Have you ever been in a situation in which you were afraid? Did that fear come from doubt? Or did it perhaps come from the threat of an outside force over which you had absolutely no control? To be sure, being in doubt or in a situation that is beyond your control can be a terrifying thing. In fact, the fear can be so great that you may latch onto anything that offers you any semblance of control. Imagine being in a desperate situation and being told that if you can just manage to hang in there, then things will get better. When that voice from the darkness is your only hope, then you cling that hope with the tenacity of a drowning man clutching a life-preserver for all it’s worth. This kind of scene has replayed itself through human history countless times, andit is out of such situations that we find the plurific works of apocalytic literature.

While serving as a Chaplain for the Boy Scouts in the North Georgia mountains a number of years ago, I had the chance to see first handthe modern day fervor that is built aroundinterpretations of the Apocalypse. While tucked away in ruralAppalachia, the book series “Left Behind”, centered around the Apocalypse as described in the Book of Revelation, took hold of religious circles and spread like, well, fire. It was sold in the fiction section of book stores - where it should have been - but what worried me was how desperately people were clinging to it andclaiming that it was telling exactly how things were going to be. The fervor around this series was only an indicator, mind you, of an adamant belief that’s been held in various reilgious groups for ages. There are those who believe the end of the world is near, and because they have a book that decribes it, they know exactly how it will be - and amazingly enough, it’s coming to pass right now!…or so they claim.

*sigh*

I have to admit that it worries me when I see entire denominations so taken up with the narrow view of apocalyptic fervor. Entire parishes, families, individuals spending their entire life and energy devoted to preparing for the end of the world that they’ve convinced themselves is eminent because of what they’ve interpreted/projected onto an ancient esoteric text. What is worse, is that they are by far not the first people to do the exact same thing over the millennia. To that end, I’d like to take the time here to try and explain the history and context of apocalyptic literature, and what it should mean to us as spiritually contempaltive individuals.

To begin, we should really put apocalyptic literature in context. For starters, there isn’t just one text out there that details the end of the world. For those that think the Book of Revelation is a one of a kind text, it isn’t. We have examples of apocalyptic texts dating back thousands of years. In fact we have some apocalyptic texts that were written to revise previous apocalyptic texts. The mere fact that there are so many examples of this particular kind of text that have been written over the millennia tends to pull any credence from one particular text having the “the” answer. And the fact that we find apocalyptic texts from many different cultures shows that the need for such texts is a human condition, not a secret held by a single religion.

To give you an idea of the tremendous plurality of apocalyptic literature out there, I’ll list some of them here. Some of these are text entirely devoted to apocalyptic prophecy, others have only a few verses that refer to it, but they all have, at some point or another, been claimed as authority. So here we go: Isaiah, Ezekiel, Joel, Zechariah, Daniel, Ethiopic Book of Enoch, Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, Psalms of Solomon, Assumption of Moses, Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch, 4 Ezra, Greek Apocalypse of Baruch, Apocalypse of Abraham, Prayer of Joesph, Book of Eldad and Modad, Apocalypse of Elijah, Apocalypse of Zephaniah, Slavonic Enoch, Oracles of Hystaspes, Testament of Job, Testaments of the Three Patriarchs, Sibylline Oracles, Mark, 2 Thessalonians, Book of Revelation, Greek Apocalypse of Peter, Coptic Apocalypse of Peter, Ascension of Isaiah, 5 Ezra, 6 Ezra, Apocalypse of Paul, Thomas and Stephen, Apocalypse of Esdras, Apocalypse of Paul, Apocalypse of John, Arabic Apocalypse of Peter, Apocalypse of the Virgin, Apocalypse of Sedrach, Revelations of Bartholomew, Questions of St. Bartholomew, Apocalypse of Zerubbabel; then venturing into non Jewish/Christian sources - Apocalypse of the Mayan Calender, Apocalypse of the Mahdi, Apocalyptic Suras of al-Qur’an, the writings of Nostradamus, the Kali Age, etc.

In addition to these many texts, we have numerous examples throughout history of groups that were founded around an apocalyptic vision. To that end, for the many religious groups that were formed in the fervor of apocalyptic promise, when that apocalypse did not come to fruition they had two choices: 1) die out because their founding premise proved to be wrong, or 2) change the premise of their religion. Instances of such apocalyptic fervor are briefly as follows: destruction of the first temple, the Maccabeeian revolts, the Jesus movement of Judaism, the turn of the first millennium, the turn of the 20th century (Jehovah’s Witness), Hale Bop, Y2K, the “Left Behind” followers, etc.

