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Happy St. Paddy’s Day! And Passion Sunday. And the Fifth Sunday in Lent. We journey together within the Passion of Christ, to Palm Sunday, Holy Week, and Easter, Resurrection Day. My bishop of blessed memory often said that passion is the union of love and suffering. At the age of 76, I think I am beginning to know what he meant.

Our hills are Irish green, the sunlight drenching them in color. By May they will be summer brown and we will hear the weedwhackers shaving the hills, cutting the grass down, for now the grass is weeds.

St. Patrick (372-466) did the opposite, he turned the dry weeds of Ireland into the green grass of faith, much as Our Lord does with each one of us. Before belief we are dry and parched. After belief we are green and growing. As one of my characters says, “My life is now divided in two – before belief and after belief.” And once tasting the joy of believing, there is no turning back.

I am at times overcome with gratitude to God that I have been blessed with belief. Why, I don’t know. Why others don’t follow the same path to joy, I can’t fathom. But then, I tell myself, it’s not my business – it’s God’s business and theirs, and all I can do is witness with my life and my words. Each one of us must decide the path they want to take. It’s called Love; it’s called free will.

St. Patrick was not born in Ireland, but in Britain. He was enslaved as a boy by a trading ship and taken to Ireland. Wikipedia says,

According to Patrick’s autobiographical Confessio, when he was about sixteen, he was captured by Irish pirates from his home in Britain and taken as a slave to Ireland. He writes that he lived there for six years as an animal herder before escaping and returning to his family. After becoming a cleric, he returned to spread Christianity in northern and western Ireland. In later life, he served as a bishop, but little is known about where he worked. By the seventh century, he had already come to be revered as the patron saint of Ireland. (Italics mine)

Remarkable, that he returns to the land of his enslavement and preaches the Gospel. In doing so, he forges the link between Classical Civilization and what becomes Western Civilization.

Today, all this is severely threatened, as we head down the road to extinction. Even so, there are quiet links doing their linking, preserving what needs preserving, saying what needs saying, writing what needs writing. There is one here and one there and another one farther afield. Why, there is a network forming underground that none of us can see, but, then again, it is you and it is me.

I often wonder who is pulling the strings, whispering hints, pointing in directions, if anyone, from above. Angels? I play what-if… What if when we enter Heaven we are given one last chance to visit a loved one? Then we journey further to the gates of the city, over the brilliant green hills to the bright light of the walls of gemstones. What if some have a love that is great enough to influence us on earth a little longer? Perhaps the saints who listen to our prayers. Perhaps a mother willing to forgo instant heavenly delight to help a child maneuver further in life? What if love is the medium shows us the goings on on Earth? How much love is in our hearts? Love that we are willing to give away, to suffer for another?

I’ve enjoyed writing a bit about Heaven in my current novel, as I did in Angel Mountain, using theological texts as well as Near Death Experiences. I don’t make things up from whole cloth, but journey into the what-ifs that are presented by other witnesses.

Maybe it’s the Irish in me dancing this jig, telling this tale. While most of my ancestors are either Norwegian or British, I have some Irish (5%) on my paternal grandmother’s side. It appears her grandparents came from Ireland mid 19th Century (potato famine would be a good guess) to Ontario, Canada and settled just above Lake Michigan. They had many children, and several adult grandchildren eventually crossed into the U.S. Somehow my grandmother met my grandfather in a town farther south, Escanaba, where she lived, and he took her to Arkansas where my father was born.

I never knew my paternal grandmother. She died before I was born. I did, however, inherit her first name as my middle, Gertrude.

One way or another, I’m glad St. Patrick returned to Ireland. It made all the difference in our world.

St. Patrick is said to have authored Hymn #268, “I bind unto myself to-day/ The strong Name of the Trinity/ By invocation of the same/ The Three in One, and One in Three. It covers the Faith in five verses that ride a powerful melody of serious commitment, a binding, an oath taking. Then the tune shifts to a light dance calling on Christ to be “with me, within me, behind me, before me, beside me, to win me, to comfort and restore me, beneath me, above me, in quiet, in danger, in hearts of all that love me, in mouth of friend and stranger.” It’s a hymn, an oath, to the Trinity, one of the doctrines developed by the Early Church and debated. It clearly is a teaching hymn as most were and are, full of theology, images, words, all helping us understand who we are and who we are meant to be.  

Thank you St. Patrick, for your life and your love and your gift of Christ to Ireland. You made a difference, a huge difference in our world.

And Grandma Gertrude Lilian Foster Thomas, I love you.

Deo Gratias. 

Many of my ideas come to me while sitting on a folding chair in our Berkeley chapel and singing and praying the Mass. Today an obvious thought landed in my aging brain, that there is a parallel between the story my main characters are acting out and the history of western civilization.

My four friends – Patricia, Fr. Davies, Winston, and Molly – seek to save classic fiction, history, philosophy, and theology in order to save Western Civilization. Their goal is noble but illegal, as the state raids libraries, public and private, to destroy these books that challenge mankind to be better, to confess, to repent, and to follow ideals of beauty, truth, and freedom. They have all been “cancelled” in one way or another and come together with a common loss and common goal.

