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One of the delights of being a Christian is that I am never bored. Or at least I cannot recall the last time I was bored, and given my memory and age, it may be true that I’m not to be trusted.

Nevertheless, I continue to marvel at the created world, including cats and people. And so that is my excuse for detouring into Ancestry this last week and allowing chunks of time to be happily offered to my relatives, living and dead. For each person is a work of art, a universe, a miracle and a mystery, and I am told by some folks who have returned from Heaven (near-death experiences) that we will see our family, at least those in Heaven. They even form a greeting committee in some cases. Only Heaven knows, as my grandmother, of blessed memory, would say, chuckling and grinning, tilting her head in an impish manner.

One way or another, life is certainly an adventure.

But I was able to write a few passages in The Music of the Mountain, filling in the character of my ethics professor, Patricia Norton, with a little more backstory. She has a secret, of course, and she has suffered for it. Such suffering haunts her, as suffering does to most of us, and while many seek therapy as my Patricia has done, I for one  prefer prayer and memorizing Psalms and other parts of the Daily Offices, highly effective at banning the ghosts of suffering. I have built a library, I suppose, in my memory bank, that I draw on now gratefully, reciting the Venite and the Te Deum and Psalm 100, Glory be to God… There are responsory prayers too, called versicles, I learned from an author I am editing, with a view to soon publishing his booklet, Praying the Daily Offices, with our American Church Union Publishing group.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20 ++ Artist is William Holman Hunt 1827-1910, United Kingdom ++ Title is LIGHT OF THE WORLD.

It is a richly textured life, this world of conversations with God. For I listen for his voice, and hear it in many ways, through other people, through thoughts that come to me suddenly, unbidden, that clearly are better than my own. So I invite Him in as often as possible, rather than leaving Him on the front porch knocking as seen in this image by by Holman Hunt.

I have come to believe that He needs an invitation. Having set up free will in order for us to freely love, He likes to be invited into our hearts and thus into our world. So I try each morning, with my first cup of coffee, to strike up a conversation with Almighty God. And see what happens. At least He knows that my door is open.

What if we all asked Him into our hearts, say, once an hour? Is this how He can see the world, only through our eyes? Residing within, He sees what I see and He knows my thoughts too. He knows me.

Some friends in Kentucky who run the retreat house, Nazareth House, and know something about prayer taught me to breathe the Holy Name of Jesus in and out, and I do when I remember. That is a kind of invitation too, and a jeweled tool to add to my treasure chest of hymns and prayers and eucharists. For the more we bring him into our bodies, the easier it will be to ascend that ladder to Heaven.

And so in the discovery of some of my ancestors, as well as some of my living relatives, I have been given a lovely gift, a necklace of diamonds reflecting many different facets and faces. It is hard to believe, really grasp, the marvelous intricacies of humanity, the genetic codes, the bits inherited and bits created in a lifetime of choices, all forming me. And you. And everyone everywhere, no two alike.

Animals too. No two alike. Plants. No two alike. How can such infinite variety be comprehended? That is one of the arguments recent scientists have made for the existence of God. The Discovery Institute is a good place to start that journey. And I have written about these things in my novels and in these pages, for the journey through our own time becomes more and more joyful, not less. There are always discoveries, always God noticing that the door is open, always God, the Creator of the Universe, loving us enough to become one of us, to enter each one of us, to live inside each one of us.

It only gets better, this river of joy.

So, as I think of this week, and the moments I shared with family living on Earth and family living in Heaven, I wonder at it all. It is so magnificent, and there are not words to describe this, the indescribable. Hence we try to paint pictures and tell stories and sculpt heroes and heroines. Hence we speak as best we can, speak the truth, once we have allowed our Lord to live within us.

Simple worship. Simple seeing. Simple love. It’s all quite simple, this trusting God to make all things right. We simply open the door and invite Him in. As often as possible.

I’m pleased to say I have finally found a few hours to return to my manuscript, the first draft of my eighth novel. I have found that as I age, I move more slowly with more aches and more pains and greater care not to trip and fall. And as this natural progression occurs, one that pulls me toward my final, eternal, and glorious destination, I am also caretaker for two others, my mother (103) and my husband (88, but I didn’t tell you). So oddly, there is less and less time for… playing around with words.

I’m beginning to think writing a novel is rather like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. This may have been said already (another loss, memory) in these pages, but it struck me this week that I can create the pieces to the puzzle, one at a time, and then fit it all together with plot and character. So I created a file of “bits and pieces”), paragraphs my characters are not yet ready for, to be used sometime in the future chapters and pages of the book. I may not use them at all. I have learned to part with 75% of what I write, when I give the finals a good scrubbing. Tests must be passed to achieve clarity and pacing. Chapters must be short to attract the general reader who, they say, reads at a fifth grade level. It’s probably 3rd grade now, with all the “graphic novels.” I used to think graphic novels were porn, but no, they are comic books. How did this happen to our people?

