Author Archives: Christine Sunderland

Having finished a first draft of my novel-in-progress, The Music of the Mountain, I find I need a concise description to answer the question, “What’s it about?”

So tentatively, in an attempt to distill sixty thousand words into a phrase or a sentence, I am sallying forth with, “Saving books in order to save Western Civilization” or perhaps, “A philosophy professor, a history teacher, an honest journalist, and a praying priest, secretly save classic history and literature before they are burned by the Social Justice Committee”. Sounds like Fahrenheit 451, and in some respects it is a modern version Bradbury’s dystopian novel, but much more. Set in January 2023, the Emergency Powers of government has decreed classics to be hateful and has erased those portions of the Internet deemed too white. Libraries are closed due to the pandemic, and will unlikely reopen. So my intrepid professor gathers a few booklovers, former students, to help her save civilization, one shelf at a time. Lo and behold, a secret library emerges!

So the novel continues my fascination with words, and with people, and this time with virtues and memory. Language itself is a test of memory, how we write words into our minds, onto our hearts, onto our tongue in speech. Each one of us is a word, an expression of God’s love and will and design. Each one of us is unique, precious, and loved.

I believe also, that each one of us is necessary to the plan of salvation. Each plays their part, if only to link to another who links to another who links to another… until we form a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter of God’s will for mankind. Usually, we have no idea who might be the one who links to us, or who we are linking to. Who reads these words, who hears a sermon, who takes an idea from a book or a person and sends it flying through the stratosphere to someone else. Every person counts in God’s plan, and when one is lost (that lost sheep) another must be found. We are letters in the word, cursive dancing across a page, joined with others to form phrases and sentences, that fill the Earth in life and the Heavens in eternal life. My bishop of blessed memory often consoled me with the words, “Nothing is lost. Everything counts.”

And so we plant the seeds of memorized words and phrases in our hearts this Lenten season, to be ready for rising from the earth triumphantly. “O Lord, thou hast searched me out and known me, thou knowest my thoughts long before. Thou art about my path and about my bed, and art acquainted with all my ways. For lo, there is not a word on my tongue, but thou, O Lord, knowest it all together. Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful and excellent for me. I cannot attain unto it…” (Psalm 139)

Christians believe in a personal God, a God that makes a difference in our lives and in our deaths. He is with us, Emmanuel. The shepherd boy David knew this in his songs in the fields, so that God could mold him to become the origin of the “Line of David” that would send forth the Christ to save the world. No small thing. He was chosen from the Chosen People of Israel and one can see why, “For my reins are thine; thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb.”

And so we sing the song of love, the melody of creation, the hymn of praise to God, our creator, our Father, our Lord, our Spirit. The song begins as a solo, then joins in with others, then a great chorus rises from the Earth, a love song to God.

That is what Lent is, singing our song of life here among the living, choosing the good and rejecting the evil, cultivating Christ within us to rise on Easter morning.

And that reminds me – my Music of the Mountain is about virtue, what it is, why we need it, how to sing it in our lives. Faith, hope, and charity. Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude, Justice. And, as we heard recently, the greatest of these is charity, love. For without love, we are tinkling cymbals. Without love, we are nothing.

And there is a love story too in my little book, and a past tragedy that needs healing, and heroic visions inspired by those who fought for freedom in the past, and escape stories of the Holocaust, so that we never forget. 

But most of all, it is a collection of words and sentences and paragraphs that run and dance over the white pages, creating love and life and… expressions of who we are and who we are meant to be, a love song to life and the Creator of all life.

Thanks be to God.

Every Lent I choose something to memorize and something to renew that has slipped from my memory. I consider it not only a mental discipline, always good in Lent, but food for my soul. Words are miraculous. If they sit within you long enough, if they travel to your tongue and are set flying into the air, they support an architecture of belief. And so Advent and Lent I consider the passages I will write on my heart.

I am immersed in my novel-in-progress, and when considering a scripture that related to a pro-life sermon preached on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I settled on Psalm 139. It is a psalm I have worked on forever it seems, and never really have it engrafted in my mind, so I often return to it. It is the first sixteen verses that stun me with their beauty and profundity:

O LORD, thou hast searched me out, and known me. * Thou knowest my down-sitting, and mine up-rising; thou understandest my thoughts long before. Thou art about my path, and about my bed; * and art acquainted with all my ways. For lo, there is not a word in my tongue, * but thou, O LORD, knowest it altogether. Thou hast beset me behind and before, * and laid thine hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful and excellent for me; * I cannot attain unto it. Whither shall I go then from thy Spirit? * or whither shall I go then from thy presence? If I climb up into heaven, thou art there; * if I go down to hell, thou art there also. If I take the wings of the morning, * and remain in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there also shall thy hand lead me, * and thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, Peradventure the darkness shall cover me; * then shall my night be turned to day. Yea, the darkness is no darkness with thee, but the night is as clear as the day; * the darkness and light to thee are both alike. For my reins are thine; * thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb. I will give thanks unto thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: * marvellous are thy works, and that my soul knoweth right well. My bones are not hid from thee, * though I be made secretly, and fashioned beneath in the earth. Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being imperfect; * and in thy book were all my members written; Which day by day were fashioned, * when as yet there was none of them. (Psalm 139, BCP 514-515)

