Let Nothing Disturb You

Porter’s Weekly Reflection 9-13-17

What a strange week.  Our daughter Marie lives in Venice, Florida—on the Gulf just below Sarasota.  She stayed in place during Irma.  She and her friends did all the right things for staying—boarded the windows, had plenty of water and a generator and food and flashlights.

But there were those hours when we had no idea what was happening. All we had was the Weather Channel and they made this seem as if it was worse that the Great Plague of London in 1665. The more we watched the more anxious we became. I kept thinking “If only….” If only she had driven home. If only the storm had veered into the ocean.  If only there was some insurance policy against pain and hurricanes and unwelcomed surprises.”

Coincidentally I have been teaching St. Teresa this week at Wake Forest Divinity School.  I handed out a short poem of Teresa not really thinking of Marie until I read it aloud: 

Let nothing trouble you.

Let nothing scare you.

All is fleeting.

God alone is unchanging.


Everything obtains.

Who possesses God

Nothing wants.

God alone suffices.

I confess in the moment it didn’t help because I was troubled and I was scared.  What it did, however, was mark the gap between where I am and where I’d like to be.  In AA we talk about serenity and seeking to know what we can change and what we can’t, but when your daughter is in a hurricane, you want to change everything. 

So now that the sun is out in Florida, I am mindful of the gap.  I am trying not to be overly self-critical but instead to realize that I can manage my intentions and most of the time my actions but I am asking/praying for God to deepen my serenity—my trust in the divine love and providence.

It’s so much easier in the classroom to talk about the journey of the soul than it is to walk that journey in real life—with hurricanes and our own internal storms.  But the hope is in continuing the walk.



The Hurricane of Kindness

Porter’s Weekly Reflection 8-30-17



Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness….

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
     purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.


Hurricane Harvey has quieted the noise from Washington. In the midst of such tragedy and heartache and loss, there just isn’t any room for posturing or political maneuvers or backroom deals. It’s as if the political world stopped turning in face of loss but also in the face of compassion.  There is so much sorrow but also so much kindness.  We see those pictures and how can our hearts not open?

I think it’s why at the cross, Jesus makes a new family. He tells his mother that the disciple John is now is son and he tells John that Mary is now his mother. The old blood lines don’t define us anymore. It’s why you see a new sense of family being made in the Astrodome and in rescue boats and in helicopters.

Of course, we’ll forget but not completely.  Because goodness, kindness, love are part of our DNA. We just forget them and then something happens and we remember.   There are moments during this storm that we have glimpsed heaven even in the midst of sorrow and loss. I pray that glimpse stays in our memories and in our hearts. May it be a way for God’s new family to reappear on the far side of the cross because if it does, we as a country might remember we don’t just care for one another when a hurricane comes to our shores, but always—every day.  Because the truth is, there’s always a storm somewhere.



One World

In the midst of preparing to teach at Wake Forest Divinity School and trying to deal with my performance anxiety since I have been out of academia for two and half decades, I took my usual refuge in books. I started reading The Chalk Artist by Allegra Goodman. It’s an enticing novel about the world of gaming and how seductive yet finally unrewarding it is.

It started me thinking about our use of “alternate”: “alternate reality” or “alternate facts.”  Our world has become more frightened. I am not sure it’s more violent, but that we are simply more aware because of the constant deluge of information. It’s no wonder we turn to something to divert us: something to give us an alternative world.

There’s a saying that stays in my heart: “There is another world, but it’s the same as this one.”  In truth, there is no alternative reality; it’s all one world because God is God of everything.  When I read, I don’t escape the world. I find a way to go deeper into the world. I am not fond of virtual reality, but the issue is more about balancing one’s time than anything else.  Yes, I love to read, but I also have a family and a job and a body that needs attention, and friends and the world around me and the opportunity to be still and know that God is God.  The novel shows that these games are addictive and they can take over one’s life—as is true of almost everything.

This afternoon, I will attend J. Clarkson’s ordination service to the priesthood. He will be asked many questions, but the one which is most important for his health is this: “Will you …be a wholesome example to your people? J. is not going to be asked to be a holy person when he’s at Church; he is asked to be holy in all of his life because there’s just one world.  He is to be a sign of God’s love for the world in the grocery store or in the traffic jam on I-26 and at the altar. There’s just one world because God is in all of it. But for us to grow into a more comprehensive sense of the holy, we must embrace wholeness.  We must cultivate our nondominate hand.  We must take off the helmet of whatever alternative reality we go to and seek a whole life.

I won’t spoil The Chalk Artist for you. It made me be more honest about my alternate realities and the ways in which my unbalanced life makes me less whole. It made me think about the vows I took as a priest twenty-four years ago and what I might do to live more fully into them.