But those tests will be much later, after readers have read drafts and editors have weighed in. And at the end of the day, I won’t be woke enough to appeal to today’s publishers. But I’m happy to slip under the radar, in exchange for telling the truth as I see it, nothing but the truth, so help me God.

And I do need God to help me. He gave me some good ideas this morning in our little Berkeley chapel. I jotted things down as we sang and prayed and listened to our good vicar preach on healing of body and soul (hint: the Gospel was about the healing of the ten lepers). And the Epistle before that was the amazing St. Paul in his letter to the Galatians (5:16+). He likes lists, and so do I, since they are easy to understand, and even memorize. He gave us two lists today, the Works of the Flesh and the Works of the Spirit. He speaks of misuse of the flesh, against God’s law, and the rewards of the Spirit:

Works of the Flesh, those against God’s law: Adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envyings, murders, drunkenness, revelings, and such like… they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God.

(Christians revere the flesh, the body, for we were created by God, but we understand we must observe those boundaries ordained by our Creator. These laws, when kept, help us experience the second list, the fruits of the Holy Spirit.)

Fruits of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.

This instruction was helpful, given my novel-in-progress involves a Professor of Ethics who assigns memory work. But she is not a believer. Where does she find her moral compass, the law? Is there a natural law some speak of? And so I look to the Moral Theology class I’m auditing on Zoom, taught by Bp. Hansen. While I’m not keeping up with the reading, I pray I will absorb some of the ideas in the class. I have always found the moral law fascinating, ever since I read Mere Christianity the first time, and followed Lewis’ argument that right and wrong were clues to the universe. At the time, at the young age of twenty, he offered enough logical proof for me to begin a faith journey that I am still enjoying, fifty-six years later. 

And today, in an increasingly secular world, many are concerned with moral law. If there is no outside arbiter or author of said law, can it govern a society? I’m not sure it can.

But I digress. I have found these readings to be good reminders of how the universe is, indeed, set up. Mankind is its own universe in a sense, and Christians have the magnificent means of understanding who they are and are meant to be. We do this through our sacred texts and rituals, words and song that form their own informed work of art.

Looking back to this morning, the experience of singing and saying and listening and learning together with others, where many voices become one voice, and many prayers become one prayer, I see a sculpted hour that is indeed its own work of art. It was an hour of our time, mine and other faithful, that became a creation of love, a song or symphony of praise, an offering of men and women to their Creator. And in return, Christ gave us himself. Pretty good exchange.

I can’t think of anything quite like it. Somehow this morning and many other Sunday mornings will work their way into my novel, for how else can you describe the indescribable? I think I shall have my Father Adams reminisce about the glory days when the chapel was open, before the pandemic, before the lockdowns, before the closures and the riots and the lootings. When he does, maybe reminiscing to Professor Norton, he shall describe what I saw and said and sang this morning.

And it is curious, that our liturgy developed when an illiterate people took part, many centuries ago. You don’t have to be able to read in order to hear and say and sing and see. If you go regularly you learn by heart, engrafted on your heart. It may be that this is the liturgy of the future, as we turn the clocks back to an illiterate time, a time of graphic novels, pictures, apps, and screens.

And this too may find its way into Music of the Mountain, set on Angel Mountain, a story of how we saved Western Civilization, one book at a time, one song at a time, one prayer at a time, one chapel kept open at a time of closures.

I’ve been thinking about time and the language we use to describe this remarkable, mystical, and mortal aspect of our existence. We see time as something tangible that we are given and that we spend. We have a limited amount, clearly, for how we spend it matters. We say time was lost, time disappeared, time passed. We hold an account of time, rather like a bank deposit, like coins paid out or hoarded.

I often have an urgent sense that life is short, and when I mentioned this to my bishop of blessed memory, a long time ago, saying, “I sense death nearby each day,” he replied, “That’s okay. It makes you religious. It is good to sense death, for then you value life even more. It’s the reality of our existence, and we are a people of reality.”

He was right. For the cloud that I sometimes find myself inside – this awareness – magnifies life all around me, making it intensely real and magnificently beautiful, like a crimson sunset.

We have many ways of marking time – calendars, seasons, festivals, birthdays, anniversaries, pilgrimages. I went on a pilgrimage once, a curious experience of procession, prayer, intercession, reflection, and time marked by my footsteps along the main street of a town, along with others, walking and singing toward a shrine of an Anglican saint in Fond-du-lac, Wisconsin, Bishop Charles Grafton.

It was a millennium pilgrimage, marking the end of a century and the beginning of another. It marked our own lives too, where each one of us was at that moment in time and where we wanted to be, where we wanted to go in our own lifetimes. It marked our setting out with purpose, traveling along the way together, and arriving at our destination where we found candles flaming and a sarcophagus of the saintly bishop, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It was time spent together with other faithful, and our footsteps merged into a quiet river of time, a river of love.