That God knows us so well and loves us so well is a glorious thing. In the writing of my novel, The Music of the Mountain, I have been blessed with a sense that our Lord is with me, alongside. He said to the disciples he would be with them always, even unto the ends of the earth. Sometimes we forget this, in all the hustle and bustle of our world, and it is good to be reminded. He is with us to the ends of the earth.

My new memory work is a Eucharistic prayer of thanksgiving, usually said by the celebrant, but in our chapel the people join in. I almost have it down, but phrases keep eluding me so I’ll work on it a bit each evening:

“Almighty and everliving God, we most heartily thank thee, for that thou dost vouchsafe to feed us who have duly received these holy mysteries… And we humbly beseech thee, O heavenly Father, so to assist us with thy grace, that we may continue in that holy fellowship, and do all such good works as thou has prepared for us to walk in; thorugh Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with thee and the Holy Ghost, be all honour and glory, world without end.” Amen. (BCP 83)

Pray for our world. Pray for the unborn. Pray that our nation, under God, be forgiven and healed. Pray that God’s will be done in all things. Say an Our Father morning and night, and with these words, we will bring him among us all.

This week we observe Ash Wednesday, the day when Christians are reminded of their mortality with an ashen cross drawn on their foreheads, as they hear the words, “Remember o man, that dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return.”

It is a sobering moment that makes our lives more precious. To face one’s death is to celebrate life more intensely. We live in a materialistic world denying the life of the spirit, the creeds of Christianity, the hope of Eternity. And so this world often cannot face death, for the implications are too painful. Death is denied, ignored, erased. Modern man lives a lie, that he will not die, or that it does not matter.

Of course it matters. And today’s Epistle tells us why we should care about life and death. St. Paul writes what might be his most exquisitely beautiful passage in his letter to the church in Corinth, explaining that the answer to all of our questions lies in love, the love of God our Creator who gives us life: “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal…” (I Corinthians 13:1+, BCP 122) And once we see the key is to love God, we then can look around us and see that we must love our neighbor. He writes in this passage as well that we are like children in our mortal lives, but when we die and return to God we are grown up, fully realized: “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known…”

And so we shall become perfect in our new lives, on the new Earth, in the New Jerusalem. What must we do in the Earth-time meantime? We must learn to love, for loving others as God loves us teaches us how to grow into what we are meant to be. It can be no other way. Love is the creative force that lives within us and opens the gates of Heaven when our time comes.

For it is the love of God that feeds us. It is his Word that nourishes us, for his love is expressed through his Word, not only in Scripture and Sacrament, but Christ himself in Eucharist and prayer.

So in Lent we clean our house within, exposing the dark shadows to the light, and finding places to feed the love of God. We confess our failures to love God and our neighbor. We confess our failures to be the person God created us to be. We confess we have strayed like lost sheep. We know we need help. We know we cannot do this on our own. Perfection is only realized with the love of God lighting our souls.

The Church helps us by carefully and lovingly setting out a seasonal calendar, ordaining a time for self-examination, a time to consider repentance and a return to the path we are meant to be on. And thus we have Lent, a time to do just that. We can strengthen our minds and hearts with a Lenten discipline so that we will turn away from the bad and embrace the good. We can learn, mark, and inwardly digest the virtues so that we can sweep away the vices. We can in this time, face sin in our lives and banish the dark so that we can see the light.

God’s love for us means we have meaning in our lives today and everyday that we open our hearts to him. Every day we close our hearts we invite despair, for the absence of God in us kills hope. In this same passage we are told by Paul that faith, hope, and charity abide, but the greatest is charity. And yet we must have faith to hope to love.

It is a holy time, a time of penitence and repentance and rebirth. Christ offers himself for us, to us. We need only take his hand and learn to love as he loves us.

In this way we will step toward Eternity, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day until we enter the glory of Paradise.

High winds and steady rain are sweeping the Bay Area today, rattling the trees, unsettling the natural world in which we live. We are in the season of hoping for spring, for Easter, for resurrection. Seeds deep in the dark earth will rise to the light of day and bear fruit. We prepare for that day, that moment, in the season that is called our life in time, our lifetime.

