tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31543508437117391802024-03-23T06:17:33.395-04:00Walk with MeReflections by the Rector of St. Luke's Episcopal Church, Lebanon, PA, as he makes his sabbatical journey this spring. The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-42380764528351625532023-07-26T09:46:00.000-04:002023-07-26T09:46:22.592-04:00Reentry<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_PUh6qpTPoSbwH3glbVmUFMvh6OSaIaRDxM_PozjeSN3vdAzQ79_k_dupZFGoKP9wT3Et0PNRRDiXUaExGKjO-LXYJ8pUNGqehUN-RfPYJa0-DK772wOX4DmDky-l9zxac3Eas_qeJ3kCoM0kWP63Gfi3-iQU3mc0aeVifntdE5N-8DcJzT6kC10haD4/s4032/IMG_1189.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_PUh6qpTPoSbwH3glbVmUFMvh6OSaIaRDxM_PozjeSN3vdAzQ79_k_dupZFGoKP9wT3Et0PNRRDiXUaExGKjO-LXYJ8pUNGqehUN-RfPYJa0-DK772wOX4DmDky-l9zxac3Eas_qeJ3kCoM0kWP63Gfi3-iQU3mc0aeVifntdE5N-8DcJzT6kC10haD4/w181-h241/IMG_1189.HEIC" width="181" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Those well-used walking shoes</i><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>I am a child of the space program. I was a child when television, in black and white, allowed us to watch the return of Mercury astronauts from our initial forays into human space travel. What followed was an intense fascination with space – something that, for previous generations, was the stuff of fantasy. <br /><br />As our “mission to the moon” developed, I was there at every turn: from Mercury to Gemini to Apollo. I assembled model rockets. Some may remember those <i>Revel </i>model kits – while many of my peers were assembling model cars, I was busy with rockets and space capsules and creating dioramas of moonscape landings. So much so, that for a time, I dreamt about being involved in the program – maybe not as an astronaut but at least as an engineer. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2z0iFghgGsDm3zC7dQl9i1xLFkFXg_1ZboAfQuYpi_BJJaMCcEWlxLiELKAMCgS7Mkh9UejUgFCNroIo5HbZJfdLtlRsaZlDPFP5NvMFivXLjtAT_a61teJU7rhdmnElM-NJRYA0O9Pp2rZn4Ou2tEVmtFMIXuXs5Pb8aWX0gdb9IVRQL7f3oBvHJ6qs6/s225/heat%20shield.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2z0iFghgGsDm3zC7dQl9i1xLFkFXg_1ZboAfQuYpi_BJJaMCcEWlxLiELKAMCgS7Mkh9UejUgFCNroIo5HbZJfdLtlRsaZlDPFP5NvMFivXLjtAT_a61teJU7rhdmnElM-NJRYA0O9Pp2rZn4Ou2tEVmtFMIXuXs5Pb8aWX0gdb9IVRQL7f3oBvHJ6qs6/w183-h183/heat%20shield.jpeg" width="183" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Depiction of the heat shield<br />from the Apollo space capsule</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>One of the greatest challenges at every stage of the program was how we would return our astronauts safely to earth. Perhaps the most serious single problem encountered during reentry is the heat that develops as the spacecraft returns to the earth's atmosphere. Friction between vehicle and air produces temperatures that exceed 3,000°F! Most metals and alloys would melt or fail at these temperatures. Overcoming that challenge was crucial, so that the space vessel would not incinerate upon reentry. <br /><br />From the human viewpoint, crews had to readapt to Earth's gravity. Transitioning from one gravity field to another is trickier than it sounds, since it affects spatial orientation, head-eye and hand-eye coordination, balance, and movement. Something so simple as walking becomes a challenge. <br /><br />As I return to ministry at St. Luke’s, I am feeling a bit anxious. While I look forward to my return from sabbatical, I know there will be some “reentry” challenges involved. Some will be predictable, but many may be unexpected. <br /><br />In an earlier blog post, I described some of the culture shock experienced upon entering the refreshment program at Ridley Hall (see <a href="https://stlukessabbatical2023.blogspot.com/2023/07/shock-therapy.html">“Shock Therapy,” July 14, 2023</a>). Spending over two months’ leave in another county and culture has changed me – much of it for the better, I pray. But I have changed nonetheless – and so has St. Luke’s. It will be another kind of "shock"</span><span style="font-size: large;"> – </span><span style="font-size: medium;">to reenter.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpFQ59TNhvHvLjHF_P5bgH5rnwLLUEwiXxfTXR159RI9f8nemU3zgfJFbggpR5fR1IGi9GNNDO8XJ-gSykUNafgQ8foyUvtRAMO3Fg9MWRp43w1Au3y8lFYUMKhSk-JqxYyMpjT8bm5kXF-KhgfYia5QlfvpaLg1vPs53C82jv1fEFdczIrFsrkXeZBBA/s4032/IMG_1431.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpFQ59TNhvHvLjHF_P5bgH5rnwLLUEwiXxfTXR159RI9f8nemU3zgfJFbggpR5fR1IGi9GNNDO8XJ-gSykUNafgQ8foyUvtRAMO3Fg9MWRp43w1Au3y8lFYUMKhSk-JqxYyMpjT8bm5kXF-KhgfYia5QlfvpaLg1vPs53C82jv1fEFdczIrFsrkXeZBBA/w242-h181/IMG_1431.HEIC" width="242" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The busy train station at King's Cross, London <br />on my journey home.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>All this will require a bit of re-orientation – of getting to know one another – again. How we view the changes that have occurred will affect how we relate to one another. We might have positive or negative feelings about the differences we encounter. What I hope for us all is that during this time of reentry, we will remain flexible, open, and above all optimistic. <br /><br />Just as the engineers in the space program prepared both their physical and human assets for the process of reentry, I have been reflecting, thinking, and planning just how I will overcome the challenges of reentering my role as rector – priest and pastor – for the people of St. Luke’s. If those preparations were wise, I will not get overheated and will be able to recover my “land legs” quickly. That way, the journey we mutually began over three months ago, will see us walking with one another with renewed vision and confidence. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">All the while, I ask one thing in particular throughout this process. In the words of Thomas More as he wrote to his beloved daughter, Margaret, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“</i></span><i style="font-size: large;">Please pray me, as I shall for thee.”</i></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-11346046320714863172023-07-14T22:59:00.000-04:002023-07-14T22:59:03.234-04:00Shock Therapy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGP7gqoDS9Zn4Vhk9uuChvgCdJchOTN44gn3S6b2Jy56zvLX_cAM9mDqFyvWFcPXJ2HRGDJkn8yQhcsDrzt5J4F2CMqoVsRBZlZRNyzQUasNylBZKYs_NCU1hPWKrXXlXPjXX4pHJZ6eqsvfaJlS_fveG62-T54jXAVqKLr4nvWAsnZF8-QbLiMv4VoatF/s4032/IMG_0992.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGP7gqoDS9Zn4Vhk9uuChvgCdJchOTN44gn3S6b2Jy56zvLX_cAM9mDqFyvWFcPXJ2HRGDJkn8yQhcsDrzt5J4F2CMqoVsRBZlZRNyzQUasNylBZKYs_NCU1hPWKrXXlXPjXX4pHJZ6eqsvfaJlS_fveG62-T54jXAVqKLr4nvWAsnZF8-QbLiMv4VoatF/s320/IMG_0992.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The empty chapel at Ridley Hall</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>It was about three weeks into my sabbatical that the fascination of the “new shiny thing” wore thin. It was then that I realized that I was undergoing a form of “shock therapy” – an experience of radical change that was aimed at a radical restructuring of my sense of reality.<br /><br />Allow me to quote from my journal entry on May 15th: <br /><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">“My experience at Ridley Hall is disappointing. The conditions are awful. The room is Spartan at best. No biggie there (except for two weeks of without heat). But the food is awful. Diet is less than healthy. High carbs. High fat. Almost no veg. Can you imagine a meal where you must bring your own water? No beverage of any kind except coffee/hot water at breakfast. No real salads to speak of. Veg options full of oils or strange sorts of dressings. Rarely simple greens or cooked veg with meals. There were no napkins at meals for at least four days. Lunch today was particularly messy, greasy fish patty on a bun with chips (fries) – and nothing to wipe your fingers or your mouth, Disgusting! Student discourse, of course, is largely about their courses etc. which leaves me out – for the most part. Only rarely can I seem to interject. And of course (again) it’s eat or be eaten – in and out – little graciousness in terms of ‘dining’ or conversations or the like.” </blockquote><br />And later the same day: <br /><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">“The worship has gone stale. The ‘praise’ style has quickly shown itself to be a bit shallow and vapid. Some of the talks were gifted and thought provoking – but the services far from prayerful. They’ve been a reminder to me of what their value and limitations are.” </blockquote><br />And still later: <br /><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">“There is so much atonement talk. I hear so little emphasis on the reality of the work of the Holy Spirit. I thought I might hear more about that . I am quite surprised at the lack of emphasis there. And where is discernment? Without conversation around the work of the Spirit? What of gifts? Charisms? How does one plot a way forward?” </blockquote><br />Quite honestly, that was a dark day – and so were the