Our Call to be True

I am addicted to Grantchester (a show on PBS about a priest in the Church of England). I admit it could be because I am envious of the hair of the main character (but then again what man tints his hair in the 1950’s?).  Don’t worry. I won’t spoil anything if you haven’t watched it.

There’s a scene in the latest episode where the priest, Sydney Grantchester, is struggling with his calling. Should he stay in the Church or leave it?  His housekeeper, who has become a dear friend, says to him: “Sydney, people need you. They look to you, not the Church.”

I have been haunted by those sentences these past days.  We in the Church talk so much about fixing the Church as if it were a car in need of a tune up. We act as if we need a new model because fewer people want to buy.  Yes, membership and attendance are declining. Yes, all institutions are at best under suspicion and at worst irrelevant.

But in AA we learn to pray for the wisdom to know the difference between what we can change and what we can’t.  At the ripe age of 66, I have my hands full just trying to keep my own life and soul and intentions and actions in alignment with what I think the Lord wants from me and for me.

Our calling is to be true: true to our real self as God created us and true to the work that God calls us to do to heal a broken world.  I no longer worry about institutions; I am focused on integrity and vulnerability.  Do we yearn to align ourselves with God’s will so that our actions match our beliefs, and do we keep our hearts open to others and to the Holy One?  If we do, institutions will grow as they will. Some will die and some will be born.  At its heart Church isn’t a bureaucracy; it’s the faithful person in front of you who represents the face of Christ.

In my late 20’s I didn’t reconnect with the Church because I fell in love with the institution; I reconnected because I encountered people who had such love for God I wanted to be around them. I didn’t look to the Church; I looked to God lovers to show me what the Church is for.

It’s so easy to waste our time and our time is short.  I don’t want a game plan for how the Church can survive.  I want to live a life that will point beyond me to God and I want to find more and more people who are a window to the holy.  I want to be inspired by others to live my life for God.

Like Sydney Grantchester, people need us and we need them because how else will we see the Lord?



Finding The Story

My focus has been on narrative since I was a Junior in high school. I remember sitting in Ms. Julia Capps’ English class thinking about football practice and where my girl friend and I might go Saturday night when Ms. Capps began reading the first lines of a poem by John Keats (whom I had never heard of):

            “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;/ Its loveliness increases; it will never/ Pass into nothingness; but still will keep/ A bower quiet for us, and a sleep/ Full of sweet dreams….”

It was like going through the wardrobe door into Narnia. There was this other realm of story and beauty that had a wholeness to it and served as a place from which I could look back on my life.  Before then I thought the only novels to read (this is true) were by Mickey Spillane, but I discovered that The Great Gatsby actually had more to say than Kiss Me Deadly.  Who knew?

My sense of narrative has recently gone beyond aesthetic appreciation. I believe it’s crucial for community and in our country today perhaps it’s necessary for our future.  Civilizations depend upon a common narrative.  It’s what binds us together.  For Jew the narrative is the Exodus story and for Christians it’s the resurrection.  As we say in the Eucharist: “We proclaim the mystery of faith: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.”  This is our primal story that informs who we are and what we do.

In March I wrote about an editorial by David Brooks (“The Four American Narratives”). I want to revisit it because more and more it makes sense of what’s going on in our country and what we as Christians have to offer.  Brooks cites a speech by George Packer asserting that there are four competing narratives in the United States that shape people’s world views.  The problem is that they are mutually exclusive.  Packer labels them as the libertarian (everyone is responsible for their own fate); the globalized America (the future of the world depends on innovation and flattening hierarchies); the story of multicultural America (while recognizing the various cultures in the USA, it tends to focus on one’s own group); and America First (America has lost her traditional identity by being globalized).  However, each is dedicated on proving that the other three are wrong.

Brooks’ main point and my main point is that without some coherent overarching story, community is impossible.  We have to find a way to go to a deeper story that connects us as human beings made in the image of God.  Otherwise we will stay in our little silos which is death for any cohesive society.  The great paradox of our time is that as information has increased, our sense of belonging has decreased. We know more about other people but our sense of allegiance has gotten smaller.

This is why I am become so focused on story. (Yes, I am doing a workshop at Montreat Conference Center August 11-13. Email Catherine Powell, cathie@theanchorage.org if you are interested.)  It’s not just that I love novels. It’s that without story, there’s no community and no communion.  We have to tell our stories and connect them to others’ stories and to God’s never-ending story in order to make sense of where we are and where we are going.  It’s a primary way to respond to the call of Amos “to repair the breech.”  We don’t bridge the divide by simply telling our story louder.  We listen to the other and tell our story deeper until we discover the one story that connects us all.


Love and Nothing Else

I have been spending the summer preparing for the courses I am to teach at Wake Forest Divinity Schoolin the fall. One is on Mysticism. Instead of doing a historical sweep, I picked the mystical writers that intuitively came to mind. Yes, St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross, but also Simone Weil.