A priest I knew often said that the person who is late is a thief of time, taking precious minutes or hours or days away from those who were on time. I’ve often recalled that, for my husband has a clock ticking in his head, and we usually arrive early everywhere (warning!), and wait for the thieves of our time to arrive. The idea of “being fashionably late” strikes me as a strange, unmannerly aberration, and reflects today’s culture of self. A member of our extended family was notorious for arriving 2-3 hours late for family dinners. Does one wait to serve the turkey or open the presents? Or does one ignore said family member? This was a recurrent theme at holidays.

Time. Because it is limited, time grows in value, in proportion to its scarcity, just as we learned in Economics 101. The hour glass is fast filling its lower half. As we approach our “gentle years” we think about it more, or perhaps we have more time to think about it. That is a blessing – time to repent, time to repay, time to learn to love as we are meant to love. Time to make things right before our time runs out. It is the right time to take stock.

I considered these things this morning in my time with other faithful (this time logging in from home) and listened to the Gospel about the Good Samaritan. Christ tells this parable in answer to the question, “If I must love my neighbor as myself, who, exactly is my neighbor?” We all know the parable – the man accosted by thieves and left by the side of the road, those travelers who pass by him, and the one man, a hated Samaritan, who stops to help him, bind his wounds, and take him to an inn to care for him. Clearly, Our Lord tells us, we must love and care for all. 

Most of the time, we identify with the Samaritan or perhaps those who pass by. And yet, I came across an icon of the Good Samaritan that showed Christ carrying the wounded man on his shoulders, as he is often shown carrying the lost sheep on his shoulders. We are the wounded ones here. We are the lost sheep. We are found in the ditch or on a precipice far away and lifted upon the shoulders of Our Lord God.

Christ is the Good Samaritan. And if that is the case, then we are the wounded who are rescued and taken to an inn, perhaps the inn of his Church, his Bride.

Of course the parable in its context explained how we should treat others if we are to obey the law of God. But I was glad to see the wounded man being carried on the shoulders of Jesus the Good Shepherd. For as we are wounded in this world by many slings and arrows, as we are silenced and surrounded and imprisoned for speaking truth to lies, it is only a matter of time before we will be found, raised up, and carried to the safety of an inn, to be healed, to be reborn, by Our Lord of love.

And so the clock ticks through our days, hours, and minutes. How are we spending our days, hours, minutes? Could our time be better spent? Are we burying our talents, spending our time fruitlessly? These are valuable, blessed questions to ask, to reflect upon, and find answers in the Inn of Christ, his Church. And this is how we spend our time on a Sunday, being lifted in the arms of Our Lord and carried upon his shoulders, to be healed.

As I recently read these words in Abraham Lincoln’s first inaugural address, March 4, 1861, I was struck by the phrase “mystic chords of memory.” Our memory of America, what it means to be an American, the history of America, our life together in this great nation, will bind us in harmony, a mystic harmony, a part of a greater song we sing, many becoming one:

“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.” (Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address, March 4, 1861)

We have seen discord before and will again. That is the nature of freedom. After all, the Civil War broke out shortly after President Lincoln made this speech.

That being said, the silencing of speech today is a dark trend that silences freedom. The silencing of elections and election challenges invites distrust in government. The silencing of instruction in Civics and American History in high school and college allows false histories to grow like cancer among our people, and is a death knell for democracy. The silencing of the rule of law is perhaps the most egregious, for political opponents are tried in show trials and imprisoned at the whim of the powerful.

And so we pray for our country. We pray for the better angels of our nature to touch the mystic chords of memory, if there is any common history left, and will swell the chords of the Union, the United States of America.

We pray for those who are persecuted for speaking out and pray that more will speak out in spite of the fearsome retributions threatened.

We pray that our many races and ethnicities from all over the world will re-unite and sing together, in harmony, as we seek peace in our cities and schools and communities.

And so as we sang together, many voices becoming one, in our chapel this morning, I thought of the mystic chords of memory, how we sing those harmonies that form a family from folks of varying backgrounds, varying ages, varying talents. We sang a particularly poignant hymn, #299, 1940 Hymnal, written by Percy Dearmer in 1933, a priest who has penned many. I did not recall these words (with my failing memory), but the hymn gives thanks for all those who have given us so much, all those we must not forget in these troubled times:

“Sing praise to God, who spoke through man/ In differing times and manners,/ For those great seers who’ve led the van,/ Truth writ upon their banners;/ For those who once blazed out the way,/ For those who still lead on today,/ To God be thanks and glory.”

And the final verse:

“For all the poets who have wrought/ Through music, words, and vision/ To tell the beauty of God’s thought/ By art’s sublime precision,/ Who bring our highest dreams to shape/ And help the soul in her escape,/ To God be thanks and glory.”

And so I gave thanks for Father Dearmer, a poet to be sure.

Without these mystic chords of memory, what do we have that will bring the truth to light in our present times? I am grateful that as of this writing we still can celebrate and sing these chords together, organ pounding, incense swirling, birthing one from many.

Thanks be to God.

It is only mid-August, and yet hints of autumn have teased us this last week, here in the Bay Area. Temperatures have dropped a bit, school has started, and the rituals and rhythms of summer’s end are dancing through our days.

