The Restless Gift

The window seduced me in that place, and I was powerless.
Outside, things moved: the flag curved in slo-mo,
The Cottonwood sloughed its wisps sideways
Newly clothed branches waved gently,
Mockingly? No, it’s just what branches do when nudged;
Unlike that place,
Beyond the glass,
Air motivated, pushed, stirred.
Things should move.

My 12 year old mind did, faster than the pace of the one talking
In that place,
Already moved ahead, beyond,
Answer anticipated,
All rabbit trails entertained at the least provocation, it ran
And ran, and ran.

Things should move. My knee did, constantly running in place,
In that place,
Like Wiley Coyote in the air over a cavern,
Bounced with an tornado of energy, sprung up and down with
A message that legs are for locomotion,
Jiggled a protest that mine did not fit
Under the desk anyway;
Instead I straddled it,
Like a too-old child on a plastic pony who realizes this
Should be the last time around forever.

My hands moved too, drumming what I imagined was an exotic beat
Which I knew everyone would appreciate, an incessant thumping with my special, thumb - middle finger combo that drove
Everyone to wish me gone from that place,
Gone through the window.

And that’s where I have been,
Through the window now for some time, running;
For years I have felt on my face what moves the branches, have run till my legs
Are bounceless. I have clambered over walls
Up ladders, through contests, have waded in the morass of
Daily mud.
I have moved, because that is what I do,
Who I am
In my own place.

How very strange that now in my middle days
The manic metronome is quieted. I gaze up at the window from
Below, see the yellow lights, the stately books resting in rows and feel moved
To climb back in,
Feel sure that I see movement
Yes, ideas waving gently,
In that place,
Mockingly? No, perhaps I didn’t know,
It is what ideas do.

You have given me restlessness, Still One,
My whole life through.
It has kept me from dissolving in place. It has beckoned through windows,
Called me to discomfort, and called me to quiet.
Here in the middle,
With legs that have found they fit under new desks,
Still I admit,
I see a pond at peace out the window, and my heart
Still hopes for a ripple.

The Relentless Cult of Novelty

Former Soviet dissident Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, in describing the emptiness of art education in the academy, addresses the foundation of higher education's rejection of traditional subject matter in favor of nihilistic, avant-garde approaches that are focused solely on technique. He calls it the "relentless cult of novelty," whose underlying quality is a "deep-seated hostility toward any spirituality" and enslavement to anything "new."

"This relentless cult of novelty, with its assertion that art need not be good or pure, just a long as it is new, newer, and newer still, conceals an unyielding and long sustained attempt to undermine, ridicule and uproot all moral precepts. There is no God, there is no truth, the universe is chaotic, all is relative, 'the world as text,' a text any postmodernist is willing to compose. How clamorous it all is, but also -- how helpless." (quoted in The Fabric of Faithfulness: Weaving Together Belief and Behavior, by Stephen Garber, IVP 1996)

Even as an art lover who has appreciated many forms of abstract art, I have stood in front of certain modern art exhibits (I won't say all, and I am not generally indicting moderns art) and have struggled with the clamor of which he speaks -- the noise of clashing techniques for the sake of technique, the dominance of irony, and expression not rooted in any belief system, floating without connection to anything substantive or capable of making a positive contribution. They are indeed helpless to contribute anything. The one, overarching value of "new, newer, and newer still" is actually a form of enslavement -- and here is an irony for you since irony is so highly valued -- since the academy has rejected tradition, so much of art is cut off from memory, leaving new artists to themselves to explore age-old issues (Solomon was right - there really is nothing new under the sun) all the while thinking they're being new or novel.

No, I'm not thinking of doing a degree in art education. I am just noticing how dependent great art is on story. The grand story. Without that, all we are left with is expression. This is true not only of pictorial art but of literature as well. The great English mystery writer and theologian Dorothy Sayers favored the poetry of statement over the poetry of search. Search is so often a black hole of longing and yearning, sucking everything into it, while statement is, by definition, a deep well which is rooted somewhere, which has a point of view -- as Bakke says, a view from a point -- and which seeks to give something.

There's a homeless man sitting in the shade of a tree across the street from my living room. He's drunk, taking drags on his rolled cigarette and shouting occasionally something about Buddha. If I were to paint him in the style of one of the modern artists in a gallery I visited last week in Cambria, I would focus more on the application of paint than on the subject. I would paint him in isolation divorced from his context, or I would invent one, placing him intentionally next to Christians emerging from Sunday school. But if I painted him in the style of Van Gogh, or sculpted him in the style of Rodin, I would hope to learn his story, focus on his inherent dignity, and explore how it connects with the larger story of creation, fall and redemption. Perhaps I would attempt to depict how God's image was imprinted on the man. The lie is that there is intrinsic value in the novel, the new, the newer still. The truth is the value comes from how what we create connects to the story of God; that connection forms the foundation for making a positive contribution.

Turns out, this is true not only for art but also for everything else we would attempt to make: a household, a ministry, a relationship, a family, an impact on our city. Each of these things draw their value from the way they relate to the story of God. It's our job to make the connection, rather than chasing after the elusive god of novelty -- whether its a "new" ministry model, the "latest" home design, the "newest" fashion, an "updated" love life, or the hot-off-the-press- must-have theology.

Worn smooth by salt and sand
This feather wood, in the shape of an open hand
Cradles what is laid across it –
Another sculpting from the sea,
Drifted stick refugee,
Sloughed without pain from a
Distant tree –
It seeks the lifeline of the first,
Nestles in a gently curving space on the
Knotted, weightless woody palm,
Its own little valley where it rests
In divine balance.

And I, plopped seal-like on my low rock
Letting eternity slip through my
Fruitless fingers
Am the final force in the completion of their
Destined union:
I am the Matchmaker of Moonstone Beach.

