Reading for Pure Joy

I love to read, and I never go anywhere without a book; making me no different than any other writer. And now that I’ve moved into a more focused chapter of my life, I only read things that matter to me. No more reading because I have to—my grandad used to say, “with age comes freedom,” and now I’m living that out. Remember that while you’re scrolling down through my list. Since I started blogging ten years ago, I’ve annually posted my top books of the year. Oddly enough, the length of the list has not been consistent. This year I’m going with twelve. Don’t think apostles. Think alchemy—three becomes four; the apocalypse, the philosopher’s stone. The books are listed from ten to one. And then I’ve thrown in two extras, just because I wanted to use the number twelve. I’ll start with the apocalypse, that ought to be a fair warning.

Ten—“The Book of Revelation,” translated by Michael Straus and illustrated by Jennifer May Reiland. I’ve read The of Book of Revelation several times, but never in one setting. Now I have. And while The Saint John Bible’s is illuminative, the art didn’t drive me into an apocalyptic fetal position. Straus’s translation is true to the original language yet fresh. And he offers little poetic surprises along the way using Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, and German to accentuate the poetry of the vision. He also includes a bit of alleluia musical score, which I found delightful. Reiland brings the apocalypse alive, shockingly with graphic eroticism. Her detailed watercolors are contemporary in content and style. Reiland’s “Self-portrait of Mary Magdalene Having a Vision of the Apocalypse,” is a juxtaposition of the beauty and the beast.

Nine—“The Tarot, Magic, Alchemy, Hermeticism, and Neoplatonism” by Robert M. Place.
First, Place is an artist, one who wants to know everything about his subject, which for several years has been the tarot. His latest tarot decks are “The Alchemical Tarot” and “The Tarot of the Sevenfold Mysteries.” His research led him into the areas you would expect, hence the long and cumbersome title of this book. I’ve read several books on the tarot and this one offers the most concise and at the same time, in depth, history of the cards. Place does a reasonable job of providing the reader with enough connection, but not too much background, into the other topics, out of which tarot developed and without you cannot truly understand the craft of tarot. His art is beautiful and imaginative. I’m especially fond of the first deck. He also provides several plates of historical tarot cards and alchemical art. The only thing that would have made this volume better would have been color pictures, of course that would have put the price out of reach.

Eight—"Alchemical Active Imagination” by Marie-Louise von Franz. Von Franz was one of
Carl Jung’s closest and most respected students and colleagues. She has written more about Jung’s concept of Active Imagination than anyone. Jung’s technique, along with dream analysis, was central to his therapeutic method. To have any understanding of Jung’s mystical theories and practices, his oft misunderstood “The Red Book,” and the use mandalas, von Franz’s book is a must.

Seven—“Aurora Consurgens: A Document Attributed to Thomas Aquinas on the Problem of
Opposites in Alchemy,” edited with commentary by Marie-Louise von Franz. If you
didn’t read number eight on the list, go back and read it before trying to tackle this work of art. This isn’t the Thomas Aquinas you read in seminary. This is the great theologian facing death, trying to sort out the most serious questions of life and the end, his personal apocalypse. He needed a therapist and a spiritual guide. Therapy hadn’t been invited so he turned to Sophia, the feminine divine to be his confessor and confidant—his ally with God. Mind bending stuff with soul creating possibilities.

Six—“When Nietzsche Wept,” a novel by psychotherapist Irvin D. Yalom. Did philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche have a therapist? What if that therapist was a colleague of Sigmund Freud? What if Nietzsche was the father of talk therapy? Irvin Yalom has been one of the most creative and imaginative therapist and writers of our era. He has used the novel, and in this case, historical fiction, to pose some fascinating questions about the human condition and the practice of therapy. This book is deliciously written and moves quickly across the landscape. If you’re interested in therapy and/or spiritual guidance (spiritual direction), this is an important read in understanding transference, counter-transference, the depths of depression, and suicide. He also wrote “Schopenhauer’s Cure,” a melancholic teaching novel about group therapy.

Five—"The Transmigration of Timothy Archer” a novel by Philip K. Dick. He’s the author of “The Man in the High Castle,” and the film “Blade Runner” was based on his science-fiction work. Dick was a prolific writer authoring 44 novels and 121 short stories, ranging in topics from science fiction, alternative universes, altered states of consciousness, metaphysics, and theology. “The Transmigration of Timothy Archer” was based on Dick’s friendship with the controversial Episcopal Bishop James Pike, who was a precursor to the equally firebrand Episcopal Bishop John Shelby Spong. The novel provides a picture into the confused psyche of someone caught in the political swirl of the church, illusive historical Jesus research, and the drama of human tragedy. The twist is in the title.

Four—“The Intelligent Enneagram” by A.G.E. Blake. This book has nothing to do with the
Enneagram as a personality typing tool and everything to do with the teaching of G.I. Gurdjieff. If you have read Cynthia Bourgeault’s “The Holy Trinity and the Law of the Three,” you’ll recognize Gurdjieff’s name. Bourgeault does her best to use Gurdjieff’s work in relationship with the Trinity without getting her reader bogged down in the intricacies of the metaphysics behind the Enneagram. I have found Blake’s work to be foundational in understanding the philosophical and magical power of the Sacred Circle. Blake fills in the thought gaps Bourgeault left with her reader. If you want to fully grasp the Enneagram at a deeper level, this book is for you.

Three—“Bodies, Politics and Transformations: John Doone’s Metempsychosis,” by Siobhan
Collins. The Irish author and academic takes on the daunting task of salvaging Donne’s most opaque and often misunderstood poem. In fact, his detractors use this lengthy poem to disparage Donne’s canon. Most aficionados on Donne divide his career into two segments—before and after priesthood. The first half of his writing life was filled with Eros. The second with Agape. Collins succeeds in giving Donne an appropriate Janus-esk reality. Or in Jungian terms, she allows him to individuate. Collins work is true the subject; poetic, illusive, and evocative. If you don’t know who John Donne was, might be good to read a biography, such as “John Donne: The Reformed Soul,” by John Stubbs before starting in on Collins.

Two—“Healing the Wounded God,” by Jeffrey Raff. Raff was a student of Marie von Franz; thus, he’s is a Jungian analyst and a practitioner of alchemical imagination. His other works are “Jung and the Alchemical Imagination,” The Wedding of Sophia,” and “The Practice of Ally Work.” I would recommend you start with “Healing the Wounded God,” but these four volumes have shaped my spiritual practice. He has taught me how to contemplate with and pray to the divine and communicate with my souls. He has led me into the discovery of the Anima Mundi, the world soul and my own anima. His book has also been supportive of the idea of the “disabled God,” and my research into disability theology.

One— “Knot of the Soul: Madness, Psychoanalysis, Islam” by Stepania Pandolfo. Her other equally evocative book is “Impasse of the Angels.” Pandolfo has changed the way I think about the magical realm of writing and engaging the imagination. “Writing is magic…an otherworldly receptivity.” Her work as an anthropologist of psychology takes her into the dark, imaginal, and artistic world of mental illness, a pain that invades all our lives without respect the race, creed, or culture. We sit at her feet while she teaches us about Sufi poets, art, the metaphysics of Islam, and the tragedy of mind. Pandolfo’s writing is a mystical spiral, which induces an altered state of mind for the reader. These books are a pathway into an alternative universe that demands we somehow keep one foot in whatever we might consider “our reality,” each realm in itself that is as allusive as the other.

I said I would give you two extra books. I also realized I gave you ten other book titles while reviewing my top ten for the year; that makes twenty. As promised, though, here are two addition books, just for fun—which makes the Fool’s journey through the Major Arcana complete.

“The Ravenmaster: My Life with the Ravens at the Tower of London,” by Christopher Skaife. Just plain fun and a few tidbits about ravens—like Guinness and scones (yes, the two go together; try it.)

“Living Revision: A Writer’s Craft as Spiritual Practice,” by Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew. This book is for writers at every level of their craft. Insightful and filled with practical tips and exercises. She’s also friends with two author friends of mine, Karen Herring and Beth Gaede.

My planned reading for 2019? I have these in my que, sitting on my desk.

“The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick” by Philip K. Dick
“Science and Spiritual Practice: Reconnecting through Direct Experience,” by Rupert Sheldrake
“The Lifetimes When Jesus and Buddha Knew Each Other,” by Gary R. Renard
“How to Change Your Mind: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression and Transcendence,” by Michael Pollan.

Hope you found something here intriguing. Happy reading.

I Wish I Could Win the Irish Lottery

Six times, I’ve put my name in an Irish lottery, hoping to be drawn to stand with a few select others, as the morning sun would rise and shine into the center of the ancient temple tomb at Newgrange. Maybe next year. Of course, it was cloudy this morning in Ireland, like most days, the sun was not seen.

Whenever I’ve gone through a rough patch in my life; someone has invariably told me, “Well, you know, the sun will come up in the morning and everything will be better.” I’ve always hated that trite statement. When I feel down, in the blues, depressed, or when I’ve failed miserably, it doesn’t feel like the sun is going to come up in the morning. It actually feels like the sun will never rise again. I’ve felt like that so often, though, I feel okay with living in the darkness.

There are days when I do want the sun to rise again. On those days, rare as they may be, I feel like I need a bit of light and warmth. Paradoxically, during the Christmas season, at the darkest time of the year, when I feel the bluest, is when our culture tells us we should be celebrate.

The first 400 years of Christianity, Christmas wasn’t celebrated. Easter was the only Christian feast. At some point, Christians came into contact with the Celts. The Celts celebrated the three-day feast of the Winter Solstice. The word “Solstice,” is translated as “the day the sun stood still;” the three days when the naked eye cannot see the shadows lengthen. On these three days, the Celts believed their prayers and celebrations participated with Creation in order to restore the lengthening of the days of the sun.

