Psychedelic Christianity

I write book reviews for The Speakeasy. The only compensation one gets is to keep copies of the books. My selections for review are based on the same questions I use to purchase books: do I know the author; is the title intriguing; am I interested in the topic; and are the first five pages compelling?

Not having previously read anything by Jack Call, who is the author of "Psychedelic Christianity: On the Ultimate Goal of Living," I had to rely on the later three reference points to make my decision. I love the title and the possibility the topic presents. Admittedly, his first five pages were a bit pedantic. Now having read the complete essay (the book is only 69 pages in length), it’s unclear that the content lived up to the expectation created by the title. Given that lack of satisfaction, the brief time it took to read the book was worth the questions it posed.

For all the potential of the book’s title, Jack Call may have simply stuck the word psychedelic and Christian together without merging the ideas. “My two guiding stars are psychedelic experience and Christianity. Neither one shines brighter than the other…” He says that “A psychedelic Christian is just a Christian who acknowledges that psychedelic experience is a way of learning how to be in the right relationship with God,” a concept of which his explanation is too vague. “Having a right relationship with God” is often a trite phrase. To expect the reader to assume they know what the writer intends is a costly mistake. Nothing should be left to my imagination; I can fill in the blanks in ways the author may not have intended. In the case of this book, Call fails at sharing with us how his two guiding stars would inform each other, and thus, the reader.

He describes his psychedelic experiences as “a way that can’t be put into words.” That may be good enough for him, but not for us. How are we to imagine our own spirituality being shaped by psychedelics if he can’t lead us through his experience? He’s almost teasing us, saying that his psychedelic event was so profound that he came to understand “the ultimate goal,” which becomes the central purpose of his Christianity. The whole point of writing a book is to share your experience with the reader.

He is, though, very willing to present his perspective of a Christian philosophy. His “ultimate goal” is “when God will be all in all, and all things will be restored to an original state of glory.” He tells us this will be achieved when “everyone freely chooses to do God’s will.” Something he admits will never happen, because his philosophy underscores free will; God’s and the individual person’s. “God is in control of the things he chooses to control, I am in control of the things he chooses to allow me to me to control, and I choose just as he would choose if he were in control, and likewise for everyone else.” Call wants to use traditional Christian theological language, but his premise and his terms lead to some confusing conclusions; like the one I just quoted. Sometimes unique concepts need new terms in order to give us clear pictures. Even without the psychedelic component, however, his path, at times, winds through a haze filled maze—often leaving his epistemology incongruent.

Jack Call defines himself as a Protestant Christian. He tells us, because of that, he is led to think that “each of us is entitled to say what he or she thinks is the true message of Christianity.” He believes Jesus obtained universal salvation for everyone by achieving the ultimate goal. “That is why I believe that if anyone (Jesus) has really attained the ultimate goal, then everyone has.” But that is not enough. Then he tells us that once the ultimate goal is achieved, a new goal will be revealed. This is because “I want to be able to change without the change ever being that I no longer exist. I want the change to be enjoyable…morally and emotionally satisfying, and sensually and intellectually beautiful.” The author, therefore, does not want to personally have to experience any painful process to achieve transformation. Though he never says so, I assume this is because Jesus already went through the human process.

I also assume that because Jesus went through the human course, we are excused from such? The author writes, “I think it is wrong to speak in terms of ‘transcending the ego.’” That, he says, would make us appear to be superior beings. I don’t agree. That would make us mature human beings. I think he missed the point of the process of integrated maturation. Something many believe Jesus was pointing the way toward, not excusing us from. Richard Rohr, for one, in his latest book, The Universal Christ, makes this point about the Christ very clear.

Jack Call says he wants to be in relationship with God, but doesn’t see God present in humanity, or nature; meaning his spiritual relationship is exclusively with God. Which evidently, is the premise that leads him to declare he is a dualist; he and God are not one and never will be.

He says he follows the historic teaching of Jesus regarding morality and ethics, however, he never connects Jesus with the Christ. Were he to explore the possibilities of the Cosmic Christ, I would imagine he might have come to another conclusion. Oddly enough, Call only references one theologian—Rudolf Bultmann and his 1958 book, Jesus Christ and Mythology; a book I would recommend. Yet still, Call might have been well served to explore an endless list of theologians, Christian and otherwise, who might support his point of views, or maybe better yet, enlighten them.

