The Little Friar

In 2018, I told my wife that I was convinced then-president Donnie Trump was engaging in behavior and language reminiscent of any number of totalitarian "leaders" throughout history.  I knew then he would never relinquish the Office of the President of the United States of America peacefully.  He would use any means available -- including military -- in order to remain in power.  My wife -- and everyone else who heard me make that claim -- insisted I was being reactionary.  "That can never happen here", they retorted. Then the 6th of January, 2021, happened.   Liz Cheney's new memoir, Oath and Honor , recounts the aftermath of the 2020 Presidental Election.   On January 6th a mob of Trump supporters stormed the Capitol.  As the rioters attempted to break down the doors to the House chamber, members were told they needed to prepare to hide under their chairs. "We need to get the ladies off the aisle", announced Trump loyalist ringleader Ohio R...

As we approach Christmas, we enter one of the two (the other is Easter) periods of the year in which large numbers of people claim that all popular Christian things are really pagan things.  Some of this is perhaps Puritan hangover; some early Protestants refused to celebrate Christmas because they read the symbolism as Catholics acting like pagans.  If you have a religion of almost pure text and moral discipline, you naturally read any substantive symbolism as a sort of heathenry.  Some of it is out-of-date anthropology still floating around.  It's this that gives us the entirely unsubstantiated notion that the eggs and bunnies of Easter trace back to pagan fertility celebrations.  And some of it is just an irrational taste for pissing on other people's customs; one often recognizes these people by the fact that the insist so vehemently that this or that custom is really some other prior custom, even if it is quite clear that the current custom is not practiced...

In December's hush, where frost-kissed leaves descend, A symphony of rain, a soft refrain, The heavens weep, a melancholy blend, As silver droplets dance on windowpane. Each tear that falls, a tale untold, unseen, Whispers of winter's wistful serenade, A sonnet penned upon the misted sheen, On rooftops, gardens, in the silent glade. The world in slumber, wrapped in a cold embrace, Yet, in the rain, a promise to renew, A cleansing balm, a gentle touch of grace, To wash away the old, embrace the new. December rain, a sonnet to the earth, A poignant verse of nature's constant rebirth. -- 12/10/23

It seems like no matter what Donnie says or promises, there are voices that will caution us from jumping to the conclusion that he has embraced fascism .  Denying election results and fomenting mob violence against Congress?  Surely that's merely authoritarianism , not yet fascism.  Referring to rivals as vermin and promising to round up undesirables in camps?  Okay, yeah, maybe we're getting close to fascism, but we don't want to be hasty in making that generalization ... All that reminds me of something I experienced just as the so-called American "War on terror" was ramping up.  Particularly the debate around torture .   A whole new plethora of euphemisms were invented on the spot to avoid calling the Bush administration's policy of using pain to extract confessions by the name of torture .  Sure, they were enhanced interrogation techniques , but were they really torture ?  In some cases, people came up with ad hoc standards for proper tor...

 In the heart of November's grasp, A symphony of raindrops clasp. Cold whispers weave through the air, As frost-kissed petals begin to bear. Grey clouds don their somber attire, Droplets dance in a frozen choir. A chill descends, a silent refrain, In the hush of cold November rain. Leaves, once vibrant, now subdued, In the quiet storm, solitude pursued. A canvas painted with shades of grey, As nature bows to November's sway. The breeze, a shiver in the spine, A tale of winter, a story divine. Through barren branches, raindrops play, A frosty waltz in the fading day. Footprints echo on pathways cold, Stories untold in the mist unfold. November's rain, a whispered song, In the solitude where dreams belong. Yet in the chill, a beauty lies, A quiet grace beneath the skies. Through the mist and icy refrain, Nature finds solace in November's cold rain.

 I have a new favorite translation of Augustine's Confessions ; it's the one by Williams . The famous opening passage of the Confessions captures the structure of the work.  It's a story about the journey from restlessness to rest, a journey that is structured by praise.  This helps, I think, to understand the ways in which the book is not quite an autobiography; it is, rather, an exploration of the restlessness of the human spirit, in which Augustine uses his own life as an example.  It begins, of course, with Augustine looking back to his birth and childhood.  He discusses how as an infant he struggled to express his desires, and how as a student he struggled to learn what was most important.  Both of these are just aspects of the restlessness of human life, always wanting something more and beyond, not merely from mere immaturity but, as becomes very clear when we grow older, we confuse the restful and the merely temporarily satisfactory.  As a tee...