Many people are surprised to learn that Christianity, arising from the Messianic beliefs in Judaism, was initially an apocalyptic religion. In essence, the Messiah was supposed to come, overthrow the oppressive regime, and bring forth a new world order. When Jesus died on the cross, this threw a major wrench into the whole Messianic scheme. So we have evidence of early Christianity trying to cope and redirect from this. When we read in the New Testament that “some of you will die before [this new age] comes to pass”, the NT writer is addressing a substantial concern at the time that people were growing old and dying before the new reign of Christ had taken over. To that point, it was the understanding that the people had seen the coming of the Messiah and the time of change was immediately at hand. Apparently, the promises set forthin prophecy about the Messiah weren’t coming true as they had expected. Of course, that is the point/problem with apocalyptic literature, it is purposefully ambiguous and open to a wide range of interpretations.

Which brings us to our next point: the purpose of apocalyptic literature. For the most part, apocalyptic literature is written for a specific people in a specific time in order to give hope in an otherwise distraught situation. For instance, the Jewish people in diaspora after the fall of the first (or even second) temple. According to faith, they were the chosen people, and their God was a righteous God that had promised them their kingdom. If that were the case, then why were the Jewish people in exile and under oppressive rule? To answer that discrepancy, we have prophetic writing explaining that the Jewish people have not kept up their side of the bargain - they have not been righteous enough, themselves. In another text, a prophet claims that the Jewish people are simply being tried so that they will be proved worthy of God’s promise. In either case, the the prophet claims that the time will come when God will overthrow the current earthly rulers and restore Israel to her rightful place - the steadfast will be saved while the unrighteous will be thrown away.

The same message appears in Revelation. This is the common theme of all apocalyptic literature - that times are tough now, but wait it out, continue to be good and then God will come to reorder the world and set things right. Apocalyptic literature is written for a very specific purpose: to alleviate the pain of an oppressed group of people and offer hope for a better future. Working off the fears that are present in their current situation, an apocalyptic writer tries to direct the people to be better in order to be ready for or in fact hasten God’s intervention.

If used to give hope or encourage people to be better, then apocalyptic literature is a good spiritual tool. But when used as a fear monger, or to intentionally divide or exclude people, then it becomes an aberration. If we are focused on an end goal, the end of the world and what someone has told us it will have to be like, then we can’t possibly be present in the here and now.

As spiritual contemplatives, we should be focused on the presence and experience of God in the here and now, for that is the only place that we can experience God happening. Besides, as contemplatives we strive to find God in the question (the questing) not in ”the” answer. The idea of God coming in the end to rectify the world is a misguiding teaching. I think it’s better to understand God’s transformation of the world into a better age by focusing on how we are God’s tools for doing so. If we all begin to connect to the expression and presence of the Divine in each of us, and thus recognize that same touch of the Divine in all those around us, the experience of God in this world, God incarnate in us, grows and grows until it fills the world. And would not the world be an entirely different place if we all recognized the God in each of us?

So many of these apocalyptic texts describe the destruction of evil after evil has taken over the world. If you want to see that as how it will happen and even believe that’s how it’s happening right this very moment, all well in good. But if that’s the case, then we need to reevaluate how evil is destroyed. Evil isn’t a separate force, no more than darkness is a separate entity from light. Evil in a person is simply an absence or perhaps the overshadowing of good. How much healthier would it be to see apocalypse as the invitation to see God in others, thus bringing God to fruition on earth and overcoming evil by encouraging goodness? Personally, I like that a whole lot more than an apocalypse in which God has to murder all “others” out there.

Sure, an apocalypse in which we all become the embodiment of God isn’t as exciting as fire raining from the skies, but I’m looking for spiritual fulfillment, not a Hollywood Oscar. Andsure, acknowledging the Divine in everyone around me won’t feel as good for my ego as thinking I’m saved and everyone else isn’t, but I’d rather experience God for all God is rather than limit God to what I think God should be for my benefit.

Amen.

I have a great fondness for the Landmark Midtown Art Cinema here in Atlanta. I count myself very lucky to have this theatre around as it is one of the only venues here in Atlanta that shows the greater variety of independent and more influential films that are being produced today. Last night, Br. Addison and I went to see the new documentary on Hunter S. Thompson. That alone will be topic for a later post. But to my great surprise, I saw a preview for a new film by Parvez Sharma (Director) and Sandi DuBowski (the same producer of “Trembling Before G-d”).

As with DuBowski’s previous film, Sharma and DuBowski explore the intersection of religion and homosexuality, but this time Sharma will lead us into the heart of dogmatic and fundamentalist Islam. The trailer alone caught my breath and left me stunned. (http://www.firstrunfeatures.com/trailers_jihadforlove.html) It was obvious, just from this glimpse, that this will be an exceptionally courageous and powerful film.

