The Little Friar

Fourteen years and nearly 2,400 posts later, this blog is now closed.  It's been a lot of fun.  But I don't quite have the heart to keep the blog going.  Instead, I'll most likely be out walking the dogs or playing among all the flowers we've planted.   I won't delete the site, but there will be no further posts.  Feel free to browse the archives -- and thanks to all my loyal readers over the years.

No dog lives forever but I hoped he would be the first.  Luke Bryan McCarter, our corgi.  Luke, my trusted friend and confidant these 3 years.  Luke, the glory of his breed and the friendliest member of his household.  Luke, bone- and stick-chewer, ball-chaser, swimmer, and feared destroyer of stuffed toys. He was named after my wife's favorite country music singer.   We soon learned that this dog had an even larger personality than any celebrity singer.  Because a dog is not a thing.  He is not a person either, I understand that, but he dwells somewhere in the borderlands of personhood.  Anyone who doubts that animals have souls has never reckoned with a Corgi like Luke.  Whether the dog brings his soul with him into the world or acquires it through constant communion with the human soul is a moot point.  At any rate the dog is more susceptible to humanization than any other animal.  He feels joy and doubt and affection and cu...

Lord Christ, today I saw a priest of your church weeping because of your people.  What was this strange, silent grief?  Was it because of some failure in your people?  Or some inadequacy in the priest himself?  Is there something he needs, but still lacks, for his ministry?  Was there something I could give him?  A book to read, a bit of theology?  Or some encouragement and a friendly word?  Or was it your own grief, the grief of your priesthood, that had entered his heart and broken it from the inside?  When you wept over the lost sheep of Israel, was it because your priesthood was lacking, or because it was so full?  Christ our shepherd, Christ our pastor, Christ our priest, have mercy on all priests of your church.  Have mercy on all who have responded to your call, even when their task is beyond all human ability.  Have mercy on all who have to announce your forgiveness, even when sin's burden weighs heavy in their hearts....

April 1, 2004:  That is the date I solved my email problems. That was the day Google released Gmail, which remains the best possible implementation of electronic mail.  Their attack on the problem of email was twofold.  First, they released the user of any need to decide when or whether to delete a message by providing near-infinite storage.  Second, they released the user of any need to sort through that mail by providing powerful search functionality, along with optional filters and labels.  Now, users could simply "archive" emails that are not immediately actionable and always know they could find them, allowing them to preserve their inbox as a more functional space for genuinely new messages. The way many people use this powerful tool is simply tragic.  Again and again, I hear tales of people with 10,000+ unread emails in their inbox.  When I suggest that they should simply archive everything, they retort:  "But how would I find anything?"...

In May's embrace, thunder roars, a primal dance, Electric veins streak the sky, a symphony's trance, Rain's percussion on parched earth, a healing balm, Nature's crescendo, a wild, untamed psalm. Trees sway in reverence, leaves whispering lore, May's thunderstorm, nature's mighty uproar. In its tumultuous embrace, life is reborn.

Monk's cress in our small flower garden in front lawn In grounds kissed by dawn's first light, Where whispers weave through morning's flight, There blooms a flower, fair and bright, The monk's cress, in pure delight. With petals bright as morning's light, And heart as humble as seeds that sow, It dances softly, to and fro, In nature's symphony's gentle flow. Amidst the grasses, tall and green, A graceful presence, serene and keen, Its fragrance lingers, unseen -- unseen, A treasure of the meadows, unforeseen. In silent prayer, it bows its head, A symbol of peace, where love is spread, A testament to the life it's led, In quiet beauty, it treads and treads. Oh, monk's cress, in your simple grace, You teach us lessons, in every place, To find solace in the smallest space, And kindness in each fleeting trace. So let us cherish, with hearts sincere, This wildflower, so precious, so dear, For in its bloom, we find a clear Reflection of all we hold most ne...

In Canterbury's cathedral, hushed and still, St Aelfheah, beacon of faith, did stand, Amidst the shadows, brave against the ill, His spirit firm, though fate lay in command. With solemn grace, he faced the Viking horde, Whose fury shook the earth with war's cruel dance, Yet in his heart, he held not fear, but Lord, His gaze unwavering, in steadfast stance. With gentleness, he sought to mend the fray, To reconcile, to bridge the chasm wide, But in the tumult, darkness held its sway, And martyred saint met fate with peace inside. Thus Aelfheah, in martyrdom's embrace, Found victory in love, and endless grace.

