It’s not much of a river today. In fact, it’s little more than an 18 mile creek that flows from the central mountains and on the sea. Her fortunes have changed in the past two millennia and now with the loss of feeding springs at its headwaters, she has become remarkably unimpressive. The observer would be hard pressed to see this trickle of water as a river forever enmeshed in human history. It was here that the words “alea iacta est.” I’m certain my fellow history-nerds know the rest of the story here.
Today I stand at my own Rubicon, with dice in hand. My application is complete, All I need to do at this point is whip off a cover letter, write a check and head for the mailbox. This will set the ordination process into motion, leading to an undiscovered country within the Anglican Communion. It’s a moment frozen out of time as I’m experiencing a strange mix of the senses of rectitude and butterflies in the stomach. I’m settled on the fact that I’ve been called in eternity past and born to this moment. Yet simultaneously, there is this subtle, but nervous sense of fear that is smoldering just beneath the surface.
I’ve been here before. I’ve stood on this bridge on July 8th 1980 on the eve of my entrance into the Armed Forces, on September 3rd 1982 on the eve of my wedding, and on the platform at Huntington Station on November 2nd 1997 before departing for Camp Humphreys Korea. Each of these was destiny-defining moments in my life. I’m certain that October 26th 2007 will join these days of destiny. Still, I’m always a bit gobsmacked by the by the underlying sense of trepidation though.
So, what’s next? That waits to be seen. For now, its time to let the dice fly…
Alea iacta est!
P.S. You Rock Gaius Julius...
Friday, October 26, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Sunday's Homily
I was blessed to be the homilist this past Sunday (10/14). The thoughts were drawn from the Gospel of St. Luke 17:11-19.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
September 11, 2007
Where were you six years ago today? What did it feel like when you saw the gaping mortal wound in the first tower? Did you recoil in horror when the towers fell? Did you cry, or did you go numb?
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
One Saxon Morn' (Part III)
The “Atomic Age”, brought us a mixed harvest of both promise and plague. We were provided with the possibility for clean, inexhaustible sources of energy that could power our nation for the far foreseeable future. For all its promise, the age also opened a Pandora’s Box of sorts. By far, the most frightening specter of the “Atomic Age” was an intercontinental ballistic missile bristling with multiple warheads. These hellish devices became the boogeyman for an entire generation. Peaceniks, science fiction authors and even Bill Moyer managed to keep the threats posed by these awesome devices in the forefront of our collective consciences. Hollywood too, did its best to scare us stupid with movies like “Failsafe” and “The Day After”. Though many before me have stopped to ponder the Atomic Age, I wonder just how much similar thought has been directed towards our present “Information Age”.
Where the atomic age provided nations the wherewithal to level cities, denude continents and evaporate entire populations, the information age has provided individuals with the ability to shred individuals, destroy relationships and erase reputations… all from the relative comfort of one’s den or local WiFi Hotspot. This information age has demonstrated time and again that the keyboard and mouse are every as devastating as the sword (or the Sig Sauer for that matter).
I pointed towards the words of St. James’ Epistle in part II, in speaking about the awesome power of the tongue and the words it produces. It would be convenient to take the purely wooden stand that Jesus’ kid stepbrother Jim was limiting his line of logic to speech. I’m confident that we can reasonably apply this line of logic to other forms of human communication, both verbal and nonverbal. I mean think about it; if it’s unlawful to rob another using a gun or knife, you won’t receive a pass if you rob someone using a ball peen hammer. Destructive and demeaning communication is just that, irrespective of its mode of delivery, be it verbal or not. I would even propose that destructive written or electronic communication is even more insidious than caustic verbal communications.
Slamming or flaming another via e-mail is akin to shooting someone in the back. The sender need only to build up a toxic level of bitterness, vomit up their spleen onto the desktop, and click the send icon. Like the lieutenant in the missile silo, the devastating dispatch is sent without breaking a bead of sweat or shedding a drop of blood. For their recipient however, it’s another matter altogether. The victim of this electronic salvo is often left with a gaping gash across their spirit.
Again, we hear the worlds of St. James ring clearly: "Brothers, this should not be".
Where the atomic age provided nations the wherewithal to level cities, denude continents and evaporate entire populations, the information age has provided individuals with the ability to shred individuals, destroy relationships and erase reputations… all from the relative comfort of one’s den or local WiFi Hotspot. This information age has demonstrated time and again that the keyboard and mouse are every as devastating as the sword (or the Sig Sauer for that matter).
