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During my summer vacation in 2003, I finally read Larry McMurtry’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Lonesome Dove. Although friends and family had often hyped the novel, it is one of those books I had never gotten around to reading. Eighteen years after it first appeared in print, I finally finished reading it — all 945 pages.

McMurtry is a delightful storyteller who simultaneously weaves numerous narrative plots with artfully developed and intriguing characters.

As the book begins, the two main characters, Woodrow Call and Augustus MacRae, two former Texas Rangers, are residing at the Hat Creek Cattle Company in the small backwater town of Lonesome Dove, Texas. Augustus is happy to live day-by-day frittering away his time with simple pleasures. Woodrow Call, on the other hand, is driven each day to accomplish something that is physically demanding, if not exhausting. While Augustus sits on the porch all afternoon and sips whiskey from a jug, Call is breaking his back in the hot Texas sun digging a new well. When they hear of the wide-open spaces of Montana, Call begins to dream about accomplishing something big, at least one last time before he dies. Together and for different reasons Call and Gus decide to take a cattle drive to Montana.

The novel tells of the deep abiding friendship of these two men who know each other so well. Even though they exasperate each other, each knows the other perhaps better than they know themselves. Shortly after they have begun the long, dangerous and arduous journey from Texas to Montana, Gus pulls Call aside and observes:

“I hope this is hard enough for you Call. … I hope it makes you happy.  If it don’t, I give up. Driving all these skinny cattle all [the] way [from Texas to Montana] is a funny way to maintain an interest in life.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Call said.

“No, but then you seldom ask,” Augustus said, “You should have died in the line of duty, Woodrow.  You’d know how to do that fine.  The problem is you don’t know how to live.”

“Whereas you do?” Call asked.

“Most certainly,” Augustus said.  “I’ve lived about a hundred to your one. I’ll be a little riled if I end up being the one to die in the line of duty, because it ain’t my duty and it ain’t yours either.  This is just fortune hunting.”  [Lonesome Dove, 242.]

As I read the story McMurtry tells of these two men and their friendship, I found myself asking a very important question: does it matter ultimately what we do or accomplish in our lives or is it more important to live life well?  To phrase the question somewhat differently, is the question “who am I” ultimately answered by what I have accomplished in my life or by the person I have become?

Long before Larry McMurtry wrote his novels, the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle maintained that the goal (telos) of human life is a whole life lived well. In his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle distinguished our human “virtues,” that is what we do well, from our “character,” that is who we are over time. We become excellent or virtuous at something, Aristotle maintained, through practice. We cannot become good at anything without first making mistakes. Sometimes the more mistakes we make, the more we learn. Human life is like that. We can only become excellent at something as we try again and again to get it right. When I used to teach ethics, I would ask my students on the first day of class, “am I an honest person?”  They of course replied that they had no way of knowing. In short, I was asking them whether I had the virtue of honesty and they were saying to me that they did not know me well enough to judge my character. As they got to know me through daily interactions with me, they were more able to come to a decision on that score.

Today much of what passes for ethics inquires only into individual decisions, asking whether they are right or wrong. This sort of ethics invariably identifies and discusses quandaries where clear-cut “yes” or “no” answers seem all but impossible. An ethics that asks about character forces us to ask different kinds of questions. What kind of person am I?  What or who do I wish to become? These sorts of questions are never easy to answer.  One thing, however, is certain: who I am is not the sum of the decisions I have made or have failed to make but rather a reflection of my character.

I am convinced that finding happiness and satisfaction in life depends to a great degree on how you have come to terms with the tension between what you do as opposed to who you are. I myself have not yet found balance between these two poles. My self-definition too often is based only on what I have accomplished. On this issue at least, I am still too much like Call, but want to be more like Gus.

However we understand ourselves, God is not through with us yet. It is only as we endure the difficulties and travails of the trail that is set before us, through fits and starts, trials and errors, that we begin to find within ourselves the proper balance between being and doing. Through God’s grace we can only hope to become the whole person God calls us to be.