Nestled in the autumn's embrace, Orange hues paint the landscape's grace. Vivid memories of leaves that fall, Ephemeral beauty, nature's call. Misty mornings, a crisp chill in the air, Berries and pumpkins, symbols everywhere. Eager winds whisper tales untold, Reveling in November's colors bold.

The Prince of Peace will forever take away hell on earth. He will establish heaven on earth.  The thick darkness shall flee for the brightness of his morning-light.

Today I paused by fresh graves, just a few feet from my own little piece of rented "resurrection ground", and had a few choice words with Death.  Laughing in his face, I said, "Stings don't it? To know you’re already beaten." And I left him standing there, cold and silent.

 In the whispering arms of the autumn breeze, The wind hums a tune through the swaying trees. It beckons the leaves, in their golden attire, To join in a dance, an elegant satire. "Oh, leaves," the wind murmurs in gentle delight, "Come twirl and whirl in the fading light. Let us weave a tale of the season's embrace, As we sway together with effortless grace." With a rustle and a sigh, the leaves descend, Their journey akin to a ballet, without end. "We'll pirouette and flutter, embracing the ground, Painting the earth with hues profound." The wind, a maestro orchestrating the scene, Guides their descent with a touch so serene. "Softly now," it whispers, "lay down your dreams, For the earth awaits you with welcoming streams." As the leaves settle in a rustling bed, Their conversations with the wind now shed. A tale of harmony, in nature's sweet reprieve, A symphony of whispers, for those who believe.

Of all the years that swiftly fled in flight, Ten blessed cycles crowned with love's pure light,  Through peaks and valleys, hand in hand we trod,  Embracing every moment, kiss, and nod. In every storm, your steadfast heart prevailed,  With grace and courage, all my fears assailed.  Your laughter, like a melody divine,  Through every trial, made my spirit shine. With every passing day, my love's grown strong,  A river flowing ceaselessly along.  Your touch, a balm that soothes my weary soul,  Completes the fragmented parts to make me whole. So here's to us, a decade strong and true,  My heart, my love, my everything is you. -- Upon our 10th wedding anniversary

And there was a man of the Pharisees, Nikodemos his name, an Archon of the Judeans; he came to him at night, and said to him, Rabbi, we are aware that you have come from God, a teacher; because no one is able to make these signs that you make, if God were not with him. Iesous responded and said to him, Amen, Amen, I say to you, if anyone is not born from above, he is not able to see God's realm. Nikodemos says to him, How is a man able to be born, being old? He is not able to enter his mother's belly a second time and be born. Iesous said to him, Amen, Amen, I say to you, if anyone is not born of water and Breath, he is not able to enter God's realm. What has been born of flesh, is flesh, and what has been born of the Breath is breath. Do not wonder that I said to you that y'all ought to be born from above. The breath breathes as it will and you hear its sound, but you are not aware of whence its comes and whither it departs; so are all who have been born of the Breath....

 In echoes of time, his tales reside, A healer's touch, a scribe's pride. Guided by faith's unwavering gaze, In his words, hope forever plays, St Luke, in hearts, will e'er abide. Upon the Feast of St Luke the Physician , 2023

I. In Oxford's ancient halls, a voice did ring, Hugh Latimer, a preacher bold and true, His words, a beacon, piercing as a spring, Illuminate the path for hearts anew. Through sermons woven with persuasive might, He stirred the souls of men with fervent fire, Urging them to embrace the guiding light, To shed the shackles of their dark desire. With zeal, he spoke against all forms of wrong, Unflinching in the face of ruthless power, His courage, like an anthem, rose in song, Echoing through the ages, hour by hour. A martyr's spirit, steadfast and serene, His legacy, an everlasting scene. II. In tumultuous times, where faith met fear, Nicholas Ridley, with wisdom's guiding hand, Stood firm, undaunted, his vision crystal clear, A beacon of hope in a troubled land. Through scholarly pursuits and learned grace, His mind, a fortress, steeped in ancient lore, His fervent spirit, in truth, did embrace, Urging all to seek and explore more. In the face of trials, his courage stood ta...