I pointed towards the words of St. James’ Epistle in part II, in speaking about the awesome power of the tongue and the words it produces. It would be convenient to take the purely wooden stand that Jesus’ kid stepbrother Jim was limiting his line of logic to speech. I’m confident that we can reasonably apply this line of logic to other forms of human communication, both verbal and nonverbal. I mean think about it; if it’s unlawful to rob another using a gun or knife, you won’t receive a pass if you rob someone using a ball peen hammer. Destructive and demeaning communication is just that, irrespective of its mode of delivery, be it verbal or not. I would even propose that destructive written or electronic communication is even more insidious than caustic verbal communications.
Slamming or flaming another via e-mail is akin to shooting someone in the back. The sender need only to build up a toxic level of bitterness, vomit up their spleen onto the desktop, and click the send icon. Like the lieutenant in the missile silo, the devastating dispatch is sent without breaking a bead of sweat or shedding a drop of blood. For their recipient however, it’s another matter altogether. The victim of this electronic salvo is often left with a gaping gash across their spirit.
Again, we hear the worlds of St. James ring clearly: "Brothers, this should not be".
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
One Saxon Morn' (Part II)
The following was originally told by radio commentator Paul Harvey in an installment of “The Rest of the Story”. (It has been liberally paraphrased for this post...)
Four journalists from Denver happened to meet while on assignment in China in the closing months of the Nineteenth Century. Over a few rounds of beer, the men concocted a story that would be sure to sell papers. In their story, the Chinese People had agreed to undertake a major project as an act of goodwill towards the west. China, the story went, would demolish their Great Wall as a gesture demonstrating their willingness to welcome the west into their ancestral lands. The story went to print and was treated as bunk back in the states. In China however, the story caught the attention of a secretive band of ultranationalists who were already plenty pissed off about the barbarians in their ancient lands. The group, known for their prowess in the martial arts, wouldn’t let this outrage go unanswered.
This seemingly preposterous story was the match that ignited the Boxer Rebellion, a bloodbath that took the lives of countless Chinese followers of Christ, along with numerous Christian Missionaries.
I’m not yet sure why, but I’ve been thinking about “words” for the last week or so. In the past year, I’ve become very sensitive to my own speech, and the words of others, and the various effects these words may have on their hearers. Add to this the fact that in our present age, we rely heavily on written digital communications. In this our e-mails, text messages, et al add to the sum of our communicated language. Our language and our words have the potential to either comfort or cull. And with that, our tongues have the potential to be either salve or a scythe to those who hear or read our words.
How many times have our words, whether written or spoken, hit another like a wrecking ball? Have verbal asides or terse e-mails left others wounded in their wake? Or how often have we, when wounded by words, returned withering words in the direction of our offender?
James, the stepbrother of our Savior spilled a good deal of ink concerning the tongue in his relatively short epistle. If words are arrows, then the tongue is the crossbow that launches them. He rhetorically observes that the same tongue that that lifts gentle blessings is capable of firing lethal salvos of curses. And in his plainspoken way, he reminds his readers that this shouldn’t happen.
Possessing a machete tongue may be typical, but it certainly shouldn’t be normal for followers of the way.
Four journalists from Denver happened to meet while on assignment in China in the closing months of the Nineteenth Century. Over a few rounds of beer, the men concocted a story that would be sure to sell papers. In their story, the Chinese People had agreed to undertake a major project as an act of goodwill towards the west. China, the story went, would demolish their Great Wall as a gesture demonstrating their willingness to welcome the west into their ancestral lands. The story went to print and was treated as bunk back in the states. In China however, the story caught the attention of a secretive band of ultranationalists who were already plenty pissed off about the barbarians in their ancient lands. The group, known for their prowess in the martial arts, wouldn’t let this outrage go unanswered.
This seemingly preposterous story was the match that ignited the Boxer Rebellion, a bloodbath that took the lives of countless Chinese followers of Christ, along with numerous Christian Missionaries.
I’m not yet sure why, but I’ve been thinking about “words” for the last week or so. In the past year, I’ve become very sensitive to my own speech, and the words of others, and the various effects these words may have on their hearers. Add to this the fact that in our present age, we rely heavily on written digital communications. In this our e-mails, text messages, et al add to the sum of our communicated language. Our language and our words have the potential to either comfort or cull. And with that, our tongues have the potential to be either salve or a scythe to those who hear or read our words.