While waiting in the airport in Tucson, Arizona, I read the following information printed inside the cap of a Snapple juice bottle: there are 119 grooves on the edge of a US quarter.  I have not checked the truth of this, but I will accept it at face value. This information, of course, is not earth-shattering but rather provided as a form of entertainment. As we all know, we live in an “information age” in which we are incessantly confronted by so much information that we cannot possibly know it all, much less process it. Much of that information is of little value. But that does not stem the flow of it coming at us wherever we go.

The technological advances of our age mean that we are never far from this incessant flow of information. Ordinary people now carry communication and information devices that once were reserved primarily for businesses. What seemed like a luxury a few years ago is now a necessity, especially if one wants to “stay connected.” No doubt, you have a mobile phone, a laptop computer, and numerous other devices that keep you connected. The problem with all this technology is that now it is hard to escape from its grip on our lives. Wherever we go, we now can be contacted by the office via telephone, an email message, a text message,  or overnight letter  The boundaries between work and leisure are eroded when we can be found at any time. Whether we are in the car, on a train, or in the air — at the beach or in our own backyard, our time away from work can always be interrupted.

“Multi-tasking” is the neologism coined to describe the frenetic activity of modern life.  I suspect that while “multi-tasking” is seen a virtue, at least in the business world today, in previous years it would have been called “being distracted.”

Even though no one used this term when I was growing up, I have long been a multi-tasker. When I was a full-time student, I sometimes studied with the stereo and television on at the same time, while I jumped from one subject to the other. Even now, I am invariably in the process of reading five or more books at the same time.  While I am aware that this kind of frenetic activity is not always good for me, I, like many people I know, find it hard to stop.

The patron saint of multi-taskers, if one can call her that, is Martha.  In the 10th chapter of the Gospel of Luke, we find the story of Jesus’ visit to the home of the two sisters Mary and Martha. While Mary sat at Jesus’ feet and listened to him, Martha was busy cooking, cleaning, and serving food to Jesus and the other guests.

But Martha was distracted by her many tasks, so she came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me.”  But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” (Lk. 10:40-42, emphasis added).

The meaning of this saying is not immediately clear. While it is possible that Jesus means that she need prepare only one dish, or that only a few things are really needed on the dinner table, Jesus’ words seem to point to a deeper, more spiritual meaning. If we examine the rest of the gospel of Luke, we see that Jesus again and again stresses that the duty of the Christian is to seek first and foremost to do the will of God. When we are busy doing so many things, we are more easily distracted from doing “the one thing that is needed.”

In the gospels, Jesus reminds those who seek to follow him that we should not allow ourselves to be identified solely by what we do. That is how we are often judged by the world around us. God cares above all about who we are. What we do, that is, how we choose to be stewards of the time that God has given us on the earth, flows from who we are.

In the midst of a multi-tasking world, take time to think about the “one thing” that God asks of you.



Lord God, in your compassion you granted to the Lady Julian many revelations of your nurturing and sustaining love: Move our hearts, like hers, to seek you above all things, for in giving us yourself you give us all; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. [Collect for Julian of Norwich]

Lady Julian of Norwich is remembered in the Episcopal Church and in the wider Anglican Communion on May 8th. Although little is known of her life, Archbishop Rowan Williams describes her writings as “what may well be the most important work of Christian reflection in the English language.” She may have been born to a prosperous family in Norwich in southeastern England in 1342 and she died sometime in 1416. In her writings she frequently claimed to know “no letters,” but that was more of a rhetorical flourish common to her age and her gender than a matter of fact.  On May 13, 1373 she reported that at the age of thirty-nine and a half that she received revelations that she felt compelled by God to write down. They were published at a later date with the title Showings (or Revelations).

