Author Archives: Christine Sunderland

We have had a number of changes in our Anglican Province of Christ the King recently, reminding me of the power of change, the movement of the hands of time and the fulfillment of human destiny.

Our Anglican body in the Body of Christ is a stalwart group, having left the mainstream Episcopal Church in 1977, a vital change in itself. We idealistically thought we could start anew and hold on to our traditional beliefs – the creeds, Holy Scripture, Church tradition and exegesis, the life-giving sacraments, the beauty of liturgy, particularly the weekly Eucharist, and we did hold on, treasuring these gifts of faith. All were threatened by the mainstream church, and we jumped ship, as it were, and swam to shore to renew and affirm the Anglican body of the Body of Christ. We needed to build from ground up, although we had clear enough plans as to what we were doing, indeed, what we were saving. We had a firm foundation.

Rather like the Puritan pilgrims fleeing persecution in England and arriving on our shores centuries ago, we knew things would change, and fixing our eye on Our Lord and following him through the wilderness to the Promised Land, we set out to do the job. We have never regretted it, only celebrated what we have built. We gave thanks to God for his benevolence toward us, sheltered by his canopy of love, fed by the great cloud of witnesses who testified to the reality of Christ and his redemption of mankind. We wanted to tell the world the good news, and still do.

Change. There can be bad change and good change. Change can be exciting, offering new frontiers. Change challenges us, forcing us out of our slumber to wake and look around again. Change stirs things up, within and without. But if change is part of the larger love of God, it may hurt, it may be inconvenient and costly, it may take effort, but the reward is great, for the faithful are filled with joy.

We traditional Anglicans, living lives of faith and practice as best we can, pleasing, we hope, to Our Lord, have structures that curate change carefully, modestly, sagely. We have bishops (the Episcopate) who shepherd the clergy, and clergy who shepherd us, the laity. We have councils and synods and elections and canons and by-laws. We have committees and boards and prayer groups. We have vestries and altar guilds and women’s associations. We have a great foundation going back to the Apostles that allows us to read the map and see the crossroads and make the choices necessary in our world today. And we have inspiring music, penetrating words, poetic chants, and… friendly coffee hours. We have riches that go beyond measure.

All the while we listen, watch, and move with the guidance of the Holy Spirit, or try to.

All the while we are covered by a canopy of grace, knowing our shepherds, our bishops, will lead us where we are to go, as best they can, in humility and prayer.

All the while we are teased by joy, pulled along the path of life by promised delight, in a never-ending dance.

Of course, as my bishop of blessed memory often said, the most healing change is the change of heart, the admission of sin, repentance and penitence, and this fundamental change in attitude places us where we must be, in order to see the greater changes and movements in our world. And the more we practice change of heart and mind and soul, the more we sing and dance for joy. It is a curious paradox, that when we grow small, our hearts grow big. Our eyesight grows sharp and our listening more intense. We see others as sacred, unique individuals; we see all human life as holy and of infinite worth, infinitely complex and diverse. We learn to love as we are loved.

And so we welcome a new Vicar to St. Joseph’s Chapel, as well as a new Rector, who is our newly elected Archbishop (it’s the Archbishop’s Chapel). We have a new shepherd who must look out for sheep that stray and return them to the fold, return them to joy.

Today’s Gospel lesson was the parable of the sheep that was lost and found and the parable of the coin that was lost and found (Luke 15:1+). Our Lord speaks of the “joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.” That, of course, is the mission of the Church, and as we live out our lives in the presence of God, doing what we are meant to do, we are here for those lost sheep. We welcome them into our fold, knowing that we too are often lost, and we can turn and change, and return to the fold. This is a blessed assurance, this promise the Good Shepherd makes to each one of us. He will find us and bring us home.

Today’s Epistle lesson (Peter 5:5+) was written by St. Peter, our brave apostle who jumps into the sea and swims ashore, who follows Jesus to his crucifixion, denying him and then repenting, who tries to walk on water but begins to sink, who witnesses the empty tomb, who leads the others in building the Church. Peter has been many times lost and many times found, so that he knows what he speaks of when he says “Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time: casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you. Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour… ” And on Thursday we celebrate the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul.

And so we watch and listen and cast our worries at the feet of Our Lord. There are many lions walking about today, roaring, looking for prey, looking for lost sheep that cannot find their way home without God.

It is good to know we are loved and cared for, indeed, treasured by our Creator. It is good to know we can cast our cares upon him. It is good to be among others in a chapel in Berkeley who are sheep like us; a family of God in a fold of Eternity.

Today is Father’s Day, a day when we celebrate our fathers, if we can. But many are fatherless these days; many never had a father growing up; many have missed something important, a father in the home.

Others, to be sure, can fill the role. Grandfathers, stepfathers, teachers. But what is the role of the father in the family?

I was fortunate to have grown up with a loving father. But when he lost his faith in God the Father around the time that I re-found my faith in God the Father, in a sense I became fatherless. For all that I had been taught, based on a Christian moral view of the world, was no longer a part of who he was. I had chosen a different path than he; at a cross-roads I turned toward God and my father turned away.

And so I gratefully turned to my Fathers-in-God in the Church.

A good father is a steady presence, reliable. A good father represents authority, in the Christian world, the wise, just, and merciful authority of God. He trains his children with patience and love to respect authority. He guides them, with the help of the Church, into righteousness, into living rightly. He provides shelter from storms and protection from the outside world, both literally and metaphorically. A good father keeps us safe on many levels.

Just so, we as a nation look to our founders, our history, to be protected from hostile enemies and natural disasters. For if we heed the centuries of fatherly advice, be it Church Fathers or Founding Fathers, successes or failures, we will thrive. We will have a way forward, a standard of measure – The Ten Commandments, the Rule of Law, the Golden Rule. We feed the hungry and heal the sick.

When we don’t measure up, we turn to the Church to be forgiven in the name of God the Father through his Son. And we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and rejoin the path through time to Eternity.