Our lives are trajectories that begin when we are conceived. From that moment we are nurtured by another human being, the mother who gives her lifeblood so that we may grow within her womb, miraculously independent of the mother and yet miraculously connected. I believe the greatest blessing of being a woman is the gift of carrying a child within her body. Her body becomes the manger, and we cradle the infant within us, singing and sighing, wondering and hoping, not knowing the future of this new person, who he will become.

I was blessed with one full term pregnancy in a difficult time in my life, but I never second guessed the magnificence of the experience. Life might be hard, but it was glorious. I remember the movement of my son and the little kicks he made, ensuring me that he was separate from me, and that I was the home in which he lived for a short time. I sensed early on that this child was not my body, and the choices I made as I rode the bus to work would affect a separate individual, for he was not an extension of me. I did not own him. He was not my property.

We strive to understand the miracle of life and yet take it for granted. But all the world revolves around the birth of the next child, and the next, and the next. The stars watch and wait. The moons hover over, looking down. The rain falls onto the seeded earth expressly so that those seeds may ripen and burst into the world of oxygen.

In this season of life and death and life again, Christians celebrate resurrection. And yet the promise is more than rising to new life when our bodies die. For God enters our hearts today, if we let him. Resurrection is now, when our spirits are enlivened by the Holy Spirit through sacraments and prayer.  Eternity is now, as etched on a monk’s gravestone in the Community of the Resurrection in Yorkshire, for God the Son is present in the bread and the wine. We sing the songs and pray the prayers with others of Christ’s body, so that our hearts will be open when Christ knocks on the door. Do we recognize the knock? Do we know the person that will live inside us, giving us eternal grace and glory?

Ash Wednesday is next week, a time when we admit our helplessness. Repent, we are told, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. Repent. Change. Obey God’s law. The Church helps us do this by feeding us and cradling us. For without the life of the Body of Christ, the Church, we have no life beyond the grave. And so we listen to what is read, what is preached, what is celebrated, what is consecrated. We listen and we take part by partaking. In this family of God, we find the love of the Creator, a love that will recreate each one of us. He will see the ashen cross on our forehead and he will know us by our contrition. We must repent.

We examine our lives and purge those parts that break God’s law. We seek new habits, new ways of living, so that in these forty days of Lent we grow in grace as we are meant to do.

In today’s Gospel reading, Christ told the parable of the sower and the types of soil the seeds fall on. In Lent we look at the soil of our hearts and we create a fertile bed for the Word to implant his spirit within us. We feed that soil with sacrament and scripture and the dance of liturgy, so that when Easter comes, we are reborn into the light of love.

Our Lord is like a rainbow, offering us every color in the prism of life. But we cannot see the rainbow if we are blind. Lent heals our blindness so that we can see the colors, so that we can know love eternal, and life eternal. 

Life is a glorious miracle and mystery. We need only see. We need only open our hearts for love to blossom and allow the rainbow to fill our skies.

American Christian Fiction Writers has published my post, “Singing the Song of Truth,” how Christian storytellers sing the song of truth, so that the love of God will lighten the darkness of our world. 

As the Western world seeks to reform and rewrite civilization without a rule book or a lawgiver or a common acceptance of the common good, Jews and Christians stand alone in their effort to give life to our dying culture.

For without our loving God, there is no good, no recognized allegiance that keeps the peace, ensures freedom, respects the sanctity of life, rewards excellence, honors the aged, values the family, and tells the truth about who and what man is and is meant to be.

January is a cold month, yet a month of renewal for many. It usually slides into February which is often the home of Ash Wednesday, penitence, and prayer. And so it is significant we remember two holocausts in January – the Holocaust of the Unborn, on January 22 (1973, Roe v. Wade) and the International Holocaust Remembrance Day, on January 27, the day of the liberation of Auschwitz (1945, remembering the six million murdered in concentration camps). It might be a month to remember Stalin and Mao and the one hundred million murdered by their regimes.

But most of all, these days remind us of our brutality toward one another. They remind us that this can happen again should we not pay attention. George Orwell wrote two of his novels as dystopian warnings. They are post World War II novels, Animal Farm, 1945 (against Communism) and 1984 (against a tyrannical state). Also affected by the horrors of the second World War, C.S. Lewis wrote his space trilogy, in which the third volume, the dystopian That Hideous Strength, warns against government and science with power not grounded in a Judeo-Christian ethos. P.D. James’ dystopian The Children of Men (1992) warns us against a world that deplores life, family, and children, and we see what happens when a generation (or two or three) are not replaced, as has come to pass in America and other Western countries. With a population implosion, at the end of the day those in power will be those who honored children and large families. It may be all about demographics.

