possibilities, not the complete solution to the wounds of the world. We prefiguratively incarnate alternatives to a status quo that is worn out and in its death throes. None of us needs more hyperbole or crude anger. Yes, there will likely be times when we must put our bodies on the line for another. But what is more come - and needed, too - are reminders like this poem ascribed to Mother Teresa that was written on the wall of her children's home in Calcutta.

Do It Anyway
People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered;
forgive them anyway.
If you do good, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
do good anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; succeed anyway.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable;
be honest and frank anyway.
What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight;
build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, there may be jealousy;
be happy anyway.
The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;
give the world the best you’ve got anyway.
You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God;
it was never between you and them anyway.

 

taking stock in unexplained ways...

About three weeks ago, after I was quietly informed by two ecclesiastical leaders that our request for a change in my ministerial standing had been affirmed, I did something extravagant: I purchased a new set of handmade embroidered clerical stoles crafted by women artisans in Surif, Palestine and marketed through the Star Bazaar of Bethlehem Bible College. (https://starbazaar.bethbc.edu/product/clerical-stoles-embroidered/) They are stunning. They not only give shape and form to my sense of call at this moment in time but also represent a shared spirituality grounded in small acts of tenderness in pursuit of solidarity. Like these women artisans, I, too trust that the creation of beauty can bring a measure of healing to our brokenness.

As a rule, in this later half of life, I tend towards simplicity in most things: my ministry and engagement with the world was summarized best by the late Wendell Berry when he wrote: My formula for a good life and a good community is simple and pleasingly unoriginal. Slow down. Pay attention. Do good work. Love your neighbors. Love your place. Stay in your place. Settle for less, enjoy it more. 

My idea of a good day begins by brewing a fresh pot of Scottish Breakfast tea in the morning. It continues with a few hours of prayer, study, and writing followed by either tending our garden, visiting those in my new congregation who are in need, or making music with my dear mates in Wednesday's Child and/or All of Us. A good day closes with a home cooked meal shared with Di and wrapped up with a well-made European TV mystery.  My worship attire has become equally simplified: a white alb, a hand-crafted cross along with a colorful symbol of the Lord's towel used on Holy Thursday to wash the feet of his disciples is sufficient to mark the liturgical calendar. 

When I retired the first time, I gave away most of my decorative liturgical garments. Yes, I held back my black Doctoral pulpit gown and D. Min hood from San Francisco Theological Seminary. For purely sentimental reasons, I also kept my first black teaching robe and the "ordinary time" green stole my parents gave me upon my ordination along with a few gifts my daughters have shared with me from their travels in Europe and Mexico. All the rest was passed on to other younger clergy along with hundreds of my cherished books. As St. Lou Reed smirks in "Last Great American Whale" from his New York album: it was time to stick a fork in me because I was done!

But, apparently, the God of resurrection, didn't agree. To be sure, at first there were a few quiet years of solitude. I needed to debrief, grieve, and recharge. And then something new began to take root within. Something simple, something creative, something guided by compassion. What I am experiencing now warrants taking stock for in ways I cannot yet explain, these elegant stoles from Palestine look like what I am feeling and encountering these days.

how I stay grounded in our challenging culture...

I was recently able to have lunch with our oldest daughter’s godfather and my favorite Sunday School teacher, Malcom, as we celebrated his 95th birthday; as the week matured, I had a chance to play guitar with my grandson and create visual art with my granddaughter. Later still, I discovered that my wife’s disability application was finally approved, visited with our younger daughter to discuss her thoughts on the recently departed poet Wendell Berry, held a few potentially significant pastoral visits, prayed with my tears, ordered a new set of clerical stoles from Bethlehem, and came across this poem by a Christian pastor, John Swales, who works on the fringe of a fading industrial city in England that begins:

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.

Real flesh-and-blood encounters are not only what matters to me each day, but also what I remember when reviewing the ups and downs of each week to discern where I might have met the Lord. These days, I no longer have much time for abstract ideas or whatever obsession has captured this moment’s news cycle. Don’t get me wrong: I don't ignore what passes for the “news.” In fact, I often find myself praying tears of exasperation, grief, or solace for what I see on TV. But I strive to take it in and then let it go, as Jesus tells us in the Sermon on the Mount: Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.