One line in particular from the trailer frightened me the most. Clad in his white robe, what I assume is a Muslim cleric states: “Homosexuality is a crime in Islam, and is punishable by death…The only difference among the jurists is how the person should be killed. That’s the only difference.” And here we see the ironic bedfellows of fundamentalist christians and fundamentalist muslims. Just as I’ve written before, here again Christianity and Islam share a commonality, but unlike previous posts, here we see that both religions are subject to the same maligned interpretations of their fundamentalist or even orthodox sects.

It proves to be the case in every religion: the fundamentalists - and to a degree, the doctrinally orthodox - are the most violent, angry and hate-filled individuals of their world-encompassing religions. And though the fundamentalists are not majorities within their faiths, they are typically the most vocal and outwardly (in both word and action) violent and abusive. It should bear striking witness to the fact that none of these fundamentalist sects could exist without a scapegoat they can target. Within my own Christian faith, it saddens me that these denominations have chosen to revert back to the ritual of scapegoating, the very practice that Jesus abolished.

And it is no wonder that these fundamentalists are trying so hard to protect their hatred against homosexuals. After all, the LGBTQ community is one of the last scapegoats they have left. In most culturally advanced countries, equalities have been offered (at least on paper) between the races, and between the sexes. If these religions lost the legal ability to persecute, intimidate, harass and kill homosexuals without fear of moral or ethical reprisal, then who would they have left to hate? Who would be left to stand above so that they will be able to feel justified in themselves? Who would be left to target and abuse and thus save them from finally having to look inwards at themselves?

It still remains dangerous within Christianity and Judaism, let alone Islam to stand up against and especially expose the prejudices that remain against homosexuals. But fundamentalists in all faiths have been allowed the shelter of silence and twisted religious tolerance for their violence for too long. The only way to end it is to bring their bloodied hands to the light for all to see. It appears that this film will have the courage to do just that. I applaud Sharma and DuBowski for this effort and pray that it will be a solid step towards protecting those who are so inhumanely being hurt. It is time to shatter the silence that surrounds this violence and finally give speech to those who are being killed without a word. As a Christian, and fundamentally as a contemplative, I believe in a God of Love. And as the title of their film indicates, we will have to fight for that Love. But the weapons we choose to bear will have to be films like this instead of the typical weapons that fundamentalists have chosen to use for so long. I can only pray that it will be enough to make a difference.

Amen.

Needless to say, I am in love with my camera and have been doing little else but photography since Christmas. You can check out a lot of my latest efforts in my DA gallery. That being said, this is my latest shot...one I've been wanting to capture for some time.


Atlanta Drought by *angelboi-red on deviantART

...and the city says I'm not allowed to water my garden. I wonder how many days worth of water went down that drain? No...I'm not bitter at all. I wouldn't be quite so steamed if this wasn't the fourth time I'd seen this, and the previous three times there were city workers standing around watching the water run. Kicked myself each time that I didn't have my camera handy to document...well, this time I got my shot.

It still being Christmas and all (12 days, remember?), I figured I was due a post for this festive season.

It seems this year went by in such a rush, but I find myself saying that more and more each year as I get older. Still, I tried to remain true to the season of Advent, staying detached from the Holiday bustle, and take stock internally of how this years has progressed. I have so many friends that do not come from a liturgical church, so the idea of Advent tends to be lost on them. As they sing their Christmas songs and have their Christmas parties starting as soon as Thanksgiving is over, I see the Chirstmas celebration in full swing for a month before the actually day arrives. The celebration is so drawn out, I can’t help but think that the spirit is worn out of the holiday as well. In fact, I have one friend whose church didn’t even have a Christmas Eve or Christmas day service. The meaning of the actual day has gotten lost.

Why do we celebrate Advent? Why do we hold ourselves back in hopeful expectation of the celebration of Christmas? Honestly, it’s the same reason we have foreplay before sex. For an event as important as Christmas, why are we so intent on rushing into it, taking it for what it’s worth for instant gratification and then finding ourselves spent by the time Christmas day actually arrives?

Christmas is such a brief celebration in our Liturgical Calendar as it is. So quickly do the wreaths of holly become the crown of thorns. The evergreen tree on which we hang our beautiful ornaments will soon be a tree upon which we hang the fragile and broken body of Chirst. But for these brief 12 days, we take the time to celebrate the birth of God in our lives. We have prepared through Advent to push aside the clutter that has built up in our hearts to make room for the indwelling of the Divine in each of us. But without that preperation, that Indwelling gets lost. The Presence remains hidden.

But if we take the time to stop in all the hectic driving of the holidays, and ask ourselves where we can find the incarnation of God in each of our lives, where ever it is we find that we need God most, then as we arrive at Christmas day and see that vulnerable infant, that God in flesh for each of us, we can truly appreciate the wonder that such a gift is.

So as we continue our celebration and begin our New Year, I pray that we can find the time to stop, even if for just a moment, and feel the Presence inside, a Presence of God that is in us all. Amen.