January is a month in which we reflect on our lives. Atheists (and agnostics) reflect on their fitness and changes that will make them more attractive or live longer. Christians may be tempted to do the same, given the culture, but by Ash Wednesday we realize our reflections are different. For we are called to examine our hearts and souls, which, it is true, live within the physical body. But we embrace a moral accounting of our lives. We look to the Ten Commandments and Christ’s Summary of that Law –

“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it; Thou shalt love they neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.” (Mark 12:28-34, BCP 69)

We look to the lists of vices and virtues that the Church has distilled from Holy Scripture over the last two thousand years. We hold ourselves accountable, to God, no less.

We are told to examine our consciences, confess, and repent. And we are told to do this often, daily, weekly. Judeo-Christian culture has lauded goodness, care of the poor, family life, protection of the weak, and life itself. Of course everyone comes up short. But we must admit we do and strive to do better, repent. All of these values are today at risk, even basic self-reflection.

And so, in these three weeks before Ash Wednesday, we seek how to run the race of life, how to be good, how to love. St. Paul this morning reminded us to run the race as an athlete would run, but for an incorruptible crown, by being temperate and disciplined. And Our Lord tells the parable of the workers in the vineyard, that all will be called, ending the passage with the perplexing words, “many be called, but few chosen,” to my mind meaning salvation is for all, but not all will choose to accept Christ as their Lord. Free will allows each of us to reject God or accept him. He will choose those who choose him. That is what love means and that is what love does. And we worship a God of love who loves us so.

And so we pivot into February and pray for our nation, that she return to equal justice under the law, that she return to fair elections, that she return to the freedom she has cherished and protected in the past. But we know how the Story of mankind ends, so fear not, as my bishop of blessed memory often reminded me. Fear not.

In the meantime, we sing the song of truth so that the love of God will lighten the darkness of our world.

Tens of thousands participated in the Walk for Life West Coast yesterday, January 20, in San Francisco and Los Angeles. Weather has been cold and drizzly here in the SF area, but they came out to remember the lives of the unborn, especially in California, a state that recently approved abortion on demand throughout the term. It is said that since Roe v. Wade was overturned in June 2022, and the question sent to the states to decide, 32,000 babies have been saved. Wake up, California.

And yet the numbers of children lost in this holocaust since the Roe v. Wade Supreme Court decision on January 22, 1973 have totaled over 100 million, averaging 2 million a year over fifty years.

At least we have slowed it down. Yet being a Californian and paying taxes posits a moral quandary.

There are many moral quandaries for those with instructed consciences, those who see it is our obligation to care for one another. And thus my current novel-in-progress, The Music of the Mountain, explores the agony of those mothers who aborted their babies and must justify their “choice” throughout their lives, denying the advances of science, ultrasounds, and genetic mapping. It is a tragic place to be, and many women simply went along with the culture and the law, thinking it must be okay.

Each person must examine their own lives through the educated lens of science today. If that casts judgment, then we must be honest about the suffering. How else can we prevent this from happening in the State of California and other states with these horrific laws on the books.

This week of January also recalls the WWII Jewish Holocaust on January 27, the International Holocaust Remembrance Day, the anniversary of the liberation of the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp in 1945. This year’s remembrance will be held at 1 p.m. on Friday, January 26, at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, an event that may be watched later on YouTube.

My current novel involves tunnels, books, and saving Western Civilization on Angel Mountain (Mt. Diablo). Is it too late? Our country and the Western world seem to be freefalling fast. And so each of us must witness to the sanctity of life, regardless of race, gender, handicap, and date of conception. We must choose leaders that are not afraid of this fight for life, for we are marked in our time with a cross on our foreheads. The one hundred million unborn must not be forgotten; the six million lost in the concentration camps must not be forgotten; those lost in the October 7 savage slaughter of innocents in Israel must not be forgotten; the 100 million lost under Stalin and Mao must not be forgotten. 

And so I try to feature a Jewish Holocaust story in my novels to help us remember, as well as a pro-life story. In my current novel, we read of the Viennese occupation by Hitler and how some escaped and some did not. Probably one of the most celebrated and wealthy capitals in Europe at the time, Vienna was home to a blind decadence that governed elite society. This couldn’t happen here, and to us, they said.

We too, in America, suffer a blind decadence. We do not see the dangers of open borders or the slaughter of the unborn. We turn a blind eye to a weak military that cannot defend America, and a leadership that is blind as well. What is the truth? What are lies?

I often suggest to friends and family that we must choose authorities we trust, weigh all reports, see all sides, and come to our own conclusions as to what is true or not true. Vote for policies not personalities. Vote for those who can get the job done – the job of keeping us safe and free, the job of supporting those individuals and institutions who are not blinded, but can see what is at stake. And most important of all, support fair and free elections.

