Monthly Archives: August 2020

A pall of white smoke has covered Northern California. While we haven’t evacuated, we packed “go” bags in case, remembering our elderly cat Laddie, his travel cage, his insulin shots.

Living amidst nature is a beautiful experience but does have drawbacks, and grass fires are some of them, as well as annual armies of aunts (the insects), field mice, turkeys, and the occasional wild pig who takes delight in digging up the lawn. I believe, as we age, we come to realize that the natural world is winning against our meager, ineffective attempts at control, yet we do battle as best we can to own the space we have been given.

And now fires and smoke and the expectation of earthquake season. 

I walk through the house, surveying our possessions, accumulations from 70-80 years on this Earth, considering what is important to save and what is not. I sense a parallel with my wandering through time, accumulating ideas and opinions and thoughts, sins and virtues, hates and loves, blessings and bedevilments. One day I will walk on my final journey, hopefully holding our Lord Jesus’ hand and arriving at the pearly gates of fame, carrying these spiritual possessions on the back of my soul. St. Peter will advise what to save and what to leave behind, what to confess, what to celebrate. Or perhaps Our Lord will, or perhaps an angel, like Angel Michael in my recent novel, Angel Mountain, who guides the hermit Abram on his journey through the Woods of the Cross (plot spoiler alert).

My bishop of blessed memory often said he finally understood the phrase, “The good die young.” How can that be right, I wondered. He meant, I have come to see, is that they are released from this life’s suffering earlier than the rest of us. They’ve earned early release. They enter Eternity and into the beloved’s Presence, hear the glorious music and laughter, bathed in His love. They enter bliss, blissfully.

The Chinese flu, which some say is overly hyped for political purposes while others cringe in fear of contagion, has added menace to this already dangerous wildfire season in Northern California. We are under house arrest either by force of the state or by force of society’s judgment upon us should we go out and meet together, see one another’s faces, return their smiles, their hugs, their touch. We stay connected through keyboards and Clouds that somehow carry our messages to loved ones and friends. We wait and we wonder. When will these troubles pass? What will be their cost to each of us, to America?

The Presidential election in November is on our minds as well, as one political party concluded their virtual gathering last week, having nominated their runners in this earthly race. The second political party will begin their Cloud gatherings tomorrow. There was and will be much hand-ringing and accusations, much anger and angst. There is also hope that Americans will cast thoughtful votes, that they will listen and learn before choosing.

The gregarious conventions of the past which became increasingly scripted and violent may be no more. Instead they will be replaced with faces in squares and speeches intoned to an invisible audience through the Cloud into our living rooms, appearing on screens we can remotely turn on and off with a small handheld wand or a tap of the finger or even a few words to Siri, the Cloud servant of all. Conventions will squeeze into phones and tablets and live there forever.

I for one will vote for the peacemakers, the deal-makers, the protectors of life, the defenders of our exceptional country, those who do the job I would like them to do. This is no time for careless complaints. The stakes are serious.

America was always a miracle in the making. Can she continue to make miracles? The odds are not with us, for who believes in miracles? Yet we pray without ceasing that the miracle of America continue to shine a light in the darkness of the world, that the impossible continue to be possible, for the poorest of the poor, for hopeful immigrants, for every race and gender, for the unborn, for every identity. 

Today, as Christians are denied the right to pray together as Our Lord commanded, “When two or three are gathered…,” we still hope and pray and repent our many sins. We repent, so that we may be forgiven. We are forgiven so that we may find the Way to Heaven, to arrive at those pearly gates, to enter the glory that awaits us in the Kingdom. So my husband and I tuned in to virtual services, attending three Masses this morning, overlapping in time. We gave awards: Best Chanting, Fr. Weber, St. Ann Chapel, Stanford. Best Sermon, Canon Dart, Christ Church, AZ. Best Hymns, St. Joseph’s, Berkeley.