In the golden glow of dawn's embrace, Where shadows dance and sunbeams chase, There sits a creature, furry and wise, With curious gaze and soulful eyes. Amidst the verdant grass it plays, In the morning's soft, ethereal haze, A groundhog, noble in its stance, Basks in the sun's warm, tender glance. Its fur, a quilt of earthy brown, A testament to the land's renown, As it nibbles on a blade of green, In this tranquil, idyllic scene. With every movement, a tale is told, Of earthy secrets, ancient and bold, In the rhythm of its gentle sway, Nature's symphony on display. Oh, what wonders unfold in its domain, As it roams the meadow, free from chain, A guardian of the earth, so mild, In the sun's embrace, forever wild. So let us pause and quietly observe, This humble creature, with nerves of nerve, For in its simple, humble grace, Lies the beauty of this sacred place. -- composed upon an afternoon of sitting outside and seeing a groundhog in the yard

Jesus, addressing us: 1.  I love you unconditionally.  You can't earn that love, and you can't lose that love.  2.  I accompany each of you on your life journey, and I am aware of the pain and joy in your life.  I share your pain and I celebrate your joy. 3.  There is no limit to my forgiveness.  If you are open to the need to transform your life, you will experience and understand that forgiveness. 4.  You live in my presence now and you will live in my presence after you die. 5.  I would never bring about the destruction of the world.  If tragedy happens, life will go on. 6.  No organized religion has captured me.  I will continue to avail myself to the world, and your knowledge of me in this lifetime will never be complete. 7.  Evil has nothing to do with my plans.  It is a part of life that offers us choices.  Good will always outlast evil in the world.  8.  I give you all of creation to accompany y...

April 14th is the Feast of these three women, all commemorated as "unmercenary physicians" in the tradition of St Luke.  They are remembered as "unmercenaries" (physicians who would not accept fees from their patients) and are more celebrated in Eastern Orthodox traditions than in the West.  Zenaida and Philonella were sisters and tradition holds they were cousins of St Paul; Hermione was born in Caesarea of Palestine early in the first century, a daughter of Philip the Deacon.  All three devoted themselves to the philosophical study of medicine and operated free clinics (Zenaida and Philonella in a cave and Hermione in her home). The collect for the day:  Merciful God, whose most dear Son came to heal the sick, raise the dead, cast out demons, and preach good news to the poor; Lead us by the example of your servants, Zenaida, Philonella, and Hermione, to freely give even as we have freely received; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Upon the Feast Day of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, theologian, martyr In shadowed times of strife and dread, Where tyranny reigned with iron tread, There stood a man of steadfast creed, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a noble seed. Born to speak truth, his voice did soar, Against the tides of hate, he bore A beacon bright, a guiding light, In darkest hours, dispelling night. A theologian, scholar, and sage, He penned his thoughts on every page, Of grace and mercy, love profound, In God's embrace, true freedom found. Amidst the storm of Nazi might, He fought for justice, shining bright, In clandestine whispers, bold and brave, He strove to rescue, to heal, to save. Yet chains of tyranny held him fast, In prison walls, his faith steadfast. With courage firm, he faced his fate, His life a testament to love innate. Though silenced by the hangman's noose, His legacy, a lasting truce, Between the warring hearts of men, In Christ-like love, he lives again. So let us honor his memory true, With hearts af...

There are some questions I have about life that Google has, thus far, been unable to answer. Why is music so beautiful? Did I cry from pain when I was born or mostly from surprise? Have I ever ruined anybody's life, and, if so, will I be forgiven? What are the first things? Am I a good husband?  If not, what does my life mean? Why do I ask questions? Who would I be if one day my brain was damaged so that I couldn't use language anymore?  What would become of all my questions? What is the truest thing I have ever done? What is the truest thing anyone has ever done for me? Am I lucky to be alive, or unlucky?  Does it make any difference? Will I ever be truly happy, and, if so, will I know it at the time? Am I loved?  (And how would I know for sure?) Do I love?  (And how would I know for sure?) Was it my fault _____ was so rude to me?  Am I an objectionable person? Do I have a soul? Why are human beings so cruel? If something happened a very very very long tim...

1.  There is something uniquely eternal about love.  After all: "and now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love" (1 Corinthians 13.13), and "God is love" (1 John 4.8).  Love, unlike faith and hope, is uniquely conceivable without a temporal dimension.  Love cares for what has come to be -- what is -- and not for the formless possibility of what might be in the future.  This is why love is tortured by time, which continually threatens the objects in which it rests.  Only love can, and must, suffer, while faith and hope do not. 2.  Human agency is the agency of love, the operation of this most divine longing.  Yet the opportunities for the action of love are too often inaccessible to us.  The more aware we are of the world, the more love is awakened within us and the more incompetent we find ourselves to be in uniting with the loveliness within objects.  There is literally not enough time for our love....

