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)