Monthly Archives: January 2022

We are in the season of Epiphanytide, the weeks following the Feast of the Epiphany and leading up to “Pre-Lent”, the “Gesima Sundays”: Septuagesima, Sexagesima, and Quinquagesima. These Sundays in turn lead up to Lent proper, which begins Ash Wednesday, March 2, this year. Epiphanytide can be up to six weeks, swinging upon the date of Easter, which depends upon the full moon (!). Yes, we still have holy days and seasons depending upon full moons, reflecting the two thousand years of celebrating the stunning reality that God came to earth, became incarnate, in the flesh, walking among us.

Epiphany celebrates the good news of the birth of Christ, Christ-mass, to our world: the birth of the Son of God. The magi, or kings, or wise men, arrive from distant places bringing gifts. They follow a star that has led them on their journey, a star that history has identified as the conjunction of three cosmic events in the heavens.

Epiphany means manifestation, or showing forth, and in this case a showing forth to the gentile world, proclaiming that the gift of salvation is for all peoples, not just the “chosen” ones.

In this sense, Epiphany proclaims the equal dignity of all men and women, of all human life. Epiphany says, God loves you no matter who or what you are. God wants you for his own, to be with him in Paradise.

And so the lessons in this season reflect this showing forth, this shining light upon this marvelous truth for all. Today’s Gospel is particularly lovely, for we speak the words of the Centurion in the liturgy of each Holy Eucharist. The Roman soldier asks Jesus to heal his servant at home. Because of his faith, he believes that Christ can heal from a distance. He says: “Speak the words only and my servant will be healed.” And, we are told later that his servant was healed in the same hour.

These words are spoken in our liturgy just before receiving the Eucharist, with a slight modification: “Speak the words only and my soul shall be healed.” We repeat these words three times as the celebrant holds up the Host for all to see. Then we line up to receive the Real Presence, the Mystical Presence, of Christ.

It is a mystical miracle, each time, indeed. These homely elements of bread and wine, our simple bodies bowed in penitence and hope, our plea for salvation, our faith that it will be given to us if we ask, conquering death and time.

This is no small thing. And yet we are small, the wafers are small, the offering we make – ourselves, our souls and bodies to be a reasonable sacrifice – is small too. He is the God of small things. He inhabits small things, as Eastern religions have known for a long time. Large things are puffed up and proud. Pride seals off the divine. It closes the door of the heart. Pride – largeness – says I can do it myself, leave me alone.

But we can’t do it ourselves. We cannot save ourselves. We cannot heal ourselves.

Christians are simple people. They face simple truths directly and live accordingly, or at least try not to self-deceive. We are mortal and frail and one day we will die: we need God. We do not love enough: we need Christ. To admit these things is what living is all about. If we want to glory, we glory in Christ himself, in the Cross of Christ, in our redemption.

Our 1928 Anglican-Episcopal Book of Common Prayer is full of Holy Scripture like these words of the Centurion. And because we repeat many of the phrases each week, each month, each year, depending upon the season, we write these words on our hearts, we inwardly digest them, as one opening prayer says in Advent. The repetition is useful and beautiful, for not only do we learn and digest, but we speak the words together, in unison, in a kind of starry dance. We in the pews become a choir of angels, bathed in the light of Christ.

It is this light – these starry epiphanies – that I desire to write about in my next novel. I am currently developing the main characters, those who will inhabit the pages, who will hopefully and faithfully shed light upon our world. I study real people through memoir or biography and create composites that will become epiphanies, manifestations of the light of God. While I am not creating living breathing human beings as our Heavenly Father does, I pray that Our Lord will speak the word only and they shall come alive on the page, that they shall reflect simple truths of our existence in today’s world, the joys, the pains, the meaningful moments pointing to our reason to be alive at all.