My birthday party, aged 8 -- just for reference's sake. When I was a teenager, I cared deeply about clothes.  I invested a lot of time in "my look":  A sort of miniature professor, looking at it in retrospect.  I am, by no means, a model -- or, for that matter, anything to look at.  But I cared how I looked.  I would find clothes that I felt represented my quirky, flamboyant self, in order to present a confident, put-together person.  I liked to "dress up"; it prepared me to conquer the day that lay ahead -- fraught, as it was, with so many social situations I wasn't sure how to negotiate unless I acted more mature, like an adult.  In high school, I was once confused for being one of the math teachers.  That sort of thing. At the time, I didn't know what I was doing.  It was just something I did in order to feel less awkward in social situations that already made me feel so extremely out of place. Then, the year after I graduated college, in ...

      In Egypt's ancient sands, a tale unfolds, Of Mary, whose life a wondrous story holds. Born to sin's grasp, she wandered astray, Lost in the desert's unforgiving array. Her path, a maze of folly and vice, Yet in her heart, there flickered a quiet grace. In shadows deep, she sought fleeting pleasure's lure, But found no solace, no lasting cure. Till one fateful day, midst the desert's haze, She met the holy, in unexpected ways. A pilgrim on a journey, devout and pure, Whose presence stirred Mary, her soul to allure. Driven by curiosity, she followed his lead, To Jerusalem's hallowed ground, where hearts plead. But barred from the sacred, by sins' heavy toll, Mary wept bitterly, her anguish taking its toll. In despair, she turned to the wilderness vast, Seeking redemption, from her sinful past. For forty long years, she roamed in the sand, A penitent soul, seeking God's guiding hand. Her garments turned to tatters, her skin scorched by the sun, Yet Ma...

Upon the dawn of Resurrection's day, When darkness fled before the rising sun, A tomb laid bare, where once the Savior lay, The victory of life and love begun. No stone could hold Him, nor the grave's embrace, For death itself was conquered by His might. In radiant glory, clothed in heavenly grace, He emerged triumphant from the depths of night. The world rejoiced, the heavens sang with praise, As hope and joy flooded each waiting heart. For in His rising, all our sins He did erase, And promised that from Him we'd never part. So let us lift our voices high and sing, Of Christ the Lord, our Savior and our King.

In the hush before the dawn's first blush of gold, Where shadows dance in darkness, stories untold, A world in slumber stirs, awaiting the day, As nature's chorus sings its dawn's display. Above the horizon, where heavens meet earth, The sun, with gentle grace, announces its birth. A symphony of colors, a palette so grand, Paints the sky with hues, as if by God's hand. On Easter morn, when the world is reborn, In the quiet of dawn, a promise sworn, The earth awakens with a joyous song, As nature joins the chorus, loud and strong. From mountaintop to valley low, Creation's voice begins to flow. The birds take flight, the flowers bloom, As life bursts forth from winter's tomb. In every blade of grass, in every tree, The heartbeat of the universe, wild and free. The rivers sing, the oceans roar, As Easter's tale is told once more. For on this day, a miracle unfurled, The greatest story ever told to the world. From death to life, from dark to light, Easter's...

"All our life is a festival.  Since we are persuaded that God is present everywhere on all sides, we praise God as we till the ground, we sing hymns as we sail the sea, we feel God's inspiration in all that we do ...  Whenever we pay attention to God, every place and every time becomes truly holy." -- Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis 7.7.39. "So the whole of our lifetime is a festival.  For when Paul said, 'Let us keep the feast' [1 Corinthians 5.7-8], he wasn't referring to the Passover or Pentecost.  He was pointing out that all time is a festival for Christians ...  For what good thing has not already come to pass?  The Son of God was made human for you.  He freed you from death and called you to a kingdom.  Now that you have gained such good things -- and are still gaining them -- how can you do anything less than 'keep the feast' all your life?  So let no one be downcast about poverty or illness or the cunning of enemies.  It is a ...

      Upon this Holy Saturday, we wait, In silence deep, with hearts subdued and still, The world in solemn pause, anticipates The promise of the dawn, the heavenly will.       In quiet contemplation, we reflect On mysteries profound, beyond our ken, The darkness of the tomb, the soul's defect, Yet hope arises, like a distant glen.       For in this hallowed space of sacred rest, We sense the stirring of the Divine breath, A whisper in the silence, manifest, A harbinger of life beyond the death. So let us keep this vigil, steadfast, sure, Awaiting resurrection's light, so pure.

He is despised and rejected of men.  Isaiah liii.3. Is it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawn’d on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power For comfort than an angel’s mirth? That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn? Sooner than where the Easter sun Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run, “Who died to heal, is risen to save?” Sooner than where upon the Saviour’s friends The very Comforter in light and love descends? Yet so it is: for duly there The bitter herbs of earth are set, Till temper’d by the Saviour’s prayer, And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet, They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, Soft as imprison’d martyr’s deathbed calm. All turn to sweet — but most of all That bitterest to the lip of pride, When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near. Then ...