This week I realized that I chose Simone Weil because she speaks a truth that I need to hear. 

Weil pushed the Church to pay attention to persons more than positions.  She once wrote, “Faith is to believe that God is love and nothing else. Faith is to believe that reality is love and nothing else.”  It doesn’t matter what we say we believe if we do not love our brother and sister—and not in some general way but the specific people that live in our cities and towns.

Weil was a genius.  There were few subjects she could not master: mathematics, philosophy, theology.  Yet in the mid 1930’s she resisted taking a position in a university because she did not want to be separate from the struggles of ordinary people. Instead of teaching at Cambridge or Oxford, she worked in factories and on farms in France.  During the war itself, she often only ate the amount of food that those in occupied France were given as rations even though it worsened her already poor health.  She died from tuberculosis at 38.

Simone Weil showed us that the love of God is about people or it’s not love.  She had a mind that enabled her to think in complex philosophic abstractions, but she kept rooting herself in the reality of common ordinary people.  In like manner, she called the Church to bridge that gap as well.

If we proclaim the love of Jesus but are disconnected to the suffering in the world we are as St. Paul says, little but a “clanging gong.”   But equally it doesn’t matter if we are consumed with the suffering in the world without the container of Christ’s death and resurrection.  The first is ungrounded and the second has no context.

We as the followers of the Lord have to embrace the Incarnated God whose radical transcendent love is embedded in this world. Our cruciform love reaches up and out.

This is so important today.  So much of our political conversation is disembodied and disconnected.  As followers of the Incarnated God, our task is to pay attention to the suffering of real people in real places and rediscover how the Good News of Jesus calls us to respond.  I am interested in the talk in the halls of Congress about health care and the budget because they will have a profound effect on individual lives.  But instead of being consumed in that struggle and fixating on the talking heads on the news shows, I am more interested in connecting my faith in God with the conditions and struggles of people around me.  I am seeking to remember that “Faith is to believe that God is love and nothing else. Faith is to believe that reality is love and nothing else.” 

Yes, we need people to advocate for just policies in Washington and Raleigh, but that’s not my calling. It’s not good for my soul to participate anymore in disembodied talk about categories of people, nor to believe that the people on television can hear me shouting about what they should do. 

In this moment, my calling is to embrace the mystery of the Incarnation which means that the Word is becoming flesh in the ordinary places of my city. My task is to attend to the suffering and struggles of real people in real places so that my faith might be renewed.


Madonna the Mediator

I have been completing my training to be a Spiritual Director from the Shalem Institute these past ten days. Part of that training was a period of silence for 36 hours. During that time I prayed in front of an icon called "Madonna the Mediator" in Venice.  I have never been especially drawn to icons, but as I gazed at this one, a poem came to me:

The Black Madonna of Venice


She loves with open eyes

Knowing all of it.

She stares without emotion at me beyond the frame.

Her left hand holds her son lightly

Her right fingers stretch toward him

Leaving a space between.

As if to say: “Let it come

Wonder, sorrow, death—all of it.

I am here.”


I want to hold and be held like that.

I want to stand in the center

and not be afraid to see beyond the frame.

I want to lean into what is here and what will be.

Not looking back---

Not worried about what is to come.

Rooted in now.

Holding my hand out to the Christ

So connected I don’t need to look his way.

Only the weight on my left arm reminds me who and where I am

And why we all are here. 

Porter Taylor



Spots in Time

I am back at Bon Secours Retreat Center outside Baltimore for my Shalem training for certification as a spiritual director.  I was here last year, and it was a transformative experience.  Like last year, the retreat came at the most inconvenient time.  This year Jo and I were moving some of our daughter’s things from Asheville to Venice, FL. (Yes, it’s a long way).  So, it was a production to get me from Venice to Baltimore for a 2:30 meeting on the first day.  Being a Boy Scout, I got here on time, but tired and frazzled. 

After our first meeting, I was walking around the grounds remembering last year’s training. I came to a statue of the Virgin Mary and was filled with memories from a year ago. In the middle of the ten-day training, we had a day of silence and sabbath. Sometime in that day I gave myself to this statue and it’s as if I found myself in the elevator at the ground floor of my soul. For a time I was at home in the world. My concerns and egoistic thoughts vanished and I was free—fully present to what is. 

So, Tuesday when I revisited Mary, I remembered some of what happened and was filled with gratitude.  Being the literary nerd that I am, I recalled some likes from Wordsworth: 


“There are in our existence spots of time,/ That with distinct pre-eminence retain/ A renovating virtue….”