 On a windy autumn afternoon's embrace, The trees sway with a wild, untamed grace. Their leaves, in a frenzy, whirl and play, Dancing with the wind in a spirited ballet. The air hums with a brisk and playful tune, As golden sunlight wanes, fading too soon. The rustle of foliage weaves a soothing song, Nature's symphony in breezes strong. Amidst the gusts, a chill finds its way, Whispering secrets of the year's decay. Yet, within the tempest's fervent embrace, There lingers a whisper of nature's grace. Leaves take flight, swirling in a joyous race, Skittering across the ground in an elegant chase. The wind, a spirited painter in the sky, Sweeps away summer's remnants with a sigh. Beneath the tumult, a quiet peace resides, As the earth prepares for its wintry tides. In the whirlwind's chaos, a beauty is found, A reminder of nature's cycles, unbound. So let the blustery zephyrs carry us away, Into the heart of autumn's tumultuous display. For in the win...

There's a lot of sloppiness when it comes to talking about ethics and war in our modern American culture.  Perhaps this is inevitable, given that war is in its very nature an extremely messy.  But having seen a great many comments and discussions, I think it's important to distinguish three distinct (but nested) things. 1.  War is always bad; it's an entire cascade of terrible consequences, and there is no war that is not.  No matter how one acts, bad things happen.  There is a tendency, however, to conflate the badness of war with the injustice of war; in reality the latter is only a small sub-region of the former.  It's one thing to press for reducing the badness in the limited ways available for doing so, but you go wrong when you take bad happenings as themselves a sign of injustice. 2.  Injustice in war is, as I noted, a small sub-region of the badness of war.  The principles of just war require that one act in such a way as to render what ...

Every time the situation in Israel-Palestine hits the news, for Christians, one of the issues that emerges is whether or not the modern State of Israel is a fulfilment of biblical prophecy.  Lots of preachers will waste a lot of preaching opportunities to talk about "the end times", the (very unbiblical) rapture, etc.   So what's a Christian to think about the issues that revolve around the State of Israel and the Bible? For starters. let's put the very idea that the modern State of Israel is connected to biblical prophecy itself into a historical context.   Christian Zionism is a political theology with 19th-century roots.  It took on its full form following the birth of modern Israel in 1948.  It's a political theology because modern Israel, in this view, is not like other countries:  It is the outworking of God's plan foretold in the Scriptures, and therefore modern Israel’s political fortunes have profound theological and spiritual consequence...

In a quaint countryside, two corgis play, Their fluffy nubs a-flutter, in bright display. With stubby legs and ears that flop just right, They chase and frolic in the golden light. Their coats of fur, a blend of hues so fair, Like toasted marshmallows in the summer air. They prance and gambol through nature's carpet green, Two little corgis, a charming, joyful scene. Their eyes so bright, with mischief in their gaze, As they explore the world in endless craze. With hearts so pure, and spirits full of zest, These corgis bring to life, pure happiness. So let us cherish these two furry friends, Whose love and loyalty, it never ends. In every bark and hop, they bring delight, Two corgis' love, a precious, warming sight.

 In October's grasp, the chill does creep, Through golden leaves, it softly seeps. The air grows crisp, the skies so clear, As autumn's touch draws near. The trees, they shed their vibrant gown, In shades of red, they tumble down. A carpet of russet, orange, and gold, In the October chill, the world unfolds. The harvest moon, a glowing sphere, Casts its light on all that's near. The night comes early, the days grow short, In this tranquil season, we find support. With scarves and sweaters, we bundle tight, Embracing the chill of the autumn night. Fireside tales and warm mugs of tea, In October's embrace, we find glee. So welcome the chill, the October air, A time of beauty beyond compare. As nature prepares for winter's embrace, October's chill brings a sense of grace.

     October showers, gentle and cool, A soft embrace from nature's rule. As autumn leaves begin to fall, The raindrops dance, a soothing call. They pitter-patter on the ground, A rhythmic, calming, soothing sound. They kiss the earth with tender care, Refreshing life, renewing air.      The skies are gray, but not forlorn, For in these showers, hope is born. A promise of the harvest's yield, In every drop, a secret sealed. So let the October showers fall, A gift of nature for one and all. They cleanse the world and wash away, The worries of another day.      As days grow shorter, nights grow cold, October's beauty we behold. In rain and mist, there's beauty found, In October showers, all around. -- 10/06/2023, upon a drizzly afternoon