The Lectionary reading for this Sunday (Proper 18, Year C) was Luke 14:25-33.

“Jesus turned to them and said to them, ‘Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, even life itself, cannot be my disciple…For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him…Or what king, going out to wage war aginst another king will not sit down first and consider whether he is able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against him with twenty thousand? If he cannot, then while the other is still far away, he sends a delegation and asks for the terms of peace. So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.'”

( Meditation on Luke )

While reading excerpts from the Persian Sufi poet Hafiz last night at our Order’s meeting, this poem began to form in my mind during our space of silence towards the end:

God laughs at me.

Lord knows, he laughs at me a lot.

Have you ever watched an ant

Wander about scattered and confused

Searching for the scent of a trail he can only hope is there?

God lifts this ant up upon His finger

To get a closer look.

In a flash, God becomes a drop of honey

And this ant is drawn intrinsictly

To that Divine Nectar

And discovers the pure sweetness

Of His existence.

Amen.

This story really begins some 40 plus years ago when my dad purchased a 1964 Dodge Dart, GT, Golden Anniversary model. It was a two door, four in the floor stick shift and slant six engine. Needless to say, it was a great car. It was in that car that he took my mom on their first blind date. It was in that car that mom was driven to the hospital when I was about to be born and in that car that I was driven home. In fact, he had to take a seat belt from the front seat to put in the back to hold down my car seat because the Dart was made with only front seat belts.

Well, growing up that car was always there. It sat by the driveway after he got a new car and started deteriorate. I remember dad pulling it onto the drive way every year or so to charge the battery with the idea that he would start driving it again. For a while we had a basketball hoop set up beside it on the drive way and I would stand on the roof of the car to try and dunk the ball. I used to get in the car, clear the spider webs out of the front seat and pretend to drive.

When I was 17 and working on my Eagle Award, dad made the far fetched promise that if I got my Eagle we would get that car up and running. Not long after, three days before my 18th birthday in fact, my Eagle paper work was turned in and dad owed me a working Dart.

Now, for those who know me and have ever wondered why it takes me so long to get around to things I've said I would do, I would like to point out that this is apparently learned from my father if not just hereditary. Yet, I don't dad knew just how tenacious I would be when it came to getting this car up and running. After about a year of badgering he finally started working on it.

Then we found the rust in the floor boards. The Dodge Dart, you see, is a unibody car. That means the whole body, floors boards and all are one piece of metal. So we were faced with finding expensive patches to weld in or find a whole new body. Thus began the body odyssey. We then spent the next five plus years looking for a Dart body to place what we had. After much further pestering, a car was found up in Iowa, if I remember correctly, that would serve. In fact, the car was partially restored and would serve better than replacing parts on the other one. So the car was bought, shipped down to Atlanta and driven to my parents house.

After many months of working on the car, and finding one new problem after each one we fixed, and seven years since the bargain was struck and I am thrilled to say that my happy ass is now driving around in my 1964 Dodge Dart, GT. Even better than dad's Dart, this one's a push buttom automatic. She's red with a white stripe down the side and chrome all along her. She's up and running which only leaves fine tuning then work on the body paint and interior patch ups.

After seven years I have my working Dart, and I love it! She's a thrill to drive around. She get's soooo many looks and people are always honking and saying what a nice car it is.

To cap off this little piece of automotive history, I came across this commercial on youtube.

So yeah, it's been a while since I've updated my journal. I've been meaning to make a post to my Order's blog, but haven't even managed to get around to that. So here's touching base.

I have discovered that day old krispy kreme doughnuts are still very good and make a great lunch.

I have discovered that I really need to start exercising more. Thank you dad for yet another pair of genese that Addison got and I didn't.

I have discovered that it took my 7 attempts and finally going to MSWord to figure out how to spell exercise only to find out that I had spelled it correctly the first time.

I have discovered that I am way to busy. There used to be a time when I had lots of "me" time. I could spend whole evenings doing calligraphy or reading. Now, I have to fight to cram in 30 minutes of calligraphy a week. I read when I can, but am usually to tired at night to do so before bed. Still, I'm enjoying all that I'm doing. I just find I don't have time to do everything I like. The hermit in me is screaming to be given space. Urban monk...a damn hard life to live and ballance.

I am still enjoying my new job.

I am wishing my old job would go away and leave me alone. Having a former fellow employee point out that as long as I'm not helping my boss start a new book store I'm ok (all I told them was that I was his personal assistant. I know perfectly well that I'm ok doing what I'm doing. I know that my old boss did not live up to his end of the job. But he's the kind of man that would take a 26 year old to court because he had made him sign a noncompete contract at age 23 right out of college in a right to work state (there's one good thing about Georgia). Still, it's like the bad abusive ex that won't go away no matter who hard you've tried to make it clear the relationship is over and they have no pull over you. *sigh*

I have discoverd that Pride is not here yet, and I am growing impatient. The band performances this coming weekend are going to be awesome. Dude, I get to march down Peachtree leading the marching band for Pride. Never did I imagine that I'd get to do such a thing.