days that followed – almost to the point where I began to regret my decision to come to Ridley Hall for my sabbatical study. And yet, there was something more – something that nagged and called me forward. What I realize now is that those darker days were a form of “shock therapy” – a time of radical disorientation that was designed to reorient my thinking. <br /><br />All of us need a form of “shock therapy” from time to time. We all tend to associate with people of like minds and similar attitudes to our own. In American culture today, this is a great challenge – no, a great problem – as we tend to isolate ourselves within our own “tribes” of like minded folk. Some have called them “silos” of thought. Others call them “bubbles.” Regrettably, many of us have fallen into the easy trap of associating principally with people most like our selves – a form of social narcissism. It’s easier to live among people "just like me" than it is to confront the vast diversity that exists in our society and our world. <br /><br />Perhaps it is nostalgia for an age gone by – before instant media access and social media presence. Confronting the differences in others was easier to navigate when we encountered those differences slowly – perhaps one person at a time. Today, we are bombarded by constant streams of information that tell us our world isn’t quite as simple as we think it to be and that we need to move outside of our comfort zones faster than we might like or even be capable of doing. Consequently, we retreat to that which we know, that which is familiar and comfortable – and in due course reject and push away anything that seems foreign or outside of our experience. <br /><br />It took a while for me to adapt to the ways of Ridley Hall. I observed how others brought their beverages to the dining hall, and I soon followed suit with my renewable purple water bottle. The heating problems were soon addressed once I found the proper authority to inform. And the conversations changed tone once a sense of identity and trust was built between me and the members of the student body. <br /><br />So much of what seemed so dark in the early days of my experience transformed into a genuine sense of belonging and of community – so much so that it became difficult to bid farewell to many when the time came. <br /><br />Sometimes, it seems, we must be subjected to a form of “shock therapy” to help us break out of a certain way of thinking – to open us up to new ways of seeing and perceiving what God is doing in our lives. What seemed so dark and dreadful in those early days, turned out to be the opening of a new vision, a new way of seeing, a new way of thinking. In the end, it wasn’t bad after all – it was the opening that I had sought all along.The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-39525147940167182622023-07-10T13:44:00.001-04:002023-07-10T13:44:40.046-04:00It's just a pen.<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjc7_I75KYsnyvi_1HM-Oena9syowcwKzopnRJyb_Hdr6m0SXJKlT6tZY0Y9NY15Zj7D4v3l2gtK-psWgLkOtKp_8-ty0M1s5vOlvseEb3loBgh_9vuhKf_eS99BigVjOKGdby_0mOSx4tKW5xKvYRka8uGeAGKOFo-TQb6Xjkk2ydgN9dq7GiLUZXjIiH/s4032/IMG_1266.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjc7_I75KYsnyvi_1HM-Oena9syowcwKzopnRJyb_Hdr6m0SXJKlT6tZY0Y9NY15Zj7D4v3l2gtK-psWgLkOtKp_8-ty0M1s5vOlvseEb3loBgh_9vuhKf_eS99BigVjOKGdby_0mOSx4tKW5xKvYRka8uGeAGKOFo-TQb6Xjkk2ydgN9dq7GiLUZXjIiH/w279-h209/IMG_1266.HEIC" width="279" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The renewed roof of the south transept<br />of York Minster - from above having climbed <br />the Great Tower.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>One of the classic “tricks” of even the most noble religious sites one can visit in Great Britain is to channel visitors to a designated exit. Exiting is not the trick. The trick is that to get to that point you must first pass through the gift shop, which is filled with everything from labelled jams and jellies to high-end crystal models of the edifice you are trying to leave! I have never been one for souvenirs of my travels and my sabbatical treks were no exception. There was one thing, however, that caught my eye. I stopped and considered its cost and whether it was worth my time and money. I decided not and left through the proper gate.</div><p></p>
But once in the courtyard, it nagged at me. That one item had triggered something in my imagination, perhaps because it touched an element of my life that is so important to me. So much so, that I returned to the shop through the “exit” (which was an entrance from this side!) and reconsidered. I decided finally to inquire and ultimately bought the one real souvenir of my journey.
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0864v4UXrkxUMHORerJvrSpll3ScZ_Q11MvRz4t-Jl030vQ17HgVypUWQIrf4LZJCxL8CoiOuiU7ZvdG0gig9jbZn3EjzAs_5wdrLjTGzpmAJdX55qqtVYtQC8y8SzfJZKv7OtGtOMqhWZaciokkRqCctC4_cPVcI3el0GgrRTbDXNLaDYdOFhDOJrxa/s254/York%20Minster%20fire%20-%20Globe%20and%20Mail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="198" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0864v4UXrkxUMHORerJvrSpll3ScZ_Q11MvRz4t-Jl030vQ17HgVypUWQIrf4LZJCxL8CoiOuiU7ZvdG0gig9jbZn3EjzAs_5wdrLjTGzpmAJdX55qqtVYtQC8y8SzfJZKv7OtGtOMqhWZaciokkRqCctC4_cPVcI3el0GgrRTbDXNLaDYdOFhDOJrxa/s1600/York%20Minster%20fire%20-%20Globe%20and%20Mail.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The collapsed roof of the south </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">transept at York Minster - 1984</span><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(photo </span></i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>© PA downloaded from BBC.com)</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">On 9 July 1984, York Minster suffered a <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/york/hi/people_and_places/history/newsid_8118000/8118652.stm" target="_blank">serious fire</a> in its south transept during the early morning hours. Firefighters decided to deliberately collapse the roof of the south transept by pouring tens of thousands of gallons of water onto it to save the rest of the building. Tests concluded the fire was “almost certainly” caused by lightning striking a metal electrical box inside the roof.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Few of the timbers that crashed to the floor could be salvaged. From these timbers came the one souvenir I will treasure – a fountain pen sculpted from the ancient English oak that once held the mighty roof aloft<span style="font-size: 12pt;">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
As you know, I love to write. For many years, I have kept a journal of my thoughts as I made my way though the twists, turns, and challenges of life. These journals are handwritten. I have periodically tried to keep a journal electronically, but this was never a successful endeavor. There is something about the process of literally “putting pen to paper” that sparks my imagination and thought process. Often, a few sentences turn into pages. I have always had a love of writing – not only composing – but the actual writing – whether it be thank-you notes for gifts or letters of support and care to friends and family. Regrettably, stationery stores are few these days so quality papers are hard to find. But I can always rely on the quality pens I have collected over the years – and the inks that fill them.
<br /><br />Beth Yocum discovered this one day. Thanks to her thoughtfulness, my collection both of pens and inks has grown. These gifts, like my newest souvenir, are not only functional, but carry memories with them, memories that are touched each time one of these instruments is used in service of my thoughts.<div> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFM_oYj44ciLsEuMLVvunbJ5qgf0nMRrCkuOfp8wj3KDPC2ZEIO_jNg4LSTP8aDfu4uT6JT-IswM00kkBXXRhcPSf9iLblwnl4rOAEMfUBFnacDlNNXD3Ivs2cj1_COeestKHR59AkLkuEgY53q0gNNLP3eMvW80aGpsi4u219tbqWuo1GSyEHgPMRSoDZ/s365/FOUNTAIN-PEN-NEW-21-365x365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="365" height="73" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFM_oYj44ciLsEuMLVvunbJ5qgf0nMRrCkuOfp8wj3KDPC2ZEIO_jNg4LSTP8aDfu4uT6JT-IswM00kkBXXRhcPSf9iLblwnl4rOAEMfUBFnacDlNNXD3Ivs2cj1_COeestKHR59AkLkuEgY53q0gNNLP3eMvW80aGpsi4u219tbqWuo1GSyEHgPMRSoDZ/w165-h73/FOUNTAIN-PEN-NEW-21-365x365.jpg" width="165" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The pen made from the <br />oak timbers of York Minster</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>There is something about the writing that is consistent with our understanding of sacraments. One of these days, when my mortal remains lie in the dust, someone may open one or another of these journals and discover something about my innermost thoughts. Paper, ink, and pens will speak thoughts that no longer can be expressed with breath. They are, unlike the whisps of corruptible and forgettable electronic document files, a permanent, stable reminder of something that was alive and true – a physical presence of a spiritual reality - a sort of sacrament.