Something More One Day

A friend gave us a slab of green marble a decade ago. It's been sitting behind a shelf in my spidery carraige house collecting dust. You don't throw away marble. I knew it would become something more one day, even if for the time being it was a haven for black widows.

Then Jameson mentioned that he needed a writing desk to work on. After dragging ourselves without luck to half a dozen furniture stores and even a trip to IKEA in Sacramento, it dawned on me that we could use the marble and build something ourselves. We found some beautiful cherry to surround the marble. With a clear finish on it (no stain), the amber swirls really look beautiful next to the marble. Jameson and I had never built a piece of fine furniture before. We designed it together, measured together, cut the pieces together, re-cut the pieces together, corrected our mistakes together, and sweated together in the workshop. When it was finished we shook our heads and marveled at the outcome. It was the "something more" that was meant to be. What a great project this was for us!

It's true of me too. I am raw material -- albeit more like sandstone than marble. Parts of my life are standing alone in a forgotten corner, gathering dust and who knows what else. But God knows my potential, perhaps even has some other costly material to surround me with. And someday, someone will stand over me too, smiling with pride.

St Patrick's San Simeon Breastplate

Tina and I memorized St. Patrick's Breastplate early in our sabbatical. It's the one that starts "Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me ..." It helps center us, and we especially love it when we are walking.

As I sat on the beach at San Simeon last weekend, I wondered what St. Patrick would pray if he were with me. Here's my go at it: St. Patrick's San Simeon Breastplate

Christ in ebb and Christ in flow
Christ as tired tides recede
Christ on sand at sunset’s glow
Christ in driftwood and seaweed.

Christ as cares expand to oceans
Christ as oceans crash ashore
Christ as crashes cause erosions
Christ, remove what’s not secure.

Christ is carved in pelican beaks
Christ is pooled in crags with glee
Christ through snails and starfish speaks
Christ through green anemone.

Christ I come, though feebly so
Christ your wideness beckons me
Christ I come to face the flow
Christ to shape and make me free.

Build something tangible

"What do you do?" I get asked on planes, trains and in rental car agencies. I get asked in polite company, and in the heart of the 'hood. My answer is always something like: "I mobilize and train students to follow Christ by moving into high crime, high poverty neighborhoods, and make a transformational difference there." Sometimes it ensures a quiet flight, sometimes elicits a blank stare, sometimes entices a genuine conversation. But the conversation inevitably leads to the question of our product. What kinds of outcomes are we seeing? How do we measure success? After all, success is everything in America.

Even my sabbatical has to have outcomes. Here they are as I described them three months ago: 1) Decompression. 2) Discernment. Now at the mid point I have added: 3) Demolition and 4) Design. Its because after three months of contemplating, writing, reading, thinking, watching, walking -- I need to DO something; I need an outcome I can point to. A wall removed between our kitchen and back office, new ceiling fans in both rooms, the range repaired, the plumbing fixed, a writing desk designed and built with my son. We NEVER have time for this stuff, and we are on a roll. Next month it will be the stairs that have fallen down and the back deck that has suffered under the feet of a thousand neighborhood kids.

FUNNY THING about fixing stuff. With my mind relaxed and my body engaged in physical activity my thoughts are freed to chew on all the lessons we were taught during the first three months. And now that we have a table in the kitchen, I have a place to sit while thinking.

productivity vs. fruitfulness

Tina and I like to get things done. To watch Tina at 6:30 am, when her resevoir of energy is at its fullest, is like watching one of those speeded up movies with the characters buzzing to and fro. It's a blur. And nothing gives me greater pleasure than attacking a project. I am focused, nothing deters me and I don't stop just because I'm tired, dehydrated, experiencing chest pains -- little things like that. When we do things together, we are productive. It's how we're wired. We've always been that way. I really don't expect it to change much. In fact, there's not much incentive to change. American culture rewards that makeup -- it's the standard. I often resent it when I don't feel others approach their lives or ministries in the same way -- when they're not working as hard as us, when they seem to judge everything by how well it fits with their gifts, their energy level, their need for peace or time off or fun. After all, its better to burn out than rust out, right?

Being on sabbatical has challenged me. To be sure, we have time for productivity. We have accomplished household projects with delight. We have checked things off the list. Whether we have been at home or abroad, we have arisen to each new day with the knowledge that it is a gift not to be wasted. We are to be stewards of it. And for the most part, this has meant being sure that I work on the sabbatical assignments I was given, that I maintain productive spiritual disciplines, that I not engage in trivial pursuits. I even researched and wrote a book. So why am I feeling challenged?

It is from the the idea of letting my field lie fallow. Unproductive. It is living in that place where my life circumstance dictates that I believe in the idea of replenishment. That soil, when given a rest, will become more fertile. Sabbath -- ceasing from work -- becomes the seedbed for greater productivity.

Enter Henri Nouwen, who would take issue with the way I am using the word "productivity." He would applaud my desire to be a good steward of my life. But he would give a gentle corrective. "A call to live a fruitful life does not necessarily imply a call to be productive." (Lifesigns: Intimacy, Fecundity, and Ecstasy in Christian Perspective, Image Books, 1986) While acknowledging that productivity is good, he addresses the potentially improper motivation in productivity, and the false promises of productivity to deliver what it does not have the power to, when he says, "in our contemporary society, with its emphasis on accomplishment and success, we often live as if being productive is the same as being fruitful. Productivity gives us certain notoriety and helps take away our fear of being useless." He goes on to say that lives that are anchored in God's love, and not lived in fear (fear of rejection, fear of uselessness, etc.) are free to bear fruit, fruit that is a gift, an automatic outcome of who we are. "Whenever we trust and surrender ourselves to the God of love, fruits will grow." "Some of us might be productive and others not, but we are all called to bear fruit; fruitfulness is a true quality of love."