I had high (pun intended) hopes for this book. But, frankly, I was disappointed. The potential for psychedelic Christianity, an altered state of consciousness Christianity, has long existed in its mystic tradition. The use of altered states of consciousness, drug induced and otherwise, have also long been a component of the perennial mystic tradition. Call never addressed any of these rich mystical traditions other than to dismiss them for their goal of unity, or in his words, the annihilation of the individual. Call wisely points out that psychedelics are not for everyone. I would agree. But he offers no other alternatives for an altered state of consciousness, which he promotes, sort of.

I have friends who have entered alter states of consciousness through the use of psychedelics and they have been able to recreate the scenes with some graphic detail. Their drug induced experiences, in many ways, mirror the experiences of my friends who have entered deep spiritual experiences, specifically through deep prayer, meditation, chanting, yoga, speaking in tongues, the Kabbalahic trance, active imagination dialogue with their Ally, extended pilgrimages, and long fasts. The esoteric experiences of my friends have richly informed their spirituality. I think maybe another book could be written on the topic, one that would include the ancient traditions of the mystery, the knowledge, and the magic of “An Awakened Pilgrimage.”

The Rev Dorothy Saucedo

Dorothy Saucedo is a friend, mentor, and colleague. Though she walked through the veil from this life to what awaits her on the other side, I cannot use passed tense. She was, is, and will always be friend, mentor, and colleague. Though I may not see her with my earthly eyes, I will see and hear her with other eyes and ears.

The Reverend Dorothy Saucedo’s and my life became woven together at Saint Augustine’s Episcopal Parish, Tempe, Arizona. Her mystical life intertwined the convergence of the Presence and the human. She was authentically her Self. She did not suffer the pretentious. She spoke truth to power; that Word often frightened the shit out of those who had the power. Marginalized by White culture as a woman of the Dine, she would not be silenced. Though some tried—her Strength made the episcopate cringe and she would not be ordained a priest in the Episcopal Church. Jesus wept. The church’s loss. The people suffered. Same old tired story. Nothing within the institution truly changes.

But Dorothy didn’t need to be ordained to be her Self. She is Priest. Her life exudes the Presence and the Real. Dorothy’s experience of the Presence, the divine, the Spirit, was her own; a beautiful mystical marriage of her ancient People’s religious practice and the christian (that is not a typo). She didn’t force either into the structure of the other; they simply co-existed as oneness in the eternal Flow; she is the conduit. Had you not experienced the divine, she would introduce you to the Presence of the Real with a warm smile, gentle laugh, a gracious embrace, a story, her mystical prayers, and sage; lots of smoke, feathers, and a dance with Spirit. To know Dorothy, was to become intimate with divinity.

With such a mystical relationship, though, comes the Reality of Lightness and Darkness; one cannot exist without the other. And Dorothy experienced them both—she knew the Light, she knew suffering; thus, she became the Light her Self. She cared for the marginalized, the disabled, the outcast. She had experienced that grief in her own life and could teach others how to carry such loss with grace—ever the mystical teacher.

Those who know Dorothy will grieve her earthly death in their own way. Tears will be shed. Stories will be told. An exchange of forever transmuted lives will be passed from hand to hand like the bread and wine Deacon Dorothy served with her Holy soul to our hungry hearts. We love you Dorothy and we will miss your power hugs; keep teaching—those who have eyes will see and ears will hear.

What if God Were a Woman

Last week, I was at the Spiritual Director’s International Conference in Seattle. One of the breakout sessions I attended was “Gender, Sexuality, and Spirituality in the Art of Spiritual Direction.” The three-hour workshop was led by five under forty queer folk. The gathering was informative, enlightening, and encouraging. The discussion wandered more than a few times into pondering upon the divine sexuality; the notion of the “Queer God.”

One of the more “enlightened” cis white straight dudes in attendance, suggested that his God was beyond masculine or feminine, his God was, he said with ethereal emphasis, “Being.” I get it, intellectually, that is—God is not, not; God is nothing. Yes, I understand. But I don’t think my body gets it.

“What if God was one of us? Just a stranger on a bus?” Joan Osborne style.