The goodness we experience is imprinted in us.  Holiness gets in our blood and stillcirculates regardless of time. It’s a well we can draw on when we remember and thus are remembered to God.  In our fast paced world we tend to look forward—“what’s the next thing?”  But to our detriment we forget the wellspring of the grace that has touched us and is always with us.  “Do this for the remembrance of me” our Lord said to remind us to remember.  Of course, his grace and mercy aren’t just in bread and wine; they are in statues in Baltimore and in our backyards.  They are everywhere in all times.


I don’t know what will happen during this training. I can’t program another experience. I can give thanks for the past and as best I can be open in the moment. The rest is up to God. 


Only Kindness Makes Sense

Porter’s Weekly Reflection 6-14-17

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.

… Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore

Naomi Shihab Nye

Yesterday I listened to Attorney General Sessions’ testimony and I watched as much commentary as I could stand.  I felt myself drifting towards a deep sadness about our country.  There is such an opportunity to do good and to be good and our world is in such hurt and need, yet our leaders are in this strange dance that insures that little productive will be accomplished. 

This morning I felt myself entering the fray of finding someone to blame so I could feel morally superior and somehow distance myself from any culpability.  “Those people in Washington or Raleigh are at fault,” I felt myself wanting to say.

Then I heard the news about the shooting in Washington as Senators and Representatives were practicing for a charity softball game.  Of course, I pray for all those harmed and of course this will renew our debate about guns—which needs to be renewed---but hearing the Senators and Representatives interviewed opened my heart and widened my perspective.

On the field after the shooting, they didn’t care about their positions or their political persona. They were worried about their friends who were wounded.  The language they used was the language of human concern.  When they were interviewed there was no political angle; there was no name calling; there was no position paper.  It was just “I pray everyone is going to be all right.”

Flannery O’Connor’s short story, “A Good Man is Hard to Find” ends with this line: “She would've been a good woman…if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”   When our lives get disrupted, we remember what matters and what doesn’t.  Those elected officials on the baseball field were only thinking about their brothers and sisters—not votes or bills or hearings. 

Perhaps if we connect with the fragility of life more often, we might enter the region of kindness more frequently and the world would be such a better place.




Too Small for Anything but Love

For weeks I have been consumed with working inside my own little bubble. We moved ten days ago and have yet to effectively fight the chaos.  The recycle people dread coming by our house because of the sea of blue bags with cardboard and packing paper. And Jo and I are relearning how to negotiate our various aesthetic sensibilities—what belongs where and why a photo of my rugby days at UNC may not still be relevant.

Then the phone rang yesterday and I heard that Jeff Batkin died. 

I loved Jeff and owe so much to him over the past twelve years.  He was a confidant, a friend, and an encourager. He’d call me often to tell me that there is no problem a round of golf can’t cure. He was a wise priest and a holy person.

But of course, that’s not true for grief and loss.  We live in this illusion that this life will go on forever, but it won’t. Our time on this earth is short, and when I think of that, I wonder why I have wasted so much of it on what cannot matter and what cannot enlarge my soul and my heart--all the time I worried about what I couldn’t control and lately all the time consumed with a fixation on the constant conflict and bewildering events in Washington.

I am grieving Jeff Batkin, but his lost makes me commit  to refocus on what matters: the people I love, beauty, the things I can change, and principles worth living for.  As William Sloan Coffin, Jr. said, “The world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love.” 

I give thanks for the life of Jeff Batkin and I am committing myself to remember how short our lives and point myself toward truth and love.



Finding the Center

Yesterday we took a break from opening boxes to go to the movies.  We saw “A Quiet Passion.”  It’s not a film for everyone. The pace is slow. Not much happens. There’s no sex or special effects.  Instead it’s a story about Emily Dickinson—about her illness, her deep connection to family, her genius for poetry, and the gift and curse of isolation.  Two things struck me.

First, the strength of her core identity.  Dickinson knew what she thought, what she liked, and what she was called to do with her life and she seldom wavered.  Isaiah Berlin once said there are two kinds of people: hedgehogs and foxes. Foxes know a little about a lot of things but hedgehogs know a lot about one thing. Emily Dickinson was the quintessential hedgehog. Her scope was narrow but very deep.

The film gave the impression that her being a recluse was in large part because she had bright’s disease, but also because she was such an interior person. 

I thought about our culture’s addiction to stimulation and our inability to be still and explore our thoughts and imagination.   Dickinson got up at 3:00 am. It was just her and the blank page waiting to see what would happen.  Our culture too often forgets how important it is to cultivate our interior life: letters, journals, poems, essays. We tend to comment on others’ ideas and miss the opportunity to discover our own.

There’s a scene early in the film when the teacher of her school asks the students to step to the sides of the room to signal their conviction of faith. Emily stands alone in the center.  The teacher says to her, “You are alone in your rebellion.”  I wonder at this kind of strength and certainty.