</div></div><br />That pen, spun on a lathe and formed from a charred piece of ancient English oak, not only held up a roof, but also held witness to countless monks' prayers, the cries of infants at the baptismal font, the ordinations of deacons, priests, and bishops, the joining of couples in wedlock, souls being laid to rest, sermons preached, souls shriven, and more in the centuries old saga of York Minster. Each of these I hold in my hand as I put my own thoughts to paper, and, I pray, form a connection with those holy souls that I may be the priest I ought to be.</div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-55037902370460376922023-07-08T11:26:00.001-04:002023-07-08T11:48:36.694-04:00More than a cathedral<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioDB4l2P_Y5WYQQvwOB1a2s1zh3KjkC1NaqQvA3WWhwrBPdT5_mXAXlOEPwPByUNEBe9NM_LHk8BdPLIpiOZw7W7Q9I33AzFPb_Pf8zO9n3sJxJfpSOBGTH5NNQ3TMa2wMiGKWDus3mIBSn_p-WNU43-ngGuhOu_vv7SaERNiZm-gJYChvjepu-3bj1MoP/s4032/IMG_1451.HEIC" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioDB4l2P_Y5WYQQvwOB1a2s1zh3KjkC1NaqQvA3WWhwrBPdT5_mXAXlOEPwPByUNEBe9NM_LHk8BdPLIpiOZw7W7Q9I33AzFPb_Pf8zO9n3sJxJfpSOBGTH5NNQ3TMa2wMiGKWDus3mIBSn_p-WNU43-ngGuhOu_vv7SaERNiZm-gJYChvjepu-3bj1MoP/w240-h180/IMG_1451.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The south face of Canterbury Cathedral</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>We who claim affinity with an Anglican way of life deeply revere Canterbury as a symbolic center of faith and tradition. But as Episcopalians, we sometimes have a tough time describing this relationship. Some described it as a sort of parallel “Vatican” for Anglicans (as Rome is for Roman Catholics). Some even see the Archbishop of Canterbury as a kind of “pope” – a chief or prime bishop for all who claim an Anglican heritage. <div><br /></div><div>None of this is the case in our church, which is fully independent from every other part of what we have come to call the “Anglican Communion” (AC), except in those things that we, as an independent church, decide to associate and align ourselves. (The basis for our relationship with the Church of England is set out in the Book of Common Prayer in the section called Historical Documents. It’s worth a read.) <br /><br />The whole notion of the AC is an historically recent phenomenon that appeared, in part, from the break-up of the British Empire. Others see it, along with the British Commonwealth, as among the vestiges of Great Britain’s once worldwide political and military dominance. As it turns out, most of the churches that claim the title “Anglican” (or align themselves with Anglican tradition as part of the AC) are in the same circumstance. Canterbury holds a place of first honor and has no jurisdiction or legal authority over any of the members of the AC. In that, the AC is a genuine “communion” – an invisible union with God among believers that is made manifest – visible – in membership in the Church. This idea of communion is lived out at the most basic level (in the parish) and at the highest level (among the many independent churches). It emerges not from the work of humans but from the work of the Holy Spirit. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtctm1DyD9SnVzi0xetzdNocfqrRs7zsIhCEnYZsTQIyDbWFnlfvq6VpUJ1-CiG5tseq1QMNkdyLYRAssv_avRsJK88A7V9SPl9Y12mLtCb0Iq0XG2TU9O_JjtX6JYeNI1soAcoM6HVIuyN_N0ndBG0csZY4pYksOjVHLyvQY_LeyXsVunFDvCAaHZr6jB/s4032/IMG_1480.HEIC" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtctm1DyD9SnVzi0xetzdNocfqrRs7zsIhCEnYZsTQIyDbWFnlfvq6VpUJ1-CiG5tseq1QMNkdyLYRAssv_avRsJK88A7V9SPl9Y12mLtCb0Iq0XG2TU9O_JjtX6JYeNI1soAcoM6HVIuyN_N0ndBG0csZY4pYksOjVHLyvQY_LeyXsVunFDvCAaHZr6jB/w161-h214/IMG_1480.HEIC" width="161" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The entrance to St. Martin's<br />Priory - ca. 597 A.D.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Take away the grandeur of medieval architecture and the pomp and circumstance of high church ceremonials, and one is left with that basic reality. <br /><br />This came home to me in a visceral way in Canterbury – not in the shadow of the great cathedral but on an overcast afternoon on a trek eastward, out of the city walls. Tucked away in a modest residential zone is St. Martin’s Priory, itself having origins not in the Middle Ages but in what historians mark as the Dark Ages. Established in 597 A.D. by St. Augustine of Canterbury – a Benedictine monk sent by Pope Gregory to Kent to convert Britain to Christianity and who became its first bishop and archbishop – St. Martin’s is oldest church in the English-speaking world. It is surrounded by a massive churchyard. </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9_PlXeyZ1A3DNprKRrCwxhLMItR6lncwX4eP_S1lbTeAEXZBD5_AdIce2gsGtz84rQmrUwf2Q-HEIIHduFVS21kOwZ4ixtp0OcDl6E_o7LPwnzi-wbxkQOScjebVoCgSWWFu4CxDfL4jCOz-RHtbpVUsRXoSKVWGjunhQ8bNuuohIguARgrFhhJ-QUs-/s4032/IMG_1483.HEIC" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9_PlXeyZ1A3DNprKRrCwxhLMItR6lncwX4eP_S1lbTeAEXZBD5_AdIce2gsGtz84rQmrUwf2Q-HEIIHduFVS21kOwZ4ixtp0OcDl6E_o7LPwnzi-wbxkQOScjebVoCgSWWFu4CxDfL4jCOz-RHtbpVUsRXoSKVWGjunhQ8bNuuohIguARgrFhhJ-QUs-/w223-h126/IMG_1483.HEIC" width="223" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>A small portion of the churchyard<br />at St. Martin's Priory</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8d1TVw_Dg9yyvY-bu2HKsCRAiwpQEUkyu7XBGxxEh0r_gaautmwaonlNyPgbBTwc48nFk9-wRUHbhYENvqAFXpAb0ySs-GXR3NVg5Pyd5cyePz-bRL7BnEsy_JV5AtlnJ8_oBkaqFNSRACXkpUcqr20StO8RcOMM7CiEehayg7cEjGa1HtA74Ucj5BNlA/s4032/IMG_1484.HEIC" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8d1TVw_Dg9yyvY-bu2HKsCRAiwpQEUkyu7XBGxxEh0r_gaautmwaonlNyPgbBTwc48nFk9-wRUHbhYENvqAFXpAb0ySs-GXR3NVg5Pyd5cyePz-bRL7BnEsy_JV5AtlnJ8_oBkaqFNSRACXkpUcqr20StO8RcOMM7CiEehayg7cEjGa1HtA74Ucj5BNlA/w198-h111/IMG_1484.HEIC" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This pilgrim pauses before <br />entering where so many <br />entered before.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>All this gives witness to this idea of communion – that holy union of souls among believers: a tiny chapel-size church that has consistently housed worship for over fourteen centuries, the burial stones of believers of every rank and strata of society, the posters in the narthex calling parishioners to participate in the newest outreach project – none constructed as part of a museum artifice but manifesting a living, active, working parish community that extends back longer than one can imagine. This is the real heritage of the Anglican Communion: a union of holy souls that trekked the way of Jesus in their own and unique manner, employing their language and customs to proclaim that the kingdom of God has no boundaries and is subject to no earthly ruler – only to Christ, the King of Kings. </div></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-92229394816295077112023-07-06T10:02:00.000-04:002023-07-06T10:02:08.144-04:00Irony<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJcZ_uac_5rHPmEYjfMk7LWY2kf1YJeuv2SRBUy83quVFGhd-9Hv2-UWowp1IXq5hdhSO3zOUanepG77nF5npP_fTe1GahRA64mRnYupg5jHNjpoTPDWpMNSoazpTlw654mRtJej71YJ0_mGMy9oQeXU0prDQbS9zshNBWekotryw7FjDS2je_MD7IKK1/s4032/IMG_1230.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJcZ_uac_5rHPmEYjfMk7LWY2kf1YJeuv2SRBUy83quVFGhd-9Hv2-UWowp1IXq5hdhSO3zOUanepG77nF5npP_fTe1GahRA64mRnYupg5jHNjpoTPDWpMNSoazpTlw654mRtJej71YJ0_mGMy9oQeXU0prDQbS9zshNBWekotryw7FjDS2je_MD7IKK1/w252-h189/IMG_1230.HEIC" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Just one of the many queues experienced<br />in two months' time. </i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Irony usually describes a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result. It may take some time for it to seem somewhat amusing, but I do see irony in the circumstances surrounding my return from my time in the United Kingdom. <br /><br />For more than two months, I travelled and lived under circumstances that, in our post-pandemic world, would make even the least germophobic person cringe. Crowded airports, queues/lines, shuttles, standing-room-only underground train cars, buses – and that was just getting there. Then came constant use of public transportation, large group dining, lecture and concert halls, and frequent chapel worship both on and off campus. Not to mention overnight stays in hostels with six to eight strangers in a room, sharing toilet and shower facilities. Shall I go on? <br /><br />Despite all this, I left the UK in good health. A sleepover in Terminal B of Heathrow Airport, the queues and transfer shuttles were all repeated again on the journey home. Because of scheduling and a desire just to get to my own bed again, rather than Amtrak I rented a car to drive to Harrisburg the evening I landed at Newark International Airport. I was tired and would suffer jetlag to be sure. But I was home again. <br /><br />Here is the irony. Within days of arriving home and beginning the R & R part of my sabbatical time, it hit. Somewhere, somehow, I contracted a respiratory infection that would lay me low for over a week. It turned out <i>not </i>to be the