A few spectacular sunsets in a week when the sun is setting earlier have renewed the soul, reminded me of God’s grandeur in the minute and the vast, in the embryo and the aged. The changing seasons alone are enough to inspire one to believe in a loving Creator. We take the skies for granted, I fear, and do not look up enough. The details of life – the shimmering light that silvers the olive tree; my cat’s remarkable fur coat, her giant green eyes, and her thundering purr; the breeze that teases the trees to wave their branches in happiness – surround us, often unnoticed.

I have found that Christ opens my eyes to these delights, at least when I allow him to. It is Christ who says, pay attention, trust me, let me show you where and what to do in the hours ahead of you, so you do not waste your time on Earth.

With my first cup of coffee each morning, I say to our Heavenly Father, “Good morning, Father. What do we have on the agenda this day? What will you show me? What do you wish me to do? To say? To think? To feel? Lead me through this day, a day that I think I own but don’t, a day of presumption that I have control, a day I give to you. Lead me every minute and hour with your love, lighten my load and enlighten my mind, let me see the world and your children as you do, with your love.” 

And so this morning, we (my husband, myself, and the Holy Spirit within us) headed for St. Joseph’s Chapel in Berkeley, a precious space of prayer, a special gathering of God’s children, for an hour of penitence and repentance and salvation. It was a sacred time, set apart from the bustle of the world, a family time of sharing the Eucharistic feast, Our Lord himself. We prayed the Decalogue (the Ten Commandments), beseeching God to incline our hearts to keep these laws and even to write these laws on our hearts. It is a good reminder, a simple reminder, of what is required of the faithful, and we as infirm irresolute human beings need reminders. For surely we desire to incline our hearts toward obedience, for then we will be happy. We need these laws written on our hearts too, so that we do not forget, so that we leave this hour of sacred space in our mortal time, stronger, with a more informed conscience.

Life is a time of molding the soul into what we are meant to be. We begin as early as possible, to sculpt our consciences and feed our minds with God’s word, chapter and verse, committed to memory, written on our souls, knitted into our flesh. We slowly grow into the person we truly are; we slowly recognize and can separate good from evil; we slowly open our hearts to the fire of God’s love that will soon burn warmly within us. This is done through ritual and habit, doing what must be done, singing what must be sung, creating what must be created. And when we find ourselves in the place where we are supposed to be, which happens more often as we are molded in time, we experience more than happiness, more than the good life. We experience joy.

The irony is that only by looking out of ourselves can we become ourselves. Only by looking up to the Heavens and forgetting for a moment our immediate desires, can we know our place on Earth. Only by seeing each person as precious, a divine creation, can we know that we too are precious and a divine creation.

In these simple ways, through ritual and habit, through repentance, obedience, and love, we are full-filled with the Holy Spirit. So that in this seasonal time, these glorious moments between summer and autumn, we give thanks for God’s grace, as he leads us by the hand to learn to fly. We soar with him to the Heavens, our mortal selves partaking of the immortal in a small chapel in Berkeley.

We pray for those lost in the fires on Maui and those survivors who must rebuild their lives.

The Lahaina fires this last week reminded me once again how fragile life is, how powerful nature is, and how deceiving the natural world can be. The Hawaiian islands are inviting with their mild temperatures, long beaches, warm ocean, and palms waving in the trade winds. But behind the seeming paradise lie active volcanoes, hurricanes, tidal waves, and fire fueled by the winds.

The islands, formed long ago from volcanic ash erupting through the Pacific Ocean, lure us into a trance of relaxation. Dancers are gentle, like the waving palms, their hands telling stories to the sounds of ukuleles and ballads of an earlier time, a seemingly more peaceful time.

Yet, of course, it is an illusion. Mankind is fallen, no matter the century, no matter the location. And the natural world will never be tamed, only entreated for a window of time.

I first realized the truth of this shaky truce between man and nature when we first visited the Big Island of Hawaii, where black volcanic lava from Kilauea covers much of the west side of the island. It looks like a moonscape. I wondered as we drove from the airport up the coast to our hotel, why we had come, and why anyone would want to come here, a place so barren and bleak. Yet, farther up the coast the lava rock had turned to lava gravel with greenery trying to sprout. Farther still, our hotel had carved out an oasis amidst this flat volcanic world, a water-fueled landscape of palms and hibiscus and white imported sand that met the blue sea, a pleasure to our urban eyes. Other resorts worked the same miracle by piping water in, landscaping with greenery, and creating beauty in a black lava desert.

And yet, it is all an illusion, dependent upon our constant vigilance. Nature will take over if we look the other way. History shows us this in castle ruins, today home to encroaching grasses and vines and scurrying creatures. In our own house the pigeons have nearly conquered our roof, and mice run in the walls and race through the attic. 

And of course in California we have had our own fires. We have not paid attention to forest management and electric grid safety. Winter storms and sudden floods have not alleviated drought, due to too few reservoirs. Like Joseph in Egypt, we must store for the lean times and shore up for natural disasters. Famine and flood are only a blink away.