And so we celebrated today this third Sunday in Epiphanytide, that season of seeing who the Christ Child was and is and means to us today. Easter is early this year, so we move now into Pre-Lent, the “Gesima” Sundays, the three weeks before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday, when we repent the evil we have allowed to fester in our wounded land.

We give thanks for the thousands that supported the Walk for Life West Coast and in other cities across the land. We give thanks for the witnesses to life at any stage. We add our voice to the song they are singing, so that a mighty chorus swells into millions of voices, singing that song of the Angels, Ye Watchers and Ye Hoy Ones/ Bright seraphs, cherubim, and thrones/ Raise the glad strain, Allelulia!/ Cry out, dominions, princedoms, powers,/ Virtues, archangels, angels’ choirs, Alelulia! (Hymn 599).

There is a great movement in our land, an awakening. Perhaps we shall correct our course, find our way, point to the one who is the Way, the Truth, and the Light. With the People of Israel, Christians just might forge a stronger foundation for America, the land of the free, the beacon to the world, the hope of the poor and the captive as Emma Lazarus wrote many years ago, words that found a home on the Statue of Liberty in New York’s harbor:

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

The season of Epiphanytide, those two to six weeks that hinge on the date of Easter have always been about light and dark, the light of truth and the dark of lies. For us in Northern California it is a winter season, which seems appropriate, given the dark stormy skies broken at times by a piercing sun, low, close to the horizon. The winter sun, traveling in a lower arc over fewer hours in the day seems clearer and more brilliant than it does in other seasons, nearly blinding at times.

And so it is an appropriate time to hear Gospel lessons that heal our blindness, show us who this Jesus of Nazareth was and is, who he claimed to be. The first Sunday is the account of Jesus in the temple, the second Sunday is the baptism of Jesus, the third Sunday is the miracle of the water turned to wine (first miracle), the fourth Sunday is two miraculous healings (leprosy and palsy), the fifth Sunday is the parable of the harvesting the wheat and the burning of the tares (a dire warning), and the sixth Sunday is the parable of the laborers in the field (the last shall be first and the first shall be last). Today was the account of Jesus baptized by John, and the Holy Spirit descending upon him like a dove, and a voice from Heaven saying, “Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

As I work through the first draft of my novel-in-progress, I rely on an hour on a Sunday to be healed by Christ once again. So we confess our failings, our sins of the week, we repent, and we receive forgiveness from God the Father through his Son and his Church. Much is said today about forgiveness and not much about confession and repentance. And yet we are told they go together, depend upon one another. Forgiveness cannot happen without repentance, turning away in a new direction, changing. To be healed of blindness one must change and no longer live in darkness but in light. We want to be the wheat and not tares when Christ comes again, or when we find ourselves at the end of life on Earth. Christ gathers the wheat and burns the tares. Seems pretty clear.

Change is challenging. Change is a rebirth of our souls again and again, until we are whole, holy. Today we are weak creatures. Tomorrow, will we be weaker or stronger? Will our hearts burn with love or hate? What path are we following? Toward the light or the dark? How do we know?

We go to church and we listen, mark, and inwardly digest the words of the preacher, the words of Scripture, and the words of life as the Word becomes present again in the Host and the wine.

Mystery and miracle! Such gifts are found in a humble manger where the Son of God is born to us today, yesterday, and tomorrow. We feed on these great gifts of the Church and, like the wheat in the field, we grow toward the light. The weeds will try and grow too, but without direction and purpose, and one day they will be thrown into the fire.

In my novels, I try to capture these mysteries and miracles of life, all around us, in us, for us. We are creatures of good and evil. Do we want to be creatures of only good? Do we want to be healed? Do we want to see truth, know truth? If so, we need feeding so that we will confess, repent, and be forgiven. 

I thought about these things in our little chapel in Berkeley this morning as the sun shafted in upon the crucifix and the altar, and the organ boomed gloriously. I thought how simple it really was, this business of seeing, and yet how difficult it was for many folks to be simple as a child, as a baby in a manger under a bright star of the heavens. How simple to say, I’m sorry, Lord. For an hour we sang together. We spoke the words of the liturgy as one body and were fed by Scripture, sermon, and Eucharist. But we also prayed to God the Father that we acknowledged and bewailed our manifold sins… committed by thought, word, and deed. We repented earnestly and were heartily sorry! No longer did we want to remember them, for they were an intolerable burden… We cried for mercy to the Father for the Son’s sake, to be forgiven. We wanted to live in newness of life to the Father’s honor and glory.

At some point we recited the Ten Commandments and the wonderful response to each one, Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law, and lastly, write all these thy laws in our hearts, we beseech thee. Dear Lord, help is needed, please. Dear Father, incline our hearts! Write the laws on our hearts! Help is needed from Almighty God, our Heavenly Father.

