One part of our time away for reflection and rest comes to a close tonight - and we are both so grateful. It has been slow and reasonably easy. Yes, there have been a few unexpected and challenging walks that have taken their toll. But we've come to almost expect nothing less in Montreal. And given age and health concerns, we've adjusted our outings accordingly - and used our ancient Subaru rather than public transportation. Today we wandered through another bookstore where I scored the new novel by Liz Moore, The God of the Woods, a spiritual reflection, A Pilgrim's Tale by Ian Morgan Cron, grounded in the experience of a burned-out Anglican priest who finds new purpose with the Franciscans of Assisi, and another Can-Lit treasure by Esi Edugyan about a jazz musician in pre-WWII Berlin, Half-Blood Blues.
In the morning, we'll close our first stop in the neighborhood of McGill University that rests on the slopes of Mount Royal and head to la Petite Italie to be with our children and grandchildren for Anna's 9th birthday. We'll feast and chill, and go to Marche Jean Talon daily to savor the flavors, sights, and sounds of this sweet area. The Brooklyn crew will greet each day at their favorite Italian cafe; we'll join them later for tea and croissants before treating Anna and Lou to the beauty of Le Vieux Montréal, the old city, and retiring in the late afternoon for naps, more feasting, and eventually cake and presents. It is a privilege to spend vacation time with family, and this is one of our favorite places to gather.
I've been carrying around this poem I stumbled upon before leaving home that was written by the late John O'Donohue.
As our time away in Montreal ripens, giving me a chance to slow down and look inward, I am grateful. For the next few weeks, there will be time for both deep rest and solitude to read, think, and pray more fully. Already, I am learning not only what is going on with Di's health, but also how to better support her as she makes sense of it all. The mystery of her maladies can be a sacred invitation into deeper tenderness if I am willing to get out of the way. The words I read earlier this week from Fr. Teilhard de Chardin continue to be helpful:
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 more exquisite lines or a more beautiful tone, God, without sparing us the partial deaths, nor the final death, which form an essential part of our lives, transfigures them by integrating them in a better plan - provided we lovingly trust in God. Not only our unavoidable ills but our faults, even our most deliberate ones, can be embraced in that transformation, provided always we repent of them. Not everything is immediately good to those who seek God: but everything is capable of becoming good.
This is, yet again, the wisdom of the Paschal Mystery embracing reality. As de Chardin notes elsewhere: Life, as a whole, makes no mistakes. This reminds me of the way Fr. Matthew Fox once restated an insight from the 13th-century mystic, Meister Eckhart: Reality is the will of God; it can always be better, but we must start with what is real. No place for magical thinking, denial, or fatalistic passivity in the authentic faith journey. Yes, there is surrender as the Serenity Prayer calls acceptance (and some contemporary feminists call relinquishing): God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. There is transcendence, too, as we connect to a love greater than anything our imagination can grasp. But transformative spirituality is always more of a dance than a destination where our volition as a partner welcomes the embrace of Divine grace. It is incarnational. Embodied. Real. And we can always say "no."
Fr. Jon Swales opens his new poem, "Three Sisters," describing some of what it means to live into a spirit-less era:
We live in a disenchanted age. A secular age where meaning is reduced, mystery explained away, and the world becomes what can be measured, priced, consumed. We forsake the living water and drink from broken cisterns. And wounded, reduced humanity forgets what it is. Not image, but animal. Not creature, but consumer. Not soul, but matter. We stumble east of Eden, exiled from a home we can barely remember. Lost.
de Chardin put it like this:The only thing that matters in our existence is to live more and more intensely from the inside. And this is possible always and everywhere.That is, to be in the world in ways that release our truest self from shame, fear, and deceit. To nurture what Merton calls the eternal diamond within - that can never be defiled - so that it might shine more fully outward. As Jesus teaches in the Sermon on the Mount:
Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage. Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept. We’re going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don’t think I’m going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I’m putting you on a light stand. Now that I’ve put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine! Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven.
Today is an extra slow day: a storm with potentially dangerous winds is brewing, so we'll wait it out and see what arrives later. Besides, I woke up feeling a bit run-down and headachy like something I ate recently was rebelling. Yesterday was pretty slow, too, given Di's CAD (Cold Agglutinin Disease) that kicked in after downing an iced tea on a steamy, humid day. We're still learning the unpredictable consequences of this one-in-a-million blood disease and will probably continue to be in a learning mode for the foreseeable future. This pause, however, gives me time to explore an idea that has been slowly percolating within for at least the past year - and maybe longer.