There was a mighty rushing wind that whirled around our house this last week. The whoosh was ferocious as though a roaring lion were breathing upon our hillside at the base of Mount Diablo. I thought how nature was not always gentle, kind, and caring about humanity but ran on a course of its own. Our house was in the middle of that course, it seemed. Would we be blown into the sea?

I thought of Pentecost and the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples, like a mighty wind.

Hurricanes and tornadoes must sound like that. It’s nature beyond our control, and that which we cannot control is scary.

I thought too how God’s anger could be like that wind – his anger at our slaughter of the unborn at the whim of convenience, our demand for control of events, bodies, time, future.

And yet we have little control at the end of the day, each day, when the sun sets and darkness falls, and we are dependent upon something called the grid for light. We stack candles and matches in closets and drawers and hoard batteries to feed flashlights. Our phones go dead. Electric wires atop poles running through the hills crash into dry grass and forest, setting them ablaze, turning wind into fire (Big Sur fire still burning). We have little control.

And yet, what we do have control over, or at least bits of control, we are responsible for. We have control over what we say and do to a limited degree. We have control over our loves and hates. We have control over our vote, who we desire to represent us in these United States. We have control over law and order, or at least we can control our own support or lack thereof. 

With control comes responsibility. With responsibility comes guilt. With guilt comes the anger of God.

I believe it was Victor Davis Hanson who wrote (probably in his recent excellent book The Dying Citizen) that with false victimhood (and who is not a victim today?) comes denial of responsibility. Guilt is washed away when you are a victim, or at least guilt is explained or excused.

I knew a priest some years ago who was a professional victim. I noticed it right away, for he tended to whine and bemoan his difficult childhood, so I proceeded warily. For blaming others for your sins, either directly or indirectly, is a dangerous game to play. When he was finally exposed as a serial liar and sexual predator, I thought back to the times he may have been lying about common friends, slandering them, to make him look good in a bid for our sympathy. But he was convincing and we credulous. We wanted to believe him. In hindsight, I should have seen it all coming, but didn’t, and was blindsided by the turn of events soon to come that would expose him. Today, we have no idea what was true and what was false in our conversations. And we have learned that we too were slandered by him in handwringing conversations with others. He played us all and, I believe, still does.

It is tempting to play the victim, for it smooths the rough edges of our soul, hides the guilt. It is a powerful tool.

Many women see themselves as victims when they become pregnant. They think they have a right to end this tiny miracle of a life just beginning. But they don’t have this right, and they have fallen into the blame game of victimhood.

No one has the right to take another person’s life, let alone murder an innocent person, a baby, born or unborn.

Many brave souls marched in the cold this weekend as they have annually, announcing their commitment to these innocent children. “Stop the killing,” they cry, hoping the court will overturn Roe v. Wade and abortion on demand. America has the stain of sixty-two million abortions in the last fifty years, three generations gone with the flash of a blade. For this to be legal, written into law, is a horrendous shame. It ranks of… evil.

God is angry and should be. Our God is a God of life. He created those innocent ones. He feels the blade with them. He weeps on their cross.

I thought about this, this morning in the Berkeley chapel, that our God is a God of Life. We celebrated the first miracle of Christ, the turning of water into wine at a wedding feast in Cana in Galilee. The simplicity and need of the act touches me. Had Mary seen him do these things before? She says to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you to do.” She says to her son, “They have no more wine.” And so Our Lord remedies the situation, turning 150 gallon vats of water into “the best wine,” as the master of the feast says later.

It is a homely miracle, a sort of kitchen miracle. He did not save lives or stop a ship from sinking or walk on the water, not yet. He supplies wine when it runs out. He does so at a wedding feast, a sacramental celebration, and so celebrates marriage itself.

It reminds me how our God is a God of seemingly small things, not only big things. We are small things. Babies are small things. Our God is a God who knows when a sparrow falls. As my bishop of blessed memory said, “Nothing is wasted.” In God’s economy, everything we do and think and believe is known by him, marked by him. He knows the hairs on our head, or in my case, lack of hairs on my head. I remember this glorious smallness when I think I am not good enough, not loving enough, not successful enough, when publishers turn me down with form letters saying “It doesn’t work for us.” I remember that “nothing is wasted, nothing is lost.”