Then the family.  She lived with her parents and her brother was next door.  In the 19th Century you were your family. Now we are our job.   Perhaps this is why Benedict in his Rule established the vow of stability.  You grow with a place as it grows with you. I think of my many moves and the people in our address book I haven’t seen for decades and I wonder if slower might be better in the long run.

I don’t want to duplicate Emily Dickinson’s life by any means. However, I do want to incorporate some pieces of it and incorporate them into this life in this tumultuous century. I want to “be still and know that God is God” more often. I want to make more space for my imagination—maybe not at 3:00 in the morning but early in the day.  Finally,  I want to pay attention to the roots I have with both friends and family.  I want to be more of a hedgehog than a fox because going faster will not make me wiser or happier or holier. It will just keep me distracted from the life God wants me to live.


Seeking the City

I have to write fast because the movers are about to load the chair in which I am sitting.  Yes, we are moving. Again.  Jo and I will be married for 45 years Saturday and we have lived in Columbia SC, Atlanta, Porto Portugal, Nashville, Athens, Fairview, now full circle because we are moving to a house in Asheville two miles from where I went to elementary school.

The reason for all these moves was professional. Jobs move us around. But there’s something deeper. I seem to make a major move every ten years.  I have loved most of the homes we have inhabited---the one in Columbia didn’t have air conditioning so that was a challenge---but regardless of the setting there’s a stirring that happens. 

While I am sure there are psychological reasons for this, I believe God builds a restlessness in our souls.  As the author of the letter to the Hebrews writes, “For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come.” 

I sit on my back porch and there’s the buzz of the cicadas who have come out of the ground this year.  Some deep force has pulled them to move around and some deep force is pulling me. Because what we seek is not a house that makes sense for a 66 year old (smaller, one floor). What we seek is not comfort or a setting or convenience.  We seek our true home which is not on this earth. We yearn for the New Jerusalem where we know who we are and feel connected to the source and therefore to all our brothers and sisters.

I am looking forward to moving across town. I love our new house even as I have loved this one. But I know that at some point, the stirring will return because the truth is there is no cure for homesickness.



Being Fed

It’s been seven months since the 7th Bishop of Western North Carolina was ordained.  Since October 1, 2016 I have been the celebrant of the Holy Eucharist four times (and during one of them I got completely befuddled at the altar).  The rest of the time I have worn a coat and tie, gone to the 8:00 service and sat on the back row. It’s been a fundamental reorientation. 

I confess I have missed preaching. No doubt some of that is ego. Years ago, when my daughter was in grade school, she complained about going to church by saying: “I have to just sit there while you get to do all the fun stuff.”  Preaching is definitely the most fun of all the fun stuff. I miss seeing what will happen when you connect scripture and this interesting befuddling world of ours. I miss the energy that comes from preaching and there is that ego thing.

But there’s a flip side as well. I love hearing other preachers. One of the downsides of being the bishop is that it’s always your turn. In twelve years, I seldom heard anyone else preach within the diocese except for funerals and ordinations. Now when I get in my car to drive home, I find myself marveling (in a good way) over the sermon. I say to myself, “Wow. How did she connect those images?” Often I am ruminating over them all week. 

Most of all, something happens by walking to the altar with the rest of the flock, kneeling, and holding out your hands to be fed—with absolute certainty that even though you don’t deserve it, the bread of heaven will be put into your hands. Our culture is embedded with a conviction of scarcity—there’s not enough of everything to go around. It’s why we have so much fear embedded into our national conversations.  Regardless of what we say, we all get infected.  Going to the altar and putting out our hands rewires us. We have confessed our shortcomings. We know we are sinners and yet we get to be part of The Great Thanksgiving.

After two decades of preaching every week, it’s good for me to sit and listen and be fed.  Yes, I miss preaching and being part of the show at the altar, but I give thanks to be part of the crowd. One of the crowd who shows up without any food and yet gets to be fed because that’s who Jesus is. 

Most of all I am remembering about the core of what Church is. I don’t diminish the need for administration and oversight. I am not for burning the house down. But at the core, Church is being fed by word and sacrament week after week that reminds us of Christ’s love for us all the time. 



Hope: The Hardest Love We Carry

Porter’s Weekly Reflection 4-26-17

In mid-June my son, Arthur, and I lead a workshop at Mepkin Abbey on Storytelling to Spread the Good News (also one in August at Montreat-http://www.theanchorage.org).   These focus on telling stories around themes in our lives. One of the these I have been pondering is hope.

Among the many books I have reread are Joan Chittister’s Scarred by Struggle, Transformed by Hope and Joanna Macy’s/Chris Johnstone’s Active Hope.  Both insist that we don’t become hopeful by denying our pain or even despair, but by pushing through them to the other side. Unless we die young, sooner or later the world falls apart. It’s what it means to be human and exist on this side of heaven. Macy/Johnstone insist that there is a mix of gratitude, honoring our pain, and seeing with new eyes that enable us to go forth and be agents of hope. Sister Joan uses the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel as the image for our task.  We have to wrestle to receive the blessing and we always walk away with a limp, but we get a new name and a new calling as a result.