Right now, one of you, a Christian, is saying, “God is one of us; that would be Jesus Christ.” Okay, well, I’ll restate my premise. What if God was really one of us? Not someone who has become the European white, male, beautiful, perfect, celibate, American, picture hanging on your Sunday School wall, Jesus. Not that one of us. But a real one of us. The one of us Jesus, was; a Jewish Galilean, poor man of color, born of a woman, a woman without a husband, and who died alone, like the rest of us, one of us. That’s good, but—that Jesus still leaves God a man. Better yet then, what if God were a woman, one of us? Even better, a queer woman. I do wonder?

What if Jesus had been born Sophia? I wonder? I wonder where we would be, today? I wonder if the followers of Sophia would have allowed the empire of Rome to co-opt their religion? Would the Roman Catholic Church be reeling from horrors of child abuse? Would America already have instituted reasonable gun control like New Zealand prime minister Jacinda Ardern immediately promised her people after Friday’s tragic mass shooting? Would there even be rampant mass shootings? Would the Episcopal Church be breaking its arm patting itself on the back by electing twenty-five percent of its bishops, women—for the first time? I do wonder?

For those of us who are less enlightened—Sophia is Divinity. She is a central figure in the holy texts; she has many names and she has spoken her truth to us. She is the co-creator. “Before the beginning of the earth…I was there when Yahweh drew a circle on the face of the deep.” (Proverbs 8:23, 27). She is the teacher. “Now my children, listen to me; happy are those who keep my ways.” (Proverbs 8:32) She is the great high priestess. “Come, eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed. Lay aside immaturity, and live, and walk in the way of insight.” (Proverbs 9:5) She is the revolutionary. “The Divine has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; the Divine has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” (Luke 1:52-53). She is the Queen. “A woman clothed in the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars.” (Revelation 12:1) She is worthy of praise and worship. “Nothing you desire can compare with Her…She is a tree of life to those who lay hold of Her.” (Proverbs 3:15, 18) Sophia is the beloved Mother of God, the beloved Daughter of God, the beloved Bride of God. I do wonder, what if we turned our eyes to Her? My body feels like we would better off, today. No need to wonder about that; I’m pretty certain.

Cheese Wiz

My grandsons call me Giz, it was my nickname during those long-ago baseball playing days. The grandboys like it because the name differentiates me from the other two grandpas in their life. Lately, the youngest one, who is four, has taken to calling me Gizzie. He’s cute and funny. He could call me anything and it’d make me laugh.

A few weeks ago, Gaga, yep that’s what they call their grandmother, the two boys and I were playing Mouse Trap. The name pretty well describes the game; involves building a mouse trap, to catch the mouse, and using cheese. The boys are seven and four, so we were playing a very modified version of the game. As the game digressed, we resorted to making up rhyming names for cheese. As you might know, seven and four-year-old boys will laugh at about anything. At one point, I mentioned Cheese Wiz, and then the youngest called me “Gizzie, the cheese wizzie.” Good lord, they burst out in that pure child laughter from the gut that is unforgettable and undeniably fun. I laughed so hard at their new name for me, I almost peed my pants.

I’ve had a variety of nickname’s or titles in my life. Coach, Skip (which is a variant of coach), Dr. Stafford, and Father Gil. I never cared much for any of them. The last one I detested, primarily because I knew most people who used the moniker were throwing their daddy issues on me, or worse, their projections of God. Over my fifteen years as an active Episcopal priest, I implored people to just call me Gil. Which set me up to really suspect those who wouldn’t, as having serious unconscious projections. Of course, I really wondered even more about those priests or other leaders who insist on being called by their special title, earned or otherwise. What kind of unconscious insecurity issues are they caring around? Not that I don’t have plenty of my own issues, I just don’t want them attached to my name.

So please, just Gil, or Giz, or Gizzie, the cheese wizzie.

Did you give up Lent for Lent?

"Stations of the Cosmic Christ"
By Matthew Fox and Marc Andrus
Artists M.C. Richards and Ullrrich Javier Lemus

Richard Rohr, Marianne Williamson, and Caroline Myss each wrote a glowing advance for this book. The fact that these three divergent authors would converge to support Matthew Fox’s latest book speaks volumes about the genuine uniqueness of ideas and art found within the covers of this beautiful book. And then throw in Episcopal Bishop Marc Andrus and you have a theological explosion of color and imagination.

Fox and Andrus bring to us the perfect example of how Interfaith conversations intersect best within the context of spiritual mysticism, science, and art. And the artists, M.C. Richards and Ullrrich Javier Lemus are magical. “God is the eye…God is the dragon…God is exciting.”