dreaded COVID virus (I tested negative for over 5 days). Whatever I had put me in a sort of fog and drained me of any real energy. It might have been RSV or something else. I was, as usual, too stubborn to go to the doctor – and what could they do about it anyway. I would just follow the accepted protocols – and drink lots of fluids, get plenty of rest, etc. etc. etc. If the cough worsened, or the congestion persisted, <i>then</i> I would seek medical help. <br /><br />Finally, I’m over it. I have my wits about me. I think I am back. That bit I wrote about a week ago on radio silence was eerily prescient. But it’s time now for some deeper thinking and I am finally able to do it. Sorry for the delay. I’ll be sending some of those thoughts your way very soon.The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-84770177681964090812023-06-25T08:44:00.000-04:002023-06-25T08:44:25.758-04:00Radio Silence<span style="font-size: medium;">Until just a few years ago, maritime radio stations were required to observe radio silence on certain frequencies for the three minutes between 15 and 18 minutes past the top of each hour, and for the three minutes between 45 and 48 minutes past the top of the hour. These periods of radio silence were imposed to allow opportunity for the possibility of weak distress signals to make it through the din of usual radio traffic. More colloquially, we often use the term radio silence to describe the situation when someone who is usually very chatty stops communicating altogether. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLydF0feZdoCvd_0QVeFkBaJyG96yktl25SOO7rx-FHqeJMHhsUGucVcQVAdy1mgM_gl1nfDN706tvBGvgvraVL9Dt7zX95lc7UiT7eX1qvf2nrKtpI4aBE5QivUDC0AtJMD8yVmas005V8g8XGimFI-D64ubmTM5BwSA_h-1A_KNKkHDjKN4GyvttXcqn/s2048/IMG_1165.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLydF0feZdoCvd_0QVeFkBaJyG96yktl25SOO7rx-FHqeJMHhsUGucVcQVAdy1mgM_gl1nfDN706tvBGvgvraVL9Dt7zX95lc7UiT7eX1qvf2nrKtpI4aBE5QivUDC0AtJMD8yVmas005V8g8XGimFI-D64ubmTM5BwSA_h-1A_KNKkHDjKN4GyvttXcqn/s320/IMG_1165.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The sundial on the south wall of<br />Ely Cathedral with the Greek inscription<br />"Know the Time" </i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>I’m not sure but you may have wondered why there was an abrupt halt to my regular sabbatical blog posts. Since my last post, much has transpired. There was much to do and many decisions to make. After my time in Cambridge and my pilgrimage to Canterbury, I made my way to London to spend a final few days in the United Kingdom. You heard me correctly – a final few days. <br /><br />After two months, resources began to run low. While inflation may have begun to ebb slightly in the US, it is a very different matter in the UK. When plans and budgets were set months ago, I could have anticipated a very different outcome. I could have squeezed several more days into the budget but there was more to consider. Without going into a lot of details, it proved necessary for me to adjust my plans and return to the US two weeks ahead of schedule. As I write this entry, I am recovering from a more intense case of jet lag than I had experienced in the past – but recovering, nonetheless. <br /><br />All that is to say, that in that silence, I had to take time to reflect. I concluded that it was time – time to return home – not because the clock had expired but that “the time was right.” Ancient peoples understood this in ways we moderns often miss. This is the notion of time the ancient Greeks called <i>kairos</i>. <br /><br />Kairological time is the time of events rather than intervals. It is the time of ‘right times’, the right times for things to happen. It is the time of the Ely sundial (pictured above), whose message, <i>kairon gnothi</i>, often translated as ‘know the time’, is more accurately rendered as "choose the opportune moment." Though our sense of this kind of time has weakened considerably in our modern world, we still do sometimes respond to it. For example, if we feel a hunger coming we might say, “It’s time for lunch.” That’s a statement of kairological time. By contrast if we declare, as we more commonly do, “It is one o’clock, lunchtime!" we are responding to a command dictated by chronological time, when the clock determines our activity. The decision to return home was not one taken of chronology but of “kairology.” <br /><br />Now that I have returned, it’s time for me to “break radio silence.” So, fear not intrepid reader, my sabbatical is not yet over (chronologically or kairologically!) and there is much to process from the time I spent wandering as a stranger in a strange land. The reflections that will follow will be a bit less “linear” – they will not follow the timeline of my journey – so much as they will be a bit more “3-D” as a deeper dive into the experience and the impact that it had. Stay with me. I am still walking, though on more familiar soil. Even so, the paths may lead to places yet unknown!</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-59015370555076170082023-06-20T04:42:00.001-04:002023-07-08T11:27:10.672-04:00Community<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9D57cZIwqK6AOy7gJofJSc-QboboOaZw0EzbasNvvmtvji3bqr7F3A3nCAboY78nC0ZAUnvvSXfWPi1MSvCqbzC9bx_BTtDmzU85qme_NzVa9o8f-wuEn0r0io8aAFWySGKYqXxwD6GRxTG93jJePQkb44siwcPnILlvWlhz3xgpv1iaxgRCDzF8Vu56r/s2048/IMG_1489.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9D57cZIwqK6AOy7gJofJSc-QboboOaZw0EzbasNvvmtvji3bqr7F3A3nCAboY78nC0ZAUnvvSXfWPi1MSvCqbzC9bx_BTtDmzU85qme_NzVa9o8f-wuEn0r0io8aAFWySGKYqXxwD6GRxTG93jJePQkb44siwcPnILlvWlhz3xgpv1iaxgRCDzF8Vu56r/s320/IMG_1489.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Chapel of the Martyrs and Witnesses<br />Past and Present<br />Canterbury Cathedral</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Mention “church” to most people and a vision comes to mind that includes buildings with pews, pulpits, organs, choirs, hymnals, sermons, Sunday school and the like. For others, they may think of Sunday evening suppers or special service projects. Still others may think of an event they attended once or twice that made an impression for good or ill.<br /><br />When we read the scriptures, one of the earliest words used to describe the church was “ecclesia” – a Greek word that, at its root, means “gathering.” In other words – the roots of the church are in the people that gather – in the relationships that form as people find what they have in common as they focus on their own relationship with Jesus.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Relationships – the core of church. Without that all of the awesome architecture, inspiring poetry and melody can be reduced to passing experience of something transcendent but ultimately impermanent. We can be reminded of that when we pass the ruins of monasteries no longer active, or churchyards long forgotten and untended. <br /><br />In the Church, these relationships find expression in what we profess each Sunday in the phrase the “communion of the saints.” When we profess our belief in this doctrine we too often think of it as an abstraction – as a way of connecting ourselves to the souls of the past. But it is a very present reality. This came home to me in a very real way in, of all places, Canterbury. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9sOKBDUDka-qlNOsLNdpWuYtniuiV4zrBkpB1uSX1aXI9JyZPeVoaj4nvZUPQw3fXK-__GGgCQaeas7Xl6WMWfp-ORIu_EYJ8raPSiwXrJOdADOWjJ6_qK4Ak97GYSuWkX10bd3cR3ghshWAb_eJj5WlT4EYhZAs1qV89nDVAR2hjG8Kf7JT48lFFre5/s225/Deirdre%20Good.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9sOKBDUDka-qlNOsLNdpWuYtniuiV4zrBkpB1uSX1aXI9JyZPeVoaj4nvZUPQw3fXK-__GGgCQaeas7Xl6WMWfp-ORIu_EYJ8raPSiwXrJOdADOWjJ6_qK4Ak97GYSuWkX10bd3cR3ghshWAb_eJj5WlT4EYhZAs1qV89nDVAR2hjG8Kf7JT48lFFre5/w154-h154/Deirdre%20Good.jpg" width="154" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Deirdre Good</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="font-size: medium;">As it happened, my planned visit here coincided with a visit of one of my most cherished colleagues from the Stevenson School for Ministry, Dr. Deirdre Good. Deirdre’s mother, now in her mid-90s lives in a care home in the north of Kent, not very far away, and Deirdre was staying in Canterbury during her visit. Once we were both aware of the parallel timing, we quickly planned to meet. On Deirdre’s recommendation, we met outside Christchurch gate and walked to Cote Brassiere a few blocks away. We wiled away the hours in conversation about many things – family, retirement plans, current projects, anything, and everything. It was an absolute delight. The bistro filled and emptied during the time we were there. Finally, the evening came to an end, and we walked as far as we could before we had to separate to go follow our different path again, not sure if we would see each other before we took our leave, each for our respective homes in the US one in Maine the other in Pennsylvania.