How many times have our words, whether written or spoken, hit another like a wrecking ball? Have verbal asides or terse e-mails left others wounded in their wake? Or how often have we, when wounded by words, returned withering words in the direction of our offender?
James, the stepbrother of our Savior spilled a good deal of ink concerning the tongue in his relatively short epistle. If words are arrows, then the tongue is the crossbow that launches them. He rhetorically observes that the same tongue that that lifts gentle blessings is capable of firing lethal salvos of curses. And in his plainspoken way, he reminds his readers that this shouldn’t happen.
Possessing a machete tongue may be typical, but it certainly shouldn’t be normal for followers of the way.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
One Saxon Morn' (Part I)
There was a time when I was a fan of Fleetwood Mac.
In was on one bitter Saxon morning in 1987, when I dropped my copy of “Rumors” into the cassette player on my desk, expecting to hear the smoky voice of Christine McVie. I pushed the play button, only to hear the sound of the tape turning on the spindles. Nonplussed, I grumbled believing that the cassette player had bought the farm. It would be sounds of the British Forces Broadcasting System for the rest of the day.
Like so many days on the mountaintop at Schwelentrup, the weather steadily deteriorated from an otherwise promising day. By workday’s end, a persistent ice fog engulfed the summit, coating everything with a glassy glaze of ice. I would have to chisel the Ford out of this crystal cocoon. Twenty minutes later, I removed my iced parka and slid into the slid into the driver’s seat. As the engine warmed, I popped “Rumors” into the tape deck and waited for Mrs. McVie. The voice I heard was far smokier…
“@#%$!! What is the MATTER with this $&@#* tape deck NOW?” the voice growled. Alone, the words were caustic. The delivering voice added the ferocity of a searing hot sandblaster. I was alone in the car, yet I can still feel the blush sweeping across my face. The voice hissing through the car stereo was my own and hearing it was like a well-placed punch in the stomach.
Have you ever heard yourself in an unguarded moment, in a moment when you weren’t aware that the “microphone was on?” It may surprise some to learn that the mic is always on. The tape that catches our voices lifted in hymnody also captures it lowered in less edifying lyrics.
In was on one bitter Saxon morning in 1987, when I dropped my copy of “Rumors” into the cassette player on my desk, expecting to hear the smoky voice of Christine McVie. I pushed the play button, only to hear the sound of the tape turning on the spindles. Nonplussed, I grumbled believing that the cassette player had bought the farm. It would be sounds of the British Forces Broadcasting System for the rest of the day.
Like so many days on the mountaintop at Schwelentrup, the weather steadily deteriorated from an otherwise promising day. By workday’s end, a persistent ice fog engulfed the summit, coating everything with a glassy glaze of ice. I would have to chisel the Ford out of this crystal cocoon. Twenty minutes later, I removed my iced parka and slid into the slid into the driver’s seat. As the engine warmed, I popped “Rumors” into the tape deck and waited for Mrs. McVie. The voice I heard was far smokier…
“@#%$!! What is the MATTER with this $&@#* tape deck NOW?” the voice growled. Alone, the words were caustic. The delivering voice added the ferocity of a searing hot sandblaster. I was alone in the car, yet I can still feel the blush sweeping across my face. The voice hissing through the car stereo was my own and hearing it was like a well-placed punch in the stomach.
Have you ever heard yourself in an unguarded moment, in a moment when you weren’t aware that the “microphone was on?” It may surprise some to learn that the mic is always on. The tape that catches our voices lifted in hymnody also captures it lowered in less edifying lyrics.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Saints and Children, we are gathered here...
The "Holy King of Israel" loves His children here, or wherever they may be. Regardless of our geolocation, the Father is taking us to a new and undiscovered country. Its a place outside the rule of time and tide; a place where the kings and priests of the Most High will serve Him in the epochs of eternity to come.
Come quickly LORD Jesus, come and make all things new...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Is it just me, or do you see it too?
When I first saw the photo of Phil Spector in court, I was gobsmacked by his wildman hairdo. I knew that I'd seen it before but coundn't place it. Then it hit me like a cold water balloon... I'd seen that 'do while eating many a bowls of Captain Crunch on Saturday mornings in front of the TV. Hair Bear and Uncle Phil were sporting the same 'do.Enjoy the Day!
Monday, July 02, 2007
On the Continent's Edge
When one walks with God, there is really no such thing as "uncharted territory". Though we seem to be walking in an undiscovered country, the Almighty One who walks ahead of us has already been here. The One who has seen the end from the beginning knows every turn of the trail.
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