As we stood to sing #600, “Ye holy angels bright who sit at God’s right hand…” I smiled. My husband’s marvelous tenor filled the room, and I squeaked along as best I could, making up for talent with enthusiasm. We could hear a few voices in the chapel, living deep inside my laptop, and the organ played by the talented Eugene was magnificent.

A challenging time. Riots and burnings in our cities. Fires and smoke in the hills. A political landscape of triumphant truths and shamefaced lies further dividing us, as if house arrest and natural disasters weren’t enough.

And yet… we overcome these tribulations. We follow the star that leads to the manger in Bethlehem. In this dark time, we follow the light we know—the light of love shone upon us by our Creator, upon all creation. We follow the light to where it leads, and along the way hope to reflect that light, carry that lantern for others to see and follow too. We are not really alone and there is no reason to be lonely, or despairing, not with all we have been given as Christians, not with the overwhelming and saving grace of Christ in His amazing abundance.

Congratulations to the ten winners of my recent Goodreads Giveaway! Your books have been ordered. Many thanks to the 1,494 readers who entered for a chance to win a free copy—we hope to have another giveaway in the next year. To be on my direct mailing list for quarterly announcements and updates, please email me: Chris@ChristineSunderland.com.

A triple-digit heat wave rolled over our golden hills a few days ago. To open a window or door is to enter an oven.

Last night, after a coral-ribboned sunset that streaked the sky above the disappearing sun, we were woken by thunder and lightening. The lightening must have been near, hovering over Mount Diablo, a.k.a. Angel Mountain. It boomed over the land.

Our Planet Earth felt small and helpless in the dark before dawn, beneath these loud and dueling skies. Man has little control over nature, neither his own nor the world around him. Climate is climate, ever changing.

Our dry golden hills needed the drenching, and in the morning the hot air smelt of wet hay, the brown grasses stale and dank. Would the storm dampen potential blazes?

Now as I write, the sun has returned and is back to baking our land.

And as I write, angry riots continue to fill the news reports. Tyranny threatens in this time of panic and disorder. Police states wait offstage for their cue. We watch and wait, hope and pray. Come, Lord Jesus, come.

And so we turned on our screens, tuning in, this morning for Sunday worship—laptops and phones and tablets: Christ Church Anglican in Arizona, St. Joseph’s Anglican in Berkeley, St. Ann Chapel Anglican in Palo Alto. Their timing was sequential… 10, 11, 11:30, and I listened to the lessons and sermons (several), prayed the Creed(s) and sang the Gloria(s), then settled into St. Joseph’s liturgy, the Canon of the Mass, the Eucharistic sacrifice.

The Epistle spoke of the gifts of the Spirit, the fruits given to each of us if we seek God. The Gospel mirrored the turbulent storm of the night—Christ was angry with those who sold in the temple and He “cast them out.” The house of prayer had become a den of thieves. Choices were made.

I have been working with the Berkeley chapel organist to stream the services live through Facebook, so we have our organ and four hymns for the day at the ready. We watched the host become the Real Presence of Christ. We centered our focus on the altar and the priest’s prayers dating to the sixteenth century and far earlier to ancient abbeys. We watched the miracle unfold, familiar and foreign all at once, timeless and time-bound, in a small chapel a block from the university, twenty miles away from our home. We sang the songs (my husband loves hymns and I follow along), encouraged by the booming notes entering real time on this August Sunday, the Tenth Sunday after Trinity.

But it was not as it should be. We were not gathered together as the Church, a physical fellowship, and yet we were gathered together as the Church, a spiritual fellowship. We were separated by distance and space but united in ceremony and time, a welcome ordering of souls in this modern world of disordering.

It is as if humanity is being sorted out, into sheep and goats, wheat and tares. We are asked to choose and if we have not been watching and listening and seeking God’s grace in our lives, “tuning in”, the choice will be difficult or simply deadly. We will be asked to choose what kind of a society we would like—one that favors free speech, freedom of worship, freedom of thought and belief, versus one that dictates speech, worship, thought, belief. We will be asked to choose between life and death, creation and destruction, individual dignity and group shaming. The choice is clear for some of us, having been schooled in the Church, having been fed by the Church, having been given eternal life through the Church, this Bride of Christ. The choice is clear for we were blind and now we see (better), were deaf and now we hear (better), were dumb and now we speak (better), at least for now, as long as we tune in.