The first day of the solstice, they gathered around the community’s oak tree, which was typically in the center of their village. They decorated the tree with bright red mushrooms that were indigenous to the season. The oak tree was known as the light bearer. Whenever the great oak was hit by lightning, the people would take the struck limb and use it for the Yule fire log, which brought good luck into the home with the promise of longer days to come.

On day two, the Celts gathered at their sacred sites, like Newgrange, to welcome the rising of the sun at the Winter Solstice. These feasts honored the souls of the departed who would be taken into the heart of the living sun.

On the third day of the feast, the people would box up food to take to widows and orphans, to ensure they had enough to sustain them through the impending winter.

Christians witnessed in the Celts celebration of the Winter Solstice, the same thing they believed about the light of God coming into the world. They adopted some of the Celtic practices and in 336 CE, established the celebration Christmas on the same day as the Winter Solstice, which was December 25. (At that time Christians used the Julian calendar, which had only 362 days and no leap year.)

By the 1500’s the Julian calendar no longer matched the seasons of the years. In 1582, Pope Gregory the XIII established the Gregorian calendar that we use today. With the addition of three days and leap year, the Winter Solstice fell on December 21st or 22nd, leaving Christmas three days after the Solstice. Instead of moving Christmas back to match the Solstice, Christians left it on the 25th, marking the rising of the Son of God on the third day after the longest night—to mirror the Resurrection story.

In the ancient worship services of the Christmas feast, Christians would read four different stories from the bible about the rising of God’s light.

At the setting of the sun on Christmas Eve, they would read a story to remind them that God had always been present to people in the darkest times in their lives. Men like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and David who lives were often lived in the dark shadows. And women like Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba who suffered under the hand of oppression. Yet in all the dark shadows and all the oppression, the promise was that the light of God would shine once again.

Then at midnight, Christians would read the story of the angel who appeared to the shepherds. This story is not the sanitized version we are familiar with; a story of sweet shepherd boys being frightened by the appearance of an angel. Instead, this story reminds the listener that the shepherds were criminals sent out of the village to do the dangerous work of tending the sheep. After living with sheep, the outcasts would smell disgusting. Everywhere they went, they carried the mark, the smell of being an outsider. Then, at the darkest moment of their lives, the angel appeared to them and said, the Light was now born into the world and they, and all other outcasts, were invited to go see this strange occurrence.

Then, before sunrise, Christians would read the third story, which was about the shepherd’s arrival at the stable where the Light, in the form a baby, had been born. The shepherds, who smelled like sheep, were welcomed into the barn; the stable where everyone, including the baby smelled the same. And the Light provided warmth for them all.

And finally, after sunrise, Christians would read the story that reminded them that the Light has come for everyone—even when they would feel like the sun will never rise again.

The Light, God, was with the ancients in those bleak times. God was with the shepherds, the criminals, the outcasts, the rejected, when all hope was lost. At the worst of times, God would appear as Light, as an angel, as a lamb, as baby, as the rising sun.

No matter how dark our life might be, whether the sun is standing still, or the sun is hidden behind dark clouds, we can be reminded, as with our ancestors, the Light, in some form, will rise again, even if I didn’t win the Irish lottery.

Altered State of Mind: Parables of an Alchemist Part 2

Altered State of Mind: Parables of an Alchemist – Part 2

Something happened. Seems it would be easy to describe something so simple. But it’s more complicated than the straight-forward sentence, “I retired.” I did retire from active work in the Episcopal Church. I made the choice, happily. I’ve been working since I was seventeen. I’ve worked for the Houston Astros, the Milwaukee Brewers, Coolidge Unified School District, Grand Canyon University, and The Episcopal Diocese of Arizona. I’ve had many masters and now it’s time to be my own. I can choose what to do and when to do it. I’ve become a full-time writer without the necessity of a day job. That feels really good.

But change, even desired good change, comes with transition—the movement from one place, or stage, or chapter to the next. Transition is the process of change. Sometimes we want things to change, like our weight, or our diet, or our work situation, or where we live, or who we live with, but we don’t do anything about it—we are unwilling to go through the transition, the process. Of course, there is change that we can’t control, getting older is the best example. But sometimes other people make decisions that force us to change, layoffs, unwanted divorce, our health, a family death. Change happens. Transition is the process we go through to get to the other side of change.

Prior to retiring, I was an interim pastor. The church’s previous pastor had suddenly, without warning, been removed from the position. It was a shock to almost everyone, including me. Sunday the priest was leading worship. Monday the priest didn’t have a job. Chaos ensued. The congregation was stunned, confused, bewildered, frustrated, angry, numb. And I was thrust into the position of being the congregation’s interim pastor. A dark cloud hung over all of us. In alchemy such an experience is known as “nigredo.” This stage of alchemy is painful because the heat has been turned up and everything is whirling around. The soup of our soul had begun cooking.

For a year, the congregation went through the process of asking hard questions, airing grievances, expressing anger, and grieving, lots of grieving. The transition through this stage was only possible because people were listened to and no one tried to fix their problems, because change had already happened and going back to the way things were, was, as is always the case, not possible. Collectively, though not necessarily individually, they begun to transition to the next stage.

The next stage began when they decided to move forward and seek a new pastor. They talked about their dreams for the future, their hopes for a new leader, and how they would live life together in a new paradigm. In alchemical terms, this is known as “albedo.” It’s when the chick begins pecking out of the egg because it knows it can no longer live in the darkness. The chick must break through, into the light. This stage can be very frightening, panic can set it, a collective claustrophobia can envelope us. Will we ever see the light again? But then a sliver of brightness elbows its way into our darkness and fresh air rushes in; we feel reborn. Once out of the egg, the hard work of standing on our own two feet begins. We wobble around, but finally we get our legs under us, and then we find our stride. We feel like we’re heading into a new land.

And that’s when things get weird. Things aren’t all wonderful under the sun’s brightness. We get to the first obstacle, a cliff. We feel like we’re ready to fly to the other side. We’re a raven who should be able to fly high in the air. We see ourselves as a peacock with a beautiful plume. We tell ourselves that we are ready. But then we realize we are raven with a peacock tail, we look cool, but can’t fly over the crevasse open before us. In alchemy this is the stage of “rubedo.” We have to stay the course, keep working in order to make the final transition.

With the hard work of deep listening to the divine, our soul, and others, reflecting on what has happened, re-imagining what can happen, and leaning into what the transition means—positive change happens—the gold we desire is produced. The Phoenix rises from the ashes and resurrection becomes a reality. We do this work, at first for our self, but then as we go through the transition, we discover that all this work has been for the sake of others as well. The gold heals us and those around us.

While everyone in the congregation was suffering through this transition process, so was I. Making my way through each stage, chaos, breaking out of the egg, and weirdness. But now, as the congregation has hired a new pastor, they are ready to step into that stage of gold. And while they do that, I step off into retirement.

And what does that mean for me? It means I have to endure another round of alchemy. More change. Transition. And I must go through each stage again, nigredo, albedo, rubedo, hoping for gold. This first week feels like what Matthew Fox calls ReFirement. I’ve re-entered the cauldron’s heat. A lot of painful transitions of my past have resurfaced for me to process through once again. I’m having very strange dreams that I have to work with. One minute I’m elated with relief and the next depressed for no reason. I feel like I simultaneously have a huge hangover and the best afterglow possible.

I told the congregation they would repeatedly go through this process. But now they are conscious of it and have new tools to re-imagine themselves and not repeat the errors of their history. Same goes for me. More experience with the process and better tools to manage the waves of uncertainty. And the one thing I can count on is that more change is coming.

As a part of this transition, my son, Dr Neil Stafford, PsyD, and I are starting a new podcast, “A Therapist and an Alchemist.” Our first episode explores the topic of change and transition in much more depth. Our first conversation will appear very soon. Please join us in the conversation.

Baseball Imitates Life

Dedicated to Jessie Lee Moss, May 3, 1939 – November 18, 2018

“Bull Durham” has remained an iconic film, not because men love baseball, but because women understand that the game imitates life. I grew up in a family, where at Thanksgiving, men watched football and the women talked about Spring Training. Men are men, their attention will move to the next shiny object of whatever sport is before them. Women in our family, however, knew deep in the essence of their being, that the seasons of baseball mirrored the cycles of life.

My family roots lie in Oklahoma, the Dust Bowl, the Great Depression, and baseball. Men played Saturday afternoon games on town teams. Family and friends gathered for the serious matter of bragging rights. Bitter rivalries often carried over into the week’s work place. The women knew the intricacies of the sport and the children mimicked their parents. Later in life, my mother would often recount having watched her father, her husband, her son, and her grandson all play baseball. Almost every woman in our family has a similar baseball pedigree.

Some of my fondest memories were of visiting my great-grandmother. As a young boy who carried two gloves and ball everywhere, she was always willing to play catch with me. As a teenager, she gave me a metal pin commemorating Jackie Robinson’s Rookie-of-the-Year season. Obviously, I still have it, along with my thousands of baseball cards.

My grandfather’s oft repeated tale of his relationship with Gene Autry, singer, movie legend, and eventual owner of the then California Angels, has mythic significance in our family. Before Autry left Oklahoma, their families lived in the Tulsa region. During the World Series, Autry would translate the play-by-play telegraph messages and post them on a giant manually operated scoreboard at the local train station. Men and women would hang around, talk politics and smoke, while getting the inning by inning updates. Family legend has it that Autry was sweet on my great-aunt. She would always deny the story with a twinkle in her eye. The plot of “Bull Durham” came naturally by its narrative that had been ground in a myth repeated for generations.

Our family’s loyalties divided between the St Louis Cardinals, the Dodgers, and the New York Yankees. Much of that was fueled by geography and regular World Series exposure. The Cardinals were close by and the Yankees and Dodgers were national rivals. When the early games appeared on TV, Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese simply fanned the flames. Those loyalties have softened over time with family migration, syndicated television, and additional MLB teams. The passion for the game, however, has not diminished nor the women’s knowledge of the game and its symbolic meaning.