Undoubtedly Tina and I will maintain our list of projects. We will check things off the list with vigor. Weather on sabbatical or in the heat of ministry we will "work as unto the Lord" (Colossians 3:23). But I know that one outcome of this sabbatical for me will be the greater freedom to let things rest and trust that fruit will grow. At the end of the day, the point is to live a fruitful life, not just a busy one. Jesus said, "I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last" (John 15:16).

Oxfres - a tale of two cities

Oxford its not, but Fresno is home. It is a mercy of God that we returned to a Fresno June that contained temperatures in the 70's. It's been beautiful. We are glad to be home.

Fresno has no Thames but it has the Kings. It has no Lewis or Tolkein but it has Saroyan and Masumoto. It has no Eagle and Child but it does have Sequoia. It has no Christ Church Cathedral but it does have St. Johns. Students here are in shorts and flip flops, not the scholar's gown and formal attire of the high table, but they are students aspiring for something better nonetheless. There is only one Oxford, and it will forever move nand inspire me like no other city can. But there is also only one Fresno, and holds me like no other city.

I shared with my friend Matt this morning that if Oxford reminds me how I am wired, how God put me together, why I notice and care about the things that I care about, and frees me be that person, Fresno reminds me of my resoponsibility to put who I am into service for the sake of God's Kingdom.

Its a tale of two cities, and the way they speak to my life.

Our friends have welcomed us back, and the house was in pretty good shape too, thanks to Jameson and his friend Tim who held down the fort in our absence. Tina is back at work full time, and I have turned my attention to framing the next three months for maximum focus on what's ahead both institutionally and professionally.

Goodbye Oxford, For Now (snif)

One should take notice when it occurs to one that he is content, at rest, and full of peace. That sensation is rare enough for me over the last few years so as to stand out, jump up and down, slap me in the face, even. One should notice what one was doing when one got slapped.

I was in the Bodleian, holding a leather-bound 17th century poetic prayer in my hands, thinking about the relationship between the writer's life and my own, while looking out the beveled glass windows at clouds floating over the top of one of the Oxford Colleges, All Souls I think. I had just sent my manuscript in to the publisher and had time to explore for the fun of it -- no agenda, no commitments. Just the freedom to learn for the joy of it, and the time to consider and digest what I've read. Thank you, God.

Which makes saying goodbye to Oxford all the harder. There is no equivalent. Yet the challenge will be for me to invent ways to feed my spirit as I have done in this place, which seems so set up for it. But as C.S. Lewis yelled to Sheldon Van Auken as he ran across the High Street after their final meeting, "Christians never say goodbye!" Lord, I would love to come back some day.


We say goodbye to new experiences as well. Can you tell how excited (read: terrified) I am to try the national sport of England?



No, that''s not Tina bowling. It's Helen Lake, daughter of our hosts, who took mercy on the American and let me hit it a few times. But I can now tell you the difference between a "four" and a "six," what an "over" is, and the difference between one-day cricket and a test match. This has to make me the Fresno expert on the sport.


We say goodbye to new friends, Deborah Lake and her husband Richard and kids, Helen and Matthew and Deb's mother Jennifer. We are so grateful for their openness and generosity, and we will never forget it. We will always remember the village of Eynsham, and their 300 year old home. I have the dents in my forehead and scalp to help me remember (low ceilings and doorways), although now I also have amnesia from the blows, so I won't remember how I got the dents.



And goodbye to old friends Ken and Phyl Bennett, former wardens of the North Oxford Overseas Centre where we once lived, who have continued to pray for us, serve us and love us over 18 years. Here, they took us to Stratford Upon Avon, the birthplace of Shakespeare. Also, goodbye to Venu, Geetha and Sangeetha who hosted us, fed us delicious Indian cuisine and taught us the joys of netlesss badminton.


Tina returns to work full-time next week. I enter phase two of the sabbatical -- planning for the our National Urban Program and personal future casting.

Goodbye Oxford, for now. We'll call you.

"Lord afford a spring to me,
And help me feel like what I see."
- John Newton

Lost? Nevaaaaaaaah! I've a right to wander

The English take great pride in their "freedom to wander" -- a right to walk through all manner of field and farm, a right guaranteed by law. This is how we found ourselves (OK, yes, utterly lost) in the middle of some knee-high crop of something that looked rather like razors on a stalk than some thing I could cook and eat, utterly confused as to the difference between a hedge and a row, and the fact that the blue line on the map didn't seem to be where the little river we had crossed seemed to suggest it would be. We ended up in the back of some farm with a farmer looking at us like, "oh great, another set of Americans who can't read a map. When I asked if I could take this road back to the village he said, "You could, but I think they already have one there." English humor. OK, I made up that last exchange, but it could have happened that way. We did eventually make it back to our house on the village square.

Wandering is what sabbatical is all about. Yes, we've wandered through villages, under the spires of Oxford, throught the bookstacks at the Bodleian Library, in and out of concerts and lectures and exhibitions. Tina and Deborah have wandered picking Elder Fowers and later mixed their own Elder Flower Cordials. When we wander, we place ourselves in a position that anticipates serendipitous events -- graces from a loving God who likes to jump out from behind a bush or bookstack and say "surprise"! You have to get yourself lost every once in a while -- not in control -- to experience these.

Our friend Geetha took us to Dorchester to visit the village and cathedral. What beautiful days we have had with Geetha and her husband Venu while here.

Their daughter Sangeetha hosted us at the Trinity College High Table; for 500 years students have dined here. They recited the grace in Latin.