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Some would say that it was another example of “six degrees of separation” – or connection. I believe, however, that it is an example of the power of community – of shared values – of connection in the Spirit of God. Two souls, connected by a power beyond out understanding that recognize within each other something beyond themselves, a power that transcends space and time, that makes a connection even in a far away land. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It is the same power that connected those who did not now each other but gathered for Morning Prayer in the chapels of the Cathedral or celebrated Holy Communion in the East Chapel dedicated to the Martyrs and Witnesses of the Past and Present. It is the power of the “communion of the saints” – it is the fellowship of the ring – not a magical ring of gold but a spiritual ring of faith that gathers us together wherever we find ourselves.</span></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-28421395349497506822023-06-18T16:59:00.008-04:002023-06-18T17:04:04.072-04:00Seeds bear fruit.<span style="font-size: medium;">The seeds of where I wanted to spend my sabbatical were planted several years ago with an article that appeared about an organization called the British Pilgrimage Trust (BPT). I referred to them in an early blog post about the Coronation Pilgrimage in which I participated shortly after arriving in England. The initial interest came with an article that described their work in ferreting out a pilgrimage route that is now called “The Old Way” - a 240-mile journey from Southampton to Canterbury.<br /><br />Unlike the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain, this pilgrimage path was almost forgotten – but the BPT rediscovered it on what is thought to be Britain’s oldest road map (the Gough Map, ca.1360), which reveals an intriguing red line running from Southampton to Canterbury. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvEh_UsNa0ys7SbkD0LgICiVDt8iDYXRjYsWz82Y8wIExjrwG9-jbhc83HyOZRpDSbOST3WP9MEmuMHs7QP92CJ2VRZk9S0AMQFSyVC5k_22P15sklEkKIgsXAJLpWoGbgrsE62f2dADEQcUEoT6F2jfYopC3dkmDb--6oJ3QDSS5baLl8xPKXUKTNw/s2048/IMG_1442.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvEh_UsNa0ys7SbkD0LgICiVDt8iDYXRjYsWz82Y8wIExjrwG9-jbhc83HyOZRpDSbOST3WP9MEmuMHs7QP92CJ2VRZk9S0AMQFSyVC5k_22P15sklEkKIgsXAJLpWoGbgrsE62f2dADEQcUEoT6F2jfYopC3dkmDb--6oJ3QDSS5baLl8xPKXUKTNw/s320/IMG_1442.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The west gate</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>This path may not have been exclusively used by pilgrims, but the waypoints are known to include large religious houses that formed a network of hospitality that pilgrims used. It also connects the harbors and ports along the South coast of England, where many European pilgrims would have disembarked before joining the most convenient and direct route to the shrine of Thomas Becket, the martyred Archbishop of Canterbury. Many of these waypoints have a long history of pilgrimage as destinations themselves. Also, along the way, there are many lost shrines, healing wells, and much pilgrim graffiti that hints at the journeys known to have been made back and forth along this path over the centuries. <br /><br />Of course, several years intervened that included a pandemic. I have grown older, and the 240-mile trek seemed more and more formidable than something I felt I could undertake. Quite frankly, the costs associated with the pilgrimage also grew exponentially and the entire idea became a pipe dream. But the seeds had been planted. I ended up in England on sabbatical with an entirely different vision of what I would do on sabbatical, but the frame of the vision would still be one of pilgrimage – a journey of discovery – and as it happens – a journey that would conclude, in its spiritual dimensions, in Canterbury. <br /><br />On Saturday, I arrived in this special place probably just as weary as if I had made the trek on The Old Way – or so it seemed. Loaded with a backpack of belongings that sustained me for the last two months, I trekked up the cobbled streets toward the center of the city, toward that destination which has attracted pilgrims for centuries. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGYcJ0Xn8XKJ0BJJITdwnxhdwR0U-f93p57b0aJ1cxy7Lr_oYjVfNCvVdLDNNjxJ6vy8dcEZFqZU3x3kEiS_REsZuXrXjv4oDLHjWeXyPXV9yHhPueE83CJN6cZ6p6g5HfaMC1-gz3pxIuUyHopiWISwCB9L-dq983D_EIxfVbXy9EEPHgJ0f8mXbOA/s2048/IMG_1447.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGYcJ0Xn8XKJ0BJJITdwnxhdwR0U-f93p57b0aJ1cxy7Lr_oYjVfNCvVdLDNNjxJ6vy8dcEZFqZU3x3kEiS_REsZuXrXjv4oDLHjWeXyPXV9yHhPueE83CJN6cZ6p6g5HfaMC1-gz3pxIuUyHopiWISwCB9L-dq983D_EIxfVbXy9EEPHgJ0f8mXbOA/s320/IMG_1447.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Christ Gate (at left) with the Cathedral Tower<br />just showing to the right</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Soon the ancient city gate appeared, but there was more to go. I really began to feel what those ancient pilgrims must have felt – anticipation but a sense that this might never end. My GPS (something they wouldn’t have had to aid them!) kept urging onward until I realized I made a wrong turn and had to retrace my steps! Finally, there it was, Christ Gate – the entrance to the Cathedral precincts was in view. <br /><br />What I hadn’t realized was that the lodgings I had booked were actually within the precincts of the cathedral itself! I would be spending my time here on the grounds of the Cathedral with access the general public did not have! And all quite by accident! Or was it? </span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-88089325049574511742023-06-17T07:52:00.002-04:002023-06-18T08:04:02.809-04:00Circling Around<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3ANewHy46KfC5sQ5ZcB-wxZytJUt8FRTQ7CbQI9M8vubm4VQbcLUlcY_XJoh9EaM1u7G1RSOGEshLbPV97aQhbQDHhF2iMNJ9CCfRWd02dmRIlHAijx0DBkVmeCh2uqCB_J2kBOApLnUMsDc9qP46Mk3nnS4JUcz5noY3Y9YSG2Nx7HzbTq_3yNpJA/s2240/New_Street_-looking_west_-Birmingham_-UK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="2240" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3ANewHy46KfC5sQ5ZcB-wxZytJUt8FRTQ7CbQI9M8vubm4VQbcLUlcY_XJoh9EaM1u7G1RSOGEshLbPV97aQhbQDHhF2iMNJ9CCfRWd02dmRIlHAijx0DBkVmeCh2uqCB_J2kBOApLnUMsDc9qP46Mk3nnS4JUcz5noY3Y9YSG2Nx7HzbTq_3yNpJA/s320/New_Street_-looking_west_-Birmingham_-UK.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>New Street looking west in downtown Birmingham</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>My stay in the UK to this point has been fairly, well, “protected?” Most of it was spent within the rarified atmosphere of an academic city and that within a theological college. Some time was spent on pilgrimage to religious sites of significance taking in the experience of the pilgrims’ way by staying in hostels rather than plush hotels. Other days were in more posh locations like London’s Kensington and Notting Hill neighborhoods attending meetings of canonists and jurists and more academics. <br /><br />Upon completion of my time in Cambridge, I took a trip to Birmingham, England’s “Second City.” Birmingham is an industrial center in the west midlands of England – more Pittsburg or Chicago than London or Boston. Hardscrabble in areas, very diverse in language, ethnicity, religion, and politics, Birmingham probably reflects more of what today’s Britain is like than what one sees on YouTube travelogues and vacation brochures. As large and influential as it is, even my tourist “bible” (anything by Rick Steves) didn’t even have an entry for the city. <br /><br />I think that’s what made it intriguing for me. Birmingham lacks the medieval walls of York. Its churches are large, and some are notable, but few make the impression of, say, York Minster the Cathedrals of Ely or Lincoln. Birmingham is populated by second and third generation descendants of Commonwealth transplants from Pakistan, India, the polyglot nations of Africa, and the far East. Victorian era Anglican churches, built primarily to care for the spiritual and often the physical needs of factory workers, stand next to twentieth-century mosques, and Sikh temples. Hillel grocers are on nearly every street corner – or at least most green grocers offer Hillel products. <br /><br />Modern middle-class grade high rise apartment complexes dot the suburban landscape around the Olympic style arenas where the Commonwealth Games are held periodically, and older housing is being rehabbed and updated with high-tech and high-end appointments. All this evident from the number of DYI and big box tech stores along the major access highways and the empty boxes and dumpster rentals at the entrances to the older developments along the way. <br /><br />It is an area of contrasts. Along with this sense that it is an area “on the move” the marks of a darker side still manifest themselves. Gang graffiti tags overpasses and industrial buildings. Carcasses of cast-off vehicles and long neglected retail spaces litter other, clearly forgotten neighborhoods. <br /><br />A newspaper recently carried the headline that economic stats indicated that the UK would avoid the forecasted recession. All this sounds vaguely familiar. What is interesting to me is that in the UK credit for that accomplishment is being taken by a conservative government. In the US, it is being touted by an administration that is professedly left leaning. In the end, it seems, it may not matter who is in charge. Maybe the 18th and 19th century economic philosophers who speculated about the “invisible hand of market forces” were correct after all. If that is true, what is important is what we do with the wealth we derive from these forces. <br /><br />As Anglicans, we may need to revisit the social ethics of thinkers like those of the Oxford Movement, who saw within the gospel message proper correctives to the excessive drive toward the accumulation of wealth and power. Perhaps we need to get our religious values reoriented away from the priorities of the “prosperity gospel” and toward a “preferential option for the poor.” Just perhaps, it’s time for a rethink about what Jesus had to say about whose kingdom we pray for each day.