Jessie Lee Moss, my mother’s cousin, passed away this week. We visited her last summer at her home in rural Oklahoma, not far from where she had spent her entire life. She was a lifetime Cardinals fan. A real fan. A true fan. She watched all 162 games and understood the nuance of every subtle move. When we showed up at her home, she paused the game to record it. I told her we would very be glad to watch the game with her, but she told us it was better if she watched it alone. It was her polite way of telling us she didn’t want to be distracted by our familial chit-chat while she was watching the Cardinals battle for a playoff spot. We understood and kept our visit to a reasonable time.

Today, I can hear my mother and Jessie laughing together. Most of the women of their generation had a similar laugh—hearty and rooted in simple pleasures born of painful sacrifice. Many of them suffered a natural melancholy; loss, grief, and death had left its wounds on their souls. They were woman who worked hard, played hard, and loved with passion. They spoke truth to power, suffered no man’s foolishness, and loved their family with every ounce of life’s blood. When these women watched baseball, their lives were reflected in the mundane pace of the game that requires attention to every detail. And even with the most careful planning, to win half the games is earned success. The only failure is not to give your all. Strikes outs happen every day; everyone makes errors; some days you just can’t throw a strike to save your life. But then, there are those moments, though rare, when you hit a game winning home run, or you strike out the side in the bottom of the ninth, those times when your team embraces you in love, respect, and appreciation. You live for those days. It is the good times that we remember, but it is those bad times that make us what we are. That is the truth of baseball.

In a “League of Their Own,” a movie about women’s professional baseball during World War II, the manager tells the one his players, “There’s no crying in baseball.” That line gets repeated too often, for its not true. There is a lot of crying in baseball. But it’s usually hidden in the souls of the brokenhearted. Jessie Lee, we are grieving our loss today. And we will cry, not only in brokenhearted souls, but outwardly, where everyone can see. And it’s okay, because we love you and we will miss you.

Today, Jessie Lee, as your number is being eternally retired, you are embraced by all your family, past and present. You played the game well. You showed up for every inning with all you had. You finished every season with gusto, no matter how well the team played. You rested in the off season. And you anticipated Spring Training with great joy. Now it’s your turn to take a final lap around the field and receive well deserved accolades as you are being inducted in Life’s Hall of Fame.

An Altered State of Mind: Parables of an Alchemist

“An Altered State of Mind: Parables of an Alchemist”

Part 1—The Dragon and the Muse

At three in the morning, the darkness feels permanent. My partner breathes deep in her dreams, while the dragon is tightly curled in the warmth of his corner pile of blankets. The night had frozen in place. Against reason, my body left its warmth in my lover’s bed. My feet braced against the floor’s cold surprise of my presence. Even with thirty years of familiarity, my feet shuffled in protection and my hands groped for assurance. The labyrinthine walk through the hundred years of hallways and down the twisted stairs, left me staring out a frosty kitchen window into night’s grip of blackness. I am fearful of my comfort with the darkness; but I don’t want to disturb the feeling of being disturbed.

On All Hallows Eve, my internal clock rolled over to remind my soul that I’ve traveled around the sun 65 times. On that first pilgrimage day, long ago at the exact same in the morning, my dad left my frightened and bleeding mom on the doctor’s back room table. He had been instructed to fetch the nurse from another Oklahoma farmhouse down the road. My trickster-treat nearly killed my mother.

Pondering the darkness of this cold morning, I wondered if it wouldn’t be better if the sun never came up again. At least we might not be subjected to the continual onslaught of emotional terror; mass shootings at synagogues, churches, schools, civil service offices, concerts, and local bars, all too familiar hate crimes, racism exercised from authority figures with weapons, homophobia and the of the denied rights of transgender people, the fear evoked from the non-threat of the oppressed in a walking caravan 900 miles away, a war-torn man-made famine that is starving millions, abandoned refugees, global unrest, and mentally unstable leadership. Nothing feels “great” and I tremble at the past horrors that might happen “again.” I can feel the apocalyptic horse coming to collect her due for those who falsely assume they are the bride.

My depression headed South. My head throbbed. I needed coffee and medication. But I couldn’t stand to be blinded by artificial light. Instead, I sat in the dark and waited to see if the sun actually made another appearance before caffeinating and medicating. If, perchance, the king chose to hide on the other side of the horizon—I had been practicing my blind man’s shuffle.

The dragon stirred. I could hear him begin his serpentine journey through the darkened house. His name is Jesus Jameson, and he’s been living with us for thirteen years. He lost his eyes three years ago. I just heard him bump into the credenza down the hall. For some reason he always bangs his head on the same furniture. The familiarity of pain, I guess. Jesus is headed for the back door, evidently, he needed the old man’s nightly relief. He wound his way under my chair, reminding me, that if I ever wrote anything again, I should say that though he looks like a Jack Russell—he acts like a fire breathing dragon. He might be the prophetic image of my future. Maybe the thought of such things has caused the words of my soul to wander aimlessly for a time.

I intentionally stopped working on a book two years ago when I began the stint as an interim pastor. My spiritual guide suggested that working with people in such pain could bleed into my writing. At first, I shrugged him off. But after deleting a few dozen pages of garbage, the book went on sabbatical. I kept writing sermons and the occasional book review. That seemed like an amenable way to assuage the muse. I assumed she was hanging around, though I hadn’t seen her since I had stopped working on my book. Two months ago, I decided to stop writing sermons because I rarely ever looked at my notes when delivering the message. The paper I held was more like a pneumonic device or a talisman, prompting my memory. But an unexpected consequence of not writing the sermons revealed that the muse had either gone away or was taking a very long nap. I had been keeping my journal, my notebooks, and recording my dreams, but the muse must have been bored—she was silent.

On All Hallows Eve, I woke up with the words “The Dragon and the Muse” circling through my mind. I laid in bed a while thinking I might go back to sleep. But then I heard a familiar voice threaten me with, “write it or lose it.” I wasn’t going to take a chance. I had no idea what those words meant, but I scratched them in my notebook and stared into the darkness, waiting.

The dragon wandered back into the house. He banged his head on the credenza. He probably went back to bed. I thought about following him, now that I had the odd words tucked away in my notebook and nothing else seemed to be flowing.

And then I heard something stirring at the back of the house. It sounded like someone with an aged body painfully struggling their way down the hallway. Maybe the dragon was teaching someone to walk in the dark? I wondered what Jesus felt like when he couldn’t heal the blind man on the first pass.

And then I felt a presence engulf the room. A wave of brilliance radiated into my darkness; so intense I could see nothing but her glory. The Muse has awakened and she had been transmuted into the Queen of the Crone Forest, Mother of the Black Sun. She gained power as she drank my lusty need to know her again.

Euphoria arose from an empty cold cave deep within my body. The room spun but the Muse caught me before I tumbled into nothingness.

“My love,” she whispered. “Can you see me?”

“Strangely so,” I said.

“The eye of your imagination has been liberated. Come, follow me into the realm beyond this reality.”

She flowed into the Light of the Darkness, me clutching her warm dark gentle hand. “Look,” she said. And I witnessed her swallowing the rising sun.

We stepped into altered consciousness—the realm of the seen and unseen, the real and the imagined, the dead and the living—where what could be is becoming.

Re-Fire-Ment, To Move Beyond Being Human

“The Order of the Sacred Earth (OSE) is a self-organizing, emergent movement—a network of individuals and communities who are committing to the pledge “to be the best lover and defender of the Earth I can be.” Author, activist, and priest, Matthew Fox, has a vision and he has cast that vision in this one concise sentence. To contemplate the action necessary for his dream of the salvation of humankind and planet Earth, he has invited two young adult visionaries, Skylar Wilson and Jennifer Listug, to join him in his latest book, “Order of the Sacred Earth: An Intergenerational Vision of Love and Action.”

Fox has committed his life to reimagining the way Christians “live, move, and have their being” in the world. In the asking of the deepest questions of faith, Fox has touched millions through his wisdom, which has been manifested in his books, talks, and school. By asking the questions of himself, his readers, and the divine, Fox has evolved over the years. His ideas have taken him beyond the reimagination of Christianity into the more pressuring need of imagining a future world where humans still exist. His vision calls for the creation of new type of “order” where we can work together for the benefit of Earth, our island home.

Like many of us, Fox has witnessed the ravaging of our planet and the devasting effects that now confront us. He, like others, have called for immediate action. And he, like a few others, have asked the question about how might global warming (and the denial of its reality), be related to other global issues like racism, sexism, anti-LGBTQ rights, xenophobia, tribalism, nationalism, religious intolerance, and sectarianism. He and his co-visionaries have wisely deduced that the way we treat each other is the also the way we treat the Earth—without regard. Simply put, if we truly loved our neighbors as ourselves, we would love Mother Earth equally as well. The single premise of love is the glue that holds his proposal together.

The OSE is in the stage of emergence. It was birthed at a Solstice ceremony in the Winter of 2017. The event was attended by eighty people and witnessed by hundreds via the internet and at satellite locations. The founder’s intent is that the new order will be built on flexible principles, practiced by individuals who meet in OSE Pods (small bioregional communities). The only expectation is that everyone will take the same vow, “to be the best lover and defender of the Earth I can be.” There will be not be a central location, nor a centralized group driving any agenda—truly the order will be self-organizing and in a perpetual state of emergence (evolution).

In the opening chapter, Fox provides the non-religious groundwork for the OSE using his Creation Spirituality. While the religious are welcome, spirituality, particularly eco-spirituality, is the underlying ethos of the order. His vision relies on the ancient wisdom of intergenerational relationships, where the young lead and the elders are sages. And his dream is that those who align themselves with the OSE will live, move, and have their being in the world as mystic-warriors. Mystics as lovers of Mother Earth and the mystery of our inter-wovenness within all of creation; and warriors as prophets, willing to take risks in order to ensure not only the healthy survival of all, but the emergence of something new.