Sister Joan writes: “The Spiritual task of life is to feed the hope that comes out of despair. Hope is not something found outside of us. It lies in the spiritual life we cultivate within.  The whole purpose of wrestling with God is to be transformed into the self we are meant to become, to step out of the confines of our false securities and allow our creating God to go on creating in us.”

This is our task: “to feed the hope that comes out of despair” so that “our creating God” can “go on creating in us.”

We all have stories of being wounded or wrestling with angels all night or feeling betrayed.  In addition, it’s easy to become fixated on what’s wrong with our world in this time of information deluge.  But we are not born to be consumers nor are we born to wallow in despair. We are born to be agents of hope by honoring our pain and seeing with new eyes—by being honest about where we are and hopeful about where the living God wants all God’s children to be and then stepping out and walking in the dark.

We need to tell one another our stories of hope lest we relegate it to some sweet theological concept that’s confined to books.  When we speak of our transformations, everyone gets transformed. This is the simple rule for AA which the world needs to adopt.  I don’t want to talk about our politicians for awhile because that talk doesn’t feed my soul. I want to have real conversations about the transformative work of the Holy Spirit in real people’s lives so that I can claim my own story and witness that work in me now and here.  Hope won’t come from our President and Congress changing. Hope comes from the transformation in us which in turn has a ripple effect that changes everything.

You don’t have to go to a conference to tell your story (although you are welcome to come to one of ours). You just find someone who is real and open and begin. The next thing you know, you are in the elevator on the ground floor where things are clear and real and you remember more of who you are and where you are called to be. The process empowers you to be an agent of transformation. It’s how the world gets changed.



Practice Resurrection


Go with your love to the fields. 
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction. 
Practice resurrection.

(From “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front”  by Wendell Berry)

This week I have been reading St. Teresa both to prepare for a class I am teaching in the fall at Wake Forest Divinity School on Mysticism as well as to finish my Shalem training for spiritual direction.  What has struck me about this saint’s writings is how deep they are but how modest she is.  Teresa will write about an astounding spiritual experience and then end the chapter by apologizing for the vague writing of a neovite on the spiritual path.  She ends the book writing, “I confess that I am deeply confused and so I ask you through the same Beloved to remember this poor creature in your prayers.” Yet when you read the Interior Castle, there is not sign of confusion nor does St. Teresa seem anything but a poor creature.

She is a woman of faith who has a sure assurance that God will lead her into the inner chambers of God’s love and that God’s love will sustain her to transform her order of the Discalced Carmelites. Teresa was a visionary but was able to be a vehicle of transformation because all she did was rooted in the love of God.  She was always listening for what God called her to do and then she acted upon that call. She had her detractors but she didn’t spend her attention on them.

We are in the Great 40 Days of Eastertide.  The Risen Christ shows himself everywhere. He’s on the road to Emmaus; he comes to the Upper Room; he’s with the disciples as they are fishing. The disciples turn from their fear of the Empire to remember the Great Love and that turning enables them to change the world.

“Go with your love to the fields” the poet says.  “Make more tracks than necessary,/ some in the wrong direction./ Practice Resurrection.”

I don’t want to ignore the issues of the day, but  focusing on what I am against will never lead to new life.  Like Teresa, I want to get into the inner rooms of the Castle and that means letting go of my baggage and looking for on the Risen Christ among us.  I need to remember what I am for instead of focusing on what I am against because our lives are too short and there is so much of God’s glory to behold.

Teresa had no money; the Inquisition was against her; her family thought she was foolish; some or her spiritual directors thought she was crazy. Yet she had a vision of a new way of being human as a follower of the Lord and that vision moved her—literally and figuratively and changed the world.

What’s the love that moves us? Can we have courage to make more tracks than are necessary even if some are in the wrong direction as that love moves us out?  Can we practice resurrection?


Love, Power, Justice

This week more than most weeks we are living in two worlds yet the sacred story and our story  are the same. We entered Jerusalem Palm Sunday with Jesus to the sounds of “Hosanna.”  We were certain everything would work out. All our doubts and suspicions about human failings and the dark side of our political institutions faded amid the cries.

But Friday is coming. Hosanna will turn to lamentation. 

What’s important about this week is not that we observe what happened 2000 years ago but that we claim the drama in us and in our world so that both might be resurrected.  Easter is less a noun than a verb. “Christ is Risen. We are Risen.” But to get there we have to be changed and to become agents of change in the world. Let’s remember that nothing is the same after that Sunday. There’s an earthquake between the old and the new. It’s a new age and a new world.