“Stations of the Cosmic Christ” also offers some spiritual practices for your spiritual pilgrimage. Some you may be familiar with—others not so much. But even if you’ve tried them all—I imagine you might have a different experience when used in conjunction with the meditions and art in this book.

If you’re into Lent, this is the book your church probably won’t want you to read; but it’s the book you want to. For those of you who still practice Lent, “Stations” will shine a new light on your spiritual practices. And if you gave up Lent for Lent, the “Cosmic Christ” may be your portal into the ancient/future mysticism of hidden arcana. I love this little piece of art.

What would happen if Frida Kahlo was Mary Magdalene

What would happen if literary apocalypticism collided with surrealist art? The answer would be, “The Book of Revelation” translated by Michael Straus and illustrated by Jennifer May Reiland. These two might be the twenty-first century’s equivalent of William Blake and Frida Kahlo.

While I have read the Book of Revelation, also known at the Revelation to John, several times, admittedly, I have never read it in one reading. Now I have, thanks to this magnificent piece of art produced by Straus and Reiland.

These two met at an open studios event in New York, where Reiland’s “Self Portrait of Mary Magdalene Having a Vision of the Apocalypse” was on display. Straus was inspired and approached her about collaborating on a new translation of the Revelation. She was very enthusiastic, and the project took off.

Straus has successfully maintained the mystical poetic rhythm of the original language, while bringing the first writer’s vision into the modern era. We hear the phrases we expect from the original author, but then are surprised by words and phrases in Greek, Hebrew, Latin, French, and Spanish. The use of non-English words is included at the perfect moment, which add to the mysticism of the text. Straus gives depth to the prose with the accompaniment of musical stanzas, complete with Hallelujahs and Amens.

Reiland transports the first-century Apocalypse of the Four Horsemen, wild beasts, the whore of Babylon, and the Antichrist right into New York City’s collapse of the Twin Towers, Isis beheadings, and graphic eroticism. Her epic drawings are unexpectedly detailed, granting the full sweep of history’s timelessness—giving the beholder a gut punching view of modernity’s apocalypse. Reiland’s art does well to deliver the unconscious visions and dreams of the Revelation to John.

This book is beautiful little secret well worth the time and a few dollars to uncover. It definitely has enriched my reading and more importantly, my experience, of the Revelation. Fair warning to the reader, beware if you’re offend by graphic erotic art.

Tatto Trance

The rhythmic sound of an electric toothbrush is followed by the pound of a needle. Then comes the wipe of a cooling towel and a soothing bit of Vaseline. Sound, pound, wipe, lubricant. Sound, pound, wipe, lubricant. 1,2,3,4—1,2,3,4—1,2,3,4—1,2….The sky is misty grey and the hills are twenty-one shades of lush green. The uphill trail is soggy from days of rain; scattered with white quartz from pea to egg size and various stages of sheep dung. I’m alone—but I’m not. I can hear my boots, but not hers. A gentle hand brushes down my sleeve. I put my hand back, but she didn’t take it.

“Can you answer me a question?”

“What’d you say?” Cat said.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You okay?”
“Ahh. yea. I’m fine. Just kinda somewhere else.”
“You need a break?”
“Naw. I’m good.”
“Okay. Let me know when you need me to stop for a bit.”

The rhythm of Cat’s tattooing resumed.

As I passed the Medicare threshold, my wife paid for adding some new body art to my collection. I wasted no time making an appointment. When I had opened the door to the small tattoo shop in old town Scottsdale, the distinct smell of a desert antiseptic—sage brush meets rain—took me back to the hours I had already spent there. Cat, the tattoo artist, turned to look at me. Her name does her justice. She stood frozen in place, squinting, as the outside halo of sunlight rained into the room. The door closed behind me and I stepped into the Light of the New Moon. Cat’s surreal mystical art that hangs on the walls, drummed psychic energy into the space. She seemed to be one with her art and studio and I feel privileged to be one of her many living canvasses. She’s the artist who has given design to my vision and ink to every tattoo on my body.

“Oh. Good to see you,” she said. “Come around here and take a look at what I have for you.”