And we sang hymns as the organ trilled, making a joyful noise that rose over the altar to the crucifix and beyond through the clerestory windows, sanctifying the town of Berkeley.

Like Jesus rising from the waters of baptism, we rise too, for we have been baptized into Christ and his bride, the Church, so that one day we will hear the words from our Father in Heaven, “Thou art my beloved child, in whom I am well pleased.”

The Word in Your Heart: Mary, Youth, and Mental Health by Francis Etheredge (St. Louis, MO: EnRoute Books and Media, 2024)

Reviewed by Christine Sunderland

In this collection of prose, poetry, and prayer, Francis Etheredge, bioethicist, theologian, and philosopher, invites us on a pilgrimage through words and pages, interweaving meditations on the Virgin Mary as protective mother to all, the truth of the human person, and the challenges young people face in today’s materialistic and divisive world. The common answer to these vital questions is found in the Word implanted in our hearts, meaning Holy Scripture to be sure, but also the action of God in history and today, the Word made flesh who dwells among us.

 And so, on this journey, we meet Christ and his healing power, for Etheredge has placed the Word in our hearts. We learn about The Neocatechumenal Way, an evangelistic group within the Roman Catholic Church, established in the 1960s, and giving life to parishes by promoting family, eucharist, and community, proclaiming the love of Christ. The Way changed Etheredge and brought him back to Christ and the Church and, on this journey, we see why and how and the importance of growing in a community of persons and words and sacraments, and thus living more fully the time we are given.

The pilgrimage is for real and not mere metaphor: Francis Etheredge and his family of eight join a pilgrimage of youth from London to Lisbon, stopping at Nemours, Lourdes, Pamplona, St. Francis Xavier’s home, Santiago de Compostella, and Fatima. We encounter Mary’s appearances and experience her help and direction. We learn of St. Ignatius, St. James, and St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein). We see the power of God working, miracles and more miracles, as we mourn the suffering of the innocent in not only the Holocaust of World War II but in Herod’s slaughter of the innocents and today’s slaughter of the unborn.

The power of God reforms and recreates and burnishes:

“The Lord, like a craftsman, then, takes our whole history and makes a stained-glass window of even the scraps and pieces that we would be happier if they were in someone else’s life or no one’s! But, as beautiful light transfigures everything into a blazing pattern of the Lord’s glorious, redeeming love, let us hope to rejoice that we can see how God has blessed us and that the love of God can show through the whole of our life and so help others.” (76)

Etheredge’s fervent faith is tangible, as is his deep concern for the “needs of young people today!” Thus, he speaks of the Virgin Mary, the power of pilgrimage, the human person, and the love of God seeking to heal the broken hearts and bodies of the young, born into our nihilistic world, an age at war with the spirit of man and the Spirit of God. “This is a book about the power of God to change a man’s life…” he begins, as he shares his own conversion at age forty, one that led him to greater and greater awareness that God had a vocation for him and every unique and holy person.

He writes of the contemplative nuns at The Monastery of Our Lady of Bethlehem:

 “Given, then, that the Eucharist, and being able to see the Blessed Sacrament from where they lived in their hermitages, was central to their life, the image of the Blessed Virgin Mary as the ‘Monstrance of the Lord’ comes, it seems, almost to take on flesh in the day-to-day life which these sisters lived: a reciprocal discovery of the mystery of God and of the self – both in community and in the solitariness of their monastic vocation.” (42)

Etheredge’s prose reads like a conversation, an enthusiastic and compelling conversation that answers questions crucial to life and death. Between the conversations and the catecheses he gave during the pilgrimage, lives powerful poetry, rendering depth to the words and offering new ways of seeing. To be sure, within these pages Francis Etheredge offers theology and bioethics for the layperson.

In many ways this is not only words that open doors to places never visited, but it is a rosary (Etheredge’s image) that strings together moments of reflection, instruction, encouragement, and visions of Mary, prayers to live in our hearts, guiding the young (and old) on the next leg of their journey.

Words have power. Here, we see theology incarnated on the page, so that we witness the true nature of the human person, ideas taking on flesh. We ask, what is man? Body, mind, spirit? Can these be divided as is done in today’s materialistic culture where drugs become the answer and then the problem? Is wholeness lost, a holy wholeness, no longer taught to our children? How can we know that wholeness? How can we know our true selves? Francis Etheredge, in these remarkable reflections, grounds theology in reality, and touches us with truth.