The revelations described in Showings came to her as she lay on what she believed to be her deathbed. In her 30thyear Julian had asked God for “three graces”: “to have a recollection of Christ’s Passion” so that she “might see with my own eyes our Lord’s Passion which he suffered for me”; a “bodily sickness” that “might be so severe that it might seem mortal, so that I should in that sickness receive all the rites which the Holy Church had to give me, whilst I myself should believe that I was dying, and everyone who saw me would think the same,” so that she could experience all that death entailed prior to her own death and because of her desire to soon be with God; and three wounds, “the wound of contrition,” “the wound of compassion,” and “the wound  of longing with my will for God.” As a result “God sent me a bodily sickness,” she writes, “in which I lay for three days and three nights; and on the fourth night I received all the rites of the church.” (Showings, 125-127)

It is difficult to do justice to such a beautiful and comprehensive vision of God’s love for all humanity in a short reflection. I would like to focus on three of the best known and most beloved passages from her work in hopes that you might want to read deeper and explore it for yourself.

In the 31st chapter of this book of showings or revelations we find perhaps its famous words, where God tells Julian that “all manner of things will be well.”  The great majority of English translations of this passage, however, are inaccurate, because the Middle English words with which she writes are often translated according to the modern meaning of similar English words. The recently published guide, The Complete Julian of Norwich (2009), finally sets this right. As correctly translated, Julian writes:

And so our good Lord replied to all the questions and doubts I could raise, saying most reassuringly: “I have the ability to make everything well, and I have the knowledge to make everything well, and I have the wish to make everything well, and I shall make everything well, and thou shalt see for thyself that all manner of thing shall be well.

In the notes to Chapter 31, the editor explains that the four Middle English words underlined in the paragraph above, in order of their appearance, may, can, wil, and shalle, are often translated incorrectly in accordance with more modern meaning of these terms and not with the correct meanings of these words in Middle English. The modern English “may” is derived from ‘might’ and so this is better translated as “I have the ability.” The Middle English word can means to “know” or “to know how” (see for example the modern German verb meaning to know, “kennen”), and so is best translated as “I have the knowledge.”  In Middle English wil means want (the German word meaning want is “will”), and so this is best translated as “I have the wish.”  Finally, shalle in Middle English refers to a definite intention, that God “shall make everything well” (Complete Julian, 156).

Where other translations, for example, say, “I make all things well, and I can make all things well, and I shall make all things well, and I will make all things well,” the translation found in the Complete Julian of Norwich provides access to the richer meaning of this text.

In its larger context this passage is not a promise that we will never suffer in this life.  This revelation to Julian is closely connected to her sufferings and the sufferings of Christ.  The promise contained in this passage is in the context of our entering into and participating in the sufferings of Christ. We may suffer, but those sufferings ultimately will not overcome us.

In the 5th Chapter, Julian relates how God showed her “something small, no bigger than a hazelnut lying in the palm of my hand….”

I looked at it with the eye of my understanding and thought: What can this be? I was amazed that it could last, for I thought that because of its littleness it would suddenly have fallen into nothing. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasts and always will, because God loves it; and thus everything has being through the love of God. In this little thing I saw three properties. The first is that God made it, the second is that God loves it, the third is that God preserves it. But what did I see in it? It is that God is the Creator and the protector and the lover (Showings, 183).

What is so amazing about this passage and about the book as a whole is the vivid awareness of the love, care, and compassion that God, in unity of being and in trinity of persons, has for all creatures.  Her vision is one in which the whole Trinity is engaged and working in all things to bring divine love to fulfillment in every creature.

In both the revelation involving the hazelnut and in the revelation “that all manner of things shall be well,” Julian is uncompromisingly Trinitarian. This is evident in her description of the Trinity as God, the Creator, protector, and lover. When she tells us that God says,  “I have the ability,” she understands this to refer to the work of the Father. Similarly, “I have the knowledge” refers to the Son” and “I have the wish” refers to the Holy Spirit. “I shall make everything well” refers to the work of the whole Trinity of whom she says parenthetically, “three Persons and one truth.”