ONLY SIX DAYS LEFT IN ENGLAND
Already I am savoring the last moments here. I will miss the honey-sweet fragrance and soft steel blue of the Ceonothis bushes, the white lace of the Blackthorne tree, the Van Gogh-like yellow of the vast Rapeseed fields, the soft breeze throught the stained glass windows of the Bodleian Library Upper Reserve, the lunchtime recitals at Hertford College, and all the bitters of the Kings Arms, the Eagle and Child, and the Turf. I wan't to remember the freedom to hold in my hands precious, crumbling manuscripts from the 17th century, the treasures to be discovered because of the luxery of time and the priviledge of a Bodleian card. I want to remember the open handed graciousness of our hosts, the Lakes, as they have welcomed us as temporary members of their family and let us dine at their table and partake in the rhythms of their lives. I want to remember so many who took initiative in our lives, who drove us around, who cooked for us, who included us. We do look forward to coming home, but I will also be sad.

Oddities in Oxford (besides Randy)

A shark swam into the roof of a house

In Oxford, and not through the water.

It dove through the tiles, the result of a joust

A shark swam through the roof of a house

By a man with a crane and a bit of a grouse,

Though I cannot conceive how he caught her.

A shark swam into the roof of a house

In Oxford, and not through the water.

- RWW 2007

Bungee for Jesus

A sanctuary with roots in the 13th century normally means quiet and hushed tones, unless you realize that an austere reverence is not building the British church -- then you go for Bungeeeees! Tina and I helped manage the bungee run for kids at the village church of St. Leonards in Eynsham, as part of a community outreach. It was a scream.

.



Where there is a will, there is a way
The saga of the Inklings chairs has a happy ending ... we hope. To recap, Randy found that the Mitre, one of the pubs the Inklings used (C.S. Lewis, JRR Tolkein, Charles Williams and others) was renovating and selling their chairs. Some famous bottoms might have pressed these cusions, so he couldn't resist. He paid €2 each (about $4). But how to get them home? Shipping would have cost $340! The answer: dismantle and box them and check them as luggage. He'll be sipping tea in them soon and thinking about all the people who laughed at him.

Some thoughts from Forgotten Among the Lillies, by Richard Rolheiser:
The last line of St. John of the Cross' classic The Dark Night of the Soul says that he was able to "leave his anxieties and cares, forgotten among the lillies." Rolheiser picks up this theme and has written one of the most powerful books on this subject I've ever read. At the end of the book he gives some "guidelines for the long haul", which I share here with you, though a summary can never capture the beauty of what went into it:

1. Be grateful: never look a gift universe in the mouth. To be a saint is nothing less than to be warmed and vitalized by gratitude. We owe it to our Creator to appreciate things, to be as happy as we can. Resist pessimism and false guilt.

2. Don't be naiive about God. Religion is not mere consolation. It puts a belt around you and takes you where you would rather not go. Demands from God always seem unreasonable. Learn to wrestle with God.

3. Walk forward when possible. When impossible, try to get one foot in front of the next. Expect long periods of darkness and confusion. Jesus cried, the saints sinned, Peter betrayed.

4. Pray that God will hold onto you.

5. Love. There are only two tragedies: not to love and not to tell others we love them.

6. Accept what you are: Fear not! You are inadequate! Accept the torture of a life that is inadequate. Understand your own brand of martyrdom.

7. Don't mummify: Let things die. Let go.

8. Refuse to take things seriously: Call yourself a fool often. Laugh and play and give yourself over to silliness.

9. Do not journey alone.

10. Go soft. G.K. Chesterton noted that rocks sink, birds rise, hardness is a weakness, fragility is a force.

It may take me until the next sabbatical to appropriate this perspective. I may need your help.

Two Triolet and a Silly Haiku

Here are two 20th century Triolets that I came across in my research that I had to write down. Triolet is a French poetry form, begun in the 14th century, that repeats the first couplet at the end, and the first line of the couplet in the middle, and that contains a specific rhyming pattern.

This first one is from an English Lieutenant who fought in the trenches of France in WWI, and wrote a book of triolet from there. This poem is his dedication:

Because you once were good to me
My Lord, accept these trench-vignettes
And may you like each jeu d' esprit
Because you once were good to me
But if you don't, just think: "well, he
At least acknowledges his debts,"
Because you once were good to me
My Lord, accept these trench-vignettes.

- Lt. CGL Du Cann, from Triolets from the Trenches, 1917

And this one from an Oxford man, who writes with the wit and comfort of his class:

Christ said, "Blessed are the poor"
Matthew slyly adds "in spirit",
But in spite of him I'm sure
Christ said "Blessed are the poor."
This the rich could not endure,
So they bribed the saints to queer it.
Christ said, "Blessed are the poor."
Matthew slyly adds, "in spirit."

- Oswald Couldrey, from Triolets and Epigrams, 1948.

And here is a silly Haiku that I wrote for my 10 year old friend Laura:

Dove in the downspout
Her spring nest perched at roof's edge,
Though up high, lays low.

MORE DEAD WHITE MEN

More graves, this time C.S. Lewis (above) and JRR Tolkein (below). We went to pay our respects, and pray that a smidgen of their imagination and creativity would continue in us. How utterly unbearable to go through life being satisfied with the mediocre, to never strive to become more than I am. And yet we can't duplicate their lives. They were a gift of God, perfectly crafted for their time, though some of their contributions have become timeless. How many of us get to make a timeless contribution? Not many, though God takes what we each dedicate to Him and uses it for eternity, the very definition of timelessness. The key for me this month has been to capture the joy of making a contribution to the human race, just for the sheer joy of it, rather than for some attempt at placing myself in the historical record. I sit in the greatest library in the world surrounded by the crumbling corpus of the writers humanity has deemed worth studying. Students read some, ignore others. Yesterday I sat next to a student who had half a dozen manuscripts from the 17th century on her desk. On mine was one from 1819, written by Patrick Carey, a man who wrote poetry in 1651, that was falling apart in my hands. There is nothing else written by him, and it took 180 years for anyone to notice his work. Who knows when it was last viewed. I hope he enjoyed the process of writing it, because he didn't live to see it join other books on the shelf of accepted literature. I enjoyed reading it, some 350 years later, which I am certain he hoped for. So that's the equation I need to practice, as if preparing for a final: taking joy in a work + dedication of that work to God = a job well done. I have tasted this more here than ever, and it is a gift to me. These dead white men are speaking to me, and the Spirit that led them is alive and well in me.