That something new appears in chapters two and three written by his young co-authors. These two chapters are imaginative and bold. While developing a new community on Earth, they are willing to call out what must be left behind, outgrown religion and crumbling institutions. Wilson and Listug are envisioning the next evolution of humanity; “a new ecological postmodernism,” an “Earth-human symbiosis,” so that “we may become more than human.” The first concept is verily well developed, the other two are simply postulates without form that are left to our imagination. I would guess such wonderings are for future conversations as the OSE evolves.

I, too, that humanity and the earth we live on are in a perilous state. My only burning question for the authors, however, would be, “I wonder if Mother Earth is the one who needs saving?” Much like the divine, the Earth (though they may be one and the same) may be quite capable of taking care of themselves. Humanity, however, is another matter. We do need saving. For Mother Earth and the Divine “universal life intelligence” may well have had enough of our unwillingness “to be in sacred service to the Earth.” And thus, they may call an end to the human experiment. Such is the allure of the Order of the Sacred Earth—here may a network of people who take seriously the need for all humanity to work together our salvation and subsequently that of the earth on which we live. Found within the OSE may lie the secret of life beyond human.

The “Order of the Sacred Earth” moved me to consider my own action. This book has given some structure, a house, an order, if you will, about how I live, move, and have my being in the world. I would love to be involved in a sustained conversation with Fox, Wilson, and Listug—all fascinating and imaginative people whose dream is captivating. This book and its ideas have caused me to enter into a period of discernment. To consider what Fox calls “reFIREment” instead of retirement. I wonder what that could look like—to move beyond a life of being human.

This Guy Poops in a Bucket

“We are at the end of the world as we know it,” writes Marcus Peter Rempel in Life at the End of Us vs Them. He is a contemplative farmer and activist, who has written his observations of the culture from which he cannot escape. Rempel speaks as a twenty-first century Thomas Merton, who in Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, challenged his readers to accept their complicity in the emerging chaos of the 1960’s. Rempel confronts his contemporary readers with no less a warning against the demise of the Earth and her inhabitants. And unless we happen to live on a small farm or a monastery, Rempel, like Merton, forces us to stretch our individualist imagination out of its particular circumstance and into the broader commonwealth of collective citizenship.

With forthright courage, Rempel, who is a Mennonite, takes on Interfaith relations, Inter-cultural dialogue, eco-spirituality, the spirituality of sex, biblical interpretation, the role of government, the importance of friendship, and living a life together. His spiritual wisdom is nourished from the “lament of the dead;” learning from the voices of Rene Girard and Ivan Illich. Rempel’s work is no less prophetic than his mentors.

Like Girard and Illich, Rempel writes from the borderlands of the Christian tradition, though there is never a doubt he is a disciple of Christ and a follower of Jesus’ teachings. His book is written “as encouragement to see how far out ahead of us Jesus has gone into the world, working in mysterious ways.” At times he seems to speak from the realm of the ancient Jewish prophets. He suffers not the theologically illiterate, nor a contemporary traditional mis-reading of scripture. Rempel’s work ripples the surface of Christian complacency with an apocalyptic critique of Western Culture and the Church universal.

I am afraid, though, that Rempel may, at times, be a bit too optimistic. His hopefulness could stem from the aroma of his homemade fertilizer strewn on his luscious pasture or from living in Canada. Whatever the root of his vision, it could be understood as homegrown Resurrection naiveté. “Things truly are coming together in our time, even as the risk grows, more than ever, of things flying apart…(there) are intimations of that harmony surprising peace where endless strife has been presumed.” I would pray his prophecy of light outshines my dark cynicism.

Jody has Seen the Light of God

Life is filled with magical moments. If we keep our senses, our mind, and our heart open to the possibility of the miraculous, we can anticipate the appearance of the mystical. But, we must constantly aware, because these mysterious events can happen in the most unexpected places. This summer, I had the opportunity to visit my extended family in Oklahoma. We spent three wonderful days immersed in old pictures and family stories. Every moment felt like a new breath in a familiar setting; vital and precious. Amidst the laughter and tears, there plenty of holy moments. One instance, I would say, I even sat in the presence of the one holy living God—and we weren’t anywhere near a church.

John and I are cousins. He and Kathie live on several acres east of Tulsa. John is a musician, artist, craftsman, and a holy man, though he would never admit to the latter. Adjacent to the house John and Kathie built, sits Jody’s Little House. Jody is Kathie’s brother. He will tell you he is forty-six and that he has Down’s Syndrome. Jody is friendly, but not effusive. He laughs shyly, covering his mouth. And his stories often flow between his words, actions, and sign language. Jody makes me happy just being in his presence, like the laughing Buddha that sits in my office. John wrote a song about his brother-in-law. “No one has more friends than Jody, except God; well maybe Jody has more.”

On her visit, John was telling me about his mother, Jessie, who is very ill. Jody said he had been praying for her. He showed me how he prays. He sits on the floor in yoga pose; the back of his hands resting on his knees, thumb to middle finger, in mudra. He places his opened bible on the floor in front of him while he is surrounded by several small candles in a semi-circle.

Jody said he sits there in meditation. Pointing to his head then his heart, he said, “And I move my thoughts from here to here. When I get all my thoughts from here to here.” He repeated the motion of pointing to his head then his heart. “Then I ask God whatever I’m praying for…over and over again…Be with Jessie. Be with Jessie. Be with Jessie.”

I asked Jody if he ever sees anything while he’s praying. Pointing again. “When I move all my thoughts from my head to my heart. Then I pray over and over and over again…I see angels. And when I keep praying, the angels will open the gates of heaven and then I can go into heaven and pray to God.”

What does God look like, I asked Jody. “Light,” he said. We sat in the still silence of Jody’s glowing light for a long time. Resting in Jody’s aura, I could feel the warmth of the Light of the Divine.

At times, I have found myself praying to God to meet my needs; to meet the needs of the starving masses; and at times asking God to prove Divine existence by granting us a miracle. I have asked God all these things in the name of Jesus the Christ – thinking that Jesus might be the one who would perform the miracle.

But the scriptures teach us that Jesus didn’t walk on the earth preforming miracles, in the name of God, for the sake of those he healed. The miracles were to teach his earthly followers, including us, that they too could perform miracles for the sake of others. Jesus told his followers that they would do even greater miracles than he had done. (John 14:12)

Jesus taught us the key to the magic. But it’s so subtle, I have often overlooked it. Between the miracle of feeding the masses and walking on water, Jesus revealed his secret. “When Jesus realized they were about to come and take him by force to make him king, he withdrew again to the mountain by himself.” (John 6:1-21) Repeatedly, throughout Jesus’ life, he sought solitude—in the closet, in the garden, in the desert, in the mountains. He needed to get away from the swirl of the world so that he could be alone with God. In his meditation and prayer, he found the resources that he needed to fulfill the needs of others.

What Jesus discovered, however, was that he didn’t need God to “give” him those resources—whatever he needed, God had already given him. And that is what Jesus was trying to teach us. We already have the resources within our Self. We were created in the image of God. Therefore, in our godly DNA, we already possess the energy, the power, and the grace we need to be a miracle in some else’s life.

On the surface, though, it seems hard, if not impossible, to believe that we can bring about miracles in other’s lives. But, whether we believe it or not, we can be like Jody and we can pray for others. We can sit in stillness before the Word and the light of God. We can move our thoughts from our head to our heart. And when we can move all our thoughts from our head into our heart, there, in that place we can wait for the angels of God—who will open the gates of heaven—allowing us to walk into the Light and be heard by the one holy living God. And that’s probably miracle enough to change the world.

Changing the World without Words

I’m working on a new book, “Blue Jesus.” I’ve been trying to discover my sister’s silent inner world. Dinah has Prader-Willi Syndrome. She’s mentally and physically disabled and has a vocabulary of about forty-five words. Dinah speaks in sentences of one, two, maybe three words. What lies behind her blue eyes is a mystery. The paradox is that I think she’s a visible icon of the unseen inner world; the world where God resides. In her visible world that is silent, Dinah is a mirror of God—a God who is also a silent mystery.

To begin to understand Dinah as a total person—mind, body, psyche, and spirit—I started with her name. What’s in a name? I think Dinah, and I, and everyone would be a different person if we had been given some other name. A name can be a key to understanding who we are, our history, our psychic DNA—our name can give us clues to understanding our inner world, our soul, our unconscious if you will. “Dinah” a Hebrew name found in the Bible, which means, “one who knows and discerns.” That’s a pretty fair description of my sister. From out of her silence, at moments least expected, she can deliver a magical word of wisdom. For several years now, I’ve been on a quest to discover more than these few slivers of wisdom. I want to uncover her God given wisdom and I think that wisdom is hidden in her art.

Twenty years ago, Dinah created a linocut she titled, “Blue Jesus.” I’ve come to believe that “Blue Jesus” is Dinah’s self-portrait; it’s a picture of her soul. Dinah’s Blue Jesus is what Carl Jung called a mandala, a revelation from the inner world, the unconscious. Jung said that the mandala can reveal things hidden within our ancient unknown mysteries; even when we may not be able to articulate or even understand the meaning of the art we created. Dinah’s art, seen as a mandala, can reveal what’s happening in her silent world.

Along with Blue Jesus, at least three other pieces of Dinah’s artwork could be considered mandalas. In particular: The Rooster, The Stars, and The Sunrise. These four mandalas contain multiple layers of ancient hidden symbols and meanings that are windows into her inner world.

“The Rooster” is a sun-animal, a god of time, a symbol equated with resurrection. Dinah’s rooster has a blue heart—like Blue Jesus—blue often represents wisdom and clarity of thought. The Rooster is crowing at the sun. In the center of the sun, Dinah pained a green eye. These colors and images all have rich meanings.