</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-66441391375042227432023-06-15T16:00:00.052-04:002023-06-16T03:23:23.521-04:00The Last Day<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqjptKMK-PkcEhoyY6kDFX_izXY3yJnSQl9MklyBZCxghiDzH0Sf_1caI0WN_nGTnKU4nrjwpxjLAGqF2nIEdfjHdpyBBnG_xpSiWJZ_YevnXYEnq2gmnkuklIMHwMMJK_znjbXfrBxdfqx3YD6mEB7n0zIwNyxIAdxdnTdp9KFTBioaMSGwqfzzpoA/s320/Window%20-%20Last%20Day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqjptKMK-PkcEhoyY6kDFX_izXY3yJnSQl9MklyBZCxghiDzH0Sf_1caI0WN_nGTnKU4nrjwpxjLAGqF2nIEdfjHdpyBBnG_xpSiWJZ_YevnXYEnq2gmnkuklIMHwMMJK_znjbXfrBxdfqx3YD6mEB7n0zIwNyxIAdxdnTdp9KFTBioaMSGwqfzzpoA/s1600/Window%20-%20Last%20Day.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>My window on the last day</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>This story began on April 25. It ends today - June 16. Barely eight weeks. Two lunar months. Not quite two calendar months. Fifty-three days. <br /><br />Time passes. Time. <br /><br />I can’t help but reflect on how artificial our assessment of time has become. My sabbatical has made me deeply aware of this. I spent weeks preparing for the “time” I would have. While I have been away, I have struggled with the whole idea of “sabbath” time. In my academic discipline of canon law, we make a distinction about time. The notion of tempus utile or “useful time” is time during which someone can be expected to act. Interestingly, this category of time is a subset of time generally. In other words, all time is not time when someone is expected to act or is held to account for a particular responsibility. Now, of course, that’s legalese ripe for use in the conduct of legal procedures, but it is helpful to understand how we may have gotten a bit off course about how we look at time in our culture and in our lives. <br /><br />Especially with the arrival of 24/7 news cycles, cable TV, streaming services, social media and the like, things like “useful time” seem to have disappeared. All time, our culture seems to tell us, should be useful time. If you are not doing something useful all the time, you are wasting time. What is even worse, in an age where “multi-tasking” is a highly valued skill, if you are not doing more than one thing at a time you are wasting time and energy. <br /><br />Once I arrived in Cambridge, I tried to get myself on schedule – a different one – but a schedule, nonetheless. I had my “to do lists.” I had the readings I wanted to accomplish. I had the places I wanted to visit. I wanted the experiences I wanted to “check off.” <br /><br />It wasn’t until I undertook my brief pilgrimage to York Minster that I woke up to the fact that the gift of the sabbatical wasn’t merely the privilege of being away from the daily grind of my usual work – but that it was the gift of – you guessed it – time. In the great minster, it took the punishing climb of the Great Tower to awaken me to the reality that simply “getting things done” was not the purpose of my journey. I was here to awaken something deep inside me – an awareness of God’s spirit and life that had been calloused by over-use and over-work. It had become more difficult to feel God’s tenderness because the places where that touch was most often felt had grown rough and tough. They needed to be restored and renewed. <br /><br />As I descended the tower, I stopped the harried pace of my tour. I sat in the mighty nave listening to the brief hourly prayer and heard that still small voice within say, “Quiten, David. It’s time for quiet.” Nearly an hour passed. I needed that hour just to recover physically to be honest. But as the enfleshed spiritual child of God I am, it was the beginning of a renewal that has now continued through the remainder of this sabbath time. <br /><br />Out went to the to-do lists – though not entirely. They just took a different priority. Out went the intense scheduling – though not entirely – each day came with new opportunities. Walks in the meadows replaced the need to “be somewhere.” Coffee at Michaelhouse with one of the books I wanted to peruse, rather than the library. If I got distracted, all the better. I was awakening. God was doing God’s work. The only difference? I had finally let go – and let God (trite saying, yes, but true and necessary). <br /><br />The time that passed was not totally ignored. That lovely scene outside my window was a gradual transformation – from the vibrant tulips of that late April day to the varied wildflowers of the ubiquitous English style garden – that itself a metaphor of sorts. Planted and tended, to be sure, but largely left to its natural cycles. Maybe it’s a lesson I have learned in these several days – a lesson I hope to being home and live into in the days to come.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Late yesterday those wildflowers witnessed final good-byes as students and their families, faculty, staff and these two refreshment guests celebrate the Eucharist for a final time under the "marquee" on the college lawn and in the evening twilight a bit of an informal party.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Earlier in the day, a final time together in the lecture hall presented an opportunity to address the students. There, I was able to thank them for their hospitality and for the service the provided me - to remind me that the first vocation any of us receive from God is to be a disciple - a vocation that is first and foremost in the life of every Christian and remains the most important call we receive from God. Everything else is in service to that basic and most fundamental call. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Strange that after over 40 years of ordained life, the most powerful element of my sabbatical experience would be to remind me that regardless of any other accomplishment of a long career, the most important thing I could ever be was a disciple of Jesus - a follower of The Way. Upon reflection, just about every great saint teaches that same truth - not that I am a great saint, far from it - but the truth is self-evident. It just took me this long to remember it. By God's grace, I will never forget it.</span></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-51435791930275676922023-06-15T03:42:00.002-04:002023-06-15T13:38:42.955-04:00The Last Days - Part 4<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWAH1fzIivLIs2X8kqUOiu9-JaiQDrmLlgwCgkAo1gVADH-L2PBWGFUUzwkBLLJLDjYt_QaPKc1jpAVNx5JgHT-zS-ZP6-59po3DSYuhBSz0OrvtXrgnkcnEIrFR49Wv-iIRVRwqHOhmWxJPxUAzGuiz8SlaOZdUmY6xYjNfwAVjV0SfBy0HZo6vUzQ/s2048/IMG_1432.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWAH1fzIivLIs2X8kqUOiu9-JaiQDrmLlgwCgkAo1gVADH-L2PBWGFUUzwkBLLJLDjYt_QaPKc1jpAVNx5JgHT-zS-ZP6-59po3DSYuhBSz0OrvtXrgnkcnEIrFR49Wv-iIRVRwqHOhmWxJPxUAzGuiz8SlaOZdUmY6xYjNfwAVjV0SfBy0HZo6vUzQ/w190-h254/IMG_1432.JPEG" width="190" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The community seated for dinner<br />at the May Ball</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>They are always meant to be festive occasions, but events like the May Ball (a.k.a. “The Leavers’ Ball”) are bittersweet. The warm, Tuesday spring evening began with that most British of aperitifs, a Pimm’s Cup, on the Principal’s lawn. Students and faculty dressed to the nines. Some dedicated to serving, others, up to now having their talents exposed only in the praise band accompaniments at worship were under another tent regaling the gathering crowd with Dave Brubeck’s classic “Take Five.”<br /><br />The announcement was made that the “Moule Hole” (usually a playground for faculty and resident student children) was now open (transformed into a photo venue). Not long after, Fiona Greene, our Sabbatical Coordinator (and the Assistant Principal/Dean of the college) appeared on crutches! She seemed just fine when we spoke at morning prayer earlier that day. Apparently, to her surprise on Monday, during a game of Rounders, she made a diving catch and fractured her knee. It ached horribly so she went to get it checked out. This was the result! Alas, we aren’t getting any younger. (I had missed that event since I was still in London at St. Milletus College.) <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNnpuRGV9eDp2NBr8PC2FjB4UlWSyJubpEVJ7GY94OFE_p-q3KpAkNwzV5llFUuDQ6YQjOCMX1ot1G6lKOLNQAdwQmGoqXl_fxVhsJcO2Iz4678150a55uIh1bjtyxVeZWBUKVtoUiXDzrS-u9ULjDs8IUvUPa6vy9455dA_jRHJhMjTTQxbqOt8LVQ/s2048/IMG_1434.