These characters have indeed become my friends, added to the exclusive cast that populate my stories. They have parts of me in all of them, so in that sense they are my brothers and sisters, my mothers and fathers, my aunts and uncles, and most importantly, my children. It’s quite a lovely phenomenon.

But what occurred to me during the liturgy today was that what they are doing in the pages of The Music of the Mountain is what the monks did in the northern monasteries of Europe in the early medieval world when they copied manuscripts to save the classical/Christian world from disappearing. This is the thesis of the wonderful history by Thomas Cahill, How the Irish Saved Civilization, in which he describes how St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland in the fifth century, after the fall of Rome. With Christianity he also brought the Judaic and classical world that became the foundation of Western Europe in the centuries to come.

And so we celebrate the Feast of St. Patrick this week. Perhaps it was Patrick who spoke to me this morning in Berkeley, pointing out the obvious parallels, saving civilization from destruction, even if it means centuries of underground protection of the great ideas of the West – freedom, human dignity, love, truth, valor, merit. For each one of us is responsible for our great inheritance, to keep it safe, to pass it on to the next generation or even next century.

I named one of my characters Patricia and have kept it, which I don’t usually do, but now I see who her namesake is. Seems obvious now, but isn’t it crazy how we can’t see what is right in front of us? I also chose “St. Patrick’s Breastplate hymn” to be one another character hears again and again… now I see why. Again, it came to me suddenly (each character has an assigned hymn).

And so as we consider memory and memorizing and remembering. Like my four friends, I am working on my Psalm, and this year I might actually have it down, but the last line keeps eluding me. Still, twice daily I feed on Psalm 139, as we feed on the loaves and fishes multiplied in the Gospel this morning, as we feed on Christ himself in the Eucharist each Sunday, as we travel to Jerusalem and the great events of salvation and resurrection. 

“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.” (139:15-16)

Thanks be to God. Deo Gratias.

O Lord, thou has searched me out and known me…

Storms have battered the Bay Area this weekend, with high winds wailing around our house and temperatures dropping. Mt. Diablo is covered in mist and I wondered about snow but not yet according to local weather data. Still, the drama of the change in weather is never-ending, and although many try and forecast and prophecy the future days, mankind is not in control, although he pretends to be.

The battering of the earth with rain and wind reflects the battering of our souls in Lent. It is a season of regret, of confession, of repentance. It is a time to face the truth about who we are, what we have done, and what we will do. It is a time of turning back or facing a crossroads and reading the signposts. Heaven? Hell? Which way am I headed? Which way do I desire to go?

I’ve found it compelling that Jesus asks the sick and the lame, before he heals them, “Do you want to be healed?” Seems an obvious answer, but he asks. For if there is no desire to be healed, there can be no healing. If there is no desire to love or be loved, there can be no love.

So Lent is a time to ask ourselves, what exactly do we want? From life? From the past, the present, the future? We take stock of our souls.

There is a character in my novel-in-progress that has done a great evil in her past. She wishes today she had not done this, but she handles her regret and guilt and horror too, by denying her past.

This may be the greatest human error of all, to not face up to our failings. I believe that a good number of women who rally and march for “a woman’s right to choose” have made the wrong choice in their past. For them to protect the unborn today would mean they must face what they have done.

This is no easy task, after fifty years of abortion on demand, and fifty years of women making deadly choices, gargantuan choices of life and death. It is a high wall to climb over, a steep and rocky mountain to ascend, to turn around and say I’m sorry, let’s change the law. Let’s protect these innocent lives. But to face the horror of the act is beyond many, even if they were misled by our culture of sexual liberation, and most were, to my thinking. In this sense, these women are victims as well.

It’s almost demonic, for like in today’s Gospel, the demons return in greater numbers than the first one, circling the soul with lies, dividing and felling God’s house, scattering and not gathering. “He that is not with me is against me,” Our Lord says.

And so these words are stirring my will to watch and pray for our country, our people, our families, and our unborn. We must fill our hearts and minds with Christ, nothing less, to protect us from the demonic dividers.

I’m finding great consolation and inspiration in returning to Psalm 139 to memorize once again. I’ve been working on this one for too many Lents to admit. Morning and night, stirring it into other memorized prayers has helped, and the phrases do come easily to mind from all those past Lents. In this way I have been baptized with the Psalms, the words showering my soul with beauty and hope.

O Lord, thou hast searched me out and known me…

This first phrase touches me deeply, his searching me out and his knowing me. It’s the shepherd finding the lost sheep, as David must have done, so that when I am on that precipice looking down into the depths of a dark valley, the storm all around me, I know Christ is with me.

And I have found as I work on my second draft of The Music of the Mountain, that this Psalm wants to live within the story as chapter epigraphs….

Or, as Snoopy typed while sitting atop his dog house, “It was a dark and stormy night…” Indeed. Here’s hoping we see spring soon with all its bright inspiration, beauty, peace, and most of all, resurrection.

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.”