I'm not sure what to call it, exactly, except to say that the words radical, mystical trust in God as revealed in Jesus as Christ comes the closest. St. Paul spoke of learning to see by faith, not sight (II Corinthians 5:7), as well as the invitation to live as fools in the eyes of the powerful elite (I Corinthians 4:10), and that is part of it. Jesus is reported to have taught followers to "seek ye first the kingdom of God" (Matthew 6:33) in the Sermon on the Mount, and that's another piece of the puzzle as well. Add to the mix my gradual disdain for the polemics and politics of both left and right - especially the self-righteous vilification of one another that exaggerates our opponent's failures without owning our own toxic hubris - and I have come to trust the mystical revolution of sacrificial and sacramental love as made flesh by Jesus to be a creative yet paradoxical alternative to the cynical despair of our era.
A few years back, Fr. Richard Rohr clarified this for me when he wrote: "Jesus does not directly attack the religious and institutional sin systems of his time until his final action against the money changers in the temple:
Because of this, Jesus’ primary social justice critique and action are often a disappointment to most radicals and social activists. Jesus’ social program, as far as I can see, is a quiet refusal to participate in almost all external power structures or domination systems. His primary action is a very simple lifestyle, which kept him from being constantly co-opted by those very structures, which I (and Paul) would call the “sin system.”
Currently, the political and religious Left seems to be saturated with a selfish and hate-filled anger that demonizes those they disagree with and dismisses them as either blatantly stupid or totally demonic; while the political and religious Right cherry-picks the most vile, isolated Biblical proof texts to pursue their crusade of judgment, fear-mongering, cruelty, and death that ignores and desecrates the sacrificial witness of Jesus. Both, albeit with degrees of nuance, appear hell-bent on destroying one another with their apocalyptic fury.
+ Those I cherish on the Left justify their so-called "righteous anger" by appealing to the time Jesus brandished a whip to overturn the tables of money changers in the Jerusalem Temple who collaborated with both the priests and the army of occupation to fleece pious peasants and working people. But let's be honest: this took place ONCE in the Lord's three-year public ministry. Look at the texts and the context: Matthew 21:12-13, Mark 11:15-17, Luke 19:45-46, and John 2:14-16. To be sure, Jesus embraced and incarnated more of the prophetic witness of ancient Israel's prophets - see Rohr's recent The Tears of Things for a popular introduction of this truth - but NEVER self-righteous and ugly anger dedicated to denigrating another. Most of the time Jesus simply engages real people where they live.
+ And those I love and value on the Right, either ignore Jesus completely - talk about heresy - or else willfully misinterpret his words about always having the poor with us to ignore the suffering of our marginalized sisters and brothers or else excuse their own selfishness or fear. Biblical scholar David Bentley Hart makes it abundantly clear in his translation of the New Testament that both the gospels and letters of St. Paul are wildly binary in their unconditional support of radical justice and compassion for the poor and marginalized. Hart also takes on the ideological misinterpretation of grace vs. law by documenting that when St. Paul celebrated grace over works, his argument was one of following the minutiae of Torah literally rather than figuratively. For in the early church there was never a moratorium on feeding the hungry, visiting the prisoner, caring for the outcast, or welcoming the stranger - including immigrants.
I often wonder whether the bellicosity of liberals is more about our loss of influence and privilege than a true burden for the suffering of this era. And it seems likely that the propaganda of fear used by so many conservatives is more about maintaining the chaos of the status quo than truly upsetting a culture of greed. Could it be that Frank Zappa was right when he told us that: Politics is the entertainment division of the military-industrial (and now information) complex?
So, rather than give in to cynicism (as Joni Mitchell so wisely named in "The Last Time I Saw Richard"), the despair of Nietzsche, or the absurdity of Sartre, I choose the paradoxical blessing of trust in God's guidance that Jesus articulated in the Sermon on the Mount. Small wonder dear Leonard Cohen told us that:
It's coming through a crack in the wall, a visionary flood of alcohol, from the staggering account of the Sermon on the Mount, which I don't pretend to understand at all.
In true Zen humility - and apophatic wisdom - Brother Len doesn't pretend to understand. Rather, he trusts - and the difference is both life-changing and salvific for me.
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:
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."
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.
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.
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 TheAbolition of Man that not onlymirrors 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 variedyet 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.
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.
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.
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)