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNnpuRGV9eDp2NBr8PC2FjB4UlWSyJubpEVJ7GY94OFE_p-q3KpAkNwzV5llFUuDQ6YQjOCMX1ot1G6lKOLNQAdwQmGoqXl_fxVhsJcO2Iz4678150a55uIh1bjtyxVeZWBUKVtoUiXDzrS-u9ULjDs8IUvUPa6vy9455dA_jRHJhMjTTQxbqOt8LVQ/w123-h163/IMG_1434.JPEG" width="123" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This writer and his refreshment<br />companion Judy Berinai from <br />the Anglican Church in <br />Malaysia</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Then came a lovely three course dinner, expertly prepared by the house chef, which I came to learn, is an executive hotel chef who is, shall we say, underemployed at Ridley Hall, and, as Fiona told me over dinner, “lives for moments like these.” As a testament to his skill, I learned the next day from one of the student servers that the desert course met with disaster. As it was being transferred to a staging area, the trolley collapsed, and it all came crashing to the ground. Chef Howie was able take available resources and create a new dessert that, when served, seemed to have been planned all along! <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEkw_fWq_Me-uwytsILnv171JVyn6d6Xfypslb14b3FB9EL6L_I6mOs7-Z-6WyyePOGyUBNxiQzik7pTS3tqN4nTk52clMJwxgraoO27YeWF5iLoWAPmkqw8UbYLC6-71DJXqTwsL0cc8vD8xqsEIfnKVs1TCUG_jqoFscRerMP1L9DXGJroWPkNfJA/s2048/IMG_1435.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEkw_fWq_Me-uwytsILnv171JVyn6d6Xfypslb14b3FB9EL6L_I6mOs7-Z-6WyyePOGyUBNxiQzik7pTS3tqN4nTk52clMJwxgraoO27YeWF5iLoWAPmkqw8UbYLC6-71DJXqTwsL0cc8vD8xqsEIfnKVs1TCUG_jqoFscRerMP1L9DXGJroWPkNfJA/w173-h231/IMG_1435.JPEG" width="173" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Rev. Michael Voland<br />Principal of Ridley Hall<br />addressing those gathered.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Then came the toasts and the speeches. All were brief. Many funny. All, in the end, poignant. As noted, this is “the Leavers’ Ball” which is part of the good-bye process for those who are finishing a chapter in their formation for ministry. They face new chapters as they leave for their first curacy, an appointment as a lay chaplain, or simply to search for ways to serve God and the Church. Those left behind find themselves facing new roles when they return without their student mentors to guide them. They, in turn, will become the community’s elders. It is a microcosm of how the Church itself works – of how we guide and mentor one another in the ways of the faith. <br /><br />It seems this past week has been filled with these experiences. On Tuesday of last week, a special service was held at Great St. Mary’s for the “leavers” (graduates) from the consortium, which comprises the Cambridge Theological Federation (which I described in an earlier blog post). That began the steady flow of bittersweet experiences (including a "leaver's ceremony" at St. Mellitus) that will culminate on Thursday of this week as I say my final goodbyes to Ridley Hall’s community. More on that later. But for now. Cheers!</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-56613205167146657752023-06-13T09:45:00.001-04:002023-06-15T13:33:55.619-04:00The Last Days - Part 3<span style="font-size: medium;">But Sunday wasn’t the end of it. There was still Monday to go.<br /><br />Thanks to my new colleagues at Ridley Hall, I was able to contact a Cambridge local (Fr. Mark Scarlata – another US transplant, by the way) who is also a member of the team at St. Milletus College in London. </span><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyH441siW4MRzYOYotop-kC14GxU2_3V5XKlceXo3OQuOTHNZuXhFJ693v0jWHlw0a2cmIHIK1yaiwE2fW7SAandxXjckHjtQ9e9ipJQi4vpDayK2RTsDkbiMRzFMvsZMRKCVU4YduyiBFdghGYtZo4wwVNhgwcL8OEkmnzovCvjPowNBUnUevKX4hCQ/s2048/IMG_1425.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyH441siW4MRzYOYotop-kC14GxU2_3V5XKlceXo3OQuOTHNZuXhFJ693v0jWHlw0a2cmIHIK1yaiwE2fW7SAandxXjckHjtQ9e9ipJQi4vpDayK2RTsDkbiMRzFMvsZMRKCVU4YduyiBFdghGYtZo4wwVNhgwcL8OEkmnzovCvjPowNBUnUevKX4hCQ/s320/IMG_1425.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Morning session opens at St. Milletus</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">St Mellitus College is an English theological college established in 2007 by the Diocese of London and the Diocese of Chelmsford of the Church of England. St. Mellitus College remains a non-residential college that has pioneered context-based training within the Church of England by integrating academic theological study with ministry placements throughout the course of study. It was one of the models I came to study as part of my sabbatical inquiry. <br /><br />The college was formed as a merger between North Thames Ministerial Training Course, which was based in the dioceses of London and Chelmsford, and St Paul’s Theological Center and has grown significantly since. It has moved into its own premises at St Jude's Church, Kensington (2012), a building renovated specifically for this purpose that houses a range of teaching space, rooms for pastoral care, academic and administrative offices, a growing academic library, space for hospitality and college worship. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">While in many ways, St. Milletus mirrors our experience with the Stevenson School for Ministry in the diocese of Central Pennsylvania and the diocese of Bethlehem and beyond, there are significant differences not only in structure, but also in the way they can respond to the Church’s needs because of the polity of the Church of England. We are organized very differently in The Episcopal Church, and the processes involved in raising up people for lay and ordained leadership can have profound differences. However, there are many things that are the same whether we are Anglicans in American or in the UK. These are the things I came to study. </span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3FvvXI3U_F8MwY2ERHUn9Bf11o9CgmfxGGn4TiBDMIHgEgDKEkWDjvZ4BH8ff9jw5Du1GhaUiNiudULAdyuV56Dmk2yKpU7Z97WVUgsSb5hZ456nrsqazswfPhol4UVT6EworcNQXvFMQLOsrnOE7KFLB0ie8AvuPZQ5cX3ng-W-JBO_8u_faBF_TAg/s2048/IMG_1427.JPEG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3FvvXI3U_F8MwY2ERHUn9Bf11o9CgmfxGGn4TiBDMIHgEgDKEkWDjvZ4BH8ff9jw5Du1GhaUiNiudULAdyuV56Dmk2yKpU7Z97WVUgsSb5hZ456nrsqazswfPhol4UVT6EworcNQXvFMQLOsrnOE7KFLB0ie8AvuPZQ5cX3ng-W-JBO_8u_faBF_TAg/s320/IMG_1427.JPEG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Experiences like my immersion in the work of Ridley Hall and my visits to places like Westminster College (Cambridge) and St. Milletus (London) have given me a great deal to think about. Along with my colleagues at the Stevenson School for Ministry, we continue to face many challenges for the development of church leadership for the Church of the twenty-first century. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve gathered a great deal of data. In fact, my brain is swimming in it. As some time passes, some of it will settle – much like the rich silted soil in a river delta. My hope is that from this richness there will emerge some new thinking that will help us all to discover what God has in store for us in the days and years to come.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">By the end of the day it was time to return to my temporary "home away from home" - Ridley Hall. Road weary and tired - oh and by the way, weary of the heat (it's been a whopping 85 deg F here!) - I showered, read a bit, had my evening tea and collapsed into bed for a rest. The next few days may prove just as challenging!</span></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-89603620851099106772023-06-13T09:14:00.003-04:002023-06-15T13:30:58.339-04:00The Last Days - Part 2<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCU2UbKp1DC7SOBWRmtH9wWuH9fZzo3uWCibbUDDLcicEfMg2EO_4fUbb3_Ed61GnlVngqeGR2ku831xvgYWXWG2_SW5-kkqkKD6djHQkTo5TmGXT_l7zvVkiBEezUTzUjRgnx6qsfRUeKFYvSq7nlTjjaRQj3wz8amB5a4G06v4_Cncrm9G1_rYTGBQ/s254/LONDON%20-%20St%20PETER%20-Eaton%20sqaure.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="254" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCU2UbKp1DC7SOBWRmtH9wWuH9fZzo3uWCibbUDDLcicEfMg2EO_4fUbb3_Ed61GnlVngqeGR2ku831xvgYWXWG2_SW5-kkqkKD6djHQkTo5TmGXT_l7zvVkiBEezUTzUjRgnx6qsfRUeKFYvSq7nlTjjaRQj3wz8amB5a4G06v4_Cncrm9G1_rYTGBQ/s1600/LONDON%20-%20St%20PETER%20-Eaton%20sqaure.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Facing the nave from the chancel at <br />St. Peter's Church, Eaton Square, London.