The Little Friar

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...