Although Julian’s writings are unrelentingly Trinitarian, the fact that a woman of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries could write about God as both a father and a mother, and about Jesus as a mother, is a surprise for many modern readers.  In the 58th chapter Julian writes:

…God almighty is our loving Father, and God all wisdom is our loving Mother, with the love and the goodness of the Holy Spirit, which is all one God, one Lord (Showings, 293).

The Showings are visions, as the collect for Julian says, of God’s “nurturing and sustaining love.” In conclusion, let us rejoice with Julian reciting her “five great joys”:

And so I saw that God rejoices that he is our Father, and God rejoices that he is our Mother, and God rejoices that he is our true spouse, and that our soul is his beloved wife. And Christ rejoices that he is our brother and Jesus rejoices that he is our saviour. These are five great joys as I understand, in which he wants us to rejoice, praising him, thanking him, loving him, endlessly blessing him, all who will be saved (Showings, 279).

Citations were taken from:

Julian of Norwich: Showings. The Classics of Western Spirituality.  Edmund Colledge, O.S.A. and James Walsh, S.J., eds. New York: Paulist Press, 1978

The Complete Julian of Norwich.  Father John-Julian, OJN., ed.  Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, 2009.



On a recent visit to New York City, once I had finished the business I had come to do, I made a beeline for Café Reggio. It is an old historic café that has operated in New York since 1927.  I had a couple of hours before my train left for Washington, D.C. and I figured I would first stop and have a cup of coffee there and then walk through Washington Square for a quick lunch at Veselka, my favorite Ukrainian restaurant in the East Village.

I first learned about Café Reggio in the mid-1990s when I met there with one of my graduate students. The café is located on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village, just around the corner from Bleecker Street, a storied place in 1960’s American folk music. When I went there for the first time, my student showed me the best seat in the house, hidden in a corner by a window looking out onto the street. It is tucked in against the wall so that one can see the whole interior of the café from that perspective. While most of the chairs in the café are wrought iron patio style furniture paired with marble-top tables, the two chairs in the window are ornately carved of wood, covered with burgundy cushions, and bolted to the floor. Whenever I visit New York I always try to fit in a brief stop at Cafe Reggio and I always hope that that particular seat — what I like to call “my chair” — will be available.

During the years our family lived in the Philadelphia area, I used to take a trip every couple of months to New York, during which I would write and grade papers on the train. I usually stopped at Café Reggio for at least forty-five minutes to an hour to write. This cafe, it seems to me, is the kind of place in which one should begin writing the “great novel” or some other such adventurous and noble undertaking.

When I arrived around 11AM the café was nearly empty. There to my delight was “my” unoccupied table and chair. I quickly sat down and ordered a cappuccino. The coffee there is served with a good dose of cinnamon and because, as far as I can tell, the milk is often heated with the coffee, the cappuccinos have more of an old-fashioned style than one finds today at the newer coffee chains. On each of the tables one finds an ornate metal sugar bowl and spoon. As I sat down to enjoy the surroundings, I looked up at the old tin ceilings that rested above the walls painted rusty brown and covered in places with dark wood. On the walls hang numerous antique oil paintings that have the certain dark patina that comes with age and constant exposure to the light of a busy public café.

I am certain that you have your own favorite “haunts” in places where you once lived or where you frequently visit either for work or pleasure. They might be restaurants, parks, gardens, libraries, bookstores, or particular buildings or structures. Such places offer us a sense of stability and comfort when we venture outside of our daily routine in places distant from wherever we call home. While a café away from home, or some other such place, cannot be called a “sacred space” in the ordinary sense of the words, it can be a place in which we re-collect ourselves, making it possible for us to move about in our strange and at the same time familiar space to which we have returned. Because returning to a favorite place can be refreshing, even exhilarating, we may also find that our spirits are lifted and that in some way we are restored and renewed.