Once upon a time, like many who are overeducated and reasonably comfortable, I was consumed by politics and news programming – and many of my friends and colleagues still are. But three insights helped heal this addiction: First, no matter HOW much I disagree with what I see on the news – no matter how much I rant and rail at politicians on both sides of the aisle or weep in solidarity over the violence in Gaza, Ukraine, or Sudan, to say nothing of the agony caused by natural destruction like tsunamis or earthquakes – there is precious little I can do to effect change on behalf of compassion and right relations. Yes, I make financial donations; and write letters, too. But when it comes to the grand issues of the day, I can neither touch them in any significant way nor make any real difference in their outcome.

About ten years ago, therefore, I started to practice what my friends in the L’Arche movement call the “10 -foot rule.” L’Arche, as you may know, is an international movement of tenderness for people with intellectual and physical disabilities. They create small communities worldwide where people with and with- out disabilities simply live together. Take care of one another together. Learn to honor the heart of God in one another and everyone together. They teach that regional and international tragedy and injustice may break our hearts, but most of the time, we can only make a genuine difference by paying attention to those within 10 feet of our lives. There, we can listen, assist, learn from, honor, love, and work together in harmony in ways that can be transformative and salvific. What’s more, when we ourselves act in ways that matter to another, when we can see and touch the fruit of our labor up close and personal, despair starts to disappear, and hope rises within like the resurrection. So, first, the 10-foot rule has helped me let go of a ton of anxiety and wasted effort. 

Second, the older I get, the more it becomes clear that social transformation comes and goes in waves, and it’s impossible to predict where things will land in the short term. I once heard this story…

There was once a farmer in rural Japan. He didn't have much money and, instead of a tractor, used an old horse to plow his field. One afternoon, while working in the field, the horse dropped dead. Everyone in the village said, "Oh, what a horrible thing to happen” but the farmer said simply, "We'll see." He was so at peace and so calm that everyone in the village admired his attitude and gave him a new horse as a gift. Over and over, the community said aloud: "What a lucky man to receive such a gift." And the farmer said, "We'll see." A couple of days later, the new horse jumped the fence and ran away. The whole village shook their heads and said, "What a poor fellow!" To which the farmer smiled and said, "We'll see." Eventually, the horse found his way home, and the community rejoiced, crying, "What a fortunate man!" And the farmer said: Well… we’ll see. A year came and went and the farmer's young boy went out riding on the horse, fell and broke his leg, prompting the village to weep: "What a shame for the poor boy” but the farmer said, "We'll see." And two days later, the army came into the village to draft new recruits. But when they saw that the farmer's son had a broken leg, they decided not to recruit him. "What a blessing has come to this young man," the villagers proclaimed while the farmer just smiled again – and said: “We’ll see.”

No wonder Jesus advised us to chill out, hold off making final judgments, and trust that each day carries with it worries and wonders sufficient for the day: a second perspective that brings a measure of inner and outward serenity is choosing NOT to rush to judgment. 

And third, is a notion that I've been exploring for a long time but only recently found words to describe it: prefigurative sacramentality. That's an all too lofty way of describing my dedication to the aesthetics of beauty that creates a hint of what could or might become real. 

Decades ago, the late Elie Wiesel wrote an op-ed for the NY Times at the dawn of Yom Kippur. It has long nourished and haunted me as well. The essence was this: Wiesel was still furious, perplexed, and bewildered with God, given the anguish, death, and cruelty of the Holocaust. That will never change, he confessed. At the same time, however, he had now decided he would embrace his tradition’s response to absurdity and staggering violence: he would dance. Rather than try to comprehend or find meaning in his grief, he would engage the dance of paradox, resistance, courage, and even grace rather than submit to vile chaos.

St. Leonard Cohen echoes Wiesel’s challenge in “Dance Me to the End of Love” as does St. Lou Reed in both “Dirty Boulevard” and “Busload of Faith.” It is an aesthetic refusal to surrender the spirit of love to avarice as our inevitable destiny. It is a rejection of reality as only the art of the deal. A worship and praise song put it like this: “we have another world in view.” Dostoevsky believed that “beauty could save the world,” and Solzhenitsyn, in his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize, wrote that when truth and goodness have been corrupted, compromised, or else held ransom by totalitarian propaganda, beauty alone can subvert power by touching our hearts and inspiring a rebirth of solidarity and moral integrity.