As I have been thinking about this, oddly enough what came to me is a small book by Paul Tillich (I know, I need to get out more), Love, Power, and Justice.  Because it’s Tillich it’s not beach reading and I haven’t read it in decades, but what it offers is a framework of what corporate resurrection might look like. I mean what if the world is made new?  How would that operate?

Love is our motive. It’s what drives us. It’s what connects us to one another. It’s what opens our heartsso that we don’t see one another as strangers or as threats but as friends in the deepest sense. Love moves us to communion and community.  It’s what prevents us from dragging people off planes or fixating on walls or any of the other acts of separation that are driven by fear. The Easter world is new. Mary Magdalene and the Risen Christ are back in the garden and she hears her true name for the first time.

Justice is our aim.  Justice is about who has what. You cannot love your brother and sister and watch them starve or live a diminished life without responding.  In a new world, all the rules are open for renegotiation.  I have been privileged to go to India many times and I do so not for the Indian people but to cleanse my vision and open my heart.  Because being there alerts me that my worth as a human being is not connected to my monetary worth.  I realize that I have a hard time going to the Lord with open arms because I have identified with my things. In a world of abundance, justice makes us ask why so many have so little. Easter is not about our private resurrection; Easter is about a new world.

And then power. When love is in our heart and justice has become our objective, power is what enables us to become agents of transformation. However, power without the motive of love or the intention of justice is destructive because it’s about fear and ego.  The world cannot change without the exercise of power. Remember, Paul was no wimp. But we must be honest with ourselves before we act.

I know this isn’t my typical reflection and I know it doesn’t come off as a sweet Easter message, but looking at the world around me, I don’t want to celebrate Easter and then move on. I yearn for a new world. I hope for resurrection. For that to happen love and justice and power must be connected to the love, grace, and mercy of the Lord.

May it be so.


A Great Sea Change

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.


from The Cure at Troy

Seamus Heaney

This Sunday, Palm Sunday,  the great drama begins. We walk into Jerusalem with all our adolescent hopes and dreams.  With all these people screaming and shouting, what could go wrong?  And then it unwinds and we find ourselves undone.  The expected future has dissolved. As the poet says “like salt in a weakened broth.”  Then we are left with the almost undoable human act—to hope without any power to make that hope come true.

Holy week is the great drama of reversal. We act out the truth that to get to new life,  the hoped-for life, something has to die and that something is in us.  I keep thinking if only those people would change, the world would be so much better off. But I am not a spectator in this thing called life but a participant, a fellow traveler, a sinner in need of redemption.

So, this year as we walk into Jerusalem on Sunday, I am hoping my heart opens up to the drama that is coming.  I am hoping that God gives me the courage to move to Calvary so that the small skeptic inside me can be put to death and hope can be born again. I want to believe in “a great sea-change/On the far side of revenge.” I want to “Believe that further shore/Is reachable from here.” I want to “Believe in miracle/And cures and healing wells.”

I don’t want only to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection; I want for me and this broken world to be resurrected.  Resurrection is God’s job. Hope is my job. May I—and you—have the strength and faith to be about it.



Life Near the Bone

We have been spring cleaning. We looked around our house and wondered where all this stuff came from: an exercise machine, college textbooks, old televisions, and computers, yes, books and books and books (23 boxes to our Public Library), shoes and shirts I hadn’t worn in a decade, a canoe that hadn’t touched water since our son was thirteen (he’s now 33) and increasingly more.

I confess this was hard for me. Even though we hadn’t used the canoe in twenty years, there’s a voice in my head that says, “But what if…? Maybe we’ll need to cross the French Broad River or maybe we’ll take a canoe trip down the Rhine River or maybe…?”

Our things not only remind us of the past; they also hold out a possibility for an imagined future.  Maybe I’ll suddenly use the weight machine every day.  It’s hard to let go of that part of us we remember just as it’s hard to let go of that part of us we envision. Our things aren’t just trophies of the past; they are heralds of a future as well.

Henry David Thoreau wrote, “It is life near the bone that is sweetest.”  I think he meant that sweetness comes from shedding our imagined life of rewriting the past or inventing  the future and instead setting our feet on where we are in this moment.  What I need now is not stuff but a clear head and heart.  My things can tempt me into a past that never was and a future that never will be.

Of course, I still have way more than 23 boxes of books on the shelf, and of course, I still have way more than I need. But I feel lighter—which is less about spring cleaning and more about aligning myself with God’s promise of resurrection.  Lent is the season of the light lengthening to remind us that anything is possible. Mary Magdalene isn’t going to the tomb with her things but just with her hope and the Lord’s promise.

