The Little Friar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I was a teenager, I cared deeply about clothes.  I invested a lot of time in "my look":  A sort of miniature professor, looking at it in retrospect.  I am, by no means, a model -- or, for that matter, anything to look at.  But I cared how I looked.  I would find clothes that I felt represented my quirky, flamboyant self, in order to present a confident, put-together person.  I liked to "dress up"; it prepared me to conquer the day that lay ahead -- fraught, as it was, with so many social situations I wasn't sure how to negotiate unless I acted more mature, like an adult.  In high school, I was once confused for being one of the math teachers.  That sort of thing. At the time, I didn't know what I was doing.  It was just something I did in order to feel less awkward in social situations that already made me feel so extremely out of place. Then, the year after I graduated college, in 1995, as part of the psychological evaluations that accompany preparatio

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the stillness of this solemn Good Friday night, The church, stripped bare, stands in reverent repose, As shadows deepen, and stars softly alight, We feel the weight of sorrow, as darkness grows. Gone are the candles' flickering flames, The altar cloth removed, the chalice bare, Symbolizing Christ's sacrificial aims, His agony, his suffering, his love to share. No more adornment, no pomp or display, Just the rawness of truth, stripped to the core, In this barrenness, we humbly pray, Embracing the silence, longing for more. For in the stripping of the church, we find, A deeper understanding, a truth enshrined.

Upon this Maundy Thursday, shadows fall, As evening casts its solemn, quiet veil, A time when echoes of the ancient call Resound within the sanctuary's pale. The table set, simple bread and wine, Remind us of the sacrifice to come, Of love transcendent, poured like sacred brine, In humble service, not of martyrdom. For on this night, the Master bowed to wash The feet of those who followed in his way, A gesture of humility, not to squash, But to uplift and teach how to obey. So let us in this moment deeply dwell, And serve each other, as his words compel.

The focus of the Gospel for Holy Wednesday (John 13.21-32) is on the betrayal of Judas.  For this reason, it is sometimes called Spy Wednesday. Spy Wednesday, whispered secrets in the air, Betrayer's shadow cast upon the scene. Judas, his conscience heavy with despair, For silver's gleam, he sold his soul, unclean. In shadows deep, the plot begins to weave, A tragic tale of love and treachery. The Master's fate, the mournful hearts believe, Yet hope still blooms amidst the dark and eerie. The table set, the bread and wine they share, A final supper 'neath the evening sky. The weight of destiny, they cannot bear, Yet through it all, redemption's light draws nigh. Spy Wednesday tells of human frailty, But through the darkness, shines divinity. -- Spy Wednesday 2024

In supper's quiet, shadows draped the room, As friends around the table gathered near, Yet in their midst, foreboding sense of gloom, As whispered words revealed a heart sincere. "Betrayed by one among you," Jesus said, A heavy truth that pierced the evening air, A moment fraught with tension, fear, and dread, For one would falter in the tempter's snare. Peter, bold and brash, declared his loyalty, Though warned of faltering, thrice he denied, Yet in his weakness, found humility, Redemption's promise could not be denied. In John's recount, a tale of love and loss, Where faith is tested, and grace bears the cross. --based on John 13.21-38

In the somber shadows of Good Friday's eve, Where darkness falls, and hearts do grieve, A solemn ode to naked truth I weave, In the hush of night, where sorrows cleave. Behold the naked truth, stripped bare, Exposed to the world, devoid of care, Innocence shrouded, no garments to wear, On the cross, humanity's burden to bear. In darkness, the world finds its repose, As anguish deepens, and sorrow grows, The weight of sin, like a heavy throes, Upon the soul, where despair flows. In the absence of light, we seek a sign, A glimmer of hope, a sacred design, Yet, in the darkness, we must align, With the path of redemption, divine. Good Friday's tale, a story profound, Where nakedness and darkness are crowned, Yet, in this despair, grace is found, As love's eternal light does astound. So let us ponder in this sacred hour, The depth of mercy, the saving power, For in the darkness, blooms love's flower, On Good Friday, in solemn dower.

In ancient streets where dust and shadows play, Jerusalem, cradle of faith and strife, Amidst the clamor, sorrow found its way, As Jesus wept o'er the tumult of life. His eyes beheld the city's ancient walls, Yet saw beyond the stone, the heart laid bare, For in its streets, where fervent fervor calls, He sensed the burden of despair and care. "Oh, Jerusalem, how oft would I gather Thy children, as a hen her brood, in love, But ye would not, and now the shadows gather, The tears I shed, a symbol from above. For in this sacred city, strife and pain, Yet love's eternal light still strives to reign."