And so we clean out our hearts of every little grimy sin we see, so that we can receive absolution, become clean enough to receive him, the Real Presence of Christ into our bodies.

The Cana miracle reflects the living God of all creation, for to turn one substance into another is no small thing, yet is a small thing for him. He charges matter with life, with atoms forming substance. We call this a sacrament and, in the sacrament of the Eucharist atoms of bread and wine become charged with his life. They become “the real substance of things unseen.”

Of these matters we can only say they are a mystery. We are too small to understand fully. But we know enough to say these matters are true, real, and miraculous everyday occurrences.

The natural world breathes the breath of God upon us. We are his children, the work of his hands. He knew us in the womb; he knew us when we breathed our first breath and took our first steps. Nothing is lost; nothing wasted. And for this we celebrate in a chapel on a windy morning in Berkeley. We celebrate life itself, for this life conquers death.

A friend entered Paradise last night. His soul left his weak mortal flesh to rise to Paradise. He was and is a big hearted man, a loving man, a man of faith and purpose. His good humor humored us all, those who worked with him to witness to Christ through the St. Joseph of Arimathea Foundation in Berkeley. Our Board meetings have been virtual the last few years, so we were denied his physical presence and yet he was there on the screen. He was a layman, a businessman, a husband and father, and a faithful (founding) member of St. Thomas’ Anglican Church in San Francisco. He helped found our St. Ann Chapel at Stanford as well.

He loved life and he loved people. We loved him for he always brought a smile that birthed our own smiles. We felt his love.

Where is he now?

I do not know exactly the time sequences, the order of events, in Paradise, for the simple reason we are outside of time, and as creatures bound in earthly time, we cannot envision Eternity. And yet, as my theological grandson mentioned at Christmas, we sleep until the Second Coming of Christ to Earth and the advent of the New Jerusalem. This New Heaven and Earth will be our home and we shall be given our perfected bodies. Wrongs will be righted, paths will be straightened, and Christ shall wipe all tears from our eyes. We shall be reunited with those who have journeyed before us, at least those who desire to be in Paradise, those who believe, those who claim Christ as their savior and redeemer.

We cannot judge how others are judged by our Heavenly Father. We can only look into our own hearts, scrub them clean, repent, accept forgiveness, and live the life we are meant to live. I have many family and friends who do not believe in the promises and glory of Christ. Some have left this Earth and this Time we are bound by. Some are still living in their mortal flesh, creating their own meaning day to day. All I can do is pray for them, that they will have a vision of God as I have.

Prayer, I have found, opens a door to Christ. Prayer is a portal between Heaven and Earth. I have long considered the Eucharist to be a portal to Heaven, for we are fed by the Real Presence of Christ. So also, I have come to see, is prayer, especially prayer alongside others in worship. For after all, the Eucharist is the great prayer instituted by Jesus Christ himself at the Last Supper. Many of the hymns we sing are prayers, song prayers addressed directly to God. Our voices raised in such poetic melody open doors to Heaven.

And so this morning as I listened to the Gospel appointed for today, the baptism of Jesus by John, the dove descending, the voice from Heaven saying, “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased,” I thought how my friend entered Eternity and embarked upon this great journey on the eve of the Second Sunday after Epiphany, the eve of the Sunday we celebrate the Baptism of Christ.

Our preacher reminded us that all baptisms recall our own baptisms, recall the promises made and gifts of grace given in return. We recall our own washing away of sin by water and the Holy Spirit, our own rebirth. For Christ said we must be reborn spiritually to enter the Kingdom of God. And we have been reborn in baptism.