And what are the real crises of our youth? Etheredge suggests one is perfectionism, including “body shaming” and the false need for plastic surgery. We see the necessary role of humor in mental health and how to find a harmony of the heart, mind, and body. We consider how the Internet “fashions fashion,” how body parts are for sale, embryos frozen, and the dignity of human life assaulted. All these factors encourage suicide. We question the treatment of mental health problems with drugs, creating side-effects that require more drugs. Shouldn’t we deal with the root causes of abortion and be honest about the true costs to mother, father, family, and society? What is gender confusion? Shouldn’t we listen to the whole of who we are and are called to be? Shouldn’t we be pilgrims, learning the vocation God has ordained for us, rather than what we have planned, or society demands.

Francis Etheredge has words for doctors: they must abide by their oath “to do no harm.” They must treat the whole human person – body, mind, and spirit – interrelated and integrated. For when only part of the person is treated, depression and euthanasia are not far behind.

And as in all of Etheredge’s works, there is goodness and beauty and truth. Weave them into your own heart. For words point to ideas unseen and feelings behind the ideas. Words do this, just as the Word, the Son of God, did this on that first Christmas in a stable in Bethlehem, bringing life and light and hope to a world of death and darkness and despair. Just so, that same Word that came in the beginning, then made flesh, enters our hearts today, bringing life and light and hope to all, especially those confused and suicidal and looking for God in all the wrong places.

One of the right places to find God is in the Church:

“The vocation of the Church is to take us towards heaven, uniting us as we travel there with the host of heaven; and, making good use of our talents and what we do in this life, if what we do is of God, then what we do is already impregnated with the golden destiny of eternal life – however hidden this reality is from us or from others.” (41)

Life is a pilgrimage from birth to death to life in Heaven. We are all pilgrims walking through time, and as pilgrims we search for meaning and for God. As pilgrims we learn to pray and take part in the greatest conversation of all, the Creator with his Creation.

And one last word… I continue to marvel at Francis Etheredge’s pulling together many genres into one book – essay, instruction, poetry, memoir, travel journal, history, even hagiography. Publishers often demand their separation, so that librarians and booksellers and marketers can tag them, shelve them, and brand them. Francis Etheredge defies them all with a certain faith that his writings have their own wholeness, their own life, their own vocation, their own shelf, their own brand, uniquely ordained by God.

Enter this world of truth and beauty. It’s a good place to be, even on a pilgrimage of words, following and welcoming the Word into your heart.

Francis Etheredge is a Catholic theologian, writer, and speaker, living in England. He is married, with eight children, plus three in heaven. Mr. Etheredge holds a BA Div, an MA in Catholic Theology, a PGC in Biblical Studies, a PGC in Higher Education, and an MA in Marriage and Family. He is author of 11 books on Amazon: Amazon UK    Amazon US   

Visit Francis Etheredge at his website and at Linked-In for book news and blog posts.

Christine Sunderland serves as Managing Editor for American Church Union Publishing. She is the author of seven award-winning novels about faith and family, freedom of speech and religion, and the importance of history and human dignity. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and a white longhair cat named Angel.

An epiphany is a revealing, a manifestation, and in this epiphany of Christ to the gentiles the good news of the saving love of God is revealed to those who were not Jewish – the rest of the world, to you and me. Magi, wise men, astrologers, followed a star that they knew was a portent of a great king to be born. As some say today, they followed the science.

I find it curious that the January 6 rally in 2021 in Washington D.C. was on the Feast of the Epiphany of Our Lord. The rally and protest, hoping to recount the electoral votes, that became disruptive has been proven to my satisfaction to be just that, and no where near an “insurrection.” Innocent citizens have since been arrested, jailed, and in the process had their livelihoods destroyed, their families victimized. The witch hunt was and is a dark moment in our history, and all because concerned citizens voiced their doubts that the 2020 presidential election was a fair and free election. Since that time, courts have refused to hear the case that ballots were fraudulent, that the dead rose and voted, that imaginary folks became citizens, that illegal shenanigans of many stripes cast grave questions on the integrity of the election. Over the last three years video tapes of the event and FBI whistleblowers testify that those doubts were and are well founded. Today, we live in fear that the government will raid our homes in the middle of the night for no justifiable reason than to set examples. Sounds like Stalin and Mao to me.

Americans seek the light of truth. They desire to know what really happened on that wintry day in Washington DC. They want to know if there was election interference in the fall of 2020. They seek the light, the light of revelation, the light of truth.

Just so, we seek the light of Christ. Who was this man? What does his birth, life, death, and resurrection mean for us? We ask again and again, for the answers are many and all one and the same – he is the Son of God, come to save us from sin and death. When he rises at Easter, we rise too.

And just so, we must bear the burden of his cross, for to love is to suffer, to deny oneself out of love for another. This is the light of Jesus, and it is a bright and revealing one.

There is a great realignment in our country, because of our government’s persecution of the innocent, an unequal justice under the law. My generation – the early boomers – studied history and civics and what it means to be an American in this great and unique country. Some of us are waking up to this war of the woke upon the average citizen. We see several generations who praise Stalin, Mao, and Hitler for they don’t seem to be aware of the one hundred million killed in the twentieth century under these regimes. Some of us are waking to the woke.