“The Stars” depict heavenly images as squares, divided into four spaces, each surrounded by triangles. Such symbolism is alchemical and provides a profound opportunity to explore Dinah’s personal process of maturation; what Jung called individuation.

“The Sunrise,” I believe, is an expression of her journey into higher levels of consciousness. The sun rises out of a sea of mysterious faces. The brilliant yellow sun, the symbol of the philosopher’s stone, of higher consciousness, radiates with the multiple colors of the peacock’s tail—a symbol of the development of Dinah’s inner world.

I have yet to scratch the surface of the meaning hidden within these pieces of art. This is just a glimpse into the process of what it’s like for any of us to uncover our own inner, unconscious world.


Such inner work is vitally important for all of us. If we are willing to dive deep into our interior world, our psychic DNA, through dream work, exploring our own mandalas, meditation, and having a spiritual companion, we can expand our personal consciousness and deepen our relationship with the Divine.

The goal is to integrate our inner life with our outer life. By doing this work of the soul, we can begin to understand who we really are and who we can become. This work also gives us the chance to change those things about our lives that we don’t like. Those unwanted behaviors we repeat over and over again. Those things we hate about ourselves, but we feel like we are stuck with and can’t change. Instead of fighting against the things we fear the most, we can actually see those things transform. In other words, we might find a way to not repeat our personal history. Instead we can strike out in a new direction, into a higher plane of consciousness, into the realm of God, and into the life that Jesus the Cosmic Christ said would be “abundant.” A world where the sun rises out of the abyss.

According to Jung, what’s critically important for us as individuals is also important for our community. He says that if we are willing to do our personal work, it will, in turn, impact our community, our nation, even the world. This is so, he says, because our soul is connected to the soul of the community, the soul of the world, and, of course, the soul work of Divine. We are interconnected with all of the cosmic creation.

Carl Jung lived through two World Wars. He struggled in his attempt to explain how a country like Germany, enlightened, wealthy, and strong could fall prey to the mass hysteria of Nazism. His found his answer is the unexplored world of the personal and collective unconscious.
Jung found that if people are unwilling to do their personal work toward a level of higher consciousness, then they are doomed to follow the loudest voice, even if it’s not a rational voice. And eventually, he says, they will repeat history because they have not done the work to unite the inner world with the outer world.

How do we bring these things out of the shadows of the inner world and into the light of consciousness so that we don’t repeat our individual or communal history?

First, we must identify what’s hiding in the shadows of our community and then we must accept some responsibility for our work on these denials and repressions. Second, we have to look into our own shadow. What do we have in our personal DNA that feeds into this corporate shadow? Third, we must ask ourselves how we are going to work on our own stuff in a way that will positively affect the collective? In other words, how do we share our inner world with the outer world in ways that are not “all about me,” but instead for the collective health.

Such is my sister’s work. She can’t tell you what she’s thinking, but she can show you. Her art is sacred because it not only reflects her inner world, but the world of the Divine. She is an artist of the holy. Not because she is simple, or naïve, or untouched by the evil of the world. Actually, the opposite is true. She has suffered the fears that disturb us all, trauma, anger at injustice, death. Yet, by doing the hard work of revealing her inner world, she has moved her outer world onto a higher plane for all to see. And this level of consciousness has brought to her a place where she can hold power accountable by exhibiting unconditional love. She can hold the opposites of power and love in the tension of her own vulnerability. Those who have the ears and heart to hear Dinah are transformed, changed in ways they may not be able to articulate any better than she can. She is doing her part to change the world without using words.

The World between the Living and the Dead

It’s not uncommon for Trinity Sunday and Memorial Day weekend to intersect. It’s tempting for the preacher to focus either on the Trinity or Memorial Day. To tie these two days together, would seem, at best, a rather strained attempt to cover too much unconnected territory. But, I think these two are linked together for reasons we often want to avoid—that of the mystical connections between the living and the dead.

I’ve watched preachers attempt to explain the mystery of the Trinity by using rational ideas. But the Trinity is an experience, a relationship, a feeling that defies the rational. The Trinity is our webbed connection with the divine, the Other. The Trinity can be our path to become One with God. A path that demands the suspension of reality—it requires our willingness to delve into the unknown, the non-rational, the non-linear, the world in-between the living and the dead. The in-between world where God, the angels, and the dead work together. The world of the unseen—a world the living can enter only through active and creative imagination.

There is a mystical otherness of living into the relationship found within the Trinity. The irrational world of the in-between, where the intersection of celebrating the mysteries of the Trinity and honoring the war dead become possible.

On Memorial Day we remember our relationships with the dead. On this day, we turn our minds to honoring those who have died serving their country. Yet today, we live in a constant sea of violence and war. And still, we ache to experience a lasting peace

Forty-two years ago, my mother woke up from a deep sleep to see her younger brother standing at the foot of her bed. She thought she was dreaming, but he spoke audibly to her. “I love you.” She felt warm and comforted, while at the same time, alarmed. She spent the rest of the night dropping in and out of a dreamy, disturbing, and exhausting sleep. In the morning she received a phone call from her sister with the news that their brother had been killed in a helicopter crash.

Captain Eular M. Young had survived an extended tour of duty in Vietnam, which had caused a lot of anxiety in our family. When he returned, all seemed well because we thought he was out of danger. Then one stormy night at Fort Hood, Texas, he was sent out on maneuvers. Something went wrong during the storm and the helicopter he was piloting crashed, killing him and two other soldiers. To this day, no one knows what caused the tragedy.

My family, like yours, has had men and women serve in the military. To the best of my knowledge, my family members have served during the Civil War, World War I and II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, and Desert Storm—and family lives have been lost along the way.

But the one person I want to remember today, the one I want to connect with to today, is my uncle Eular. We were close, he was the older brother I didn’t have—a confidant, a friend, a mentor. Like many relationships, ours was beautiful, complex, and hard to explain. And, the relationship seems to continue now as he lives in the world of the dead.

A relationship with the Trinity, the One Holy Living God—God the Parent, God the Child, and God the Spirit—can only be imagined in the world of the unseen, the unknown, the in-between. Except for the relationship with Jesus the Christ, the child. His experience transcends this world and the other. He lived as one of us and he died as one of us. It is through Jesus the Christ where our relationships with the living and the dead intersect.

We hear Jesus speak of these mysteries when he says to Nicodemus, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter of the Spirit World, without being born of water and the Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, what is born of the Spirit is spirit.” (John 3:1-17).

Nicodemus, was himself a teacher, a spiritual guide for his people. But even in his own wisdom, he went to Jesus, a younger man, to learn more about the ways of wisdom and the mysteries of the Spirt. As we know so well, Jesus rarely told cute stories with a simple moral. Jesus’ teachings were more often complicated and confusing, even for the wise. And Nicodemus, even in his wisdom, wrestled with Jesus’ complex mysteries of the seen and the unseen, the world of the Spirit.

To live in the world of the Spirit, Jesus told Nicodemus, he would have to become like Jesus himself—Nicodemus would have to be reborn into a life of the Spirit. This life of the Spirit would require following the teachings of Jesus about selfless love and sacrifice. This life of the Spirit meant that Nicodemus would forever be striving to be at One with God the parent. The life of the Spirit would demand that Nicodemus had to walk the path of wisdom. He would have to learn how to become a healer. He would have to be a servant leader for his people, teaching them that in the violent world in which they lived, they would have to be peacemakers.

If Nicodemus wanted to live in the world of the Spirit, he could no longer live in the world that others called “reality.” Instead, Nicodemus would have to become a Christ for others by living a life that would be lifted up for the sake of a peace that passes all understanding—a world that seems impossible to imagine.

For years, I’ve wondered what life would have been like for my uncle if he hadn’t been killed that stormy night. I’ve wondered what life would have been for his wife and his four young children. I’ve wondered how best to remember him and his service to his country on this Memorial Day. I struggle with the impossible complexity of it all—it seems beyond imagination.

I feel like the prophet Isaiah (6:1-8). “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!”

I have seen the work of the One Holy Living God; the One we call the Trinity. I hear Jesus’ teaching about how to live into the wisdom and peace of God. And I still find myself saying, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips.”

The only place I can find peace, is the in-between world; the world of visions, imagination, and prayer. The world in-between the living and the dead—Isaiah’s visional world.

“Then of the seraphs flew to me, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched my mouth with it and said: “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.” Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I; send me!”

I find myself praying, O God, send me into the world where the dead speak to us in visions and imaginations. The world where I can hear the lament of the dead. Where the sacramental bread and wine feel like burning coals in my mouth. A world where the Eucharist transmutes me into a living Christ for others. Take me into that world where I can imagine a different reality—a world where my response to fear and violence are words of peace and love.

For my uncle Eular, for all of your loved ones, and for all who have died while serving the in the military, I offer this visional prayer for peace written by Leslie D. Weatherhead (with my adaptation).

We give you thanks, O God, for all who have died that we may live; for all who endured pain that we might know joy; for all who made sacrifices that we might have plenty; for all who suffered imprisonment that we may know freedom. Now, O God, turn our deep feelings into determination, and our determination into action. That as we honor the men and women of our country who died for peace—help us, O God, that we may live for peace, for the sake of the Prince of Peace, Jesus the Christ. Amen.

A Four-Fold Method of Bible Study

A review of Alexander John Shaia's Heart and Mind: The Four Gospel Journey for Radical Transformation

Alexander John Shaia has been interviewed several times on Rob Bell’s podcast. On each occasion, he spoken about his brainchild, “Quadratos, a poetic word referring to the sequential fourfold journey of growth and radical transformation.” For Shaia, Quadratos is a psychological map for understanding life as a follower of “The Way of Jesus the Christ.” Indeed, every facet of life could be understood and mysteries revealed through a four-fold alchemical psychology.