It must be said that any authority exercised by humankind will be imperfect. But in America we have created a nation that has shown the best version of authority in the world, structured around the family, the community, the state, and the nation. The family is the foundation. The family trains the next generation, for it is a micro-society. If fatherless, the State fills the vacuum, and tyranny reigns.

And so it is of interest to totalitarian regimes to remove the father from the family, to break up the Judeo-Christian way that fathered Western Civilization, that best version of society and culture.

How is the father removed from the family?

The “sexual revolution” begun in the ‘sixties provided easy contraceptives. It seemed innocent enough at the time, and yet its trajectory over the next fifty hears removed marriage from the family, nullifying the father. Government policies stepped in and rewarded single parents, so fathers stayed away and fathered other crippled families dependent upon the authority of the State to survive. The government became the father substitute to these broken families, an authority that authorized the killing of the unborn, the maiming and the indoctrination of children.

Through it all the Church has preached the vital importance of families, the vital importance of fathers present.

And so today I salute fathers who have chosen the more difficult path, one of responsibility, one of learning how to love. I salute the mothers who have encouraged fathers in their role as authority figures, as creators of the ordered background necessary for children to thrive, and indeed, for mothers to thrive.

It is said that with the Industrial Revolution of the late eighteenth – early nineteenth century fathers no longer worked at home as farmers, or as tradesmen in the local village, but traveled to cities to work in factories, removed from their families. Women and children followed. The novelist Charles Dickens who worked as a boy in a shoe polish factory, never forgot those times and wrote about families caught in these tragic situations. Better protective laws were passed, but the family structure was severely crippled.

We have found in the Western World that any movement that harms the father’s role in the family, harms the nation. Any movement that denies gender, that denies marriage between a man and a woman, that discourages commitment and responsibility, but encourages men to be libertines, harms liberty and freedom.

And so we see the fruits of these trends today. What is the answer? We must look first to the father of all mankind, God the Father and see what he says through his Church and his Fathers-in-God, his pastors that truly shepherd us with his Word. We listen to the lessons each Sunday, and we encourage our priests and pastors as best we can.

We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. We know our clergy are not perfect (don’t get me started) but then we also know that their congregations are not perfect, including you and me. So we celebrate mercy and withhold judgment. We hold them close to our hearts and prayers. For they are today’s fathers of the fatherless. Or should be.

And to those fathers who support and love their families, may the grace of God go with you daily, hourly, minute by minute. Do your best and learn from your mistakes. But don’t give up. Don’t abandon those who need you. Be a role model of quiet strength. You are raising the next generation. We need you.

You, along with the mothers of your children, must forge a new foundation in our world, must celebrate our Founding Fathers as you worship God the Father. We are grateful. We are thankful.

We love you.

As the political rhetoric heats up in our country, it is so good to be present for an hour in a holy place, to rest from the “talking heads” newscasters, and appreciate being surrounded by Eternity, as we sing and pray and kneel and listen. The rest and renewal sends me out into the real world again, driving home on the freeway, dodging the weaving racecars, wondering if this will be the day of my entering Eternity, not merely visiting Heaven in a Berkeley chapel.

Today is a Sunday rich in celebration, to be sure. I learned about Barnabas, the traveling companion of Paul, who filled the role of helper and mediator with the other disciples, bringing Barnabas to them, a quieter role than the disciples we have all heard of. And as I listened to the lessons I could envision the scene in a new way, for we have been watching “The Chosen” TV series, a remarkable dramatization of the disciples chosen by Christ.

The series shows the real-life world in which these events occurred: the poverty, the challenges of walking the hills and setting up camp, the rivalries and battling egos natural to any group living in such close quarters. The Pharisees and the Sadducees. The lepers, the blind, the lame. There is much drama to portray, and they do it well. There are times when the filming can be too dark, without enough light to see who is speaking, but that seems to be the film fashion today. The Jewish characters have accents as well, adding to the difficulty in understanding the scene, but we have managed to become used to the way of speaking.

What has occurred to me today is how the episodes have given me such a gift, a rich background that comes to mind when I hear Scripture read. I can see it better now, Barnabas going to find Saul, Barnabas bringing Saul back to the others, Barnabas saying, Saul’s different now, do not be afraid.

For of course Saul persecuted the Christians in those early days, and his terrible deeds were known and justly feared. He was there at the stoning of Steven. But Barnabas linked the feared Pharisee with the frightened followers, mediated them, and with the addition of Saul, who becomes Paul, the first great Christian theologian is given voice. The Church owes Barnabas a great debt of gratitude, for Paul understood what had happened when the Nazarene lived and died and rose again; he understood the events within the framework of Greek philosophy, for he was Greek.

The story of Barnabas made me appreciate those of us who help, who assist, who clean up, who listen and watch for the next moment when we are nudged by the Spirit to do what must be done in that unique time and place we find ourselves. We are not famous. We do not bow to applause. We worry too much, to be sure, worry if we are in the right place at the right time and if we interpreted the spiritual nudge correctly.

But not to worry, as my bishop of blessed memory often said, usually in Russian (another story). Nothing is lost. All is gained. We need only be faithful, tithing, confessing, attending, singing, praying, listening and watching always. Like the young women in the parable, we keep our lamps trim, to be ready not only for the return of Our Lord, but what Our Lord desires of us now, today.

And over time, a pattern emerges, and we can see that we are a part of the pattern. We are threads among many, but together we weave a beautiful cloak of many colors for the world to wear. We give as we have received. And what have we received? Love.

And Christ himself. Each Sunday Eucharist. With every morning and evening prayer. And in the Gospel for today, the Feast of St. Barnabas the Apostle, Christ speaks to us today:

The Gospel. St. John xv. 12.
“THIS is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever command you. Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant knoweth not what his lord doeth: but I have called you friends; for all things that I have heard of my Father I have made known unto you. Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit… ” (BCP 241)

And so we leave our little chapel, fortified with the love of God, a love that will enliven our week until we return next Sunday to be enlivened once more.

Deos gratias.