She handed me her large IPad. On it was a completed drawing of the draft she had shown me via text a few weeks ago. This image would add to the work we had begun together several years ago. The new tattoo would fill the right side of my back; a female blue winged alchemist floats with priestly arms outstretched in prayer. She is the alchemist, the anima mundi, who is creating her philosopher’s stone of magic. The tattoo would eventually be completed over two sessions and seven hours. The image on the opposite side of my back had taken three sessions totaling eleven hours; a raven with a peacock tail rising from the gatekeeper’s cauldron. The mystical bird is flying above the sun toward the moon. The artwork on my arms and chest augment my mythic pilgrimage and have taken nearly fifteen hours of work. These tattoos, and whatever will follow, are a pictorial explanation of my personal myth; the mystical work of an alchemist.

I started my tattoo skin journal after walking across Ireland. A reoccurring dream, a vision, and a talking raven began the continual dialogue with my ally who lives in the psychoidal world. This is the world of a visionary experience, the luminous state of mind where Carl Jung wrote “The Red Book.” Jung’s two-year calligraphy and mandala journal of creative imagination is the external expression of his interior soul work. The tattoos you see had already been etched on the soul of Life’s Alchemist.

The rhythm of Cat’s artistry and the constant pounding of the needle create a soul opening for me to slide into another level of consciousness. A mental, physical, and psychic state that replicates walking the pilgrim’s trail while fasting. The exhaustion and hunger create a crack in the egg of this world’s reality, creating a labyrinth which leads to where the unseen becomes visible.

“I can feel you behind me. Why won’t you take my hand?”

Not expecting an answer, I tightened the straps on my pack, relieving some of the stress on my aching shoulders. A turn in the trail took me from the open fields and up into an ancient forest of giant mountain ash. The leaves glistened with an Irish mist, while the intertwined limbs eclipsed the sun. The breeze sang like a spectral choir. In some recent past, the heavy rains had so softened the ground that high winds toppled a few of the giant trees, exposing a root base higher than the roof of a house. The bog blackened roots stood as tombstones to another Aeon. The darkness breathed in and exhaled a purple fog, and I was suspended in timelessness.

“You had a question?” she said.

The gentle confident sound stopped my breathing. I thought I had a question, but her voice infused chaos in my already altered state of mind. I focused what little energy remained on the only sound I had heard for hours. The ancients in the forest sighed waiting for at least some feeble response.

I choked out whispered words, afraid I might hear myself speak. “Have you always been with me?”

The purple cloud thickened with nature’s exhale. Silence held the answer I expected to hear. I kept walking. The trail flattened out and I picked up my pace as a way of distraction for my aching soul. The pregnant air was broken by a laughing raven high above. The Pilgrim walked on while the painting on the wall began to question me. And I foolishly answered back.

I must be the Pilgrim’s Fool. Grail’s cocktail of self-disgust and realization. Or maybe not? I don’t know. Would that make the Christ the Magician? Must be. But Jesus could be the Fool. I think I’ve seen that in a deck somewhere before. No, no. Christ is the Magician. Because that would make a transmigration of Brigid Dubh, the Anam Cara, and the Soror Mystica the High Priestess? Of course. Then Mother Mary, Magdalene, and the other Mary would be the Empress. And the Lover, the Beloved, and the Spirit would be the Emperor. The Empress and the Emperor would be the pair of opposites, two sides of the same coin, the Hermaphrodite. The Pilgrim, the Magician, the Priestess, the Empress are woven into the World of the One. The unified world, the Unus Mundus, everywhere but nowhere. We’re living in it, but we are not. The interior has become the exterior, the unseen—the seen.

“What’s happening to me?”

She said, “Opposites in tension create transmutation; a new reality.”

Cat said. “You okay? You need a break?”
“Oh, I think I’m okay.”
“You got another thirty minutes in ya?”
“Yeah. How long have we been at it?”
“Almost four hours,” she said.

Nasty Angels

John Dee and the Empire of Angels: Enochian Magick and the Occult Roots of the Modern World by Jason Louv

Eight in ten Americans believe that angels exist. Fifty-five percent believe they have a guardian angel. The three major Abrahamic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all include angels as a significant part of their religious system. Those who buy into angels might equate their ideals to the 1996 film, “Michael” that starred John Travolta. He was an affable and naïve angel who smelled like fresh baked cookies. Few angel fans probably want their guardians to be the opposite of Michael, like the angels who appeared in Kevin Smith’s 1999 film “Dogma.” His angels were engaged in an apocalyptic, though humorous, battle. Historically, the angels of our major religions have a tendency to favor the later.