WRITING UPDATE. I have completed the majority of the manuscript on Poetic Intercession I am working on, waiting for a few more watercolors from friend/artist Tiffany before I submit it to my publisher. A contact here in Oxford has also offered to set up an appointment with an Oxford Publisher. It's no Lord of the Rings, but most importantly, I've enjoyed myself.


WELCOME TO MY HUMBLE ABODE. OK, not really. It's just a manor house we visited when staying with our friends Venu and Geetha and their daughter, Sangeetha. But don't we look at home there? Fits us, right? Hmmmm.........




ACTUALLY..... the next shot is more appropriate. It's a thatched cottage that is abandoned. Hmmmm, sounds familiar. Relocation to an abandoned house. I can see a new ministry emerging.


OUR VISIT TO GEETHA & VENU's was wonderful. Their daughter Sangeetha is in her final year at Oxford (Trinity College) and is a delight. We all met 18 years ago in Oxford, and they stayed. Our boys and Sangeetha used to play in the garden of our residence hall back then. Time flies.



TINA TIME: No doubt some of you are wondering what I'm doing with all my free time while Randy is tucked away in the Bodleian. The last time we were here for an extended stay I had two little boys to care for. This time I am free to explore ..... wandering the streets of Oxford, visiting the museums (most are free, with just a donation asked for), sitting in the Blackwell's coffee shop reading my book, having lunch with Geetha weekly and then walking with her around Jericho in North Oxford where she works at Oxford Univ. Press. Some days I take the bus up to the IFES office to do some work, I sit in the sunshine outside the Clarendon Building and watch the tourists and students go by and I walk around University Parks (home to a cricket field, next to the Cherwell River and where many flowers and trees are in bloom). One day I stood in a LONG line at Moo Moo's (the milkshake shop in the Covered Market) to get my 1/2 price milkshake ..... why not ..... the price was right, I have plenty of time, and it was a real treat. Last week we both enjoyed a free lunchtime concert in the Hertford College Chapel (viola and piano). Randy and I usually meet for our sack lunch outside the Sheldonian Theater, and then, we meet again in the late afternoon to ride the bus back to Eynsham.


There's more to share next time: managing a bungie run, the ongoing saga of getting my Inklings chairs home ... stay tuned. Until then, this lyric:

"Lord, afford a spring in me,
Let me feel like what I see."
- John Newton in the hymn Kindly Spring Again is Here

... and this thought:

Our spiritual life essentially equals: what we do with our restlessness.
- Ronald Rolheiser in Forgotten Among the Lilies

Oxford: Twenty Days In

Time to read, to ponder, to see with new eyes. I know the same thoughts are available to me in my "normal" life. I could order the books. I could meditate on the great thoughts. But then Everybody Loves Raymond would come on and I'd have to give profundity a rest. I'd have Frank Barone's "holy crap!" ringing in my ears, instead of this from Luther:

"This is the ineffible and infinite mercy of God,

Which the slender capacity of man's heart cannot comprehend

-- And much less utter --

The unfathomable depth and burning zeal

Of God's love toward us."

Morning sun by Brasenose College in the Radcliffe Square. Most of my study is done just steps from this place. Tina walks me there, then goes off exploring, checking email at a local cafe, and sitting inf full people watching mode. I go to the upper reserve reading room in the Bodleian where I chew on stuff like this, from Jean Vanier, founder of the L'Arch communities serving the severely disabled. Henri Nouwen refers to him a lot:

"For many years I have tried to follow Jesus. I have tasted this joy and growth to freedom.But I have struggled too. I have touched my own mediocrity and ambivilence, letting myself sink into the quagmire of my own fears and desires for control and comfort; my fear of rejection, of being dishonored, seen as guilty, condemned by others. I have touched the vulnerability of my heart and the troubled waters of emptiness and anguish. I have protected this vulnerability through my own defense mechanisms and angers, and various forms of flight." (From Jean Vanier, Jesus, the Gift of Love, pp 2-3)

It hasn't all been profound. Sometimes we have the joy of trying new things, like liver pate. I was game. I think you can see Tina's reaction.

Post Christian, pluralistic but up at dawn for song and prayer

Anything that is done for 500 years merits attention, even if it means getting up at 4am to catch the village bus to Oxford. For the last half-millennium people have risen at dawn on May 1st to gather below the tower at Magdalen (pronounced "Maudlin") College (where C.S. Lewis taught Medieval and Renaissance Literature) to listen to the choir sing from the tower welcoming spring. Oxford students stay up all night at galas and balls, then stagger in their tuxes and gowns(did I mention they drink a lot?) to the street for this tradition. Thousands of towns-people join them. We had been warned about the drunken students. We had been told that greeting the spring was a pagan tradition. So we were not prepared for the glorius sacred music that the choir sang, nor the very Christ-centered prayer that the vicar prayed, nor the quiet, respectful crowd of thousands. England is certainly post-Christian, but this very secular culture holds tightly to its Christian roots. The names of school terms still honor the religious -- Michaelmas, Trinity, etc. Evensongs are celebrated in most college chapels. This very secular city will not give up God, even if much of the time God is ignored or relegated to "appropriate corners."