Things are not always as they seem. Life and death are close cousins, even siblings. It is good to remember this, that we will not live forever on this earth, but can choose Eternity in Heaven. For Our Lord has given us hope in his resurrection, his conquering death, his command of the natural world. It is his life that lives within us (for those who believe and desire him) and it is his death that has given us life everlasting. He is the alpha and the omega, the only one who can and does free us from ourselves, from our own blindness. He is the one to whom we sing on a Sunday morning in a Berkeley chapel and in our evening prayers as the light dims and dusk falls. He is the one who lives in the prophets and their prophecies, about whom poets and playwrights write, and about whom the bards sing their ballads.

We have been given the truth to find the way in the light to the light. We need only turn toward Our Lord, take his hand and walk alongside, be present in church on Sundays and at the great festivals of the year, honor those who love him and speak truth, and obey his commandments. He has given us a lifetime and a library of help and vision. We need only say, as Our Lady Mary said, “Yes. Let it be done according to thy will.”

And so, on this Sunday in Trinitytide that falls between the Transfiguration of Our Lord and the Assumption of Mary we witness to the astounding news that God loves us. For he has shown us many things and will show us many more. He loves us. He is with us. Emmanuel. One day, we too will be transfigured, death turned to life, and we will rise to Heaven to be with our family and friends once again. One day, we will escape the fires and the storms and the twisting of truth about who we are and are meant to be.

One day, we will see God face to face.

And we pray for Maui.

I have become fascinated with the accounts of “Near-Death Experiences,” when a person dies and returns to life, having witnessed something resembling a route to Heaven, or Paradise itself. I have been reading a curated summary of findings over the last few decades in Imagine Heaven by John Burke, mentioned in earlier blog posts. I say curated, because he claims (and it appears so) to discuss only those accounts that have greater credibility, i.e., from doctors or others that would not have a reason to make these up. There are many common threads and many differences as well. There are children’s accounts that can only be truthful. There are atheists’ accounts that completely cure their unbelief, conversions that change them forever.

The interest has led me to a website, International Association for Near Death Studies (IANDS) and their YouTube channel that collects these stories. In browsing through this wealth of information, I soon appreciated the curated version of John Burke, for their are millions. While I don’t think some are exaggerating or even lying (for whatever reason), some simply seem more about the life of the person telling it (video queens and kings, etc.) than the experience in Heaven or traveling there.

At the end of the day, and perhaps as I near the end of my life (no, I’m not sick, just 76), I have become greatly reassured that I will be taken in hand immediately, literally holding the hand of Our Lord or guided by his angels, so that there is no fear of losing one’s way or falling or disappearing… there is no fear at all, only delight and wonderment.

Through it all, and I am continuing the study (plot alert in terms of this blog…), I had a question I wanted answered. I finally found the answer(s). The question was, what about sin in Heaven? If we have free will, and we are told we must be free in order to love God and our fellows, then do we have it in Heaven? And if we do, what keeps us from sinning again? What protects us from other sinners? The problem of freedom and love was a nagging one. I found a good answer on an online site called “GotQuestions.org” a Christian (probably Protestant) compendium of answers by knowledgeable pastors and scholars, with Scriptural backing. The answer was enough for me not to worry about it, making perfect sense. (Hint – it’s all about sanctification here on Earth). Check it out.

I had been thinking about judgment as well. The NDE’ers (as they are called) speak of a “life review” but not so much a judgment. I came to the conclusion that it might be that we judge our own misdeeds as we see the review. We repent. For us to be sorry, of course, will require that we have educated consciences, know right from wrong, know the commandments, and then be humble enough to admit/confess, and say those key words, “I’m sorry.” With every sorry, the slate is cleaned and we become sanctified, able to live in Heaven with others who desire love and peace the worship of God Almighty.

That “life review” reminds me of the early accounts of “seeing my life pass before me”, always a curious description of dying. Why, I often wondered, did the brain and the memory paint such a picture at the end? Now I know. It’s way more than the brain and the memory. It’s God leading us to Heaven. He reaches for our hand. Our Lord Jesus says, “Fear not. Welcome home. Enter into the glory of Paradise.”

For we will be transformed and transfigured, just as Christ was on Mount Tabor with Elijah and Moses in today’s Gospel (Luke 9:28+, BCP 248) with the light and love of God. We will enter that “cloud,” be filled with Christ’s love, and be carried to a better world that awaits us. In the meantime on Earth, we experience a taste of that transfiguration when we worship together, when we sing and praise God. For in time we are transformed, sanctified, made ready for our final journey outside of time.

I did work a bit on my novel this week, The Music of the Mountain. Alas, my characters are still sorting books in the basement of St. Joseph’s Seminary, but fear not, they are getting to know one another and working hard to save the written word and Western Civilization. In the process, I considered my recent heavenly research, and may include a near death experience in the second half. We will call Part 1, Earth, and Part 2, Heaven. But which experience will I recount and make a part of my professor’s life in these pages? That remains to be seen. Probably a bit of many. A collage. Just like my characters, combinations of many friends I have come to know and love.