I always look forward to Trinity Sunday, since we usually sing the majestic, awe-inspiring “Holy, Holy, Holy,” one of my favorite hymns, but I didn’t expect (although should have) “St. Patrick’s Breastplate,” another hymn to the Holy Trinity, a powerful hymn, robust, and commanding. To have these two hymns, accompanied by the magnificent melodic and thundering organ playing six feet behind us! I thought we might soar into the heavens: our little chapel burst with song.

I wrote of “Holy, Holy, Holy” in my latest novel, Angel Mountain (Wipf and Stock, 2020). Toward the end of the story (plot spoiler!) Abram the hermit finds himself in Heaven, and the great vision of St. John on the Island of Patmos is described, the vision that became the Book of Revelation (some call it the Apocalypse) in Holy Scriptures. In his vision, John describes the angels and saints worshiping before the throne of God.

The hymn is a testament to the triune God – God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, the belief that God is One in Three Persons, the Holy Trinity. Reflected in Scripture, this dogma was written into the Nicene Creed with carefully carved phrasing, at the Council of Nicaea (325 AD), an effort to clarify Christian belief.

The words to the hymn are more recent than the Council and the Creed, written in 1827 by Reginald Heber, an Anglican priest. He captures, using phrasing from Revelation, the glory and beauty of worship before the throne of God, and for a brief time this morning in a small chapel in Berkeley, we sang with the angels:

“Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord God Almighty! Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;

Holy, Holy, Holy! merciful and mighty! God in three Persons, blessed Trinity!

Holy, Holy, Holy! All the saints adore Thee, Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea; Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee, Which wert, and art, and evermore shalt be!

Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord God Almighty! All thy works shall praise thy Name, in earth, and sky, and sea;

Holy, Holy, Holy! merciful and mighty, God in three Persons, blessed Trinity.”

So of course our Epistle for today was Revelation 4:1+, reflected in the hymn and the creed (BCP 186). And the Gospel, too, considers what it means to believe the Creed. In this scene with Christ Jesus and the Pharisee Nicodemus, their conversation explores being born again of the Spirit (John 3:1+, BCP 187). For Christ says, “Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God… except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.” Christ has come to Earth and a new world has been born among men. We are invited to enter, to come and see, to glimpse Heaven from Earth.

Our Eucharistic liturgy also reflects the words of Revelation, when the priest prays before the consecration of bread and wine, “Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and with all the company of heaven, we laud and magnify thy glorious Name; evermore praising thee, and saying (the people join in), “HOLY, HOLY, HOLY, Lord God of hosts, Heaven and earth are full of thy glory: Glory be to thee, O Lord Most High. Amen.” (BCP 77)

Holy Scripture is woven throughout the liturgy, and these sacred words are sung in the hymns chosen for the day. There is a satisfying sense of having partaken deeply of Beauty, embraced by Love, Truth, and Goodness.

In this sense we are born again in every Eucharist, every song, and every prayer. ^“For in him we live, and move, and have our being… For we are also his offspring.” (Acts 17:28). For the space of an hour of worship, we live inside this golden reflection of Heaven, fed by God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

One would think that hymns to come would seem less, or even redundant, but no, we sang an ancient hymn attributed to St. Patrick (372-466 AD), a hymn of dedication (268). For we lived within God; we were given graces and joys. Now, in return, we dedicated ourselves to Him with the words, “I bind unto myself today the strong Name of the Trinity, by invocation of the same, the Three in One, and One in Three.” The hymn describes the great moments of our salvation in the life of Christ – His baptism, His death, His resurrection, our judgment and eternal life. Toward the end of the hymn, it shifts in tone to one of the greatest prayers, pleas, of any Christian, as the words and phrases march to the sounds of salvation:

“Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.”

It was a holy, holy, holy morning, full of Christ, filled by Christ.

My bishop of blessed memory, Robert Sherwood Morse, often said that we Christians are people of reality. We are unafraid and even eager to find and face the truth, or we learn to be so over time, with regular self-examination, confession, and absolution. This command to honestly examine one’s life, thoughts, words, and deeds, done and undone, is a blessing, growing us into who we are meant to be.

We also desire to build a life upon a firm foundation, not lies, not wishes, not fantasies.

To face reality we must practice observation. We watch, we listen, we sense. We taste, touch, smell. We use all the senses that we have been given to breathe in the world around us, a world created for us to live in and love one another. Today some call this mindfulness, but it is an old Christian virtue, a child of gratitude and grace. And when we train our senses, we also train our wills to step outside of ourselves to see better, to pay attention, and to abjure the opposite, the sinking into the despair of one’s own private world. It is a step toward learning to love.

Observe my cat, for instance. What an amazing creature!  Angel is a jumper (perhaps she has wings), able to leap tall bookcases in a single bound. She is in the American History section in this photo, for she has learned how to get my attention. Her next move will be to knock the nearby icons off the wall with her paw. If there is a small book she can maneuver, she will send it flying.

We adopted her at Christmas 2020, hence her name. We named her brother Gabriel. He looked after her in her new home, but tragically succumbed to a feline virus and is waiting for us in Heaven now. So we lavish lots of love on Angel.

We faced Gabriel’s early death, a reality we see too often in today’s world of violence. We are given a short span of life, making each moment precious. We hold close the living, remembering those who have gone before us.

And so memory is another gift of grace. As I wrote this I suddenly remembered that my bishop died on this day, May 28, in 2015. He lives in my mind and heart, and he touched me with this sudden memory. Memory brings him into the present. This is not to say he isn’t fully alive where he is now residing (a mansion in Heaven’s hill country), but memory bridges Heaven and Earth on this cold wintry afternoon.

Now, observe our recent outdoor visitors, beautiful creatures, young bucks, with magnificent fuzzy antlers to be worn off in the fall if not sooner. They are baby antlers, I’m told, and I’m not sure of their purpose, but they will be replaced by the adult ones later, perhaps like our baby teeth.

We are graced with a marvel-ous world, a world of marvels: all the world of the present and all the world of the past. We are textured by time, and the weave of years through our lives, hearts, and minds, teaches us how to live today and tomorrow. We learn from these remarkable threads of memory woven through the past into the present. We mourn our sins and celebrate our virtues. We reject the evil and embrace the good. How else can we grow without memory, without a true telling?