After the songs and prayer, there was dancing by Morris Men (yawn), Quakers (fun!), and Cloggers, and renaissance music by punk rockers. There were walking trees being led about on leashes. The gospel was being preached in the streets, setting the record straight about the Christian roots of welcoming spring, the honoring of nature and creation while directing our worship to the Creator.

Reading and Writing

Tina has been reading a biography about Etty Hillesum, a contemporary of Anne Frank, whose faith became real as she and her family were carried off to concentration camps. Tina loves observing the lives of others and has enjoyed getting to know Etty through her diaries. The book was quoted by Henri Nouwen in another book Tina completed, Lifesigns: Intimacy, Fecundity and Ecstacy in Christian Perspective. That book powerfully conveys the love of God, the way God values every person, and the ways we sideline this love in our lives by our strivings and self preoccupation. Finally, she was really hooked by the book Born on a Blue Day, by autistic savant, Daniel Tammet.

I have been reading mystery novels by Laurie King because they are well written and that's all. I've tried a few other substantive books by notable Christian teachers and leaders, but nothing has caught hold. I have absolutely reveled in my hours in the University's Bodleian Library, reading poetry from the 14th century on -- dipping in at will here and there, ordering from the stacks. My two books are now in the Bodleian reserves, and are available to students.

I have also nearly completed work on my book of poetic intercessions, and have recently added an appendix on historic poetic prayers from various cultures.

Mooned by English sheep

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside still waters ... he restoreth my soul ..." (Ps 23:1-3). This blurry one seems to be saying, "Look, dummy, I don't care about you and your camera, and the bus that's waiting for you. Here's what I care about: grass, green grass. You ought to slow down enough to try it sometime." Our host has noticed that we tend to eat standing up, and thinks it's a symptom of our hectic lifestyle. She may be right. In some ways this sabbatical is about turning our irreverent backsides to the world for a while, putting our mouths to the ground and chewing.

GET THEE TO A NUNNERY - Tina and I walked from the village of Eynsham to Oxford along the Thames River, a journey of about 8 miles. After a stop at The Trout Inn for refreshment, we explord the ruins of the Godstow Abbey (nunnery), the ruins of which are nearly 1,000 years old. Tina felt right at home.

We are blessed in the city, we are blessed in the field, we are blessed when we come and when we go....

Legacy

We stood in the Holywell Churchyard, at the grave of Charles Williams, one of the Inklings, and prayed that some of his spirit of creativity and imagination would live on in us. It was a moving moment, one of many here. We visited the house where Tolkein lived during his last year, and the house where Lewis lived during his first year. These men all left a lasting legacy of influence and fruitfullness for the kingdom, but perhaps of more interest for me at this moment in my life, a legacy of joy and imagination for which the world is thirsty.

Those Crazy Americans
We were stunned to see the Mitre being closed, one of the pubs frequented by the Inklings. As I popped my head in and talked with a worker, he agreed to sell four chairs from the pub for a total of £8 ($16). Who knows if Inkling bottoms ever pressed those actual cushions or not, but we prefer to think they did. It is our hope that a little of that tradition will grace our home in Fresno. (I dread finding out what the cost of shipping will be.) Our host just shook her head and laughed when we asked her to help us haul the chairs back to the village. "You crazy Americans!"

Significant Contacts.
I met with Chris Sugden, former Director of the Oxford Centre for Mission Study, now Director of the Anglican Mainstream, who gave me good counsel about the future, as well as connection to some key contacts.

Village and City Life and Spirit
We made the transition from the cottage where we were staying on Abbey Street to Llandaff House, in the heart of the village off the square. (See photo from previous entry. That is the view out our window.) We are staying with Deborah Lake and her wonderful family in their 300 year-old home, complete with 1000 year old, chiseled abbey stones in their back garden and rough beam and stone, tudor-style interior. Everything we need, from sausage rolls, to newspapers, to the village coop., to a deli, to fair trade coffee is literally steps out our door. The village is quiet, except for Monday nights which includes a cacaphany of bells from bell-ringers practice. Life in Eynsham is a nice contrast to the pace and intensity of Oxford. But Oxford holds its own contributions to thge life of the spirit as well. We attended a sung Evensong at Christ Church Cathedral this week, a beautiful experience with the antiphonal boys and mens choir. One of the hymns we sang included this poetic stanza that captured my heart and represented my prayer while here.

"Drop thy still dews of quietness,

Till all our strivings cease;

Take from our souls the strain and stress,

And let our ordered lives confess

The beauty of thy peace."

- John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

As you can see, I am deeply embedded in Blackwell's Books doing some serious research -- only things that are good for my soul. Some of the world's best authors are there, as you can see. I, of course, have chosen a Greek text in this case.


And then there are the other marvels ...




The Oxfordshire countryside reaches out and slaps you awake every once in a while, and should you be tempted to focus on the magnificence of human achievement in this town of auspicious spires and thousand year old buildings, the simple beauty of a lowly blossom draws you back to the truly magnificent One.



There have been many quiet moments that we have received as gifts, whether sitting in the University Church of St. Mary's in front of the pulpit where Wesley and Lewis, among others, preached ...


... or floating in a paddle boat on the Cherwell River, under Magdalen Bridge. On May 1st we will return to this site to hear the Magdalen Choir sing from the tower at dawn.

This week Tina was able to connect with her old friend, Geetha, and later we shared a wonderful Indian dinner with her and her husband, Venu. Eighteen years ago, both of our families were new to Oxford and we bonded.

I was able to get my reader's card for the Bodleian Library and spend a few hours in the Radcliffe Camera familiarizing myself with the new computer system. I was able to find two of the four books I was looking for, research for the book of prayers I am working on, and reserve them from the archives for next week. Just being in the Theology section, world class and extensive, was both deeply gratifying and intimidating, and it took me a few hours before I felt comfortable and at home there.