My recently released novel, Angel Mountain, speaks of these things, this second coming of Christ and some of these choices that are set before us. Is the world ending? Is the return of the King soon? Our preacher (one of them) said that Jesus Christ will make all things new, that He will reconcile Heaven and Earth, that He will create a new Earth. Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Last night, as thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, I was reminded of our smallness. I was reminded that we are a tiny part of this terribly turbulent world. Our hearts cry for peace; are we more than mere animal? And I answered my question with the Church’s teachings, with Our Lord’s teachings, that we are made in the image of God, the imago Dei, and that because of this knowledge, this belief in a God of infinite love, we must be a people of infinite love, schooled in a love that passes all understanding. We must admit our frailty and choose to live lives of glory, lives of life, lives of light.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

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Two days to enter for a chance to win a copy of Angel Mountain in the Goodreads Giveaway….

The Feast of the Transfiguration of Our Lord, celebrated August 6, and ongoing through the octave, always stuns me, perhaps transfigures me. I joined the St. Ann Chapel’s virtual Mass on Thursday and listened to the words of the Gospel of St. Luke (9:28+):

“AND it came to pass about an eight days after these sayings, he took Peter and John and James, and went up into a mountain to pray. And as he prayed, the fashion of his countenance was altered, and his raiment was white and glistering. And, behold, there talked with him two men, which were Moses and Elias: who appeared in glory, and spake of his decease which he should accomplish at Jerusalem. But Peter and they that were with him were heavy with sleep: and when they were awake, they saw his glory, and the two men that stood with him. And it came to pass, as they departed from him, Peter said unto Jesus, Master, it is good for us to be here: and let us make three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias: not knowing what he said. While he thus spake, there came a cloud, and overshadowed them: and they feared as they entered into the cloud. And there came a voice out of the cloud, saying, This is my beloved Son: hear him. And when the voice was past, Jesus was found alone. And they kept it close, and told no man in those days any of those things which they had seen.”

My recently released novel, Angel Mountain, is about transfiguration. There are icons in a bright cave that glow with uncreated light. There is the face of a believer transfigured by the joy of faith when he speaks of Christ. There are singers glistering with the melody of hymns and psalms. For all of us are invited into transfiguration. We need only say yes, Lord, transfigure me: let me hear your voice.

On the mountain, Luke describes one of those moments when Christ literally becomes our bridge to Heaven from Earth. It is a moment of revelation, recalling Christ’s baptism when the dove descends and the voice from Heaven proclaims, “This is my beloved son….” It is a moment that the earthbound disciple Peter doesn’t fully understand, thinking that Christ is equal with Moses and Elijah. It takes a dark and threatening cloud and the voice of God the Father to explain to him what is happening: “This is my beloved son! Hear him!” And yet the disciples still didn’t quite understand.

We often need such a direct voice from on high, the voice of life, the voice of God our Creator. Especially now, as our world seems to be full of anger and despair, even suicidal. We may not always understand, but we need listen, again, and again.

The pandemic reminds all of us of the fragility of our lives. Life itself is transfigured in illness, in the destruction of our flesh, in death. A gray pall wraps our world as darkness is welcomed by those who would destroy life, silence our words, imprison our thoughts. Our daily world has been turned upside down and we find ourselves in a dark cloud. But do we hear the voice calling us, the voice of love, in or perhaps through the cloud?

I planted some seeds last week in my garden, wondering if they would germinate. They were seeds from many years ago, seeds in a little packet that had been left over from a summer Sunday school class. I had low expectations, given the time passed, and not sure if a box in a hot garage was the best storage for these tiny bits of promise. I poured the packet into my palm. They were barely visible, so minute, and I scattered the seeds into the soil. I patted them under their earthy blanket, their cave-tomb, and watered them carefully.