My friend entered Heaven. He was redeemed and reborn, born into the new life of Christ, born into the Kingdom of God. He has been met by Our Lord himself and greeted with the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant! Enter into the joy of your Lord.”

Until we meet again in the New Jerusalem, we will miss you, dear friend.

Deo Gratias.

A new year has been marked in the calendars of mankind. Time has been broken into pieces so that we can organize it to form associations with one another through work, play, sickness, health. We set aside times in the future where we promise to be, where we promise to give of our time for that moment, hour, day.

Time has become slippery during the last two years of our lives. It has slipped and slid and merged into one rolling river, the tide pulling us along to some end we do not see. Our children reflect our own confusion over the chaos of our lives, the meaningless moments of waiting, masking, meeting mandates and following confusing rules that seem to end in a dead-end, all the while contradicting one another.

Should we make resolutions in this new year of time? Or is it a futile enterprise?

In these years of darkness, confusion, crime, and chaos, we reach for the light. If we can shine more light upon the swift current, the fast moving river that carries us into the future, then we will understand better who and what we are, who and what we have become. We will understand better and with this understanding we will see meaning and purpose to it all.

Reflecting on this morning in our Berkeley chapel, I sense that Christians are given a gift that others must create or do without. Christians are given a map of the rivers running through time. We are told which ones are good and which ones are evil. We are warned of the rapids coming around the bend and what we should do to prepare. We are warned of waterfalls and cliffs that plunge into the dark abyss.

In the last century, modernity declared that God is dead, a fiction of our (deplorable) imagination. With this denunciation and burial, modernity gazes into the abyss, the endless endings, the fearsome silence, the falling through the sky into the depths of nothingness.

I knew this meaninglessness once as a young college student listening to lectures on the insanity of Christian belief and the order to embrace existentialism. A friend showed me another way. I began to pray for faith. I began to read apologetics (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity) with an open mind and heart, searching for reason to believe, but expecting none. Prayer opened my mind and heart, for I had made that first step, not a leap, but a baby step, my arm reaching out, my hand waiting for God to clasp it, waiting for God to see me and catch my freefalling fall.

St. Luke tells of a woman who touched the hem of the robe of Jesus. She wanted to be made whole. She reached out, hoping, praying. I reached out too. I wanted to be made whole too, although I didn’t realize it yet.

When we reach for Jesus he reaches for us. But we must want him to. And to want his touch we must open ourselves, bare ourselves, burn away all pride and control. For pride and control are walls that divide us not only from others, but divide us from God.

I have wondered over the last year, how easy it has become for many public figures to lie about matters of life and death for mankind, the future of freedom and democracy. My bishop of blessed memory often said he couldn’t lie because he wasn’t smart enough to keep track of the lies. Perhaps this is what we are seeing in the public square today – men and women who come to believe their lies, for the narrative they create must continue or be washed clean, like erasing letters on a chalk board. One lie begets another and another and another, covering tracks and making falsehoods appear to be true. The narrative is carried whole from one institution to another, from one network to another, from one citizen to another.

I have found that when I go to church I am more likely to scrub my conscience and face God with abandon. Worship does this, allows us to experience God, the God of Abraham, Moses, and Elijah, the God of kings and prophets, the God who became one of us, robed in flesh, named Jesus, the God that offered himself to me and for me, to die a painful death upon a cross on a hill outside Jerusalem, the God who rose from the dead for me, so that my emptiness could be filled forever, my cup running over with goodness and mercy.

And so I sing with the others in the chapel to the sound of the thundering organ. As I sing, I lay my heart and soul bare, open to the miracles of the morning. And there are always miracles, too numerous to count.

It all began with an unlikely step of faith, a little baby step, a step I didn’t think would make any difference. And yet, one step led to another that led to another, so that my own narrative, my journey on this river of life, is full of joy.

And it gets better each year, this amazing journey. At the age of seventy-four, I have no regrets that I chose this river. For the Church has been my ark, and we have sailed together, I in her womb of life with those who travel with me. We are the family of God, precious in his sight. We are his bride.