We are subsisting mostly on soup, bread and cheese as the exchange rate is two dollars for one pound. Today, neighbors in our village invited us to coffee. Donald is a retired lecturer from Oxford Univ. in Arab Studies, and is currently translating a 13th century Islamic text referring to the crusades. His wife, Pamela, just finished writing a history of Eynsham (the village we live in) and gave us a copy.

Next week we hope to walk from Eynsham to Oxford along the Thames River (about 5 miles).

In a moment we leave this internet cafe to attend a concert at the historic Sheldonian Theatre where we will hear Handel, Vivaldi, Pacelbel, and Bach. Needless to say, our heads and hearts and souls are being stirred in multiple ways.

Home of Erasmus, Wesley, Lewis, and the Whites (temporarily)

We arrived safely and settled into our cottage n Eynsham, a village seven miles west of Oxford. It is beautiful, with everything we could have hoped for. The abby (which anchored the village but is no longer there) was built in 1005, and once destroyed, provided the stones for many of the village homes that are there today. We are a stones throw from the village square, and next week will relocate to a house on the square, overlooking a stone church with a Norman tower (see below).



We love Eynsham, but couldn't wait to get to Oxford to re-walk our old haunts. We will have to pace ourselves. It's hard not to want to soak it all in all at once. I had forgotten how this place speaks to me. Tina asked why, and I could only think it has something to do with the combination of tradition, history and excellence. John Wesley and C.S. Lewis preached from the pulpit in St. Mary's (behind me in the picture below), and thousands of students have considered and debated the role of faith. Erasmus walked these streets and challenged students to worship God with their mind and to believe that "Bidden or unbidden, God is present." This all somehow seeps out of the thousand year old stone walls.



We got my reader's card for the Bodlein Library (University of Oxford) and if Tina will let me I hope to spend a few hours a week in the Radcliffe Camera (pictured below) where some of the theology texts are. I spent day upon day at its oak desks and deep stacks nearly two decades ago. God spoke to me then, and I pray for the same though my time there will be limited.


What has God been saying so far? The word "beloved" comes up a lot. Without the strain of ministry I have been freer to relax in God's love. Tina and I have renewed our spiritual disciplines and feel more on the same page. We are soaking in the beauty of hedges and rows, yellow gorse bushes, the Cherwell and Thames rivers, and morning light. And there is something about Oxford that is helping us respond the inviotation of Christ to worship God with our mind, as well as body, soul and strength.

Oxford Bound

"And yet steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantments of the Middle Ages, who will deny that Oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps ever calling us nearer to the true goal of us, to the ideal, to perfection -- to beauty in a word, which is only truth seen from another angle." -- Matthew Arnold

This quote, recorded in my journal 18 years ago during our nine-month sabbatical in Oxford, has been singing a siren song to me ever since. I don't remember the research and degree I completed there nearly two decades ago as much as I remember recapturing "... beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from another angle." We hope for a taste of this again as we go tomorrow for six weeks there. We will connect with old friends, attend lectures and chapels, and most of all, listen to a fresh word from God.

We will stay in the village of Eynsham, just at the edge of Oxford, with a family connected to International Fellowship of Evangelical Students (InterVarsity worldwide).

To honor the Blodgetts and Fords

In honor of the Blodgetts and Fords who purchased homes next to each other in the Lowell neighborhood several months ago in order to pursue community and ministry as families together -- who ripped down the fences between them as both a symbol of their shared life and a practical way to increase space -- I made this stained glass for the Blodgetts. I made a similar one for the Fords a few months ago. This one depicts their houses, both with fireplaces burning with the love of Christ, which drifts out to the neighborhood and forms a cross, defining the hope they offer. Highlights on the tree are in the shape of doves, alluding to "seeking the peace of the neighborhood" (Jer. 29:7).

To this I add this prayer:

God of light
The glass puzzler
Cuts and assembles individual panes
Colored and stained,
Separated by tracks of lead came,
Glazes and whites, buffs and
Borders them in a dull, zinc frame
So that nothing may detract from the splendor of what
Streams through -- dancing on the walls in a
Rainbow distortion of the same.

Glass Puzzler God
You also gather panes in a pattern,
Tear stained,
Dark with worry,
Separated by the heavy routine of work or the
Mere space of months,
The rut of winter, of rain.
Your hands are cut and bleeding from the
Edge of each pane,
Each pain.
In your eyes are tears from the fine residue of grinding,
Not silicone but souls,
To make every piece fit -- and flame,
Your mind constantly on the final image
Which You suffer to produce
In Amber and Craig, so the sharp, white light pouring through their lives
Will dance in colors on the wall
And lead us to its source.

To You be all glory and fame.

Time for what is neglected

Until I stopped I had no idea how much I was doing. The additional challenges, opportunities and responsibilities that accumulate in running a ministry organization become standard, normal, expected, and every day is a whirlwind. Lost in the wake of all the pressure and activity are the small things -- things like noticing that a piece of my roof has blown off.

Small things like finally constructing a will.

Small things like working our way through the hope chest. I had forgotton that the cedar chest the kids in our tutoring program sit on every week in our living room was a hope chest made by Tina's grandfather, and contains what all hope chests do -- precious junk that should be reviewed and re-stored every few years.

Small things like replacing missing pickets in our fence, shredding 10 year old files, and trimming eyebrows and toenails.

Small things like sorting through, reflecting on and making decisions about things passed down to us -- Tina's Mom's rings, her Dad's silver belt buckles, mementos, etc.

None of these, of course, are small. This is the stuff of life, and we were neglecting it. Its amazing what one will neglect when one is piloting the ship.

I never anticipated that sabbatical would also mean the recovery of the small things. Thank you, God.