And so it is a tragedy today that reality is made up by those who wish power or are afraid to face truth, or both. History disappears, erased and rewritten. Statues tumble. Public names are painted over and renamed. Truth dies on the cross of modernity.

Yet this weekend we celebrate Memorial Day, a day of memory, a time to remember the true heroes of our world, those who stepped out with brave hearts and practiced courage to keep us free. Where are those heroes today? Those who face the truth of our world, our fallen world, and those who remember the past, both the unrighteous and the righteous. Where are the men and women who will keep us free, who honor faith and family and friendship, life and love?

Today we also celebrate the Birthday of the Church, Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended upon the disciples in Jerusalem, at a time of a major Jewish festival, bringing in faithful from all parts of the world who spoke many languages. The description of the event is dramatic, for “there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting… cloven tongues like fire, upon each of them… they were filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues…” (Acts 2:1+) They would speak to the many foreigners in their own language of the “wonderful works of God.” Christ Jesus had foretold this event, promising that “the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost… shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you… Let not our heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” (John 14:15+)

These are words worth remembering, bringing the past into the present. We fear not, we trouble not, we enjoy the peace of Christ. For with memory, the Holy Spirit fills us up, overflowing, with the love of God.

For as my bishop of blessed memory often said, “Do not worry. All is grace.”

We are in the octave of the Feast of the Ascension, the eight days following Ascension Day on Thursday, the end of the season of Eastertide, and the snuffing out of the fifty-day Paschal Candle.

The candle is no longer lit, but the Ascension fills us with hope, the hope of life, of living eternally in the love of God our Creator. And it is his love that makes life possible, to be sure, given the death all around us, Rachel mourning for her children, for they are no more. Life would be impossible without the love of God, the hope of Christ, and the comfort and power of the Holy Spirit. But we have all three in abundance.

By now the butchering of our children, born and unborn, is well known, for many of those who engage in this industry appear proud of their deeds, broadcasting their “rights.” Others call it evil and wonder how we arrived at such an impasse in America and the West. We look the other way. We hide, silent, in fear of reprisal, accused of hate speech. And those who mutilate and maim in the name of transgenderism or, in the case of the unborn, dismember living babies at the convenience of the mother, threaten our world with barbarism. No, I will rephrase. Barbarism is here. But there are saints and angels among us still.

And so, in this merry month of May, the month of mothers and Mother Mary, I was glad to be reminded of a heroine who is not afraid to speak out. I have mentioned Dr. Monique Robles, pediatrician and bioethicist, in these pages earlier. She is now offering consultations in addition to her earlier offer of serving as an expert witness in cases involving the rights of parents and children, defending them against those who hunt and haunt children both for their own political purposes and monetary gain (think hospitals and pharmacy companies). For more information, visit her website to become acquainted with this brave and articulate spokesperson for parents and children.

Heroes and heroines abound, and we must support their work in any way we can, so that in the final accounting of our lives, we hear the coveted words, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” The door to Heaven opens and we ascend to be with not only loved ones but the angels and the saints and the Lord of Life himself.

My spirits ascended this morning in church. I experienced a moment of grace, or rather, many moments of grace. The ascension of Christ to Heaven, after his resurrection from the dead, lifts my spirits upwards, to be with him, to encounter him, right there in our little chapel on the corner of Bowditch and Durant. This happens, to be sure, in the Eucharist itself, but the ascending and soaring of our songs of praise, the cantor’s amber rising tones, the organ’s deep notes that flew high into the vaulted dome and out the clerestory windows above, out onto the busy streets of graduation and cars and boomboxes, all pulled me along. Surely I had wings to fly. Surely my feet were no longer touching the ground. I thought of Catherine of Siena and how she levitated during her devotions in her chapel, literally rose a foot or so from the floor. She too ascended in that moment to meet Christ and was given the stigmata, the wounds of crucifixion on the hands, unseen but no doubt felt.

We are heavy human beings, you and I. Our weight grounds us with gravity. To soar with the Holy Spirit and the angels for a few minutes each week reminds us that we are more than creatures of flesh. We know this deep within. We long for beauty, truth, and goodness, for love, for the intangible made tangible so that we may ascend to meet it. Our longings fill us with hope, and perhaps for some, with dread. Mystery and miracle, in the Incarnation of Christ, touch us, wound us. We know and understand, for we have the Mass, the liturgy of mystery and miracle. We know and understand enough to feel only joy. Fear and dread are vanquished.

Even so, we must live on this earth and help to redeem it with our love.

For at the end of the day, it is love – love of the unlovable, the unwanted, the undesired, the inconvenient – that calls the Holy Spirit to be with us. It is love that responds. It is love that swirls in our little chapel, linking our family of God, and joining us together in the bread and the wine, in the Real Presence of Christ.

We leave the chapel, knowing we are reborn once again, knowing we are stirred up and sent out to walk among the evil that we see and sense, to save those we can from the ways of death, both physical and spiritual.

We ascended today, then descended back into the world, feet firmly planted on the earth but with memory of Heaven.

Rogation Sunday doesn’t always land on Mother’s Day, but it seems fitting when it happens. Rogation comes from the Latin rogare, to ask, and in this case ask (pray) for God’s blessing upon the crops, newly seeded.

And just so, mothers carry the seed of fathers to term within their bodies, to bear fruit, be fruitful, and give birth to the next generation that will ensure the life of the community, state, nation, world.

It is good to remember, honor, and give thanks for mothers, particularly in a world at war upon the family. For, in many ways, the mother holds the family together, providing a home in which love can feed growth, a kind of seedbed. Fathers protect that home from outside threats, as they provide sustenance and shelter. Yet today many forces rip the family apart. We must heal the wounds, wiping tears with our love.

Mothers of course can also be fruitful in other ways, creative in endeavors outside the home, for the span of child rearing comes to an end and other doors open, beckoning. Fathers can mother, as well as father. There are times when we share roles for good purpose, but the heart of the mother is to mother, and the heart of the father is to father. Both mothers and fathers can comfort their children in overlapping roles, drying their tears together.