And yet, green leaves are now shooting out of the dark soil. The black loamy surface is transfigured from death to life. Not transformed, for the seeds are the same as when they lay buried. But transfigured into what they were meant to become: leaves, stems, flowers.

Such life we take for granted, congratulating ourselves, thinking that we created it. We kill the unborn, thinking we have the right. We snuff out life all around us without a thought. And yet, there are moments when we pay attention, when we allow the darkness to be penetrated, when Christ himself transfigures us, moments when we listen.

I finished my prayer memorization (see last week), the morning prayer for freedom:

“O God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord, in knowledge of whom standeth our eternal life, whose service is perfect freedom, defend us thy humble servants in all assaults of our enemies, that we trusting in thy defense, may not fear the power of any adversaries, through the might of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

I confess that I missed a few words, but I’ll work on it, incorporate it into my other morning prayers written on my heart: the Our Father, the Venite, the Jubilate Deo, the Te Deum. For prayer transfigures. Prayer is like Christ on the mountain, a way to Heaven itself, a means to a joyful end. And prayers written by great theologians such as Thomas Cranmer reflect truth, and truth transfigures.

My bishop of blessed memory often said that to love is to suffer. And yet to love is to experience transfiguration inside the suffering, to know joy. It is a curious conundrum, a contradiction, like many in this world of spirit and matter, in this world of Heaven and Earth we do not fully understand. In this world of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

But for now, in the shadowy land of pandemic panic and rotting riot, our precious liberty and law no longer sacred, I will listen for the voice in the heavenly cloud. I will say my prayers, learn as many as I can by heart, with my heart, so that I will be able to hear His voice when He speaks to me. And when He speaks through my prayers, living in the words and the very breath I am breathing, I will breathe the Holy Name into my body, into my very flesh. I will string a rosary of words that carry me into His presence.

And I will be transfigured by joy.

All are welcome to visit the virtual services at St. Ann Chapel. Email saintannchapel@gmail.com and ask to be added to their Zoom and Facebook list. For more about St. Ann Chapel, visit Saintannchapel.org.

The Goodreads Giveaway is now in progress for Angel Mountain, through August 18. Enter for a chance to win!

Aside from the riots and burnings, the assault on private and public property, the rise in unemployment, bankruptcies, and closures, the students denied education, the poor becoming poorer, sports with no live fans, performing arts with no live audience, the churches with empty pews, the fear engendered by a strange virus, aside from these minor disruptions to daily life (“Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the theater?”), Americans seem to have downshifted into a simpler mode of existence, which may not be a bad thing altogether.

There are silver linings to the storm clouds as they say and blessings to be counted. And Sundays are good days to count blessings and reflect on thanksgivings.

I find myself, elderly and sheltering with my husband, also elderly, having more time each day which I now can restructure. For I hate time lost, time gone, precious minutes of my life not lived fully to the glory of God.

Having obliged a number of obligations, particularly in regards to my recently released novel, Angel Mountain, I now have a little time. When this occurs—usually on vacation or other “rest” periods—I assign a bit to memorize, either from the 1928 Anglican Book of Common Prayer or Scripture (usually KJV, more poetic). One can never have too many prayers or verses tucked away in one’s little memory bank. And my memory bank is often depleted and bereft… for I don’t pay attention often enough to this simple challenge. So, it being an election year, and a year of clear attacks on our freedoms, recalling the Marxist playbook, I revisited a prayer in the Service of Morning Prayer, “A Collect for Peace.” I have tried this one before and always struggled for some reason, confusing the phrases in a most frustrating manner. So I am giving it another go and taped the words to the back of my phone (naturally, attached to my palm).

Here is where I am:

“O God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord, in whose knowledge standeth our eternal life, whose service is perfect freedom…”

That’s taken a week of glancing at the back of my phone. I’m working now on the next phrase:

“Defend us thy humble servants in all assaults of our enemies”

Curious, I just noted, we are asking for defense in all assaults not from all assaults. So the assaults will still come, but we will be girded with enough righteousness, with helmets of salvation, swords of truth… to be safe, saved.