“Heart and Mind” takes on the formidable task of pilgrimaging through the gospels of the New Testament looking through the Quadratos lens. Shaia sees the journey of the early church’s cycle of reading the gospels as transformative. His method attempts to take us back to the original intent of the gospel writers and the cycle through which the early church read those texts. He presents the possibility of living the Christian life with this ancient/future perspective. Even deeper, though, he presents a method in which to imagine the gospels as an integrated story. Keep in mind, this is not an attempt to bring synthesis to the four stories of Jesus; much less bring a unified version of the three synoptic texts with the disparate nature of the Gospel of John. Shaia uses the church lectionary as the method of integrating the four-fold natures of each story in a wholistic vision. In a sense, he is studying the text through the lens of God’s passionate love for Israel/Church in such a way as to be personally transformative. This method does not dismiss the historical context. It, however, does not give it primacy either.

The focus of “Heart and Mind” is an in-depth exploration of each gospel, through the lectionary cycle—a cycle which brings the story of Jesus the Christ into an integrated thread. Each chapter would make an excellent standalone Bible study, possibly for six to eight weeks. I would imagine studying the entire book would be on a yearlong project. (As suggested by Bishop Mark Andrus in the Foreword.) Shaia’s work would be an excellent follow up material for those who found Rob Bell’s “What is the Bible?” helpful in their understanding of Christian’s scripture. Shaia’s book provides approachable resources and expands possible practices in his final chapter.

Readers who come from a Christian tradition who do not use the lectionary cycle or follow the seasons of the church, however, may find Shaia’s premise a bit challenging. Especially those traditions that are steeped in Pauline theology, who might question Shaia’s statement that, “Paul’s impact is the most significantly unrecognized factor in gospel interpretation.”

I found Shaia’s book an excellent resource to consider for congregational Bible study. Particularly those churches who use the lectionary as their labyrinthine reading of the story of Jesus the Christ.

Jesus, Go to Hell, Please

Several years ago, I created a program entitled, “Resurrection, So What?” I invited guest speakers to make a case for the various theories about Jesus’ resurrection. Was it bodily resurrection? Was it a spiritual resurrection? A resurrection of the soul? A metaphoric resurrection? And more importantly, I asked each speaker to address The Book of Common Prayer’s question, “What is the significance of Jesus’ resurrection?”

Of course, the Prayer Book has an answer to its own question. “By his resurrection, Jesus overcame death and opened for us the way of eternal life.” That sounds traditional and comforting, while somewhat vague, which was probably the intention of the writers. But, honestly, what does that statement really mean?

We could look to the Bible for answers to questions about Jesus’ resurrection. The Gospel of Mark leaves the tomb empty with no sighting of Jesus. Matthew reports that Jesus’ appearance was “like lightening, and his clothes white as snow.” Luke tells us Jesus appeared like a ghost. John tells us that Mary Magdalene did not recognize him. St Paul and St Peter both write that Christ “died in the flesh and was raised in the spirit.”

Personally, I’m pretty comfortable with former Anglican Archbishop Rowan William’s answer from his book, “Resurrection.” He says simply that “Something happened.” (Resurrection: Interpreting the Easter Gospel) I don’t know what happened, but something pretty spectacular and even unbelievable must have happened at Jesus’ resurrection.

But I’m still left with the more important question, “So what does Jesus’ resurrection really mean for us, today?”

That is the question I’m often confronted with when someone faces the end of their life and then as the family grieves their death. And the two most popular scriptural texts chosen for funeral services are the 23rd Psalm and John 10:11-18 (which are the readings for the fourth week of Easter).

The 23rd Psalm is the poetic version of John’s mystical text about the good shepherd; the one who protects and guides his flock. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death (better translated “the dark shadows”), I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod (symbol of the shepherd’s protection) and your staff (symbol of the shepherd’s guidance), they comfort me. Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever (better translated, “as long as I live.)”

Both the psalmist and the writer of John were using symbolic, metaphoric, mystical language to talk about the earthly experience of living in the emotional dark shadows—depression, fear, anxiety, paranoia. Most mystics, like Jesus, have suffered their share of the dark shadows of life. And like most mystics, some of Jesus’ followers thought he was out of his mind. (John 10:19)

But because Jesus had experienced the shadows of life he promised his followers he would be there with them in their times of darkness. He said he loved them and that he would search all of creation to find them, even into the darkest hell of their lives. And Jesus made those same promises to us.
The apostle Peter wrote that, “(Christ) was put to death in the flesh, but was resurrected in the spirit, (where) he went and made a proclamation to the spirits in prison (the dead in hell.) (I Peter 3:18-20, 4:6) In other words, Christ in the spirit will be present with us in the very hell of our life.

But what about life after death? Is there is a spiritual life after our physical death. Is there a resurrection into an afterlife?

One idea that some early Christians, like the theologian Origen, wrote about was the idea of the transmigration of souls (metempsychosis or reincarnation). Transmigration of souls is the eternal spiritual formation, or maturation, of the soul. You’ve probably heard of the term, “old soul.” That comes from the idea that the soul spiritually migrates through timelessness, constantly in a state of being molded, formed, into its true divine nature. Metaphorically, we could think of the soul as a drop of water in the ocean. The drop of salty water evaporates, rises into the sky to become part of a cloud. It travels over dry land and rains as fresh water on the earth. The drop evaporates again, rises into the clouds, and continues the cycle. We know that our bodies are made of star dust from eons past. That’s a nice idea to consider. And we know we are breathing the air dinosaur’s exhaled millennia ago. We are the sum of the spirits of ancient past. We are the dead. While the philosophy of the migration of souls was not popularized in later Christianity, it has continued through the ages. Seventeenth century Anglican priest, John Donne wrote poems about the transmigration of souls. And today, these ideas are still maintained in some corners of Christianity.

Still, we’re still left with the haunting question, “So what does this all mean? Here’s something to consider. Are your beliefs about life, death, and the afterlife congruent with the way you live your life? For example, if you believe that your beloved dog will be in heaven, why did you have a hamburger for dinner last night? Do you believe that there’s an afterlife? Then, where are the dead? And can you talk to them? Charting our religious beliefs against how we live can be a challenging but worthwhile exercise. And it could lead to some answers to the question, “Resurrection, So What?”

Try this experiment: make four columns on a piece of paper. In column one, make a list of the top ten things you believe are most important to your faith. In column two write why think each of these items are so important. In column three, write about how you came to believe these things. In the fourth column, answer these two questions: Is this one belief I hold congruent with the other nine on this list? Is this belief I hold so dear, congruent with how I live my life?

I tried this exercise and it was challenging. I won’t share my entire list, but here’s one of my top ten tenets.

There is a God.
Why? For me, this tenet is existentially more satisfying than true atheism.
Where? I have experienced God in the dark hell of my life.
Congruent? Indeed, the experience transmuted my life.

"Living Revision" on the Page and the Soul

"Living Revision: A Writer’s Craft as Spiritual Practice" by Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew is on par with Anne Lamott’s "Bird by Bird" and Stephen King’s, "On Writing." This book was provided gratis by a third party to write an objective review. Yet, I’ve gained such a great deal from "Living Revision" I feel compelled to send Andrew a check. Reading this book was the equivalent of attending a week-long writing conference.

As the title makes clear, this is not just another book on the skills needed to be a writer. Andrew takes her readers into the demanding work of becoming an artisan of the craft. “Revision is an inner work and thus a spiritual practice…Revision is the work of learning to love. Love takes time. Love is what brings us and our writing to fruition.” Andrew loved Living Revision tenderly for six years. My copy is now dog eared and marked thoroughly and a few weeks.

Andrew has taught the art of writing to all ages for over almost three decades. Her ability to speak to the beginner as well as the published author shines. Every detail of Living Revision has been carefully crafted. Even the shape of the piece mirrors a writer’s notebook. Each chapter is filled with wisdom from the library of literary queens and kings. She offers practical tips that have been matured on her own desk. Throughout the pages she gently suggests writing prompts that become progressively more challenging. I began to anticipate them with great joy. To become a better writer, one must write and it can be helpful to do so at the behest of a master.

As valuable as the practical application must be, it’s the inner work where Andrew drove me, sometimes in my reluctance. Her insistence that the art and craft of revision has both a contemplative and violent nature, reminded me of rejected drafts that are begging my return. To revise is to sacrifice the ego and the beautiful words no one else could scribe, yet for the sake of finding one’s true voice. “Voice, is relational.” At times, Andrew tells us, we must trust that our unconscious voice will speak to the unconscious of the reader. Such is the power of words that are birthed from love onto the page.

Andrew is forthright in her vulnerability. She reveals her truth in full display in order to model the writer’s demand to become authentically present to the page. The writer must do more than simply show up. The one who dares to write must expose to the reader what is at stake for the author. The writer must know and experience the “heartbeat” of both the inner and outer purpose of the project. “Why you write shapes how you write,” which is “usually born of some discomfort.” The more the writer is willing and capable of settling into this discomfort, “the better we can harness its energy.” Here, Andrew is revealing the psychic dark work of the writer in solitude. To write is to be alone with one’s life and recognize that “Perfection punishes the soul; it is an elusive and damaging goal.”

Typically, when I review a book, the critic in me rises easily to the page. For Living Revision, I have none. And now my critique of any future work, my own included, will be based on how much love is evidenced in the revision of the work. I need to find Andrew’s address so I can mail her my check.

Pink Jesus in a Wyrd World

Sometimes things are so weird, they can’t be ignored. This year, Ash Wednesday fell on Valentine’s Day and now Easter falls on April Fools’ Day. What an odd circumstance of synchronicity for two holy days in the same year. While it’s not the only time this has happened, it does me make me wonder about the confluence of the sacred and secular in our culture. There is a very murky space between the holy and the profane, but it’s often in this peculiar spiritual dream space where we can find illumination.

Illumination is not about receiving rational answers to unanswerable mysteries. Illumination is becoming comfortable living in a world of dream logic. (When dreaming the scene makes total sense, and then we wake up, the experience is difficult to explain.)