But what about God’s tears for the unborn? What about the seeds that never mature, never become what they were intended to become? What about those children who never take their first breath of life in our astounding world of light and love? What about those mothers who live with their “choice” to kill their own children, the Lady Macbeths who cannot be cleansed, until finally facing the Lord of Life in his Church, confessing, repenting, and being absolved.

I was thinking today in our chapel about our General Confession in which we offer our penitence to Christ and are forgiven. It is a regular prayer said before the beginning of the Canon of the Mass and is intended to replace or perhaps supplement private Confession to a priest. We offer all our selfishness, our un-love, our “manifold sins and wickedness,” sins committed by thought, word, and deed, “Against thy Divine Majesty.” We are heartily sorry, the memory is grievous, the burden intolerable. We ask for mercy and forgiveness, and with this prayer, followed by absolution, we are cleansed, these dark gritty places in our heart made clean like a slate. We slough off the soil dirtying our soul and start anew, ready now to receive the Real Presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist. We have cleaned our house to give him a home in which to dwell.

Ritual – saying the same words with each liturgy, weekly or more often – can dull our hearts and minds, yet it can also free us to fully experience God’s presence, in this case his absolution. Memorized words and phrases are engrafted upon our souls, changing us and opening us up to the glories of the Eucharist. There is an action that occurs as we say these words with intent, as we reach for God and God reaches for us. Christ allows the engrafting, for he is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. The Holy Spirit prompts us to repent and to reach out, and Christ carries us to the Father in his arms to be wrapped in love. For, after all, it is his blood shed for us that allows the shedding of our sins, freeing us from death itself.

I speak of repentance today, even in this season of Eastertide, for many of us must confess and repent our part in the death of our culture, the death of love, the death of the unborn. For if we do not honor mothers, make them worthy of respect and dignity and much more, we become a part of this culture of death, and we bear responsibility. And to honor mothers is to support family life and all that that means. One day we shall face judgment, shall see the children that were not born, shall see what part we may have played in their deaths.

And so we honor those who mother those who do not belong to them. We honor women who could not bear children for whatever reason, and who support other mothers and other families. I see this in parish life, an extension of family life. I have been mothered by these ladies, and my little boy was mothered by the whole parish. Christ’s Body, the Church, honors mothers, for mothers give life to the unborn and ongoing love to the living.

May is Mary’s month too, the mother of all of us, the reborn Eve. She said yes to God’s will in her life, and in that fiat she became holy, whole, full of grace and blessed among women. She gives us her son, and in the giving gives us life forever, should we too say yes.

And when we say yes, we become “doers of the word, and not hearers only” as St. James writes in today’s epistle (James 1:22+). As doers we honor mothers, all those who mother, and especially those who create families and homelife in which children are welcome, families open to life itself.

We ask Our Lord’s blessing upon our crops that feed the world. We ask his blessing upon our families and children and mothers, that a new generation may be seeded and born and welcomed by us all, mothered with the love and life of God within each one of us.

Like many around the world, I watched the coronation of King Charles III of England, Scotland, and Wales, in a full replay yesterday. To be honest, I had mixed feelings.

The spectacle was splendid, to be sure, and as an Anglican I enjoyed seeing the rites so beautifully done, with horns and violins and children’s choirs, talented soloists, all in the gilded holy setting in Westminster Abbey, something one does not forget. Many of the hymns were traditional, hymns we sing today in our little chapel in Berkeley. The words of the Eucharist sounded the same as our own rite, meaning they used the traditional Book of Common Prayer. There were modern touches, to be sure, in an effort to bring in everyone, other faiths and other musical traditions. It all was a grand drama, in a glittering golden abbey going back to Edward the Confessor (1002-1066), both saint and king, whose chair Charles occupied as he was anointed and handed the jeweled scepter, sword, and orb. In our travels to London, we saw the King’s chair many times in the Abbey, for it was usually on display behind the altar, and could be seen from the ambulatory. At times it was hidden from the public.

Through the years we have watched security tighten at the Abbey, fees charged, tours overseen carefully. We tried to be in London on a Sunday afternoon to sit in the choir for 3:30 Evensong.

The Abbey design reflects the monastery plan, a long choir and sanctuary, separated from the public by a screen, not affording the best views for visitors. But as Internet viewers, we were treated to views from cameras placed in key locations, so that we had many close-ups of the King and his Queen Consort, a great burden for the principals who must endure close examination worldwide. They do indeed live in a fish bowl.

Which brings me to King Charles who, in this ceremony, vows to keep the Commandments, among other vows. I wondered if he had ever confessed his adulterous affair with Camilla. I wondered if he had ever received absolution from the very Church that was anointing him. Somehow I doubted it, seeing Camilla crowned as well, and accepting her own throne to his side.

It should have been Diana, as we all know all too well.

But we are moving on, we are told, forgiving and forgetting, and to be sure, the royal pair reflect current mores, in spite of the expectation of truth when making a vow with one’s hand placed upon the Bible. Perhaps it is the medieval service itself that seems anachronistic, unsuited to today’s amorality. And once I separated the two unlikely royals from the coronation rituals, I could enjoy the pomp and circumstance. After all, who am I to judge? After all, we are all sinners, are we not?

It must be said, as the cameras lingered on the face of the new King, that there was much doubt and a little fear, perhaps confusion, in his expression. For a modern fellow whose religion is climate change, it must have been a challenge for him to go through the nearly three hours of meaningless words and actions, at least from his perspective.

It is said, and certainly somewhat true, that the monarchy, with all its rituals and wealth, serves Britain as a cohesive symbol of a better land, a Camelot, a hopeful prototype of the perfect kingdom on earth. I understand the use and the power of symbols and symbolic rites, and would agree that they are important. Perhaps the King and Queen will act out their part, no small task, and invest majesty with magisterium. Perhaps we can forget Diana, so wronged by these two royals, and embrace the glittery golden dream.

It is also true that the King has little power, and is largely a figurehead. Somewhat comforting.

