I’m usually a peaceful guy. But there are some things that get under my skin, and being told I’m a heretic, or I’m not really a Christian, is one of them—especially when the person telling me that is an atheist. You might want to send the kids out to play while you watch this one.
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Leave a comment and rant on, or rant back, if you like. (And do share this post. You know what happens next week if you don’t!)
The woods were my first church. The first time I remember being aware of the great Song of God, I was in the woods. The first time I remember feeling my part in the connectedness of all living things, I was sitting in a tree. (These days, I hear that Song and feel that connectedness in other places too—sometimes even in a church of stone!)
I wrote this song, “Treesong,” for my last album, As a Deer Longs. The instruments and male vocals are mine; the female vocals are Kelly Autrey-Webber, my true love; the images are from a walk in the woods of New Hampshire.
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(I’m sorry the images aren’t sharper — they’re just stills culled from handheld video, shot as I walked. But I think they’re beautiful, even as they are.)
I recorded this merry, mystical missive in the early morning on top of West Rattlesnake Mountain in New Hampshire. It’s a place to which I often return. I remember visiting it as a boy—I’m pretty sure my father carried me part of the way up. I also remember carrying my own son up to the top—he’s more likely to be able to carry me now. It’s a place that always reminds me strongly of the Celtic Christian emphasis on the presence of God in the natural world.
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Don’t worry: I’ve neither seen nor heard of any rattlesnakes on Rattlesnake Mountain. In any case, on that morning, I think they’d have been rattling in time with God’s great song.
This week I’m on vacation in Holderness, New Hampshire, USA. I thought about taking a break from The Merry Mystic while I’m traveling, but I couldn’t resist the chance to share one of my favorite places on earth with you. This is Squam Lake, where I learned to swim when I was a boy. It is a thin place for me—a place where the veil between the physical world and the spirit world seems especially thin. Or is it just me?
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What are the thin places in your life?
I wrote this song for a man I met back in my seminary days. He told me he was Vietnam veteran. I told him I was a seminary student. He told me he didn’t believe in God—and he told me why. I wrote this song to honor his story.
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I think about him often, and when I think about him, all I have are questions. I never saw him again; what became of him? I don’t know that I was any help to him in our conversation; what might I have done differently? Why is there destructive suffering in this world—not the kind that strengthens people, like a refining fire, but the kind that grinds people down beyond their ability to resist? How can we help build a more peaceful world, a world where military men and women are not asked to do things that make them feel that “all the lights are dimmer since the war?” And what better theology could we teach our children—what understanding of God that won’t buckle under the heavy burdens life may require them to carry?
As always, I value your thoughts on these matters.
Do you know where you will spend eternity? I don’t! But I do have a conjecture…
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I think that one of the reasons why Christianity is speaking to fewer people these days is because skeptics are the growth demographic. Claiming to know exactly what happens to us when we die just makes us look superstitious and gullible. But that’s what I think — leave a comment below, and tell me what you think.
There’s no way to sugar-coat it: in this video, I read a poem and take a bite out of a Twinkie. (You might notice a bit of a bow to Julian of Norwich at the end of the poem: hazelnut to her, Twinkie to me.)
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I think this was the first Twinkie I’ve tasted since I had a deep-fried specimen at the Bureau County Fair in Illinois, years ago. But what do you think: can a Twinkie be full of the Spirit of God? Is there even room in there, amid the sodium stearoyl lactylate and xanthan gum?
This week’s message is a guided contemplative practice called a stilling chant. It’s a quiet chant that gets progressively shorter, until you are left with a speaking silence between you and God. For this practice, you want to be in a safe and quiet place—or, at least, some place where you can sit comfortably and pray with your eyes closed.
Be still, and know that I am God. —Psalm 46:10
Because your eyes will be closed, there’s no video this week, but only audio. The audio lasts about six minutes; the time that follows can last as long as you like. You can pray, or meditate, or contemplate, or just drift off to sleep—whatever your body and spirit need!
(For those wanting to lead a group in this practice, sheet music is available in our Free Stuff area.)
If you use the practice, please leave a comment below. What was your experience?
My seminary brother Rob Pierson offered a whole pamphlet in response to my Siphonophore message last week. His is a more positive metaphoric understanding of community — not as a self-serving institutional organism, but as a relational expression of the mind of Christ. Rob has given me permission to share his pamphlet with you, so I’m attaching it below. Rob is a remarkable soul, and I recommend reading this, and anything else he writes. (I also recommend spending time with his photographic artwork, if you can find it. How’s that web site coming, Rob?)
The seminary Rob and I attended is the Earlham School of Religion. It’s a community rooted in the Quaker tradition, which is Rob’s faith family too, though not mine. A “pamphlet,” in that tradition, is a monograph inspired by the Spirit; it’s a time-honored medium for written ministry. In Rob’s pamphlet, you might find one or two terms that are used in unfamiliar, Quakerly ways: clearness committee, testimonies, business meeting, and so on. But his message is universal and accessible. I hope you’ll enjoy it.
In this issue of The Merry Mystic, I share a new hymn about unity.
Last week, I shared something from the book chapter I’m working on—my sequel to The Inn of God’s Forgiveness. I introduced a metaphor for self-serving institutions like states and churches, and I asked a question: what kind of unity should we be seeking? Thanks for all your responses! I’m still mulling them over, and I’ll be responding more soon.
Last week, I wrote:
I want to cast a hopeful vision about a different way to understand Jesus’ prayer, that they may all be one. Not one in race or caste or language; not one in national or political affiliation; not one in church or creed. I don’t think that God desires that any part of our beautiful diversity should be erased. I’ve written a hymn about this, and I’ll share it with you another time.
That time is now: here’s my hymn, “That We May All Be One.”
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Sheet music and lyrics for the hymn can be freely downloaded here, and may be freely copied (for non-commercial use).