That's what I believe our two bands, Wednesday’s Child and All of Us, are about:
we, too, have another world in view. It is a worldview that respects rather than fears diversity, trusts that a love greater than self guides the cosmos, recognizes that joy regularly dances next to grief, that celebration often sings in the same key as suffering, and that a mystical yearning for authenticity and life itself pervades both all of creation including human nature. The writers at this month's Friends of Silence recently wrote that our awakening to autumn reminds us of this:

Early Autumn reminds me of this “and” mentality. I wake up and put on a sweater only to sweat and remove it moments later. I watch the young growth from my late summer succession planting while pulling old tomato stalks to mark the end of their time. We move about during the day like it is still summer, only to be ushered back inside by an earlier sunset into the more reflective inner work of the incoming season. Each day holds room for it all, just as you and I are a manifestation of the myriad.

We are grateful.
We are overwhelmed.
We are joyful.
We carry deep sorrow.
We are changing.
We are eternal.
We are dying.
We are alive.

Wednesday's Child recently played an end of summer and welcome to autumn Barn Gig. As I went to sleep the night before the event, a vision of the counter-cultural cabarets of the Weimar Republic came to mind. Yes, they were often scandalous, lewd, genre-bending in every conceivable manner, and even decadent. And they were an embodied aesthetic refusal to accept the cruelty of fascism. They, too, had another world in view, one in which outsiders might find acceptance, the vulnerable might experience safety, and our differences could become an invitation into the mystery of transcendence and trust. Before we played, I told this to the band noting that for a time their worldview was outlawed but it outlasted the death camps and crematoria. That is what we are doing, too. 

I knew someone who stopped using the word ‘but’. Everything was ‘and’. It cracked open the hard pericarp of my thinking, revealing a pithy inner chamber. It substituted phrases like, “It was hard, but I did it,” with an empowering reminder that one does not preclude the other. “It was hard. I did it.” A subtle but meaningful change. Not in spite of the difficulty, which certainty also feels true, but alongside the difficulty, with the difficulty. (Friends of Silence)

As I was packing up after the gig, someone said to me that this gathering felt different – there was a palpable sense of community and trust – and they wondered why this time was different from other concerts. Well, I thought, it has something to do with intentionality: we are very careful in our choice of songs and poems. There is a profound commitment to bringing our best to the music, too. And, dare I say, we are willing to be vulnerable and counter-cultural. As if in affirmation, today I received four liturgical clerical stoles from Bethlehem in Palestine. They are stunning. Yet another small sign of artists committed to giving shape and form to a worldview bathed in beauty.

the wisdom and grace of mystery...

In this week's summary of reflections at the Center for Contemplation and Action, Barbara Brown Taylor's synthesis of the apophatic spiritual tradition really spoke to my heart:

I trusted God to be God even if I could not say who God was for sure. I trusted God to hold me and those I loved, in life and in death, without giving me one shred of conclusive evidence that it was so.

One blessing of the Eastern Church is its willingness to live with ambiguity. Yes, some of the creeds are laborious, and the liturgy itself can feel like a spiritual endurance test. Simultaneously, however, there is a deep respect for silence, the wisdom of our senses, beauty, poetry, and what some have called a generous and sensual orthodoxy. Like any other religious tradition, it, too, is far from perfect. Still, their commitment to and trust of mystery is worthy of deeper consideration. This massive icon in St. Vladimir's Cathedral in Kyiv alone offers more grace to me than most of the scholastic theology of the Reformed Church combined.

 

the wetlands are shining this morning: sabbath thoughts

This is my favorite time of year: the gradual letting go of Terra Mater's warm colors of autumn as she begins her slow descent into the starkness of early winter. The ancient Celtic (Gaelic) calendar calls this Mabon's journey of abundance into the emptying liminal time of the New Year at Samhain. Now, I am about as far from a practicing neo-pagan as the Pope, but I find this season's light, energy, and possibilities extraordinarily pregnant with significance. Those old Druids were clearly on to something as they celebrated the season's second harvest at the Autumnal Equinox; its balance of light and dark en route to the dark wisdom of winter's death invites us to practice both relinquishment and anticipation. And if I am paying attention, the wetlands behind our home communicate this to me in the yellows of goldenrod, the maroons of sumac, the ethereal whites of the thistles and asters, and milkweed, as well as the fading browns of Joe Pye weed. 