And yet, I would have liked to see Queen Elizabeth deny her son – this son – the crown. I would have liked to see William and Kate crowned yesterday. But as an American, what right do I have to comment? I suppose as an inheritor of Western Civilization, the glorious Judeo-Christian history of tradition and freedom, human dignity and brotherly love, that revolutionary way that burst upon the world to remake it, rebirth it, as it did for over two thousand years, I have a heartfelt interest in such civilization’s survival. I have an interest in Christ our King returning to reign in his Kingdom on earth, a Kingdom of justice and mercy, law and order, fidelity and faith.

It was a beautiful drama yesterday, perhaps a dream, for it was too beautiful to be real and too glorious for the vainglorious. Still, as I watched the many guests process up that aisle and take their seats, and as I saw the royals emerge from their golden fairy tale carriage, I was hopeful for our world. We glimpsed Camelot yesterday. We glimpsed a dream. And some dreams are worth pursuing and not forgotten in the early dawn.

I pray this might be so, especially in this Eastertide, in the glorious celebration of resurrection and eternal life.

We gathered together this last week in the Bay Area for the Thirty-second Synod of the Diocese of the Western States, along with the Diocese of the Southwestern States, Anglican Province of Christ the King. There were numerous events from Tuesday through Friday, forming a rosary of prayer linking the faithful.

The week made me appreciate not only the fellowship of Christians in our own little part of Christendom but throughout the world. Those who believe in the creeds crafted by the apostles are linked by love, the love of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. Those who live those creeds, and partake of the sacraments ordained by Christ, commune with the saints of the past, the present, and the future. They commune with eternal love.

And yet we are bound by time, as our preacher explained this morning. When the risen Christ says to the disciples that “A little while, and ye shall not see me: and again, a little while, and ye shall see me, because I go to the Father” (John 16:16+) they are confused by the time sequence. Yet Christ speaks of eternal time: his ascension to Heaven and then his return, his Second Coming to earth, an event to look forward to. Still, Our Lord doesn’t speak of hours, day, and weeks, months or years. He speaks of a different kind of time.

And in the mean-time we are bound to one another by love, the love of the Holy Trinity.

I have found, since the rise of the Internet and the worldwide web that literally weaves us together in some kind of electronic cloud, that this binding together leaps national borders and languages and cultures, joining Christians of all races, everywhere. We see them on social media, on blog platforms, in e-books, in e-magazines and podcasts. It is a worldwide Christian web, spun like a golden thread, pulling us together in some kind of miracle.

So that at this moment in history when many of us feel isolated and divided from not only our historical past but our present families and friends, we have been given this family of God that gathers together. Thus, we Christians have become the care-givers for our world, offering healing to those who seek division and death. We offer the salve of salvation to rub upon their souls, the love of the living God, the food of the living Christ in the bread and the wine.

And so in my own life I have encountered sisters and brothers of faith throughout the world through this e-cloud of witnesses. They are my family, those who share my deepest desires for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We pray for the unborn, that they may be born and given a chance of life and liberty and happiness, to be loved as we love. We pray for the mothers of the unborn, that each one is filled with the grace of knowing she carries her own child within her womb. We celebrate life together, and in so doing, sing our song of love.

The golden thread spun among us weaves the past into the present. As I spoke this last week of the history of our Berkeley Seminary and Chapel, I could see a golden thread linking us to those who came before us, those who listened to God’s voice in their lives and learned to love as God loves. For in prayer, that opening the door of our heart and mind to God, we allow God to enter in, to live within us, to enliven us with his life. Only then can we hear his voice. Only then can we spin our own golden thread to join the others from anywhere and everywhere throughout the world.

I have found that listening involves patience. Listening requires silence and, in the quiet, we wait, watch, and wonder what will happen next. What door will open in my life that God desires me to enter? I wonder at this marvel, in our own time, and hopefully, in time and at the right time. I don’t want to miss the door opening. I don’t want to miss a single moment of this marvel-ous world Christ has given us to inhabit, the world of life and love.

And so I pray an Our Father upon waking and an Our Father before sleeping at night. I have added other prayers to my memory treasures, from Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer, for I can witness to doors opening in my life, unexpectedly, seemingly random, yet in truth, divinely purposeful.

Many doors opened in the last year, for example, doors to knowing Christians in other states, in other countries (Francis Etheredge in England, Monique Robles in Colorado, Michelle Easton and Cindy Rushing in Washington D.C.) How did this happen? How is it I saw a link here, a post there, a friend of a friend who seemed to be singing to me? Grace. Grace notes played a melody of Grace. I heard the song, because of daily prayer and weekly Eucharist (the greatest of all prayers).

And so we watch and wait, listen and love. We enter through gates to others who do the same, and, one day, joining hands, we will enter Jerusalem to sing of our golden thread weaving our liturgy of love.We will sing to our Christ Jesus on his throne in glory.

All of this I saw this last week in our gathering of faithful, sacramental, Anglo-Catholic Christians. Deo Gratias.

+ + +

Let’s help Francis Etheredge and his remarkable family attend the World Youth Day in Lisbon. Visit Francis Etheredge and World Youth Day.

To see the dramatic work pediatrician and bioethicist Dr. Robles is doing to help children and parents, visit her site, Human Dignity Speaks.

To visit Cindy and Michelle’s outstanding program for college women see Clare Boothe Luce Center for Conservative Women.

To read the history of St. Joseph of Arimathea Anglican Theological College and Chapel: History of SJATC and Chapel in Berkeley.

We are preparing for our annual synod of the Anglican Province of Christ the King, Western and Southwestern States, here in the San Francisco Bay Area. In rummaging through files and Berkeley archives, I came across something I had written in 2000, twenty-three years ago. It heartened me to read it now, in my frail and graying years, as I prepared for our gatherings this week, so I’m sharing it with you, my dear readers.

Millennium Pilgrimage to the Shrine of Bishop Grafton, September 29, 2000 

We gathered beneath the turning leaves, shade trees still green but hinting of gold, an aura of promise. Otto carried the flag, a large triumphant one, suitable to his size, and already the breeze played with it. The bishops, their crimson capes flashing against their white cottas, mingled and waited regally. The local high school band, neatly proud in their uniforms, gathered and took their place in the line-up, the tuba, as always commanding the center of attention. We lay folks fell in behind the band, the white robed clergy behind us, followed finally by our leaders coming last, our apostolic episcopate.