The famous phrase in this prayer is “whose service is perfect freedom,” and I have returned to it often because of those words, that, at first, seem to contradict one another. Service, perfection, freedom. How can there be freedom in service? Something to consider in these moments given me, these extra hours.

The sheltering shuttering locking down of our lives has also afforded me an opportunity to attend church virtually. I immediately checked out the larger churches, to see what they were doing and in the process recalled that one can go to any of the world’s great cathedrals and see rituals in glorious settings—in Rome, Paris, London, with the time change of course. But there are such services in the U.S. too. They stream the service and we watch as spectators.

But most of our little Anglican parishes had never stepped into this world of virtual reality in order to claim souls out there in the Cloud, except perhaps for an odd few minutes of video showing a procession for an ordination or other memorable event. This was new territory, and our clergy would have to respond as best they could. Many have been proud they didn’t “do Internet things, or email even, and Facebook… too dangerous.” And I often wondered about that, considering it a missed opportunity. But now it was sink or swim, especially here in California, where the governor has imposed strict restrictions on congregations congregating, although protests and riots appear to be anointed with his approval, no masks required.

But I’m not going down that road, as they say. Instead, I have been watching our parishes to see what they would do, and it brought up some interesting observations.

Many did nothing. But among those who did, the Zoom approach seemed the most popular, where a link was sent to members and others who asked for the invitation to the service. This kept the group private, good for the club atmosphere (coffee hour) but not so good as a public witness, opening the front doors as it were to all passersby, with what would entail “streaming” (can now can be done through Facebook).

Some clergy opted for both, which on reflection, seems the best approach.

Once I was used to seeing my face in one of those squares and devoured advice on camera angles and ways to look better than I really do (this has not been successful, alas), I felt more at home with Zoom.

But the question of open/closed doors continues to fascinate me. The church is supposed to be making disciples of all nations. Here we were, suddenly in a place in time where folks in all nations were looking for our open digital doors. I know from the Facebook page we have for our UC Berkeley chapel, St. Joseph’s, we have visitors from all over the world. They especially like the short videos of singing and processions, but the altar and the vertical space and the sense of holiness in our chapel seems to draw many to us, folks we have never met, but longed for something we could offer.

The Internet, with all of its downsides (and I won’t go down that road either, not today at least), has brought people together. Especially those we used to call “shut-ins.” Especially those who are lonely, suffering, dying. Anyone can enter this world wide web of singing, dancing, storytelling, funny videos, classes of every description, and on and on. The world has become democratized, the gatekeepers to such knowledge and entertainment no longer relevant. The world has direct access through a simple phone. Who would have guessed?

Another detour I won’t pursue is the policing of this world wide web.

So getting back to the churches and their services and their open or closed doors. It is a characteristic of human beings that we have an inner and an outer life. Inside, outside. Spiritual, physical. Something we are told is united in Christian faith and practice. And parish life can be like that—caring for one another within the parish, caring for those outside the parish. It is always tempting for any group to grow increasingly inward, becoming a club of close friends, a closed society. It becomes difficult for them to open those doors and allow anyone in, to change the happy parish family.  And yet, how vital this is, for with closed doors, closed hearts, the mission we have been given is soon forgotten. Soon the closed doors are locked—for safety of course. Soon the Sunday School is silent—quieter that way and less troublesome.

So I am thankful for this remarkable opportunity given to churches to preach the Gospel to all nations from simple screens and keyboards and video cameras, preferably in a physical chancel before a physical altar. I hope more churches do this, and if they have an invitation-only service, that they consider doing a live-streaming as well.

After all, we want the doors to Heaven open to us one day, when we reach the top of Angel Mountain. We want to hear those words, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Here is your perfect freedom. Welcome home.” And we will all stream in, smiling and singing and glorifying God.