By this time next Saturday I’ll be at St. Mary’s Orthodox Cathedral in Minneapolis getting ready for my niece’s wedding. I’m not actually the celebrant so I need to get dressed up nice and smile piously and handle a few things, but that’s okay.

As I get older I come to see my age not so much in terms of the face I see in the mirror but rather by the transformation of those around me. I remember when my niece was born and suddenly it seems she’s done with college, on the job, and getting married. What did I do in all that time? I’m not sure I remember but I don’t recall it moving as quickly as it did. Time does move on and with each ritual, each ceremony, each event of passage for those around me I see its rhythms. One generation does indeed give way to another and some day I will be that old man sitting off to the side while the young folks dance.

Who can stand in the way of the flower of youth? And yet there is a sadness in this because the blooming of it all comes at the cost of many goodbyes. I suspect that jobs and life and the flow of things will one day take us all apart and all that we’ve managed to maintain through these years by staying close to each other will one day rust away.

It’s just the way of things, so as I go through the work of the Liturgy next Saturday I’ll sear each image into my memory, all the hellos, all the good byes, every color, sight, sound, and dream. When we are someday apart it will be the unseen tie that binds.

Tomorrow will be my brother Paul’s birthday, his 46th had he remained with us.

Paul and I are 14 months apart and when we were kids we teased him about being an “oops”.
Usually on his birthday I would give him a call and say “Hey, you’re old” and he would respond “But you’re older…” , remind me of those two months when I was two years ahead, and we’d have a conversation. Over the years our lives took different paths and like all brothers we had our own lives but that call was something we had in common and would often be the prelude to a longer talk that helped keep that which knitted us together even though we were different people.

I remember thinking sometimes that time was on my side and I would have the last laugh. One day I would die and then he would, perhaps, finally be older and if by grace I made heaven I would look down and mischieviously smile. Sadly, it was not to be.

However he shines in the presence of God, Paul will always be 44 and time for the rest of us will march on. In God’s eyes, of course, it’s meaningless, all time is present. But we choose to mark our lives by it, often distress ourselves over it, and watch it pass by too quickly when times are good and too slowly when they aren’t. I will grow old as God gives years but all is not lost.

One day, too, I hope to make the short leap from here to the arms of God and live in timeless joy. We’ll talk then, Paul and I, not about age or anything else but rather in worshipful tones about life in the sight of God, heavenly things, and everything good and right. And we’ll have all the time in the world to do it.

A few weeks ago I was on vacation in Marquette, Michigan and drove in the night through downtown and past a music store. In the window was, hanging among other instruments, a mandolin.

It has been over a year since I started playing the mandolin. Originally I thought it would be a way to challenge myself by having an instrument strung GDAE and directly reverse of a bass. Over the months, though, the mandolin came to have a life of its own. I love the high lonely sound, the two finger chords, but most of all how it has given me a different voice to express my heart.

The upstairs of my house has a room of instruments, a key board, four basses, three mandolins, a dulcimer, and a recorder stashed somewhere along with the various electric gadgets needed to make some of them work. I’ve cleared a few away over the years but there always seems to be room for one more, like the Portugese style mandolin from Marquette with it beautiful wood and soulful sound. One day I believe we may add a hammered dulcimer (this one for my wife) and I think that some day a Native American flute will follow me home and I’ll have to keep it.

I’ve never been content with one instrument. Each instrument has its own qualities, each its own sound, and each elicits something in and from me. They, or rather the music they produce is a solace for me, a world apart where that which is physical and spiritual and intellectual and spiritual are one for a moment. I would like to think that the sounds are still out there somehow, too quiet for hearing but floating through the ether in some mystical way. I’d like to believe that everything I’ve played, good or bad, is still traveling through space.

Who knows? Maybe heaven will be the place where I catch up to my music or where whatever tears have been shed, anger expressed, joy revealed, or fears made known in a hundred songs as prayers will find their perfect purpose, their intended beauty.

Regardless, I’ve got another mandolin, spruce, sycamore, rosewood, and soul and I’ve got to go play.

I had planned to move my blog to WordPress because they have better templates, still do, but its harder to post and so I’m back. I guess its just a guy’s perogative to change his mind.

Another terrible school shooting, this time in Ohio and you can hear the clock ticking.

How long will it be before you hear the activists seize on this tragedy and demand less guns or more school counselors or cameras in schools. Amazing, though, you’d think by now with all these programs and laws and such in place that all would be well, or at least even on the way to well.

But none of it, as well intentioned (or not) as it might be will matter until there is a moral revolution, a revolution of the heart. You cannot take morality out of a society and expect that something else, something more sinister will not fill the void. It has, it will, and we continue on this path to our peril if we do not wake up and realize that all the laws in the world will not make a difference if a person is not transformed within. Take away the guns they will still murder, take away the murder from the human heart and guns will gather rust.

In that line of thought it may be good to say one more thing. Critics of Christianity speak often of the violence caused by religion. They ignore, of course, the reality that nations and people have used Christianity and distorted it to justify violence and that Christianity is not the actual source of the violence and they carefully forget one more important question. How many violent acts have NOT been committed because of Christianity? How many times in the history of the world has a violent thought or consideration come to mind that the moral framework of Christian faith has redirected towards better solutions? Unfortunately there’s no real way outside of anecdote to measure this but one thing seems certain, where Christian faith is truly and rightly practiced violence decreases and that’s where the revolution must begin.

As per usual this time of year the vistas along Highway 61 are radiant with the colors of fall. (Yes, that’s really a picture) From the sky I imagine it looks like blotches of paint have been dropped to Earth by angels transforming the trees and the whole world with shades of red and orange and yellow.

It’s a good time to drive, listen to the radio, and let the tires roll the miles away. I suspect that if I had to drive to some other place these journeys would have long ago grown tiresome. It wouldn’t be the same to live, for example, in Phoenix and drive two hours over the open desert. Along my particular road there are hills and valleys with small towns as the highway winds along the Mississippi River. At places you drive through a tunnel of trees and in others the road clings to a high point on a bluff and you can see the fire and light on the Wisconsin side.

It’s Monday, the time for tired, the time for trying to catch a breather, the time when for a minute or two you realize that you’ve been at this for over two years, every Saturday south on Highway 61. Just this year a 30,000 mile car has become a 50,000 mile car and the people at Microtel know my voice on the phone. I know just where it’s hard to get cell phone service and just how far north you can drive before WKTY and the Packer’s game fades out. Lake City has a Dairy Queen that serves twist cones and the gas is always cheapest in Red Wing. And when Dresbach emerges on the way I know I’m almost there.

Some day there’ll be no more need to make this run and I sometimes wonder what I’ll do when I can make to church in a few minutes and sleep in my own bed on Saturday. We’ll see. Until then the colors are vivid, the road is open, and there’s work to do; White bear Avenue to Interstate 94, left on Highway 61 and two and a half hours south to St. Elias.

I was driving home this weekend, thinking about things and it occurred to me. We Priests get credit for a lot of things where God is actually doing the heavy lifting.

It’s not that we do nothing, we do a lot, but when we pray for a child and they get better we often get the credit but it was God who healed. When we preach we use our skill but true inspiration comes from heaven. Our words of counsel when they are at their best only mouth what God has revealed. It may be that our basic task as Priest’s is to simply pay attention to God and then pass that gift on and maybe more often then not its just to get out of God’s way.

An article by Phillip Jenkins about the “next Christianity” and the future of the Faith.

One of the things we Americans do is think of Christianity on our terms and rarely see the larger global context. Jenkin’s article is important to help us refocus and see the emergence of Christianity in the world outside our cultural and physical borders.

What do you think?