Sitting there with the coffee in my hand, a stanza from a poem of Gerard Manley Hopkins, whose poetry is suffused with a profound Christian spirituality, came to mind: “the world is suffused with the grandeur of God.” I was not looking at the Grand Canyon, a beautiful beach, a spectacular mountain view, or a majestic waterfall. I was in the middle of New York City looking at the world in and through an ordinary cup of coffee. Yet, I was thankful for the splendor of this world and the “grandeur” of God made evident to me in that moment. Perhaps it was borne of the exhilaration of being in one of my favorite places or perhaps it was just a result of a good dose of caffeine, but I think it was more than that. It was in and through something in which I found simple happiness, that God found me and invited me to open my eyes to the “grandeur” of the people, places, artifacts and devices of every day life in which God is revealed.

Christian spirituality ultimately is about finding and responding to God in all that happens to us, in all the places we find ourselves, and in all the things we do. Each and every day try to remember to open your eyes to the grandeur of God revealed in the ordinariness of everyday life. You never know how with even such a simple act of faith you might be surprised, even be overcome by joy.



Sometimes when we read, we encounter a footnote in the text that opens up a world far beyond the text we are reading, an unexpected world, beyond the world of the text.

The footnote is an interruption in our reading.  We can follow its lead and be distracted for the moment from what we are reading or we can ignore it until a later time.  Whether we choose to read it by compulsion or by an idle curiosity, the footnote leads one to imagine another book that could have been written.

Just such an adventurous footnote appeared in A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy, an anthology of Chinese philosophical texts first published in 1963. The book presents excerpts from a variety of Chinese philosophers (with occasional editorial commentary) from Confucius, Mo Tzu, and Lao Tzu up to the philosophical turmoil brought on by Mao and his “Cultural Revolution” in Communist China. I bought the book first as a textbook for a course on Asian Religions and later used it when I taught courses on Asian religions at Temple University and at Rosemont College. Other than that, it has been shuffled around unceremoniously on my overflowing and cramped bookshelves for almost 30 years. It is a book that I pick up and scan through every four or five years, usually in one of those whimsical moments when I spot it on the shelf and it beckons me to reacquaint myself with it. I recently picked it up in a moment of curiosity. I can’t say why then and not some other time. All I can say is that there are times when a long-forgotten book can still exert an inexplicable pull on us and we simply have to pick it up and begin to read.

I began reading excerpts from Chang Tzu, a lesser-known Taoist philosopher, who came after Lao Tzu. Then I switched back to the text of the Tao Te Ching.  All of a sudden, the text was interrupted by an editorial comment noting that the symbolism of water in the text of Lao Tzu “is ethical rather than metaphysical.” The comment continued:

“It is interesting to note that while early Indians associated water with creation [Rig Veda 10:129], and the Greeks looked upon it as a natural phenomenon, ancient Chinese philosophers, whether Lao Tzu or Confucius [Analects 9:16], preferred to learn moral lessons from it.  Broadly speaking, these different approaches have characterized Indian, Western, and East Asian civilizations, respectively. “[1]

Moral lessons from water? My mind began to race. I understood what the author was saying about water in Taoist thought, but was this really the case with Western thought? It was such a sweeping generalization; yet my mind was captured by the image.  What do the biblical texts do with water?  I wondered.  Then I returned to the first question, what does it mean to learn moral lessons from the behavior of water? Here I was in another place, another world, imagining what a book that compared how water as an idea was employed in Indian, Western and East Asian civilizations might look like.  This was a book the author had not chosen to write, yet it was a book that at that moment I wanted to read.

At that moment, however, I was reading a book on Chinese philosophy, not an unwritten book still waiting to be composed somewhere stashed in my imagination; for that moment I needed to be content with the book that already had been written—the book that was in my hands.

In the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu poetically describes the ideal life as one lived in harmony with the ways things are.  If we live in harmony with the Tao, or the “way,” all is balanced and whole. And so at last I began to consider how from water, moral lessons could be learned.

The supreme good is like water, which nourishes all things without trying to. It is content with the low places that people disdain. Thus it is like the Tao.