The recently departed Wendell Berry, apostle of God's abundance in a slow life,    put it like this:

The woods is shining this morning.
Red, gold and green, the leaves
lie on the ground, or fall,
or hang full of light in the air still.
Perfect in its rise and in its fall, it takes
the place it has been coming to forever.
It has not hastened here, or lagged.
See how surely it has sought itself,
its roots passing lordly through the earth.
See how without confusion it is
all that it is, and how flawless
its grace is. Running or walking, the way
is the same. Be still. Be still.

“He moves your bones, and the way is clear.”

After a joyous month of going slowly in both urban and rural Québec, where we walked and watched, listened and sang together at the speed of Anna (our blessed granddaughter with whom we celebrated her 9th trip around the sun), we returned home to car troubles and emergency oral surgery. That is behind us now, so it's time to harvest the tomatoes, savor the sunlight, and do what we can to keep the pace gentle. My congregation and I have taken the next steps in extending my time of ministry - and I am wildly grateful. 

My challenge over the next three months is to stay grounded in the rhythms the Creator is revealing in nature, at a time when it would be all too easy to be held for ransom by the turmoil of culture. The absurd cruelties of midterm elections saturate the airwaves. This week marked both the first anniversary of the assassination of Charlie Kirk and the twenty-fifth anniversary of September 11th. Gas and grocery prices are skyrocketing. War rages in Iran, Sudan, Yemen, and Gaza. Parts of Mother Gaia are on fire while others weep in floods, hurricanes, and the excesses of El Nino. It would be easy - and natural - to despair or escape into denial. 

Thankfully, Wendell Berry offered an alternative when he rephrased Jesus' advice in a quasi-interview with a reporter from The Atlantic shortly before his death. Berry had articulated this insight long before in a variety of poems, the most famous being "The Peace of Wild Things."  

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

His analysis of worry is equally liberating: it is exhausting and unnecessary. He notes that most of the disasters and bad outcomes he's been anxious about have never come to pass. He then references Jesus in St. Matthew's account of the Sermon on the Mount: "Take no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. A more contemporary rendering of this text from Matthew 6: 34 says: So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today. Prompting Berry to conclude: "Taking thought for the morrow is fairly predictably a waste of time... what we call the 'future' is a flimsy and insubstantial thing at best - a phantom we obsess over that never really arrives, or never arrives in the way we imagine." The interview in The Atlantic adds:

By taking thought for the morrow, we have invested and wasted a lot of effort in preparing for morrows that never came. (To which the writer adds: he's right! When we become too obsessed with a future that may or may not befall us, we tend to turn our backs on the moment we're in.") Saying the time is coming when it will be too late to save the world, oh, oh, oh, (suggests) that we and the world are dead already. The present is going by and we are not in it. (Joe Fassler, Atlantic, September 5, 2026.)

Berry does not banish lament. Nor does he surrender to passivity. In his own way and time, he has done what little he actually has control and agency over and calls that sufficient for the day. Tomorrow he will encounter tomorrow with as much equanimity as today - and leave the rest to the Lord. Before his recent death at 92 years, Berry spent most of his sabbath days walking his farm and then writing a sabbath poem as the day's worship. Like his contemporary, Annie Dillard, or his Native American ally, Robin Wall Kimmerer, Wendell Berry married beauty and science with faith filtered through awe. A poem from 1979 captures his essence:

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet 

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes

and lives a while in my sight.

What it fears in me leaves me,

and the fear of me leaves it.

It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.

I live for a while in its sight.

What I fear in it leaves it,

and the fear of it leaves me.

It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor, more in my consternations,

I hear my song at last,

and I sing it. As we sing,

the day turns, the trees move.

(This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems)

For me, this is sufficient for today.

shifting gears in autumn and a quest for koinonia...

We've been back home from Canada for a full week now: it was a joy to enter each day without an agenda and be fully free from anxiety or stress. It was truly a restorative reprieve - and I am grateful. Now it's time to get back to music-making and soul care. Our band, All of Us, will be playing a private party in Otis this Sunday at one of the many vacation camps that is closing up for the season. My brother-from-another-mother, Dave, and I are the core of this band, and three new/old friends will be part of the magic this week: guest bass player Jim; female vocalist Eva; and percussionist Andrew. In some ways, this incarnation feels like a whole new groove! David and I, of course, have been working together on and off for over 15 years. Eva, too, has been part of the music as a foundational part of our other ensemble, Wednesday's Child, for 17 years. And Jim is a well-seasoned local pro who, along with Andrew, has played with both groups periodically, too. But this is the first time we'll all be together in the same place at the same time. It should be a gas.