I have discovered that I really REALLY need more hours in a day and more days in a week to get things done.

And now, back to work.

(Is is Pride yet?)

A Baptist gentleman that I know was talking to me the other day about the Muslims he’s seen in the papers.

“You see, they’re so intolerant! They don’t let anybody over there be Christian or Jewish or whatever.”

“That’s just the fundamentalists, though,” I responded.

“Oh yeah? Well when Islam first came about and they started taking over everywhere and conquering all the Christian lands, they had a law back then that said it was illegal to convert a Muslim. If you did, they would kill you!”

“But don’t you get all fired up when people even talk to you about other faiths, let alone try to convert you? When was the last time you said something nice about a Mormon that came to your door?”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to kill them. My religion’s never done that! My Bible would never teach something like that the way their Koran does. That’s just aweful.”

Indeed, I thought later after we had parted, to teach such a thing of intolerance would be terrible. What religion could claim to be good that taught violence based on insecurites. Wouldn’t a religion be terrible if it taught this in it’s scripture?:

“If anyone secretly entices you—even if it is your brother, your father’s son or your mother’s son, or your own son or daughter, or the wife you embrace, or your most intimate friend—saying, ‘Let us go and worship other gods’, whom neither you nor your ancestors have known, 7any of the gods of the peoples that are around you, whether near you or far away from you, from one end of the earth to the other, 8you must not yield to or heed any such persons. Show them no pity or compassion and do not shield them. 9But you shall surely kill them; your own hand shall be first against them to execute them, and afterwards the hand of all the people. 10Stone them to death for trying to turn you away from the Lord your God…”

Stone them to death?!?! Can you imagine a religion in today’s modern world that would teach such a thing in it’s scripture? I hear so many Christians here in the West cry against such intolerance. Such a book that holds words like that can’t be holy, they cry!

I’m not sure what worries me more, though. Is it that the same Christians I hear berating such teachings as the Word of God then turn around and attack people of other faiths just for being visible? Or that these same Christians who think such violent actions against converting someone is absurd will turn around and try to impress laws upon our own country that favor their own religion? Or is it that Chirstians who would condem all of Islam for the extreme views of a fundamentalist minority would forget their own religious history of inquisitions, witch hunts and lynchings?

Or is what worries me most the fact that the above passage isn’t found in Al-Qur’an, but instead I came across it in my daily lectionary, in a reading from Deuteronomy…in my faith’s own “Holy Scripture”…in what we keep trying to say is the innerrant “Word of God”?

How terrible the image we see through the window when we come to find out that the window is only a mirror.

Amen.

For this Mother’s Day, my family went to the annual Renaissance Festival. Overall, it was quite an enjoyable trip. Part way through, however, God happened for me by curious means.

As we were sitting watching one of the many shows that are offered across the Festival, my mother leaned over to me and said that she was feeling faint. The Boy Scout in my kicked in and I handed her her bottle of water. She took a few sips and went back to watching the show. Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw her slowly lean forward towards the bench in front of us. I quickly reached around her and guided her into my lap. There were some very kindpeople sitting behind us that helped lay her out on the bench. She stayed unconscious for several minutes, but I kept her steady in my arms. I kept her neck straight so she could breathe easily and held her close as they applied ice to her forehead and neck. After a time, she came round again, disoriented and queasy, but alright.

The irony of that moment did not escape me as the two of us were cast in this reverse Pieta. Here I was holding my mother, fragile and helpless in my arms on Mother’s Day when we celebrate the day she became a mother and held me more times than I could ever count, fragile and helpless in her arms. In our Order one of our exercises to see God not just as Father but as Mother. To do so we reflect on our own mothers and the images that conjures. It was very distinct in that moment, one of those pervasive moments of insight from Divine- as I held her head in my lap I knew that I was holding God there close to me, just as mom had held me, just as God holds us all.

It wasn’t until later when I replayed the scene in my mind that I was struck with how vulnerable that moment was. My heart aches when I think of her falling forward, unconscious towards that bench. I have but a glimpse now of what she’s felt when I’ve been ill, when I’ve been in such need of her help. That moment reminds me of how precious my mother is to me. And I thank God for Her grace in watching out for us both through all these years.

Amen.

Five hours and I'm outta this store! But who's counting?

So this weekend was wonderful! The Inman Park Fest. was fantastic and the Atlanta Freedom Marching Band sounded top notch in the parade. Directing the band and dancing down the avenue was so much fun! There is such an amazing atmosphere at the Inman Park Fest. There were families, teenagers, college students, gays, straights, hippies and suburbanites. The booths of niknaks and art were beautiful and fun. Oh! And I got a wonderful haning deck chair to go under the porch. I forsee many many evenings spent in this wonderfully comfortable chair reading and enjoying my tea while surrounded by my garden of flowers and vegetables.