In dwelling, live close to the ground.

In thinking, keep to the simple.

In conflict, be fair and generous.

In governing, don’t try to control.

In work, do what you enjoy.

In family life, be completely present.

When you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare or compete, everybody will respect you. [2]

These are profound words. Who would have thought that in a moment my thoughts would be taken back to ancient Chinese thought and the moral lessons about humility, balance, and harmony that can be learned from water? There are convergences between ancient Chinese philosophy and what Jesus taught about humility, forgiveness, trust in God, and living the present.  But that would be another book, only imagined, but a book not yet written.

1. Wing-Tsit Chan (ed. & trans.), A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy (Princeton University Press. 1963), 143. See also p. 36.

2. Tao Te Ching: A New English Version, with Foreword and Notes by Stephen Mitchell. (San Francisco, Harper Collins, 1988), 8.



For a few short weeks in the spring, my favorite flower, the tulip, emerges from the earth.

To be honest, I don’t always take the time to stop and admire the flowers or even to “smell the roses.” I am not a gardener, though I have made sporadic attempts over the years to plant and maintain a vegetable patch in my backyard. There is something, however, about tulips that makes me take notice.  Perhaps it is sheer variety of tulips with their wide array of splendidly bright colors that makes them so appealing to me; or perhaps it is the shape and composition of the petals.  Maybe it is the fact that their shiny petals, at once so sturdy and so frail, are on splendid display for only three weeks a year and that makes their annual appearance so noteworthy.

Although tulip bulbs appear outwardly to be hearty, they do not always bloom as expected. In the warmer climate of the mid-Atlantic we usually have to plant new tulip bulbs in the fall to make sure that they bloom in the spring. This is due to the fact that the ground does not always get cold enough during the winter months to ensure a bloom in the spring.  When tulips don’t bloom, they send up a disappointing single leaf or two, a telltale sign that nothing more is to be expected.

In Northern climates, Easter coincides with the arrival of spring, the time when the newly blooming flowers and budding trees emerge from an earth that for so many months had seemed lifeless. Because of the juxtaposition of Easter and the arrival of spring, it is easy for us to see how Easter can function as a symbol of the hope of new life emerging from death, similar to the emerging of the new life from a once dormant tulip bulb.

Easter, however, is more than the seasonal renewal of nature. On Easter Day we celebrate a supernatural event, that God raised Jesus who had been crucified from the dead, giving the promise of new life to us and to all we love. When Jesus spoke of his death and resurrection in the gospel of John, he employed the metaphor of plant life. “Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24). While this biological metaphor may be helpful to our understanding of the meaning of Jesus’ death and resurrection, it can easily lead us to a poorly developed theology concerning our Easter faith.

The resurrection of the crucified Jesus from the dead is more than a metaphor for new life born out of death or loss, or from the reemergence of a tulip from the earth. Easter is the story of a mighty act of God, both in and outside our human history. In his sermon on the Day of Pentecost, Peter proclaimed that “God raised this Jesus whom you crucified…from death, “having freed him from death because it was impossible for him to be held in its power” (Acts 2: 24, 36).

When tulips reappear in the spring, I give thanks to God for the beauty of the created order. When I think about the resurrection of Jesus, however, I know that biological metaphors cannot capture the meaning and magnitude of the Easter event. The resurrection of Jesus, who had been crucified and had died, from the dead to new life, can in no way be understood as a recurrent act of nature. Jesus’ resurrection is nothing like a bulb that sends forth a flowering shoot each year.  The resurrection of Jesus we celebrate at Easter is, however, a singular act of God in the past that continues to give us hope in the present and in our future.