Fear not! Life is good. God is good. All is grace! Be transformed so you will be transfigured, and we will one day gather by the river that runs by the throne of God. Get thee to church and begin (or resume) your journey now.

Each year during the summer our Berkeley seminary, St. Joseph of Arimathea Anglican Theological College, offers a residential session for the online program to supplement the online program during the year. During this week or weeks at the end of July the deacons and postulants, as well as local clergy, laity, and students auditing, gather to worship in our chapel for Morning Prayer, Noon Mass, and Evening Prayer. The liturgies are open to the public. The seminarians live on the premises, encouraging a sense of monastic collegiality, and take classes mornings and afternoons.

I usually try to attend the noon Masses for I have found them astonishingly helpful to my life in this crazy world. Not only does regular Holy Communion center you on God our Creator, but the prayers and praise are rewarded with the reception of the Real Presence of Christ. I often joke that I’m trying to receive as many Eucharistic Presences as possible, in preparation for that meeting that draws closer and closer, that moment when I enter Paradise and the gates of Jerusalem.

The week went well. We missed some of our leading clergy due to illness, so that we were even more dependent upon the Holy Spirit to inspire from day to day, to tell us what to do next. Many students were online and not residential, a great loss to them, but understandable in this whirling and demanding world. But I have to say, the closeness of this group, this particular summer, was nearly tangible. These young seminarians had the opportunity to spend more time with their bishop and the local clergy. They were able to look through books in the bookroom where we are showcasing titles to be given away (a remarkable collection). They took meals together, they prayed together, they sang together. They were able to sense for an intense few days the glory of being a part of Christ’s Body.

The deacons learned how to say a Deacon’s Mass, something not possible online, and they had a superb instructor in Bishop Ashman. For our Bishop has aged grace-fully, and with the aging comes wisdom and knowledge, an innate sense of the liturgy, truly a part of him, an abundant love of others, and a joyful demeanor that I usually see in our elderly clergy, those who have prayed through suffering and born the scars of love as Our Lord showed us how to do.

So through the week, I showed up, noonish, lit the candles and prayed before our St. Vladimir Madonna and Child in our entryway. I took a seat in the back and watched and waited and wondered what God would show me, how he would feed me that day. And I left renewed, reborn, refreshed. After this hour in our chapel with my fellow Christians, I knew I had been given riches beyond measure.

And also through the week, I read about Heaven, learning more about what to expect. It’s a real place, for one thing. We will be souls without bodies until the Second Coming when we will be given perfect bodies. But even so, we will be with millions of others in Paradise, working and playing and singing. No more tears, no more pain, no more threats of censoring and silencing. Like our little chapel with its russet barrel-vaulting we will experience a world of joy, the world we were created for.

We see bits of Heaven in every Eucharist. In prayer, in praise, we see the heavens open for us for a moment and we feel Christ’s love shafting into our hearts. Of course we can pray and praise anywhere, but with others we form a chorus, and even better that, we sense we are a part of Christ’s Body, the Body of Christ, the fruit of our Baptism. But in corporate worship, we know this is true. This is the gift of God’s grace among us, when two or three are gathered.

In these reflections this morning, I was able to hear the hard words of Christ. There are many “difficult” sayings, and most are buried in our fear of encountering the truth. But we must hear the truth (especially at the age of 76). This particular passage is found in Matthew 7:15+ where he warns about fruit and fires.

“Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them. Not everyone that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.” (Italics mine)

You can see why the Heaven reference caught my attention. And the cutting down of the barren tree or evil tree for that matter. And to add a little to the image he says not everyone will enter the Kingdom of Heaven but only those who do the will of the Father. Sounds like works over faith, rather than faith over works.

Of course it is both for one leads to the other. Nevertheless, doing God’s will appears to be pretty important in the scheme of entering Heaven. And this is not the only reference Christ makes to “the fire.” Those who disobey God will be entering a different place than Heaven, like it or not. Perhaps it is true that the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. A holy fear, a fear of evil, and a love of the good.

Our Bishop Morse of blessed memory often said that most doubt (meaning lack of faith) was moral. There were rules that must be followed and if your life didn’t reflect those rules, you had to change your life. The saints through the ages have reinforced this message again and again. Worshiping God was at the top of the list of the Ten Commandments, and the others can be summarized by love of neighbor, love of all those who enter your life.

For when we worship regularly, I have found, we learn to love, or we at least learn more about how to love, through word and sacrament and the fellowship of the Family of God. We learn the importance of marriage and family and children. We learn more about who God the Father is. We bask in his love.

Without this, without the Church to lead us on the right path through the dark woods of our lives, we are left to the wild beasts, to be devoured by roaring lions, left, in the end, to miss that road to Heaven.