This Sunday, I finally took my younger brother to Six Flags; this fullfilling a promise I made to him when he was in 8th grade. For those playing the home game, that would be six years ago. So let it never be said that I don't keep my promises. I would like to think that this is a fine example of monastic patience and perseverence as opposed to my laziness and procrastination, but I know better. Nonetheless, thanks to my good friend Erin, we were able to go and get discounted tickets and we had a blast, even if the last sight of my favorite pocket knife was it twirling artistically towards the ground as I was hurtling along the Superman Ride.

In other news, my car was broken into last night while I was at Russ' condo in Atl. I was parked in midtown which makes this the second time my car has been broken into in that area. Unlike the first time, though, when they just ganked my pool cue and a walking cane, this time they were far more thorough. I lost all my CDs, check book, two credit cards, the owner's manual to my car(what the hell are they going to do with that?), my insurance info for health and vehicle, cash and change, my new sunglasses (yet again, cheap walmart glasses stay with me for years, but the minute I breakdown and get a nice pair they wonder off), my French language lab of cassettes and text books, my house keys and work keys, and my rosary.

They stole my rosary.

Does this not strike anyone else as terribly out of place? Who stoops to stealing from someone, violating their space and property and then steal the instrument and symbol of prayerful practice? B*tch of it all is that it was the rosary given to me by my first spiritual father years ago that had been given to him by his spiritual father. It was the first rosary I ever had and the one that started me on my Christian contemplative exploration. God only knows how many laps I had prayed around those beads. It wasn't even a nice one. Just a simple rosary of plastic beads and a little pewter cross.

But, really, it's just stuff. The window will be replaced. The checking account has been cancled and the credit cards have been taken care of. The CDs will take forever to replace, especially since some I will never be able to find again, but I'll always find more CDs. They open the trunk through the back seat but only found loads of books and left those untouched. They at least left my Rumi book. I'll find a new pair of sunglasses (probably from walmart this time). Overall, I'm rather calm about it, as opposed to two and half years ago when it happened the first time.

I was furious then. I kept imagining seeing the person who had stolen my cane and my pool cue walking down the street and then being able to get it back and be sure they paid for it by beating the ever living hell out of them. That was then.

Now, I can only hope and pray that whoever it was that felt the need to rob me they can find stability in their life so that they never have to victimize others or victimize themself again. I pray that if this person was young, this does not become a habit for their life. If they are older, I pray they find help to escape this cycle. The romanitc optimist in me prays that maybe if their conscious leans in need of hope, perhaps that rosary that did me so much good will be the spark that allows them a new path to discover. Or maybe they'll just throw it away when they realize its worth so little to someone who doens't know what it means, to someone who thinks they can make their life by taking from someone else's.

"It's no longer just a daydream,"

For nearly three years now, I have been working for a rare book company. It was a job that I had never imagined doing while in college, but as luck would have it my roommate tobe when I moved back into Atl. was leaving this particular company to be a librarian and set me up with an interview to fill her position.

In the beginning, I was taken aback by how much the job fit me. My days were spent researching books, tracking down books and building collections for my clients. I got to work in the genres that I loved most like religion, poetry, classic fiction, juvenile, and art. I got to work with people that loved the same books and subjects I did. Unlike typical retail, I wasn't just a counter salesman that waits for someone to come and buy what they see on the shelf. Instead, I was actively hunting down what my clients needed and really wanted.

But after several months I discovered this: I love the rare book world, but the company I was with or rather the boss for whom I worked made my job miserable. But I loved the material and the clients with whom I worked. But one absurd antic after another from my boss made it less and less worth my while.

That's when I said, I love the work I do, I just can't stand the place I work. If only I had a boss that acted like a professional then I'd have it made.

"If you decide to make it your life."

So several weeks back, out of the blue, a client of mine contacted me with the prospect of a opening a rare books store to sell his collection. Everything we've discussed is spot on. He's made it clear that he's focused on taking care of and appreciating his employees. He has been nothing but professional. And the collection of books and maps that he has amassed is amazing! He's a great guy, a man of great character and he wants me to help start his business. For the first six months I will be working as his personal currator as I catalogue, research and appraisal his full collection. Then, we'll put the store together and see what we can do.

This seems so sudden. So out of the blue. It seems too good to be true. I'm so used to an unprofessional work place, that I almost don't believe what I'm hearing. But there is it, ready for me to say yes. I get to keep doing the work I love and I know I get to work for a boss that will truly appreciate the work I do. Wow.