Being back in worship with Palmer's faith community was equally refreshing and joyful. After nearly a year of discussing, studying, praying, and waiting upon the Spirit, it became clear to me that the suggested UCC process for exploring issues of sexuality, equality, and justice no longer works. I'm not sure it ever did, but it clearly doesn't fit us now. Without deep trust built on conversation, careful listening, risk-taking, prayer, vulnerability, and time, making bold choices in pursuit of justice feels dangerously capricious and even immature. 

If the Biblical stories of the early church - and the wisdom culled from subsequent vigorous historical study - suggest anything, it is that the Body of Christ incarnates radical hospitality first and then, over time, searches for wisdom. It used to be said that ours is a faith seeking understanding - fides quaerens intellectum - or orthopraxis before orthodoxy - right action before right doctrine or belief. After 18 months as interim minister, my head and heart sensed that before we make any significant changes to the Open Table of Jesus ministries, we strengthen at least these two time-tested Christian formation practices:

+ Careful conversation and listening: Our 21st-century culture has forgotten how to listen carefully, let alone wrestle with hard realities with love and respect. Families no longer eat together. Our nation lives in segregated siloes and gated communities that banish the complicated gifts and challenges of diversity from consideration. And life moves too fast for anything except a surrender to economic, political, and cultural homogeneity in pursuit of relief from anxiety and fear. 

+ Congregational spiritual formation: Our era of bottom-line ethics, fast food living, and economic insecurity has eliminated time for spiritual reflection and study for most individuals and families. If our attend worship, they barely receive 130 minutes of Sunday School each month. Likewise, our elders who attend public worship can only receive about 190 minutes of scripture, prayer, music, and interpretation each month. That means almost no one has time to look beneath the surface of popular culture concerning what "motivates and forms" our thoughts, words, values, and actions. With Sunday worship being our only time to equip believers with a taste for the counter-cultural values of Jesus, we need new strategies to reconnect our lives with the grace of God.

My proposal, endorsed by our leadership team, is to start an experiment in relearning how to talk together about what is essential to our faith. The German Evangelical and Reformed church used to emphasize: in essentials, unity; in nonessentials, diversity; and in all things, charity. I am reminded of the wisdom the late Fr. Raymond Brown brought to the table in his study, The Churches the Apostles Left Behind. My takeaway is that while the early church gave shape and form to the New Testament, it included seven different emphases (see https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/739501. The_Churches_The_Apostles_Left_Behind) that were unique and situated in the realities of their discrete contexts. Nevertheless, they celebrated koinonia, the unique fellowship and community crafted by Jesus, and found the grace to welcome those with differing theologies to the shared open table of the Eucharist.

Brown's close examination:

... reveals the distinguishing characteristics that delineate the differences among these seven churches: Christology, church structure, exclusivity, community, liturgy, good works, the Spirit, the Eucharistic meal, salvation and, interestingly, Jewishness. These somewhat arcane nuances that define each church are essential in understanding the New Testament. The author points out that there is a pro-Jewish conception of Christianity and a pro-Gentile view that are struggling side-by-side to capture the soul of this emerging religion (17). One of the big questions faced by the early church: Is it necessary for a Christian convert to become Jewish first before becoming a Christian? On one hand there is the Jerusalem church, represented by James and Matthew, who want to see the Jewish Law strictly followed and “…the smallest letter, not even the smallest part of a letter of the Law…” (41) altered. This church consists of mostly Jewish Christians and is advocating for the circumcision of all new Christians. 

Then there is Paul, who has a more libertine attitude toward the Jewish Law, and is troubled by these Christian Judaizers (21). He makes a radical missionary decision (after his vision is restored) to replace the very physical act of circumcision with the spiritual act of baptism. The spirit of Baptism received through fire, water or the laying of hands becomes the preeminent marker of Christian identity. Once the Spirit arrives, it alters the soul of the individual and the nature of the entire church. It liberates the individual from its slavery to worldly sin and it propels Paul and the other apostles to bring Jesus’ good news to the ends of the earth. The Holy Spirit, sent by the Father once the Son ascends to heaven, guides Christ’s body on earth (i.e. the Church) and is of “massive importance”(67) in every step of church history. It is the fulfillment of The Law that makes adherence to God’s statutes possible.