It appears that there will indeed be a judgment, a private judgment and a general judgment. Many Heaven books don’t like those words. They say we will see our life reviewed before us. We will see where we hurt others or didn’t love enough. This will give us a chance to say “I’m sorry” one more time. And with this cleansing of the heart, we will step into Paradise, not only redeemed by Christ, but saved by the salvation of our souls.

Okay, I admit it. I’m winging it.

I wrote Chapter Eight of my novel-in-progress this week, The Music of the Mountain, named (for today at least), “Fr. Adams’ Faithfulness.” I’ve come to look forward to the hours from three to five each afternoon, sometimes four to five, to find out what happens next. I put my fingers on the keys and the characters begin talking to one another. They are still in the basement, but there is hope for the next chapter that they will be set free from the damp and the dust. I for one am starting to sneeze.

In this chapter, the question of right and wrong is presented by the priest, Christian, to his co-worker, Dr. Norton, agnostic. How is it that she decides, he inquires, what is right and what is wrong? Where does she find the standards of behavior when she doesn’t believe in the authority that sets those standards? It’s just a question, a nudge from the old Vicar to stir the thoughts of the middle-aged Professor of Ethics.

Alongside the daily dose of writing, I have been reading Imagine Heaven by John Burke, a consideration of the many Near-Death Experiences over the last decades, how these witness accounts compare and contrast. The common threads, of course, are most intriguing, and above all, I have been fascinated by the industriousness of Heaven. Who knew?

For Paradise has a city in its center, the New Jerusalem. Paradise is so large, three times Earth they say (as I recall), many many many miles in circumference. And the city itself is gigantic, within the pearly gates and walls (that are the depth of a room). But what has really fascinated me, is that there is a great deal of activity. Each person is doing what they were intended to do, being inspired by the Holy Spirit, present in an intensely beautiful way. It is Earth reflected as it was meant to be. There is even a hill where you can watch the goings-on on Earth.

Also there are pets we have loved. I’ve often thought that love was the key, but evidently there are all kinds of beasts, lions lying down by lambs. Yay, my many cats will welcome me!

The colors and the light are nearly blinding, but the souls that inhabit Paradise have developed vision that can handle it.

And that brings me to the remarkable part. Our life on Earth is a rehearsal for Heaven. We develop habits of thought and action, habits of love. We live with Christ within us. We speak as Christ would have us speak. We allow his love to flow through us to others. We consciously work on being “little Christs.” And that includes suffering, if so be it.

This morning, in our little chapel, our preacher touched on this as well, and I always smile when dots are connected in my spiritual life. He described the drawing closer and closer to Christ, in stages, for as St. Paul writes in his Epistle to the Romans:

“For when ye were the servants of sin, ye were free from righteousness. What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed? for the end of those things is death. But now being made free from sin, and become servants to God, ye have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life. For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” (Romans 6:19+)

Ah, the famous phrase, “the wages of sin is death.” So our preacher explained that the first thing we do as Christians is to try to speak the words and do the deeds we are told to speak and do by our Lord, i.e. the commandments for a start. We draw even closer by worshiping God together in church before the altar and the Real Presence of Christ, as Our Lord commanded. And the third step is to commune with Christ by partaking of the Real Presence, a moment when we are “made one body with him, that he may dwell in us, and we in him.” (BCP p. 81)

Not sinning, I suppose, is a no-brainer, since sinning leads to death, and the slow dying is fed by sin each minute. For eternal life begins now, with a sinless life, yet as fallen creatures we can only step along the path of Christ, follow the light, repent when we stumble, and continue along the path following the light. Simple, really.

Returning to my reading: Imagine Heaven describes a reality that is intensely glorious, like Earth but fuller and more real. Some of the descriptions from the NDE’ers recalled C.S. Lewis’ description of the grass in Heaven as being too sharp and real for the shades from Hell to walk on, for these souls were too insubstantial, filmy. The saints – those of us (hopefully) who have grown more and more real in our lifetimes – are solid and can walk on the grass.

I have noticed this increasing reality in my own life of faith and life itself on Earth, bound by time. Partly, this is due to seeking and finding what I am meant to do, at least I think at this moment, that is, to write. For in the process of writing, novelists develop characters based on their observations of others. I’m not sure when I noticed it, but somewhere in the process of my novel-writing over the last twenty years, I realized I was observing far more than I ever had before. I was noting the color of the sky, the temperature, the breeze, and best of all, I noticed people. People became my greedy hobby, as if I was introduced to a new universe with each hello, and I fear I have become rather rude with all the questions I ask or want to. As one of my characters thinks in Angel Mountain, “I want to know everything about them, everything.” People are the ultimate realm of exploration, incredibly complex and beautiful.

And of course if you spend all your time thinking about people, real people, that is time spent when you are not thinking about yourself.

So with the writing I entered a new world here on Earth, one of infinite variety and wonder-ment and exquisite beauty. For I have also found that finding the word to describe something makes it more real as well. Why is that? We are words, ourselves, words spoken by the Creator at our conception. “In the beginning was the Word…” and that Word spoke others that spoke us into existence. We are the notes that make up the music of the mountains that touch Heaven.