"It's no longer just a daydream,
If you decide to make it your life."
--Train

Slowly tipping the copper ibrik so as not to disturb the settled grounds, I poured the dark sweet Turkish coffee into my demitasse. I always enjoy taking my coffee on my back porch. There I can sit and read in the early morning sun, surrounded by my potted plants of grapes, blueberries, and a lone planter of chamomile.

As I sat there this particular morning, I turned to the blueberry bush, my attention caught by the gentle drone of a bumblebee. One flower at a time, this little connoisseur made his way around the small spindly branches, sampling the small stashes of pollen in each delicate white cup. As I watched, movement caught the corner of my eye.

There in the same pot was a small sapling. It was a post oak smaller than my hand with all of seven leaves to make its crown. It was dancing there beneath the blueberry bush as though by magic. It danced of its own accord. There was no wind that would have started it swaying.

The bumblebee continued its course, completely unimpressed by this marvel. The sapling would dance for a while and then grow still, catching its breath before picking up again its excited choreography.

What a wonder that this little sapling could dance all on its own!

While watching this performance, I had grown still in my chair, not wanting to break the spell. As I sat there, I felt the slightest caress of a breeze against my arm. It was cool and so, so gentle. If I had been moving at all, I would not have recognized it.

Ah ha! There was the muse for my little prima dona’s dance. This gentle breeze, so easily missed was what my little sapling was responding to. How strange it was for me to see it swaying and not know why. I imagine the bumblebee ignored it because it didn’t understand.

How many people do we have the chance to meet each day that dance to a gentler breeze and we try not to see them? We try so desperately to ignore then. How many times have we been made uncomfortable by that one lone person who seems perfectly content with exactly where they are? They seem to bask in an unseen light and that light radiates from them.

We don’t know what gentle breeze is making their heart dance, and so we move quickly on. We avert our eyes. We try not to see someone enjoying what we know in our own hearts we are missing. But in that, we are just too busy moving about in our own lives. If we can simply stop for just a moment, become still, then we can feel that gentle breeze that moves them.

We must be still in order to recognize the most subtle breath of Holy Spirit. Others that dance to it when we are too busy to feel it ourselves look so out of place. But it’s there, always, for all of us to feel if we can but take a moment to be still and let that soft cool breath caress us.

And who knows! Maybe when we are finally still, we will not only feel that gentle breeze that causes someone else to dance, but maybe we will begin to dance to it as well.

Amen.

Veiled in the dim light surrounding the altar, I was sitting in the side chapel of the church meditating on the flicker vigil light that rested on the altar bewteen the two unlit candles (two, representing the full divinity and full humanity of the Christ) at the corners. As I stared, using the cadle as a form of visual centering in order to empty my mind and allow myself to be fully present and unhindered by distracting thoughts, my eyes lifted to the rose window above the altar. Most traditional anglo-catholic churches have this beautiful piece of architecture. The rose window is a large round window that can be at either end of the naive and is usually very ornate stained glass.

As I looked at the window I had one of those thoughts come into my head, one of those observations that resonates in my head and I know it's Someone tapping on my shoulder saying "this is what you need to see." The thought that came through my head as clearly as though someone were saying it right next to me was this:

Black is the stained glass window when there's no light shining through.

True enough, what was normally a vibrant array of colored glass was simply an expanse of black shapes gathered in a web of dull lead that keep them suspended in the wall. It was the middle of the night and the window was pitch black without the sun shining through. Despite the light of the candle on the altar and the low set lights in the ceiling, there was no color whatsoever to the stained glass.

Black is the stained glass window when there's no light shining through.

I began to open myself in meditation to the observation I had been offered. I had come to the Vigil with my own collection of emotional and spiritual baggage, particularly the feeling of loss and confusion from being pushed away by someone who had been a very close friend for a time. Coupled with that I brought the question "What is this need I have for a relationship in order to validate who I am?" These were at the top of my list when I started my Vigil, and offered these foremost in my conversation with God that night.

Black is the stained glass widnow when there's no light shining through.

The only way the window could be as beautiful as it was meant to be was if the sun's light was able to shine through. Like the window, I must find that inner light that is the Divine that will shine outwards and make my true colors come through. That light of God that is in all of us. It's not a light I can make myself anymore than the stained glass widown could produce its own luminescence. To reach my potential, to be as beautiful and happy as I can be, I have to touch and nurture that inner Light. I need to stop looking outside myself for that source of light, expecting someone else to bring out the best in me.

Without the connection to that Light, without being in touch with that Divine, the person I am to the world is as dark and faceless as that window. Of course, I've know this for ages. Sure the concept is familiar, but it took that tap on the shoulder to make it sink in.

Black is the stained glass window when there's no light shining through.

And that answers one other question for me. What kind of person should I look for to build a relationship? One who has found that Divine inside them and they glow with that light shining from within. A healthy relationship would be where we appreciate and enjoy the light shining from the other, not become dependent upon it. Not until I'm able to do that do I need to even approach a relationship now.

