it's been a long, time comin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when the student is ready...

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

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

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

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

no accounting for happiness...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so we will...

hallelujah any way...

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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