Blossom Showers

Sitting in the garden nook we created last year, complete with stone table, wall fountian and the neighbor's jasmine vine curling through our fence, Tina and I shared our morning prayer today, along with coffee and cereal. A study in contrasts -- one the one hand, the sounds of the city swirling around, sirens, rush hour on the freeway, the bus stop out front, dogs barking on the alley. On the other, the orange side of our orange/grapefruit tree is in full, exhuberent bloom and rained down on us the pungent blossoms that were letting go, creating a sweet carpet around our feet. The words of peace on our lips. The world goes on while we pause. God is in the alley, God is at our stone table. We are free to pause.

One of our reacings included the Methodist Covenant Prayer, something I first came across on a tapestry in the John Wesley Memorial Church in Oxford, on our sabbatical 18 years ago. I copied it down in my journal then, and have come across it from time to time. I am always struck by the sense of free abandon in it. As we prepare to return to Oxford in 10 days for the next leg of our sabbatical, I pray that I can live the essence of this prayer:


METHODIST COVENANT PRAYER
I am no longer my own, but thine.
Put me to what thou wilt,
Rank me with whom thou wilt;
Put me to doing, put me to suffering;
Let me be employed for thee
or laid aside for thee;
Let me be exhalted for thee
or brought low for thee;
Let me be full, let me be empty;
Let me have all things,
let me have nothing;
I freely and heartily yield all things
to Thy pleasure and disposal.

And now, O glorious and blessed God,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
Thou art mine, and I am thine.
So be it.
And the covenant which I have made on earth,
let it be ratified in heaven.
Amen.

Tina's Birthday

With a card and a bag of Sour Patch Kids purchased at Rite Aid we kicked off Tina's birthday today. After our walk to City College and back we will do our morning celtic prayer, read some Julian of Norwich out loud to each other (although Tina is losing patience with her) and get to the day's agenda. Tina will work some, I'll spend time with Jameson in a rare game of golf, then we will rendezvous for Tina's birthday dinner out. I am working on a stained glass piece for a neighbor, so I'll try to make progress without bleeding, although it is inevitable.

Each of these activities will provide an opportunity to do what St Ignatius practiced -- finding God in all things. It's a discipline I need to renew. It doesn't matter what the activity -- a birthday party, a walk, a project, and the more obvious spiritual reading. For an activist like myself, it is essential that I renew this discipline. It's not about learning something new about God from experience, but rather experiencing the fellowship and presence of God amidst the mundane. Splendor in the Ordinary, one writer called it. As an activist, it's easy to make the mission the goal, rather than God. If sabbatical isn't about reapturing the true goal, recentering on that, then it's just a vacation.

Same question, a millenium apart

St Francis and St Augustine, were both wealthy youth, converted at young adulthood. But that's where the comparison ends. One was Italian, the other North African. They lived nearly nine hundred years apart. One was called to serve the poor and powerless and to be poor and powerless himself. The other, to hold positions of power and influence in the new church and to marshall his powerful intellect for the sake of the kingdom. But they asked similar questions:

"Who are you, God? And who am I but your useless servant?" - St Francis

"What are you, my God ... What are you to me?" - St Augustine

As I am seeking sabbatical rest, I am compelled to return to these fundamental questions. I echo Augustine's plea:

"The heart is restless until it finds its rest in thee .... Who will allow me to find rest in you? Who will help me to let you enter my heart and intoxicate me so that I can forget my misfortunes and embrace my one and only good, yourself? What are you to me? Have mercy on me so that I might ask this.... Alas, in your mercy, Lord God, tell me what you are to me! Speak to my soul and tell me that you are my salvation." (Confessions 1:4,4-1:5,5)

Re-entering Fresno Briefly

Ice chewer on one side
Deal-maker/Titan/Master-of-his-fate on the other,
Public address blasts mixed with
Jumbled, one-sided bits of a dozen pedantic conversations
Overlayed by my own unceasing questions that will not
Go on sabbatical
And You want me to be still and know
-- that You are God
-- that I am my Beloved's and He is mine
-- that in quietness and confidence shall be my strength?
There is no quiet here, Lord.
Not here.
But there is a corner in my mind,
Newly discovered,
Where the only sound is produced by the hum of concentration,
The only lyric is longing,
Where I come to pay attention
To one thing,
The thing,
Where your silence is deafening,
Where your presence is all that is
Required.

c RWW

Sabbatical begins with a splash

Our month in Vancouver was moist, to say the least. It rained the majority of our days here. But we didn't let that deter us. We learned to get out in it, to do what we want to do,armed with umbrellas, parkas, whatever we needed. We hiked 85% of the trails in the University of British Columbia Endowment Lands. We walked 4 miles a day, rain or shine! Toward the end of the month we had several days of sun, which were glorious.

Time with Joseph and Heidi has been so meaningful for us. We accompanied them in some of their seminary schedule, i.e., chapels, a class, public lectures, library, etc. We prayed them through greek tests, and assignments. We've spent far too much money going out for dinner. We snow shoed with them at Whistler Mountain, site of the 2010 Olympics. Tina, our resident olympaholic, was thrilled to to see the venues. We've gone to the church they work at as youth directors and church events to see them in action. We have bus passes so we've been able to get to know Vancouver better.

We've read multiple books, many spiritual, some novels. We've been doing Daily Celtic Prayers together, and reading out loud to each other. As we walk we have recited a portion of St. Patrick's Breastplate that we have memorized: "Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in Quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger."

I've been writing a book of prayers, and it's been fun to have a project. I have been careful not to "work" too hard at it, trying to stay faithful to the sabbatical agenda of rest and renewal.

We are sad to leave Joseph and Heidi tomorrow. This month with them has been a gift from God. But we are onto the next phase of our journey, to Oxford, England, where God has spoken to us so powerfully before.

With Love,

Randy