Alleluia! Christ is risen.  The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!



pexels-photo-414160.jpegEarly in the first century AD, St. Paul wrote the following words from prison urging Christians in a church he himself had founded to live lives dedicated to Jesus Christ:  “I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to live a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace” (Ephesians 4: 1-3).  A few verses later he urged his readers to “grow up”  in the Lord (Eph. 4:15) and to “put away your former way of life…to be renewed … and to clothe yourselves with the new self, created according to the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness” (Eph. 4: 22-24). If one were to ask Paul what he thought true Christian spirituality was about,  he would not, I suspect, have given a definition of it. Rather, he would have offered the kind of practical advice offered above.  

What stands out most about the advice St. Paul offers is that spirituality involves change. Christians first are called to grow up. When we commit ourselves to a life of discipleship, of following Jesus, we are not fully formed or fully matured. That will take some time and commitment on our parts. We will have to renounce our old way of life and then we will have to embrace a new life of righteousness and holiness.  We have to cast off the old garments of sin and unrighteousness and clothe ourselves with a new self. These at first might sound like pious platitudes but Paul defines for his readers what he means by a life of righteousness and holiness. A life that is righteous and holy is marked by humility, gentleness, patience, and the ability to maintain relationships with others marked by unity and peace. For Paul true spirituality is not about the thoughts we might have about God or about the desires for things we wish God would fix or change. For Paul, our spirituality and devotion to God is reflected in how we ourselves interact with others. It is reflected in our humility, gentleness, patience, and peaceableness. 

Most of us like “change” as long as it conforms to our wishes and desires, but it is not so appealing when it comes to changing ourselves, that is our desires, behaviors, habits, and way of interacting with others.  That takes hard work, work for which we are not always ready to commit ourselves.   

Whenever church folks are surveyed concerning what they want from their church they invariably reply that they want to become more spiritual. I have no doubt that this is a genuine concern to them. I am also sure that some people are not sure what to say and so they figure that is the most reasonable response to give. In any case, I find that while folks say they want to become more spiritual, they find it difficult to actually embark on the journey that will lead them to that destination.  

If you, for example, want to become a more loving, patient, giving, or forgiving person, you will have to change the way you currently interact with other people and even the way you treat yourself—and that may not be easy.  To begin that process you will have to be willing to change.  Wanting to become more spiritual while at the same time trying to continue living as you already do is like attempting to go sailing in a boat without untying the boat from the dock.   At some point you will have to trust God enough to untie yourself from the dock and take a chance on the water.   

The Russian Orthodox writer Anthony Bloom tells the story of a Russian man, now revered as a saint, who wanting to live a more spiritual life, went into a church one day and asked God to help him become more patient. Perhaps he had a sense of his own flaws and knew where he needed to mature spiritually. As he left the church he ran into one of his brothers, with whom he had never even so much had had a sharp word.  Soon they were arguing furiously, almost coming to blows. The man, distressed, ran back to the church and asked God how it was that he had prayed for patience and almost immediately had fallen into such a violent argument. The Lord answered him to the effect that “you asked to become a more spiritual person. I was only giving you an opportunity to learn patience.” 

We learn to be more patient through our impatience; we learn to be more forgiving by actually having to forgive others who have hurt us; we learn to share with others by sharing what we have; we learn to pray by praying. Because each of us is a different person, we each have different challenges.

If you truly want to become more spiritual, that is, more gentle and humble in your dealing with others, you will have to make the effort to do so. No one can do it for you.  In his book Beginning to Pray, Anthony Bloom offers these words of wisdom:  

It is absolutely pointless to ask God for something which we ourselves are not prepared to do….When in our prayers we ask God for strength to do something in His Name, we are not asking him to do it instead of us because we are too feeble to be willing to do it for ourselves.

If you want to become more spiritual, you will have to be willing to change. You will have to be willing become a different person, a changed person. You will have to let go of the person you now are and embark on a journey that will lead to your becoming a new person in Christ. God will provide the opportunities for you to learn and grow in righteousness and holiness. God will help you and be with you at all times on your journey, but the journey cannot start without your own willingness to change and grow.  


pexels-photo-756883.jpeg“What’s my line?

I’m happy cleaning windows

Take my time…

“I’m a working man in my prime

 cleaning windows.”