Amen.

Tonight is our Order's annual Great Vigil leading to the sunrise service of Easter. I must say that vigils rock my little world. Some people, ok most people cringe when they hear about having to stay up all night in meditation and prayer, but I get seriously pumped just thinking about it.

Why? Well, for one thing, every single vigil I've ever had has always been deeply moving for me; a profound experience. For those that have never actually kept a full vigil, it is difficult to describe the experience. There is a transformation that takes place over the course of the night, and when the morning finally comes it's as though my soul sighs in great release.

The Great Vigil consists of readings and psalms interspersed with periods of silence. Throughout the night, we stand watch over the tiny flickering flame of the new Paschal light. For the entirety of the night, that small candle will represent for us the presence of God as we meditate on the empty feeling that remained following Christ's crucifixion and before the resurrection. We sit through the darkest hours of the night before dawn. We struggle to ward off sleep as we focus on the presence of God deep within us, as we shelter our own flickering flames of God's Love within us.

Each year for my vigil I carry with me into the darkened church the emotional and spiritual baggage that I have managed to collect over Lent. I bear my own cross, as it were. I go in knowing that it will be a long night and that God and I are going to have a very vary long talk. I feel so vulnerable when I sit in my pew through the night, staring at the stripped altar, knowing that before the Divine I am similarly stripped bare.

It is in the darkness of the church that I delve inwardly to my own darkness. The pain of disappointment, the pain of confusion, the pain of rejection and loss, the pain of yearning...all of this I allow myself to feel while constantly recognizing that God is right there feeling and enduring it with me. Between the hours of 3 and 4 are when I feel the most alone. That truly is the darkest hour, when the stars have faded but the horizon has yet to lighten. The night animals have quieted and the morning birds have not yet started to sing. The night seems to hold its breath before the coming dawn as though still not entirely sure that dawn will come.

But the hour finally passes and I sit, my soul gasping from the struggle and fear. God is with me, so close I can touch Her, so close I need only whisper for Her to hear me. Again, it is so difficult to describe this to someone who has never experienced it. But then comes the dawn, the celebration of Easter begins! The light rises in the sky and the flickering of our candle is lost in the greater luminescence. The sun rises as we celebrate the rising of the Christ. The Sun breaks the fearful power of the dark night as the Christ breaks the terrible darkness of death.

And in all the celebration of the Easter Service, I sit trembling at the touch of a God who holds me closely. I want nothing more than to rest against that great shoulder and rest, wrapped so lovingly in God's arms. I can hear God whispering as I watch the service half dazed, God's hand cradling my face against Her chest, "It was tough, I know, but shhhh. I told you we'd make it through."

Amen.

Making lightening bugs? by ~angelboi-red on deviantART

I found this bumblebee doing..well...THIS with the christmas tree lights that we have going around the railing of our porch garden.

Sadhguru by ~angelboi-red on deviantART
Sunday morning, at 8:00 AM, I found myself in a parking lot in Rowell playing dodge ball with this man - the modern day Yogi, Sadhguru. I had originally gone to see a friend's investiture ceremony, that was a generl breakdown in communication on that. Regardless, I still wonder at the experience! Bright and early, working on a mere 4 hours of sleep (I can thank my friend Russ for that part), I was basking in an amazing sunrise and watching what an enlightened person does best: LIVE. Before they formally got us into circles to play, Sadhguru had brought out a frisbee to throw around. I would like to add at this point that Sadhguru has on hell of a wicked throwing arm.

Sunday morning was the fifth day of the program that he was leading. My friend had told me about the amazing things that Sadhguru had taught and said over the course of the past few days, and I had an idea of the wise contemplative that this man must be, but that morning was nothing like I would have expected and yet exactly what it should have been. Dancing around the crowd were the many children there who parents were going through the program.

Right there, seeing two little sisters play with a soccer ball, so free and genuine, I saw more of the reality of grace than perhaps anything Sadhguru could have taught. But then to be running around in my habit, playing dodge ball and clutching my rosary so it didn't get in the way as I pranced about, I experienced that grace in the crowd all around. Everyone being a kid again (or at least trying to be). Then Sadhguru joined the out circle and I'm proud to say that I finally got tagged out by none other than a kick-ass Yogi.

8:00 in the morning, and I found myself playing dodge ball. What a remarkable life it is.
Amen.

OK, so I tried for a more clipped writing style. Let me know what you think.
( Anthony's Song )

I have recently been reading Bishop John Shelby Spong's latest book titled "The Sins of Scripture." Though I am not quite finished with it (only a few pages left now), what he brings up towards the end of the book has sparked an interesting insight for meditation. I'd like to share that here.
( Unity versus Uniformity )