Mystery and miracle. Just as Mary Magdalene (feast day yesterday) discovered at the feet of Jesus. There’s no going back. For we have known something so true, so beautiful, and so real we step toward the light. That’s what it is. Here on Earth and then in Heaven. And if we are on the right path, the path of Our Lord, the two overlap. Every Christian, every believer in Christ Jesus, knows Heaven already, and the experience will grow throughout their lifetime.

And so, I’m winging it, soaring high, dipping down, circling and singing before the throne of God, wondering what will happen in Chapter Nine.

Thanks be to God.

Ah, the power of the novelist!

I spent some time this last week writing the seventh chapter of my novel, The Music of the Mountain. My four characters (Molly Macrae, Winston Adams, Fr. Thomas Adams, and Dr. Patricia Norton) are currently in the basement of our student residence in Berkeley. What are they doing? Sorting books, of course. What else?

The setting is post pandemic and lockdowns (January, 2023), and the residence and chapel have been closed due to riots and vandalism and fires. The Berkeley DEI Squad (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) has raided the upstairs library shelves and burned the “racist” white men’s studies of theology, ecclesiology, and history, not to mention music binders, literature classics, and much more, all titles on their list, with echoes of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Bibles and prayer books were at the top, naturally.

And so, in the dim light of the condemned building’s basement, my characters pack books in boxes to hide in a safer place than Berkeley. In the dim light, they work in pairs, and get to know one another as they work.

Many of my novels feature books and booklists and authors and libraries, for they offer a rich source of ideas about the human condition. Who are we? Why are we? Where are we? How and what are we? The refrain is constant today, as statues topple and schools are renamed, as fear locks down thought, as the virus of Communism blows through our towns, our schools, our homes, infecting hearts and minds. (But not souls.)

Christians are reminded to “be not afraid” and “fear not.” For fear paralyzes body and mind. One must ask, “Why are we told to be afraid?” “Why are we told to hide in our homes, isolate?” “Why are we told to silence our children with smart screens and propaganda?”

And so in my little novel I have gathered a band of revolutionaries (of stout heart) who are dedicated to the revolutionary proposition that all men are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights. My little group has suffered at the hands of the fearmongers. They have been silenced and punished by losing their jobs; they are going to act in the name of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

For the conservatives are now the revolutionaries, according to many. It is an odd place to be, one that causes acute discomfort, like shoes that don’t fit. Conservatives are not, by definition, proponents of change. They conserve the good, the true, and the beautiful. But it appears that the Left has taken control of the nation (major institutions) which makes the Right the protestors, those with the barricades and flags. Alas. We really just want peace, freedom, and the pursuit of happiness. Simple stuff?

Yes, peace and freedom, the old rallying cry of Berkeley’s anti-war demonstrators in the Vietnam days has become the cry of my four characters – quiet, thoughtful folks who would simply like to read their books in a comfortable corner with a good light. So my characters don’t really cry out. They don’t really march (not yet) although there is a March for Life event coming soon. They don’t wave flags, unless you count the stars and stripes. No barricades either. And they wait politely for others to invite them in through open doors (January 6, 2020).

They represent the millions in this country who want to be peacefully free to worship their God of love, marry their prince or princess, give life to many babies, and teach their children to be virtuous citizens. They don’t want the State to kidnap their children, to control their minds or carve their bodies.

And so this last week my heroes and heroines spent time together breathing the dust of moldy volumes, stacked randomly in piles and double metal shelves. They will soon discover other miracles in this (barricaded!) basement – a large American flag hiding in a corner, chalices and patens, vestments, incense, candles, and tarnished candlesticks. Prayer books! Bibles! Treasonous materials! They hear mice scurrying in the walls and water drips from exposed pipes in this cold stormy month of January 2023. They are bold and brave, and they want to talk about what they read recently.

They have heard there is a mountain to the east – Angel Mountain – where a hermit once lived. They have heard there are caves suitable to bury the last, lost library of Western Civilization.

But in the meantime, they must act quickly and quietly to save the hard copies that they can find. The Internet libraries have been cleansed of so-called hate speech. It is time for them to act. For they know that without history, without words, without memory, without these exercises of the mind, a people cannot survive. Without books and words and literacy, we become slaves to the tribal chief who commands the most power. In many ways we are already there.

Several generations have become drugged with moving images on screens, unable to memorize or learn, incapable of debating ideas respectfully. It was prophesied in the ‘nineties, when higher education dropped Western Civilization as a requirement to graduate, that our people, our singular culture of freedom, would become unmoored. But the dumbing down gained momentum with the Internet and with the easy entertainment found in a handheld device called a phone.

It appears that I am writing the story as I go… so am quite interested in how it all turns out. No plot spoiler here (!): I have no idea. I listen and watch and pray. I think one of the characters should undergo an NDE (Near-Death Experience). But which one? I’m leaning toward Dr. Norton, the agnostic (atheist?) Professor of Philosophy and Ethics.

Ah, the power of the novelist!