“Every generation gets its own apocalypse.” Jason Louv’s John Dee and the Empire of Angels: Enochian Magick and the Occult Roots of the Modern World portrays a realm of angels who are intent on driving human history toward the great apocalypse found in The Revelation of John. Louv’s ouroboros view of human history demands we take the alchemical “black pilgrimage” in hopes to experience the divine gold; the eternal elixir that resides deep within us all. “The true Revelation is that we have never left the Garden at all…we’ve just head tripped ourselves into thinking we have. Revelation means the lifting of the veil—the veil of our own mind that obscures Eden.” Louv’s Eden is the experience of enlightenment, the liberated mind, seeing God “face-to-face,” a state of consciousness humanity has known from the beginning but been taught otherwise by those same religions that think angels smell like fresh baked cookies.

The controversial, but often forgotten figure of John Dee (1527-1608) is the central character in Louv’s historical drama. Dee most likely paved the wave for the emerging scientific mind to evolve in 16th century England. At one time, his personal library exceeded that of the collected volumes of all the royalty, the monasteries, and the universities in the country. Depending on whose history you read, John Dee was either a spiritually wise sage or a genius madman—or both. Such the reasons that Queen Elizabeth I, kept Dee close to her left hand while pushing him with her right. His political and military acumen could be brilliant at times and disastrously miscalculated at others. Dee’s mystical spirituality and alchemical knowledge were to be equally coveted and feared. So convoluted was Dee’s life that historians have done their best to either downgrade his importance or deny his role in global history. Louv, however, provides a disparate interpretation of Dee’s legacy; that of master communicator with angels and an apocalyptic provocateur.

John Dee and the Empire of Angels is appropriately divided into the three sections, which Louv calls “Books”: The Magus, The Angelic Conversations, and the Antichrist. The title of each book is a foretelling. The Magus is a well written biography of Dee. The second book is an excruciatingly detailed journal of Dee’s encounters with angels. And book three exposes the results of the wizard’s work; a connection to the twenty-first century most readers would never imagine.

In Book One, The Magus, Louv does his best to provide the background necessary to decipher Dee’s (and the medieval Renaissance) theology of biblical Hermeticism. Not a philosophy most twenty-first century American Christians might find themselves comfortable in recognizing as their roots, particularly Evangelical Christians. Dee, educated and trained by the best Catholic minds, was unwillingly drafted into the dangers of Reformation’s murky milieu. Between the Inquisition’s torture rack and witch burnings, the theological storms were brewing perpetual destruction.

In Book Two, The Angelic Conversations, Louv takes us deep into Dee’s mental and spiritual world; the Christian of the twenty-first century should be forewarned—this glimpse is not for the religiously naïve. Through personal journals, Louv provides with us the minutia of details that allows Dee to encounter the realm of angels, their language, and their irascible nature. One should never forget that the God of Genesis created both the “Tree of Life” and the “Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,” and both are on glorious and painful display in this story. Dee’s narrative is the child born of the mystical marriage of the dark and light of both the Old and New Testament.

In Book Three, Antichrist, Louv reveals the antichrist’s identity. Don’t think of one individual as the antichrist. Louv takes us through the modern occult world of Aleister Crowley, Jack Parsons, and L. Ron Hubbard to just name a few of the characters. Louv brings the story to a most timely and pertinent conclusion.

My best recommendation for John Dee and the Empire of Angels: Enochian Magick and the Occult Roots of the Modern World is to read the final chapter before starting through Louv’s labyrinthine work. Unless you have deep interest in John Dee, communicating with angels (Enochian Magic), alchemy, and the esoteric arts you might not make it through the introduction. Without the readers keen curiosity on the topics he presents, Louv provides only obscure hints and eclipsed clues that might not be enough to move the reader through the first forty-two pages. For the uninitiated, reading the final chapter first, “The Last Jerusalem,” will be more than enough motivation to hang on for the magical ride.

Jason Louv’s book is written with the precision of a journalist, the detail research of a historian, and the spiritual experience of well-traveled pilgrim. While I have studied the topics Louv covered I was not disappointed with the time I invested in this book; in fact, I learned a great deal. This is a beautiful book filled with lovely and important art. Inner Traditions did a wonderful publishing this book.

But the best thing about John Dee and the Empire of Angels is that I imagine both ends of the spiritual spectrum might hate it; most Christians will be shocked and confused while New Age magicians will be disgusted that their roots are so intertwined with the Christian story. Have fun.

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.