A light breeze blew through the overcast skies, the sun peaking through occasionally like sudden bursts of heavenly pleasure. It was temperate still, this thirtieth day of September, as summer lingered, playing the air like a children’s choir.  We, the Anglican Province of Christ the King, the orphaned child of the apostate Episcopal Church of the United States, gathered to proclaim our beliefs: our belief in Holy Scripture, in the Creeds of the historic Church, and in the 1928 Book of Common Prayer which embodied these pillars of our faith. 

We didn’t look too regal: a hodgepodge of individuals unlikely to be friends in another time and place. We wore sweatshirts and jeans, tailored Sunday suits, parkas in case of rain, comfortable walking shoes, dangling cameras on shoulders as we maneuvered red booklets of hymns. We chatted as though we were at a church supper, amazed to be here in Fond-du-Lac, Wisconsin, home of an Anglo-Catholic history that went back one hundred years, and home to Bishop Charles Grafton, whom many considered a saint. Indeed, his sarcophagus awaited us in the stone cathedral down the street, a white marble effigy in its own side chapel. But where was he? Perhaps watching, smiling, praying and laughing too, I think. Chuckling with joy that his little seeds were still blossoming, like some winter gardener.

The clergy met yesterday in their Clericus, their national gathering of support, fellowship, and discipline. Here they listened to their Archbishop proclaim where they were, where they had come from, and where they were going. For they are a frontier band, quietly standing up for the old ways, a strange and ironic melding of revolution and conservation.  Each one of them, at some point in their pilgrimage to this moment, had met Christ, had known Jesus, his love and his power, and could not turn back. No, they could not deny this knowledge, a familiarity, perhaps even a love affair, with the Man from Galilee, the poor Jewish carpenter who took the world by storm by his simplicity, his love, and yes, his Deity.  And more than this they could not deny his presence today, his reality, his explosion in the chalice and the host when they celebrated the Divine Liturgy, the Canon of the Mass. Could any of them be a Peter who denied his Lord?  If so, they must be a Peter who also returned to Rome on that Via Appia two thousand years ago, returned to be crucified upside down. No, they could not deny him.

And so, to continue in their adoration and in their discipleship and apostolate, they formed this renegade band that, over the years, had grown slowly, conquering schisms and power struggles, poverty and alienation. Many traveled all day each Sunday to serve several parishes in rural areas of America, as the number of the faithful multiplied far faster than the number of clergy who would or could give up pension and pride. They built a seminary in California, and trained as many as could be trained, but still the supply of priests never met the demand. A tired band of white-collared creatures clothed in the black of discipline, still they toiled through long weeks, and longer Sundays, offering the cup of Christ to the kneeling faithful, healing souls hungry for him all across this country.

Some said they were the new missionaries, perhaps even the Protestant Jesuits of the modern age, these Anglicans who offered the transcendent, the mysterious, the wondrous to the material American culture, the world of MTV, Hollywood violence and sex, drugs and self-centered creeds. And the people drank their offerings gratefully, those graced with belief, those not yet absorbed by old rebirthed heresy – witchcraft, new age mysticism, Eastern and Western paganism.

So we gathered, about one hundred of us, behind the tuba and the American flag, and set off to a rousing Onward Christian Soldiers, like some Salvation Army Band, this conservative, proper, East Coast, formal-liturgy congregation. God must have smiled.

We walked slowly, singing as best we could, some with amber tenor and contralto voices; others, like myself, squeaking along in earnest. The breeze picked up, and the flag unfurled. A video man stood on the corner, catching our moment in history, our very American statement this Saturday morning, on the main street of Fond-du-Lac, Wisconsin. It was only four blocks, but they were momentous blocks to me. I realized my short temporal life meant something when joined with the eternal, and how little it meant otherwise. Somehow, all of us, united through God, and soon once again through his Eucharist, became holy, a part of the universe, an integral piece of time and history. And the cementing factor was love, his love, a love that blew through us as it blew through the trees about us. A summer love, hinting at fall. As the old song went, the times they are a changin’…Would I have felt the same parading for the March of Dimes? Certainly, I would have felt virtuous, but holy? No, I do not think so. This day I felt holy, whole.

Not many stood on the sidewalk to watch our passing. But still, here in this town, we made a public statement of who and what we are. We abandoned our Sunday hide-outs in our ornate and society-sanctioned chapels. We abandoned them for the public square, offering our faith and commitment to our God and our Country for all to see. In this pilgrimage, one of hope and one of penitence, not only personal but civic and social, we became missionaries, apostles as well as disciples, those sent out as well as those who follow.  

We crossed an intersection against a red light as the police protected us from oncoming traffic, and I thought of our penitence. Yes, we had much to be sorry for. An impatient word this morning at breakfast. A twinge of envy and a burst of greed. A surge of gluttony and perhaps a lingering lust. Our bodies continually rearing their importunate demands over our souls. And then there was yesterday’s headlines.

The abortion pill had been approved by the FDA. The words had settled into my soul like dirty silt, a kind of tangible smog, the soot of a volcanic eruption or a vast hillside fire blackening the landscape like ashy rain. All those lives, designed by God, destroyed in an instant, in two days of cramping and bleeding. For some of us, memories of miscarriage surged forward: the hours of loss, the slow dying, as the soul hemorrhages too, the waiting in the hospital bed to learn what we already knew, our children were dead. Rachel weeping for her children… And now, millions would cause this and why? For their own pleasure, their own convenience. Their souls would carry these tiny crosses the rest of their lives, miniature graves covering the green hills of America the Beautiful. So that for every child dead, a mother would mourn forever. Far too many Rachels.

And then there was the Gospel that morning. How could the FDA choose to release such news on a day with such a Gospel? “But whoso shall offend one of these little ones…it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” The Feast of Saint Michael and All Angels it was, that September 29, and the Epistle reminded us of the dark force that was kicked out of Heaven to Earth.  Perhaps today Satan smiled.