This commitment to koinonia is key in the work we are crafting for at least the next year as we start to talk and listen to one another about what is essential to our church. What we hold in common is our unabashed desire to follow Jesus more authentically without surrendering to exclusivity or judgment. I have found the research and practical wisdom of C. Christopher Smith and the Slow Church movement, which focuses on the patient way of Jesus, to be foundational. These five texts have been clarifying for me:

+ The Virtue of Dialogue by C. Christopher Smith

+ The Form of the Word by Stephen E. Fowl

+ The Shape of Our Lives by Philip Kenneson, Debra Dean Murphy, Jenny Williamson, Stephen Fowl, and James Lewis

+ Slow Church by C. Christopher Smith and James Pattison

+ How the Body of Christ Talks by C. Christopher Smith

Of equal importance has been my slow read of the new translation of the New Testament by David Bentley Hart and the synthesis of Fr. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin's theology by Kathleen Deignan and Libby Osgood. This time of year, filled with a transition from the abundance of summer to the slowing down of autumn, and the latency of winter, is a great time to refocus and regroup. I think Mary Oliver got it right:

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

grateful for divine patience...

The late John O'Donohue put it best:

When our eyes are graced with wonder, the world reveals its wonders to us. There are people who see only dullness in the world and that is because their eyes have already been dulled. So much depends on how we look at things. The quality of our looking determines what we come to see. Too often we squander the invitations extended to us because our looking has become repetitive and blind. The mystery and beauty is all around us but we never manage to see it. When the imagination awakens, the inner world illuminates. We begin to glimpse things that no-one speaks about, that the outer world seems to ignore.

But let's not be naive or absurdly romantic: this does not happen automatically. Yes, a few organic innocents still walk the face of Terra Mater, but most lose this grace by middle school, for that's how reality is ordered. This is not cynicism, mind you; it is, as John Prine used to say, just the way the world goes round. Or as Meister Eckhart insisted: Reality is the will of God - it can always be better - but we must first start with what is real. I don't have a lot of patience for cynics or those they are certain they know better than anyone else... probably because I've been that person in the past and found myself insufferable. As Jung teaches: what we bristle at in others is pointing out to us something we don't want to deal with.

So, knowing that, today I give thanks for God's patience: with me, with you, with all of us.  In Diana Butler Bass's morning meditation, she included this prayer that obliquely recalls Moses being called by name by the One who Is and Always Shall Be. Its tenderness feels just right today:

This people had no temple,
no worship-place.
This people built temples
for others,
for gods they dreaded,
rising in terrible power
over them, having
no regard for
their misery.

They prayed under
the weight of their burdens.
They cried out in
the unprayer of pain,
and God, having no need
of temples, heard,
as God always hears.
And God, leaning to the
brokenhearted, saw,
as God always sees.

For the very earth is holy.
The ground under our feet.
Take off your shoes and feel it,
feel the dry-ground-powder
and the sharp stones,
the infinite tiny beings
that call the earth home.
Take off your shoes.
Know you are part of
all this, part of the
the glory that fills
all things, as the waters
fill the seas.
You will be heard,
wherever you are.
You can listen,
wherever you are.
You are home.
— Andrea Skevington, “Holy Ground, barefoot”

at journey's end...

Tonight is the close of our journey North of the 40th parallel: it is always bitter sweet to leave both because we're eager to be back in our own home AND because we adore Montréal and  Les Cantons-de-l'Est du Québec. Three parting thoughts:

+ We drove through some of the places we have visited in former sojourns as a way of remembering and returning thanks. We hadn't intended to wind up in Magog but we did - and loved it once again. There is a very accessible nature walk that closed out today and it was a joy to visit this old friend yet again.

+ Some have mistakenly interpreted my reflections on pilgrimage and engagement in these confounding times as a retreat into quietism. Not to be engaged in the challenges of justice and compassion would not only violate a lifetime of commitment, but would be antithetical to the God I love and serve. Jesus chose Non-cooperation with the status quo more than any other action and encouraged his followers to do likewise. When we must, we render unto Caesar what is Caesar's and unto God what is God's. But most of the time, instead of carping, whining, or beating his head against a wall that would not budge, he found ways to love and heal those who were closest to him. Well into my 70's, that is where I find myself these days, too.