And so the light of Christ shines upon our country, our country founded on the Judeo-Christian ethos – love of neighbor, of justice, of the law. The star shines upon our earth, giving light to those who wish to see. For we are free still, and we can still choose to see or not to see.

When the light of Christ shines, when that Epiphany star beckons us to Bethlehem and to the cross, we see in a whole new way. We see that we are so uniquely different from one another. No two persons are alike. I find this to be a great marvel and mystery. We know so much about genes today – the full information helix ladders that define each person from conception – and yet even so, people continue to enthrall me. Those I have known for a time, I see in the light of Christ new features, new qualities, delicate and beautiful, wise and wonderful, thoughtful and full of thoughts. Those I meet for the first time offer a universe of detail, a book of life, a sculpture of many dimensions. All of life is a canvas of incredible beauty and stunning composition.

To not appreciate such light is to live in the dark. Again, our own choice.

But when you choose the light, there is no going back, for the joyful adventure you will embark upon will be greater with each turn of the path and page, each sacrament, each prayer, each moment we say “yes” to the will of God in our lives. The more we say yes, the greater the joy.

The star of Epiphany burns bright. We need only follow it, to see. We need only turn away, to be blind. The star enlightens our world, showing us the truth of who we are, past, present, and future. The star makes sense of it all.

And all across our exceptional land of America, the star is shining, revealing, birthing prophecy. Be not afraid, for God loves us, each and every one.

***

For an excellent summary of January 6, 2021 in WDC by a witness to the rally, check out Jeff Minick’s articles at Intellectual Takeout, and for numerous videos along with other witnesses and whistleblowers, see the Epoch Times.

We are in the midst of Christmastide, the twelve days of Christmas, spanning Christmas Day to the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6. During this holy time that turns the corner of the old year and slips into the new, we try and make sense of the stupendous events of Christmas.

Christmas reminds us, as we act it all out in our lives, that God became man and lived among us. How could this be? He loves us so.

And so the Church sings the glories of Heaven meeting Earth, tells the story of Incarnation, humility, and majesty. Each stroke of the painting, each phrase of the poem, each note and word of the carol, relives the story so that we will not forget, for we must not forget.

Familiarity has bred forgetfulness, however, and we say words by rote, sing songs without thought, observe holiday rituals from hollow habit together or alone. Other gods have replaced the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Other imperatives have replaced the laws of the Creator of the Universe. Sirens pull us away from truth, away from the glories of Christmas.

And so we look for the star that will bring us to where we want to be. We follow the star to Bethlehem, to Nazareth, to the child that will change the world with love.

But as we follow the star, we step through the twelve days of Christmas, recalling saints who knew the Lord of all, Stephen the first martyr, John the great evangelist. Then, abruptly, we halt in midweek to remember The Holy Innocents, the slaughter of the children, 2 and younger, by Herod, searching for Jesus. It is a shock. Not all was silent and not all was holy when the Son of God came to Earth. The light of life entered the dark of death. For us.

Recalling the loss of these innocents, our journey through Christmastide takes us by surprise. The shock and the brutality of these true events in history, revealing the true nature of mankind, the true mourning of Rachel weeping for her children, brings us face to face with the dark, the reason the Christ Child was born, our need for a Savior.

We look back to October 7, 2023, another slaughter of innocents, and we mourn anew. We look toward January and recall the slaughter of the unborn, claiming 100 million lives in the course of five decades of death, and so many generations lost. We have slaughtered our future and armed the present with danger. We have become Rachel weeping for our children.

And so, having allowed such holocausts we have opened the door to suicide, addiction, and violence, to silencing and censoring, to lies believed and truth denied.

Yet those of us who believe in the Child of Bethlehem are immune from the dark, from death. We have been vaccinated by God-in-flesh, Jesus Christ. With Christ we are born again and again, as we repent again and again, so that when he knocks, we open the door of our hearts once more. We see the star and in its light we see the path through the dark of the world. We know our destination; we know the Way, the Truth, and the Life. We cry to Our Lord, on our knees, to save us from these sins, to save our people, to save our families, to lead us out of the wilderness of death. We cannot do this alone. We need our God with us, in us.

We sing our songs, and we harken to angels singing with us around the creche, these twelve days of Christmas. The magi are coming from afar bearing gifts, for they see the light too. We join together in the Church, Christ’s bride, and form a rosary of prayer and petition and offering. 

In the dark of winter on this last day of the year, we step into time, telling the Story of Glory, the story of Love Incarnate, the story to redeem all stories, as we birth the savior in the creche of our hearts.