And so, as I embark on this year 2022, I watch and wait and see what Christ has prepared for me, for his people, for his bride the Church. The watching opens my eyes so I can see better, and I find I am in a pool of heavenly light. The waiting opens my heart so I can love better, and I find I have dear brothers and sisters all about me.

I pray for those caught in the darkness of lies, for it is a deep and fathomless abyss, a hope-less narrative. The remedy is to take that small step toward the light of truth, to say yes to God. The remedy is to be open to Christ working his will among his people. This is a narrative of love, of epiphany, of astounding joy.

I have always enjoyed the twelve days of Christmas, Christmastide, stretching from Christmas Day, December 25, to Epiphany, January 6, pivoting upon our old year ending and new one beginning.

In spite of the exaggerated account of wild protestors storming the U.S. capitol on January 6, the day continues to shine light upon all the world. The wise men from the East have traveled far, just as you and I have traveled far, to worship the Son of God born to mankind on Earth.

For we have traveled from our own births, to be reborn again and again, Eucharist after Eucharist. For when we meet Christ in the liturgy of bread and wine we clean out our hearts to prepare the way just as John the Baptist did in the wilderness, crying “Repent, repent, prepare ye the way of the Lord. Repent, repent… make his paths straight.”

Much has been made of the trespassers in Washington D.C. on this fateful day, the day that they protested the election. They are labeled insurrectionists. And yet, they too, were shining a light upon what happened in the early weeks of November 2020, at least until some were urged to enter the hallowed halls of Congress, by, it appears, federal agents who have since been identified on camera footage as well as police who opened the doors.

Epiphanies are sudden realizations of truth. Characters in novels have epiphanies, moments when they are no longer blind, but can now see, can recognize what is real and what is false. The epiphanies are often plot turning points, deepening character and ennobling those who now have vision restored.

The Feast of the Epiphany is no less. It is a celebration not only of gift giving by three kings from afar to the newborn king and the recognition of his kingship, but also a celebration of the greater world seeing too, for when these three travelers fall on their knees in worship, all the peoples, races, genders, classes, nations, recognize the significance of this moment in the history of mankind.

The immortal has become mortal, and in so doing, has become God with us, Emmanuel, God within us. We need only have eyes to see. We need only have faith to recognize. We need only believe in Jesus Christ – his promises and his palaces – to become immortal as well.

His was the light of the world, and the world knew him not. But to those who received him gave he power to become sons of God.

And so we travel through the twelve days of Christmas, celebrating saints and holy names and light shining upon the world. Yesterday we celebrated his naming in the temple. It is a holy name, Jesus, our preacher reminded us today. It is a name never to be taken in vain, but to treasure and hold close to the heart. He is named and from this moment the name of Jesus will demand every head to bow, every knee to bend. At the name of Jesus we see his light, as though a beam shines into our souls. We can do no less than bow and bend. We are thankful to be able to see.

Christians become epiphanies to others. They shine light so that others may see. They love so that others may love the source of all love, the source of all light and life.

We move through Christmastide to January 6 and the light that opened the doors of Heaven to all the world. No longer is the messiah only for a chosen people. He is born into our darkness but becomes the light that will shine, illuminating truth in a world of lies.

It seems to me the protestors (for the most part) last January 6 wanted to shine a light on the election of November. It is wrong to trespass and wrong to fight the police, and this is true at all times in all situations. But I believe their intentions were ingenuous, real, and peaceful. As we know from the riots of the summer of 2020, protests can be infiltrated and can be far more violent and destructive than intended.

The true light of the world is the Prince of Peace. He shines a light into our hearts so that we can see our wrongdoings and confess and repent. We then can approach the altar and receive him into ourselves, our souls and bodies.

LIGHTEN our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by
thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers
of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour,
Jesus Christ. Amen. 

Evening Prayer, BCP 1928