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.

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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....