I’ve found in most forms of Christianity, people want Jesus and God to be something like the Magic 8 Ball, or an oracle who answers our questions. Let me introduce you to Pink Jesus. He was given to me by a young adult from St Brigid’s Community. He’s a very beautiful figurine of the Resurrected Jesus, a 12-inch, molded plastic that has a ceramic feel and a nice weight. The figurine has long flowing hair and robes. His right hand has two fingers extended in the sign of blessing. His left-hand rests upon the sash draped across his shoulders, representing the loving Sacred Heart of Jesus. And pink represents God’s love and forgiveness.

The most fascinating part of Pink Jesus is you can ask him questions. Inside the figure, floats a multisided dice. Anyone have a question for Pink Jesus?


Some of the answers are: Wait for a sign. The holy water will sting. Watch out for the lightening. Pray harder. I still love you. Let me ask dad.

Need an answer? Consult the Pink Jesus. Sounds funny, odd, maybe a little sacrilegious, I guess that’s why I like it. You kind of have to be willing to accept the idea of dream logic in order to imagine such oddities. The idea of resurrection lives in the world of dream logic.

Mary Magdalene was living in the world of dream logic on that dark morning when she went to visit Jesus’ tomb. She had gone there looking for the dead body of Jesus. The tomb was empty. Her grief of losing Jesus was compounded by believing that his body had been stolen.

In her despair, two angels appeared, asking her “Why are you crying?” She was not comforted. But then, she encountered a man she believed to be the keeper of the cemetery. He asked her why she was sobbing.

Then the man called her by name. Jesus the Christ, the resurrected one, whispered her name. Mary Magdalene herself was resurrected into the experience of Jesus’ resurrection. She had an unexplainable mystical experience. Hearing Jesus the Christ call her name was so powerful it transformed her life. So much so that Mary was eventually able to mystically translate her dream logic into a way of living her life. She lived in a perpetual state of being resurrected.

Her mystical experience gave her the power to become the disciple to the disciples. A woman, a mystic, would be the first evangelist, not Peter, not John, not Paul, but Mary Magdalene. She would use her mystical experience to hold the frightened community of Jesus’ followers together. Her mystical relationship with Jesus and her understanding of his teachings fueled the fire needed to inspire the followers of Jesus to move out of the prison of their fear into a life of discipleship.

Times I wish I could have an experience like Mary Magdalene.
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A wise Irishman once asked me, “You wouldn’t be insulting God by looking for him, now would you?” My natural instinct is to search for God, to ache for a mystical experience. Yet, the more I look, the less likely it will be discovered. I search for answers and only find more questions. The more I cling to a dream, the more likely I am to choke it to death.

The story of Easter teaches us that Jesus the Christ will find us in the space between the sacred and the secular, between the holy and the profane. He will find us in our grief and in our despair. He will find us in our dark journey through the shadowlands of dusk and dawn. And in those in between places, he will teach us how to live with endless questions. He will teach us how to live in the world of dream logic. He will give us wisdom. And he will call us by our name. Amen.

Get on that Donkey and Ride

One of the great joys of St Peter’s Episcopal Church is their labyrinth. Many mornings after we drop off our six-year-old grandson for school at St Peter’s, our three-year-old grandson will want to walk the labyrinth. Actually, he runs it. But he’s careful to stay on the path. And when we pick up the six-year-old after school, he also wants to walk the labyrinth. He walks it carefully and with intention.

Often, during the service at St. Peter’s, I can see people walking the labyrinth. People walk and pray the labyrinth for countless reasons: to ask God for guidance, to discern important decisions, to deal with grief, to seek calm in the solitude of the labyrinth.

To walk the labyrinth is to go on a spiritual pilgrimage. You don’t have to go to an exotic land to go on pilgrimage. Life itself is a pilgrimage. Our life is a series of daily pilgrimage experiences that comprise one continuous pilgrimage. We can either live our life intentionally while we’re on our pilgrimage, or we can walk through life unconscious, just stumbling from day to day.

Sometimes we plan our pilgrimage—other times it just comes at us, unexpected, with devastating potential. It’s at those moments we must decide to walk the journey with intention and purpose. Palm Sunday is a metaphor for living life as an intentional pilgrimage, even when we know it will not end well. The story of Jesus at the end of his life, models for us how to live through life’s worse circumstances, with purpose.

A pilgrimage, like walking the labyrinth, is a four-fold journey—a four-step process.

First, we must decide to walk.
Second, we walk the circuitous path.
Third, we stop in the center at the stone.
Fourth, we make our journey home to a new normal— being one with God; there we are putting on the mind of Christ.

In the first phase, we must decide to live our life intentionally with purpose. Especially at the darkest moments of our life. The moment when we realize our dreams are dashed, we lose our job, our soul mate walks out on us, cancer appears, our loved one dies. These situations almost defy us to live with purpose and intention. But, that’s what Jesus did. He pretty much knew where he was headed and knew it wouldn’t end well. But, he got on the donkey and rode into Jerusalem.

And what about all those people shouting Hosanna? You know those people. The ones who tell you, “this is God’s will for your life.” Or, “God only gives what you can handle.” Or, “While we don’t know why this is happening, one day we’ll see the purpose in it all.” Frankly, that’s theological bullshit. People say those things to make themselves feel better. Simply listen, pray, and sit with those who are suffering. Instead of singing Hosanna, Jesus’ cheerleaders could have walked with him and stayed by his side during the most difficult time of his life.

Second, we must accept the reality that the path of our life will never be a straight line. We will always be walking a circuitous path. We will constantly be feeling that we’re experiencing déjà vu. Jesus had walked into Jerusalem countless times. He knew the road, he knew the way. Yet, this time everything was different. The road was muddier. The sky was darker. The path seemed to be going in circles. He was light-headed when he stepped off that donkey and walked in the Temple. And when the tables went flying, his supporters scattered. But Jesus would not be deterred. He was intent on walking his pilgrimage no matter how risky the future.

Third, every pilgrimage has a moment, if we look for it, when we must stop and reflect—those moments when we can stand still and feel the presence of the divine. In those moments, we reach out and grab hold of God, the solid stone in our life. In those moments, we are in the center of stillness, held in God’s love—even if only for a second. We get a glimpse of those moments in Jesus’ life; they appear when we witness his calmness in the face of an unjust attack. And we see it again in his resolve to stay faithful to his calling even when his friends deserted him.

The last stage of the pilgrimage, is to return home to a new normal—being at one with God. We have been changed as the result of the pilgrimage. We have died and been resurrected and no one has noticed. I was in Florence, Italy at the museum where Michelangelo’s famous sculpture of David stands in all his beautiful majesty. In the small gallery before entering the long hallway where David is displayed, there hangs three paintings. One being a life size depiction of the resurrected Jesus. He is sitting in the tomb, slumped over, like he just woke up. His wounds are raw and the dried blood stains his skin. He appears like any other human being, having survived the most brutal experience of his life.

I believe, that though Jesus thought he would be crucified, he was not counting on any form of resurrection. To be human, he had to live with the same uncertainty and fear of death that we all must live with each day.

In this phase of the pilgrimage, we’re not sure if we’re living in the afterglow of resurrection or living with the worst hangover of our life. Sometimes the new normal of resurrection makes our head spin with a dizzying nausea.

Resurrection is a risky potential that we have to die to experience. Sometimes the death is metaphoric. Sometimes, it’s real in its finality. But to experience resurrection, we must fully lean into the confusing complexity of life and death—for it is there that we will know the vast capacity of God’s love—there we will be at one with the Divine, there we will put on the mind of Christ.

Three years ago, I planted some marigolds in two large pots on our front porch. They grew very nicely. Someone told me that when the flowers withered to pinch them off in order to stimulate new growth. When I pinched off the dead flowers, I just dropped them in the pot. Then the next year, I planted some different flowers in those pots. But, the marigolds returned with abandon and took over the pots from the new flowers. In fact, the marigolds popped up wild in some beds on the ground. Wherever there was water those marigolds sprout.

We are planted in the dark moist earth of God’s soul. The mystery within us stirs and growth happens below the surface. In the warmth of the sun, we emerge and grow. As the season changes, we die some form of death. To live, is to die. And to die, is to live. When we decide to walk again, the process of resurrection begins.

I've Been Bitten by a Snake

I’ve been a writer for the devotional book, “Forward, Day by Day” as well as their annuals The idea is to write a profoundly moving devotion in 300 words or less. People want to read good stories that are inspiring, yet not controversial. Basically, the writer has to think of thirty different ways of saying that God loves you, while being happy, sweet, joyful, and emotionally poignant.

Writing these devotionals are much like writing a sermon for an Episcopal congregation. The preacher is given a prescribed scripture from which they must tell an entertaining story; best if it’s funny; provide some important theological insight; be sure and not offend anyone; all in less than ten minutes.

The most recent survey by the Pew Foundation cited that the number one reason for attending church was good preaching. In most churches, there is only one preacher who is left with an impossible task; deliver a sermon that keeps the congregation begging for more.

I’ve now wasted ninety seconds explaining why it is impossible to write a funny and inspiring sermon on the readings from Numbers 21:4-9 and John 3:14-21. Sometimes, though, you just have to go for it.

St Paul said, that spiritual infants need milk, but the mature must eat solid spiritual food. (I Cor. 3:2 and Hebrews 5:12) And Jesus said, let those who have ears, hear.

These readings require mature spiritual ears to hear and understand what the Spirit is saying to the Church. Both texts reference serpents as agents of poison and healing, similar to the caduceus. To the uninitiated these strange stories defy meaning. To the mature Christian, however, these texts lie at the root of how we can become one with God through Christ. They are also windows into the mystical Anglican theology regarding the celebration of the Holy Eucharist.