+ So, in addition to making creative and joy-filled music with colleagues I cherish and trust, I preach, teach, and stand in solidarity with a small faith community in Palmer and trust that sharing life together is what the Lord requires. 

Tomorrow we return to the US: we'll cut the grass, tend our overgrown garden, go to the doctor's office, and prepare for Sunday worship. Next week All of Us will play a private party in Otis after Sunday worship. On Saturday the 12th, we play Methuselah in Pittsfield and start preparing for a barn party on October 4th @ 2 pm in Richmond. We'll also celebrate our beloved grandson's 13th birthday that weekend and rejoice with the wider family. Be safe, dear ones, more to come...

inward/outward journey - part two...

On and off since Easter 2026 - with periodic other forays, as well - my heart has been aflame with interest in both the Mothers and Fathers of the desert as well as the Holy Fools of the Eastern Orthodox realm. Seeing the God Beyond by J.P. Williams is an excellent introduction to Christian apophatic spirituality, while Tricia Harrison Warren's What Grows in Weary Lands: On Christian Resilience offers a 21st-century take on the mothers and fathers of the desert. I'm finding that Ian Crone's reissue of Chasing Francis supplements these other two resources as I take another step into the mysterious absurdity of trusting Jesus.

Most of my adult life has been a balancing act between a passion for Christ's foolishness and the "trust but verify" Christian Realism of Reinhold Niebuhr, Douglas John Hall, and Paul Tillich. After more than forty years of walking this self-imposed tightrope, however, it's time to fall off into the mystical embrace of the God beyond. Long ago, I gave up on Catholic scholasticism and never resonated with the delicately crafted theology of Reformed believers like Calvin or Zwingli. No, the poetry of St. Paul in I Corinthians has long energized my faith: he instructs the new believers in Corinth to consider themselves servants of Christ's mysteries(I Cor. 4) after articulating the essence of the Paschal Mystery like this in I Corinthians 1:

The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being formed by the Cross, it is the power of God. For it is written, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.” So, where is the one who is wise? Where is the scholar? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of the proclamation, to save those who believe. Jews ask for signs and Greeks desire reason, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to some and foolishness to others, but for those who are the called (from any realm) Christ can be the power of God and the wisdom of the sacred. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength. Consider your own call, brothers and sisters: not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to abolish things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God. 

As I am coming to trust, there are at least three outward implications to choosing - or accepting - life as a fool for Christ: a) I must let go of my desire to be effective; b) I must let love rather than success be my guide; and c) I must rest in God's power rather than my own initiative. Looking for effectiveness causes me to hedge my bets. Striving to be successful pushes me to compromise and/or withhold love. Acting like peace, justice, or hope depends on me is both arrogant and exhausting. "Come unto me, all ye who are tired and heavy laden... and I shall give thee rest... Learn what this means: the Lord your God desires mercy, not empty ritual." (Jesus in St. Matthew's gospel) 

St. Francis has been quoted as saying: "Start by doing what is necessary; then do what is possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible." The early advocates for the intellectually and physically challenged at L'Arche taught that "life by the 10 foot rule" could be salvific: "we can only truly touch, change, assist those who are near us; so stay connected there and leave the rest to the Lord." Or as rabbi Joshua Abraham Heschel insisted: "Honor the sabbath and leave it to God's care, and you might learn to trust the Lord more deeply on Monday as well." This is, of course, sacred foolishness. It is also the key to living with equanimity in a harsh and judgmental world. Radical trust is the essence of Christ's foolishness. Perhaps that is why I have appropriated Psalm 131 as foundational: 

Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I concern myself in great matters, or in things too high for me. Rather, I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child.

Writer and wisdom-keeper, Anne Lamott, said much the same thing in today's reflection.

The same rules apply whether you are trying to help a sick friend or our country or the earth. As above, so below. You show up. You take the next right action and the insight follows, not vice versa. The insight is that caring and giving are what fill us up. The insight is that the greatest blessing is to be able to be a blessing for others. The insight is the title of that beautiful Raymond Carver story, “A Small Good Thing.” Help a little. Suck it up and let others help you. Be blessed.

... and become a blessing, too. This is the foolish, cruciform shape of the outward journey that continues to call to my heart.