Now that some of our baggage has been carted away, what’s left is the real work of internal cleaning: letting go of my prejudices and pre-conceptions of how the world works; of the ways I have labelled others and myself; of my notions that my expectations of the future have anything to do with what God has in mind.

I need a yard sale for my mental baggage so that I can get closer to the bone where the sweetness lies. 


Remembering Our Story

I am caught between a deep unease about where we are as a country and a yearning to embrace a realistic hope.  The political middle has vanished and there is a cynicism that is infecting us. When we are in doubt about the integrity of our elections, we distrust our leaders and are suspicious about their motives, there is a stain on our capacity to feel connected to something larger—especially a sense of the arc of justice.  I mean if we do not think tomorrow will be better than today, then we are in danger of losing our sense of purpose.  I work hard because I like to work, but also because I believe I am part of a movement of making this world move towards God’s reign of peace, justice, and mercy. I need to believe my grandchildren’s world will be better than mine in order to fully engage in the here and now.


I urge you to read David Brooks’ editorial from yesterday’s New York Times: “The Unifying American Story.”   He says what ails us is that we lack a cohesive narrative that binds us together and gives us hope in these bleak times.  Our public narrative for centuries has been the Exodus story---once we were slaves but God brought us into a new land.


Brooks ends the article with this: “We have a lot of crises in this country, but maybe the foundational one is the Telos Crisis, a crisis of purpose. Many people don’t know what this country is here for, and what we are here for. If you don’t know what your goal is, then every setback sends you into cynicism and selfishness.  It should be possible to revive the Exodus template, to see Americans as a single people trekking through a landscape of broken institutions. What’s needed is an act of imagination, somebody who can tell us what our goal is, and offer an ideal vision of what the country and the world should be.”

I have come to the limits of what I can do about the President, the Congress and the North Carolina Legislature, and the way I am interpreting their actions isn’t helping me and is making my world darker and smaller.  In the Episcopal Church’s Eucharistic Prayer, we ask God to “lift up our hearts.” I think that’s about giving us a larger horizon or a broader story. We ask God to remind us that God is working God’s purpose out. God is in this and calling on us to be part of the story of moving from “error to truth, from sin to righteousness, from death to life.”

Once our horizon largens, we continue to work, but it’s not all on us, nor do we have to have immediate results. Perhaps we have lost our way but The Way isn’t lost. We as faithful citizens need to call our leaders back into our common story.  We need to remind them and ourselves of who we are. Our story gives us hope.

This is all I know to do: pray for all our leaders and pray for the ones who drive you to despair by name. Pray for their wellbeing and that they grow into the person God intends them to be. Pray for your heart of stone to become a heart of flesh so that you can feel what you feel but not be hardened.  Look at what is---it doesn’t help to hide—but hold on to what is promised. And the hardest thing: keep believing that our leaders can behave differently and our world can be true to its calling to move towards God’s kingdom because we are part of a larger story of God’s redeeming the world. 




The Gift of Dante-world

Jo and I got home yesterday from being at Virginia Theological Seminary for six weeks.  It was wonderful to be there. We were able to connect with old friends that go back forty years.  Then there are the museums.  One cold February afternoon Jo and I were gazing at a Van Gogh painting and I realized we were the only people in the room. And of course, what a gift to take the Eucharist every day.

What struck me the most, however, is what a joy it is to immerse yourself in one thing for a period of time.  For the past six weeks I have been in Dante-world.  I had this great idea that my class could cover the whole Divine Comedy in six weeks (I know—crazy).  Of course, we didn’t. We skipped around, but the gift for me was to go into this alternate world that was ordered and focused on a soul going from hell to heaven.

Thomas Merton once said that one of the problems with modern life was its fragmentation. “Patchwork” was his term.  We seldom do one thing to its completion or focus on one thought all the way through. We are flipping channels even when we’re not in front of the television.

At VTS I realized how much my brain had been rewired to that culture of distraction.  It took me some time to be able to focus intently on one thing instead of going down my daily to do list or allowing an hour to slip away gazing at the endless pages on the computer.

Kierkegaard said “the purity of heart is to will one thing.”  I don’t know that my heart got much purer, but I do know at some point I gave into being in Dante-world. When that happened, I was more at peace and in some sense at home.  I wasn’t as distracted and I wasn’t focus on my own status in the world. I was in Dante’s world. I walked down into hell with him and up the seven story mountain with him and floated up into paradise with him. 

That kind of attention changed the way I looked at the world around me.  It gave me a lens to see our politicians and a perspective to think of my own journey.  It made me less reactive to the current craziness.

So I invite you for a time to lose yourself in one thing---it doesn’t matter too much what it is (well, probably not gambling) so long as in some way it feeds you and reminds you of the person you have forgotten to be. 

Truthfully, I have had enough Dante for a while, but I am reluctant to return completely to distraction. If I can keep awake, the Holy Spirit will open another door.