Van Morrison, “Cleaning Windows”

I was walking on 15thSt. in downtown Philadelphia on my way to meet a fellow priest for lunch when I felt tiny drops of water fall on my head. Because it was not raining at the time, I looked up to see where the water was coming from. There perched on the side of a large downtown skyscraper was a window cleaner attached to the building by a lone safety wire. In his hands were a bucket and a “v.” Directly in front of me was a mother pointing upward to showing her son the window-washer hanging precariously from the side of the building.

The lyrics to “Cleaning Windows,”one of my favorite Van Morrison songs, immediately came to mind.  It’s a song Van Morrison wrote about his work from 1961-62 when he and his partner Sammy Woodburncleaned the windows of the terraced homes in Belfast. The song reveals the simple joy and contentment that Van Morrison found in the rather ordinary task of cleaning windows.

Oh, the smell of the bakery from across the street

Got in my nose

As we carried our ladders down the street

With the wrought-iron gate rows

Oh, Sam was up on top

And I was on the bottom with the v

We went for lemonade and Paris buns

At the shop and broke for tea

I have always found this song to be a profoundly spiritual song. It points to the realization that people in many times and places have had, namely that God is often experienced in the utmost simplicity of everyday life. Christians perhaps best know the kind of spirituality that finds God in the midst of everyday activities from the witness of Brother Lawrence.

Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection, born Nicholas Herman in 1611 in French Lorraine, was a large and clumsy man who was always breaking or accidentally smashing things. He had served as a soldier until wounded and then as a footman.  His conversion at the age of eighteen happened as he noticed a leafless tree against the background of snow and thought of the wonder of God that would be made manifest in the spring when that tree again bloomed.  In 1666 he joined the monastery of the Discalced Carmelites of Paris as a lay-brother to atone for his own perceived inadequacies but instead found only the grace and mercy of God. He was put to work in the monastery kitchen where he worked for the next 25 years. He died in 1691 around the age of eighty.

The Practice of the Presence of God, first published in 1691, contained excerpts from conversations with him and from his letters. In the one of the conversations he remarked “that he was more united with God during ordinary activities than in religious exercises, in which he was generally afflicted with spiritual dryness.” He observed that “The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer.”

In the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees at the blessed sacrament.

Where Van Morrison finds contentment in the everyday task of window cleaning, Brother Lawrence finds the presence of God in the midst of the noise and clatter of his kitchen.

Brother Lawrence’s “practice of the presence of God” was really quite simple: wherever he found himself, he reminded himself continually that God was always near to him. This practice meant that he never strayed far from the well of God’s merciful presence and explains how in the midst of a busy kitchen, he was able to find rest and refreshment in God’s presence.



This blog will feature reflections and meditations on everyday life.

I have worked on an off as a parish priest for almost forty years. Over this time, I have written many meditations on what it means to live the Christian life. Many of these were written in harmony with the seasons of the Church calendar, particularly, with the calendar of the Episcopal Church.

The seasons of the church year are dominated by the mystery of the Incarnation — Christmas  — and that of the Resurrection, the Paschal mystery, otherwise known as Easter. Before each of these seasons are  respective seasons of preparation, Advent and Lent.  The other times of the year, flexible in duration, are Epiphany, stretching between Christmas and Lent, and the season of Pentecost, beginning with the Sunday fifty days after Easter and stretching to the beginning of Advent. In the Roman Catholic calendar, time in the Episcopal seasons of Epiphany and Pentecost is called “Ordinary time.”  The Roman Catholic Council of Bishops notes that, “Ordinary Time is a time for growth and maturation, a time in which the mystery of Christ is called to penetrate ever more deeply into history until all things are finally caught up in Christ.”

While ordinary time has a specific meaning in the church calendar, it is a wonderful term to refer to all of all of human life, in which we each are called to grow and mature in the mystery of Christ.

In the coming months, I will begin to share my reflections on living and flourishing in ordinary time.