The music stopped and we moved on in silence, as the band prepared the next launch of song. We walked slowly now, serious in our quiet, hearing the tap of our feet, the newness of our action worn off, the moment suddenly becoming heavy with reality, yet a heaviness born along in a great tide. The cathedral appeared at the end of the block.

It was a simple stone church, built along the river, framed by shade trees. I thought of villages in England and, had there not been a factory silo over to the right and a Walgreen’s Drugs kitty-corner, I could have fancied I was in the Cotswolds. We crossed the bridge over the stream, and approached the cathedral

The stairs led up to curved red-painted doors, and we followed the flag inside. There, dark wooden angels burst from the side rafters, peering as we found our seats. I knelt and gave thanks as the white-robed priests took the first pews, the crimson bishops moved into the chancel, and the acolytes took their places, candles burning. Today, we, the people, formed the choir.

As the first anthem soared into the vaulted ceilings of carved mahogany, sturdy stone, and stained glass, the notes pairing with the light in a kind of dance, I thought of the Church School Conference. The day after the Clericus, that solemn gathering of our missionary priests, all of us, lay and clergy, met in the hotel banquet hall to talk about our children, how to educate them in the way of Christ, how to teach them sanctity. Perhaps even the sanctity of Bishop Grafton.

 We wanted to breathe the breath of life into our young, to give them the spiritual slap on the back of their rebirth, clearing the path for the wind of the Holy Spirit to blow into their hearts. We listened, and spoke, and shared: we sought the secret of passing on the fire, keeping the torch alight, our hearts and minds empty and longing to be filled with wisdom, the wisdom of the teacher of God. We took notes on paper, and questioned and debated, bound together by the love of Christ and the mystery of teaching children. Somehow, each of us knew that in our children lay the life of our world, the life of Our Lord on this earth. It was up to us to link the generations, to bond history with the Communion of the Saints, a communion blown into the hearts of our babies. As each one spoke, I knew it could not be done alone, that each of us would be an integral part in God’s plan, that through each of us he would speak to the rest, that somehow we formed together a giant jewel, each facet reflecting a different color of God’s purpose among us. And so the jewel moved in his light, flashing and crashing about us, inspiring us with his breath, his wisdom, indeed his hagia sophia.

Two priests passed out candles with circular paper holders to catch wax, but we set them aside for now, resting their bases in the book holders in the pew-backs, next to the heavy red hymnals and modern missals. The ancient Mass began, our group living out a rite once home here in this cathedral, but no more, a kind of prodigal returning with no welcoming father. The rite of this modern Episcopal Church no longer celebrated mystery of form and language and deity, but sought the earthly and trendy, having thrown out the anchors of history and creeds. A different wind blew here, a wind of nothing, of no-thing, of whatever, whichever. So we pilgrims returned Bishop’s Grafton’s legacy, after all these years, his legacy of Anglo-Catholicism, the desire to worship God as he has been worshiped for nearly two thousand years of Christianity in the West. We sang the ancient prayers and creeds; we confessed our sins, for we found so many to confess. We accepted our bishop’s absolution, the Church’s absolution, God’s absolution. In this re-found freedom (and indeed, momentary perfection), we joined Christ in the Bread and the Wine, uniting with the Eternal, fed by Heaven, nurtured by God the Son in the mystery of the Mass. We returned to our pews whole, holy, sanctified in our present moment of time, pilgrims at the celestial banquet of the Church on earth.

Last night at our Pilgrimage Banquet we reached our hands in greeting, clasping our other selves, the many people of God, and felt his breath on our cheeks as we kissed. We dined on salmon and beef, in a great and loud celebration after two days of meetings. Warmed by wine and coffee and cherry pie, we looked to the podium to our speaker, a man we hoped would fan the fire and light up the dark corners of our confusion. And yes, with love and with humor, he led us to a greater sense of mission in our world, a sense of being the very flame we so long hungered for. He spoke of History and the strange coincidences, the odd victories, the appearance of forces no-one could rationally explain, the accumulation of facts and the lack of theories. He spoke of God in History, and God in us. And he spoke of our place and time, that the ignorance and lack of faith of today’s people created a great frontier for us. He challenged us and filled us with awe, and perhaps, a little dread at such responsibility. Would we return to Rome to be crucified? Or would we persist in denying Our Lord in our apathy? How many times would the cock crow before we wept? We gathered here to walk together, to talk together. We traveled miles to seek the light, or perhaps to atone, this millennium year, but did we really want to see more clearly or to hear our penance?

Now, in this historic cathedral, one of the priests walked down the aisle lighting our candles, and we continued the flame along our row, bending the candle deftly to catch our neighbor’s wick. We stood, holding our white rods of fire, waiting. Then, slowly, we followed the procession around the church, under the jutting angels, slowly placing one foot in front of the other, chanting the Litany of the Saints: O God the Father of heaven: Have mercy upon us. O God the son, Redeemer of the world: Have mercy upon us. O God the Holy Ghost: Have mercy upon us. O Holy Trinity, one God: Have mercy upon us. Holy Mary: Pray for us…Saint Michael: Pray for us.  Saint Gabriel: Pray for us…The voices boomed through the cathedral space, this sanctuary of God. I thought of the abortion pill. I thought of the large coven of witches here in Wisconsin. I thought of Saint Michael throwing Lucifer out of Heaven. We held our candles firmly in this dark space, a band of ragtag lovers, lighting the darkness with God. We moved down the side aisles to the Shrine of Bishop Grafton.  There we placed our candles in troughs of sand. There, below his carved stone effigy, lying spread out over his tomb, the flames burned brightly, and we prayed to this bishop of faith and order, the saint who knew the life-giving importance of the Blessed Sacrament.

We prayed for intercession. We prayed that this saintly bishop would add his prayers to the many prayers of the saints, that he would pray for God’s people on earth to not forget. To not forget Our Lord, to not forget his love and his healing power in the Mass. 

Outside, the wind rushed through the trees, and as we left the cathedral, full of God’s grace and power, the leaves burned a bit brighter, catching some of the promised fire of fall.