In medieval art there are at least two paintings that depict St John holding a chalice with either a serpent or a dragon coming out of the wine. (Alonso Cano 17th century; see the Ashmolean Museum). The serpent and dragon represent the mystical power found in the Eucharist; which is both poisonous and healing.

Poisonous, in that becoming one with God through Christ has a price. That price is participation in God’s creative work. The individual must accept their responsibility in becoming one with God. There’s no free ticket. A person can’t just say, I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior and I’m good to go, I’m saved. That is infant’s milk. Collectively, we are already saved by the grace of God, that’s universal. God’s salvific work has been completed. That, however, is not the end goal of being a Christian; the work of eating solid food must continue in order to mature the Christian.

To become one with God is the spiritual goal of being an Anglican. Anglicanism teaches that becoming one with God requires God’s grace plus the individual and the community’s spiritual practices. These practices are the way Anglicans work out their salvation. Anglican theology follows the admonition of St Paul, who said, work out your own salvation by putting on the mind of Christ (Philippians 2) and of St James, who said that faith without works is dead (James 2:17). These spiritual practices are spelled out very clearly in the baptismal covenant (found in the Book of Common Prayer): follow the teaching of the apostles, receive the Eucharist, pray, resist evil, repent when necessary, proclaim the Good News, serve the Christ that is in all persons, love your neighbor as yourself, and strive for justice and peace by respecting the dignity of every human being. That is the work of becoming a mature spiritual Christian. It’s not optional. The individual relationship with God and the church’s relationship with God depend on doing this work.

The process of maturation also has a mystical component as spelled out in the prayers of the Holy Eucharist. There are at least three mystical parts to the efficacy of the Eucharist. Today (at St Peter’s Episcopal Church) we are using Rite II, Prayer B. This prayer is the most Incarnational of the six prayers used in the Book of Common Prayer. Incarnation means that God is present in Christ, in all of creation, and in every human being. The prayer states that God’s goodness and love have been made known to us in creation, in humanity, and in Jesus.

The first mystical effect happens to us individually. In this prayer, we ask that by the act of eating the bread and drinking the wine we will be united with Christ in his sacrifice. In other words, by consuming the bread and wine, we are being turned into Christ crucified. That statement brings with it a lot of poison; the expectation is that as individuals we will be doing our work, our sacrifice, which, thereby, brings us healing, as well as creation.

The second mystical effect is universal, touching all of creation. The Eucharistic prayer says “In the fullness of time, put all things in subjection under your Christ.” Those words mean that the act of celebrating the Holy Eucharist has an effect on all of God’s creation. Whether one receives the Eucharist or not, the efficacy of the prayers have a cosmic impact. The world can be affected unconsciously by our work through the Eucharist, as well as our prayers, and our practices. (See Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, especially “Divine Milieu” and “Hymn of the Universe.”)

The third effect of the Eucharist is on God. Because the Eucharist effects creation, and God is incarnated in creation, therefore, the divine is altered by the work of the Eucharist. We are participating with God in the continual creative act of renewal. We are responsible to God and all of creation for our participation in God’s work. By our sanctifying, making holy, all of creation, we recognize that God is present in all of creation and any good or damage we bring to creation is equally done to God. That’s some serious poison, but that work can also have a deep healing effect.

To understand these concepts requires much more than a ten-minute sermon. That’s why The Book of Common Prayer admonishes the people to read, learn, mark, and inwardly digest the scripture. Anglicans also hold that their prayer shapes their belief. And this is the work of the mature Christian who will be able to hear what the Spirit is saying to the Church.

Why is that Cat Tied to a Tree?

(St Peter's Episcopal Church has four services each weekend. The liturgy at those services are usually varied and range from very traditional to theologically creative. During the six consecutive Sundays of Lent, the six different Eucharistic Prayers in the 1979 Book of Common Prayer will be used at each service, consecutively. This will be something quite different for the people at St Peter's; challenging them to consider their traditions, their reasons, and their beliefs.)

I love good stories, especially when they're told by a gifted storyteller. Recently, I heard author and theologian Peter Rollins tell a parable about a monk and a cat. There was a monk who lived alone in a monastery. Every day the monk would enter the monastery to pray. At about the moment the monk would be deep in his meditation, the cat would come along and rub against his back and then lick his face, totally disturbing the monk's ability to focus on his prayers. Finally, one morning, as the monk was walking into the monastery he saw the cat. He picked it up and took him outside and tied the cat to a large tree. When the monk had finished praying he went outside and let the cat free. Thus, began the monk's new ritual. Every morning before praying he would gather up the cat and tie him to tree just outside the monastery's door.

Over time, other monks joined the monastery. After many years, the eldest monk died. But his younger followers kept up the practice of tying the cat to the tree before their morning prayers. Then one day the cat died. The monks went to town and bought another cat so they could continue their ritual of tying the cat to the tree before their morning prayers. Generations of monks continued the practice of tying a cat to the tree that stood outside the monastery door. After seven generations, the tree died. So, the monks planted a special tree in its place so that they could continue the practice of tying a cat to the tree before beginning morning prayers.

Eventually, scholars came to the monastery to study the phenomena of tying a cat to the tree before praying. The scholars studied and wrote treatises on the theological reasons and practices of tying a cat to a tree before praying.

This story has caused me to wonder if the Book of Common Prayer and our Episcopalian worship practices may have suffered the same loss of institutional memory as the monks who kept tying a random cat to a tree.

The Book of Common Prayer was first written by Thomas Cranmer in 1549 as part of the Anglican Reformation and its separation from the Roman Catholic Church. There were three major theological changes that Cranmer instituted. The prayer book was written in English as opposed to Latin, thereby giving the people access to what was being said at the Mass. As well, the new prayer book loosened the Roman Catholic theology underpinning the sacrifice of Christ in the Mass, (the Holy Eucharist) making subtler the understanding that God's sacrifice of Christ as necessary for salvation. And Cranmer moved the theology of the blessing of the bread and wine away from the literal transformation of the bread and wine in the body and blood of Jesus Christ, to a more nuanced understanding, whereby the bread and wine became the "presence" of Christ.

Eventually, the Church of England came to America with the first settlers. The American Revolution naturally separated American Anglicans from their mother Church, necessitating new bishops and the writing of a new prayer book. The first Episcopal (American Anglicans) prayer book was written in 1789. It was based primarily, but not solely on, the Church of England's 1662 BCP. Minor revisions were made in the Episcopal prayer book until 1928, when language was re-introduced into the communion service, returning the Mass to be more theologically congruent with the Roman Catholic Church, particularly Christ being both priest and victim. (See particularly Hymn 460, "Alleluia, Sing to Jesus" where it uses the language, (Jesus) "our great High Priest, thou on earth both Priest and victim in the Eucharistic feast.")

In 1979, the Episcopal Church developed a new Book of Common Prayer. The new BCP maintained the language of the 1928 Prayer Book in the Rite I service. The more contemporary language, however, of the Rite II service somewhat softened the theological position of Christ as both priest and victim. The theology of the blood atonement of Christ (Jesus had to die on the Cross for the forgiveness of sins and salvation), however, still dominates the Eucharistic liturgy.

Interestingly enough, The Catechism at the back of the prayer book, is more nuanced in its explanation of Christ's offering on the cross.

What lies at the heart of any Eucharistic liturgy is the theology upon which it is constructed. Those theological issues can be broken into three questions: Did God sacrifice Jesus on the Cross? Did Jesus have to die on the Cross so that our sins could be forgiven? And, are the elements of bread and wine transmuted into the perpetual body and blood of Jesus Christ?

There are theologians who would say, "Yes" in answer to all those questions. There are also theologians who would say "No" to all those questions. There are theologians who would "Yes" to some and "No" to others. And there are also theologians who would say that those are the wrong questions.

What is the official teaching of the Episcopal Church? Ah, there's the rub. It depends on who you ask? There are theologically safe answers and there are theologically risky answers.

In the Episcopal Church, one must always keep in mind the vows the priest commits to at their ordination, which thereby explains the range of risk any priest might take by tinkering with the liturgy.

The priest is asked: "Will you be loyal to the doctrine, discipline, and worship of Christ as this Church has received them? And will you, in accordance with the canons of this Church, obey your bishop and other ministers who may have authority over you and your work?"

And the priest responds: "I am willing and ready to do so; and I solemnly declare that I do believe the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be the Word of God, and to contain all things necessary to salvation; and I do solemnly engage to conform to the doctrine, discipline, and worship of The Episcopal Church."

There are a few germane questions for this conversation: What if the priest's theology changes over the course of time? How could a priest say words that they may not believe to be congruent with their own theology? And how could a lay person participate in a service where they don't agree with the theology of the church or the priest?

The answer to these questions could be found in the rich poetic language and symbolism of the liturgy; what's known as theopoetics. In other words, the poetical language and symbolism that manifests in the liturgy are open for interpretation; the same as with any poetry. Though we are all saying the same words, what I think, feel, intuit, and imagine most likely could be something very different than anyone else in the room.

The most important questions are: Do you know what you believe? And do you know why you believe it? And are you willing to tolerate other people in your church who believe something vastly different than you do?

Is it okay with you that the liturgy at a Rite I service demands that Jesus is both priest and victim? While at the same time your church might offer another service where the liturgy suggests that Jesus willingly gave himself over to the integrated process of becoming one with God through birth, life, death, and rebirth; and through that action he models for us our own process of becoming one with God. Or, a third, presenting the theology of Richard Rohr, which states that Jesus did not die in order to change God's mind about humans (Jesus sacrificed for our sins) but that Christ died instead to change human's mind about God (God is a God of love and not retribution).

The question for any Episcopal congregation must be: Can the priest and the people be pastorally sensitive enough to authentically accommodate a wide range of theological positions while maintaining the necessary space in their own life to continue to evolve both theologically and psychologically?

Or, in more practical terms, "Do we know why the monk tied the cat to the tree?"