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>On Friday last, yours truly travelled to London for the Annual Conference of the Ecclesiastical Law Society to be held at St. Peter’s Eaton Square the following day (Saturday). This conference focused on the issues surrounding “Contested Heritage.” In the USA, we know this issue more in the secular sphere in the debates over statues and memorials related to the Confederacy and the Civil War. Here, the present issue focuses on the trans-Atlantic slave trade and the revenue that it brought to the British economy. Often these funds were “washed” by use for “good” in charitable purposes. Consequently, large, and sometimes ornate memorials decorate churches and churchyards extolling the kind works of these benefactors conveniently omitting the historical origins of their wealth. How these matters get resolved is no easy challenge and in the UK, it often involves church law and the church courts.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">St. Peter’s itself has an interesting history. In 1987 an anti-Catholic arsonist set fire to the east end, mistakenly believing that it was a Roman Catholic chapel. Within hours the church was fully engulfed. Soon only the Georgian shell of the building remained, roofless, with most of its furnishings destroyed. The church needed total rebuilding. With a total redesign of the building the result was a new and simpler interior, with a vicarage, offices, flats for the curate, verger and music director, a meeting hall, nursery school rooms and a large playroom for the church's youth club. Our day-long meeting was held in that meeting hall. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAt0e91N5ejiv1hp02mgtrDBiKfYU9iIXRfuYfMT3QNHI5NVl5zhkE69PAfVQ9Gbx9plN9TKp7p4liaefAzVVJz0Iag2yrpi__5z5G5Zb13oJ5sDf17mYTJKgJZEwfx99nueRJ90ffqqrew0YvqQzEcW_7kSO9Z-cHKQWVroKIKG8jr6JzxBL2GLQS0w/s2048/IMG_1374.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAt0e91N5ejiv1hp02mgtrDBiKfYU9iIXRfuYfMT3QNHI5NVl5zhkE69PAfVQ9Gbx9plN9TKp7p4liaefAzVVJz0Iag2yrpi__5z5G5Zb13oJ5sDf17mYTJKgJZEwfx99nueRJ90ffqqrew0YvqQzEcW_7kSO9Z-cHKQWVroKIKG8jr6JzxBL2GLQS0w/s320/IMG_1374.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>In the nave at Westminster Abbey<br />for the Holy Eucharist</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Of course Sunday was the Lord’s Day. I spent the morning at Westminster Abbey participating in the Holy Eucharist. To enter the Great West Entrance seems almost inconsequential, until you realize that just weeks before, King Charles and his consort walked these same stones in a sacred ceremony extending back a thousand years. <br /><br />Touring such a place is not the same as sitting and waiting for a liturgical service to begin. As a tourist, it’s all just an artifact. As a participant in the liturgy, you realize that this is a living place – that it is a sacred place where people come to meet God and where God touches the hearts and souls of men and women daily. That is a reality that is too easily forgotten, whether here or in Cambridge, or Ely, or Lincoln, or York, or in any of these grand places. It becomes obvious soon after worship begins, and people begin to slink away once they’ve had their fill of the pageantry – once the words and actions get down to the business of worship and reflection. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxv32D2QF5qaQjOYJJ2lo1mUyNF1Km2qYaqqymcx9kA9E-TDcCIXMzDp267JD5_bPGmmS6ngBWwvgWzyE6GXW9MFW9D-9Mf7Hg67cHj_yp1XVAU1D-Cbp3FMUcG3O2caow8aoTEdgvlY2ldyd8oJgplYjDUjiDVy140VpYK0ZzkFmdsjNf1d_6ztzLA/s2365/IMG_1393.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2365" data-original-width="1330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxv32D2QF5qaQjOYJJ2lo1mUyNF1Km2qYaqqymcx9kA9E-TDcCIXMzDp267JD5_bPGmmS6ngBWwvgWzyE6GXW9MFW9D-9Mf7Hg67cHj_yp1XVAU1D-Cbp3FMUcG3O2caow8aoTEdgvlY2ldyd8oJgplYjDUjiDVy140VpYK0ZzkFmdsjNf1d_6ztzLA/s320/IMG_1393.JPEG" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>Worshipping in a place like this makes a point about sacred space. In our harried and modern world, we can sometimes lose contact with the fact that we ourselves are embodied beings. We live in a world of flesh and blood not just a world of bits and bytes. We are more than our Twitter or Facebook feeds. We are people – made in God’s likeness and image – with the accordant dignity and sacred character.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />We can too often neglect our need for awe. Awe is the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends our understanding of the world. Places like this help us recover that sense. But we need to see them for what they are – more than a setting for a selfie. We need to see them as the work of human hands, with the cost of human toil and even human lives. We need to see the selflessness that they represent and drink in the vastness of time and space they encompass. <br /><br />Awe helps us pay attention to the moral beauty of others. It draws us out of our narrow worlds. It helps to begin to see as God sees. It is there that we begin to meet God. This was part of my Sunday morning. It continued with my meandering walk through St. James Park later that day. The sheer beauty of nature – of families on picnic blankets – of children playing on the grass beneath ancient trees – of swans swimming in the lake. I probably would not have been nearly as mindful of this beauty without the initial experience of the abbey that morning.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>(to be continued)</i></span></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-25632283485806567982023-06-13T06:11:00.003-04:002023-06-13T06:11:50.219-04:00The Last Days - Part 1<span style="font-size: medium;">This writer has been silent these last days, not for lack of words or experiences to share! Quite the opposite. The last week was replete with activity. <br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3pbQP47YKyu8BHuF3_tcsv80diWhaCCuTA0PbdlRjS1oXq3Awq9Vlu4fBZEKFeb1FW9M98QUxoeB0PfYcdJKQouWSnai3k4Pz0EKI76fGVTtl3vvKdxDj-p5maDdr022oIXTxDsmz2QBKHwwhR-O7pFDU9XmsGyu4u0Q2c297KaHTHN_26T9Mimfkeg/s4267/Moule-Day-header.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="4267" height="102" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3pbQP47YKyu8BHuF3_tcsv80diWhaCCuTA0PbdlRjS1oXq3Awq9Vlu4fBZEKFeb1FW9M98QUxoeB0PfYcdJKQouWSnai3k4Pz0EKI76fGVTtl3vvKdxDj-p5maDdr022oIXTxDsmz2QBKHwwhR-O7pFDU9XmsGyu4u0Q2c297KaHTHN_26T9Mimfkeg/s320/Moule-Day-header.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Wednesday last was “Moule Day” here at Ridley Hall. Moule Day showcases the way Ridley seeks to preserve its best traditions while looking ahead to ways to best serve the Church. One of these is an effort to engage with the world where the Church finds itself. One area of interest is in the calling of those who serve in public office (i.e., politics).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Particularly here, where the Church of England remains an “established” church, this is an area of life where there is need to have a specifically Christian voice and witness. This year Ridley’s Moule Day speaker was the Honorable Tim Farron, M.P., the former leader of the Liberal Democrats, who delivered the C.F.D. Moule Memorial Lecture, about whether Christians should get involved in the “mucky business” of politics. <br /><br />In addition to the lecture, Moule Day is a kind of alumni day when former graduates of Ridley return for a day of remembrance and rekindling of old relationships. It is a day to meet current students (even the temporary refreshment students like yours truly). It was a day filled with conversation and conviviality, thoughtful reflection, worship, and prayer. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrZBdItEwRpi0ck9oM7K2c0vcTpq6YWGjqXEko7nUxd3bS3TBqxnFUe-IsTkZUl8yI7c5EnM-SzTZ-NHauS23AcGb-NSlwCukPsJV9yWhVgaPmUMZ8NZOz9SXB_ftVniv7KgLezu3yJLxsDKnG4cxogHYP6YvVaxs3_ltnULAyuO1D7fERatO_T9cSg/s2048/IMG_1366.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrZBdItEwRpi0ck9oM7K2c0vcTpq6YWGjqXEko7nUxd3bS3TBqxnFUe-IsTkZUl8yI7c5EnM-SzTZ-NHauS23AcGb-NSlwCukPsJV9yWhVgaPmUMZ8NZOz9SXB_ftVniv7KgLezu3yJLxsDKnG4cxogHYP6YvVaxs3_ltnULAyuO1D7fERatO_T9cSg/s320/IMG_1366.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The procession begins outside<br />St. Bene't's Church</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Thursday was the Feast of Corpus Christi. While St. Luke’s marks this day on the Sunday nearest, the formal day in the liturgical calendar is the Thursday after Trinity Sunday. You may recall an earlier blog post about Corpus Christi College. It makes perfect sense that there would be great celebration attached to the patronal feast of that institution – tied to the parish that I have been attending every Sunday while in Cambridge, St. Bene’t’s. On Thursday evening, we gathered for a Solemn Celebration of the Eucharist joined by many regional clergy and a join choir of several parishes, including “Little St. Mary’s” just up Trumpington Road. <br /><br />Upon completion of the Eucharist, the assembly prepared itself for the Eucharistic procession from the parish church of St. Bene’t’s to Little St. Mary’s (which, truth be told isn’t really all that “little”). The procession, accompanied by a small brass band, sang Eucharistic and Easter hymns making its way up Cambridge’s most historic corridor, led by crucifer, torches, clergy, choir, and a large assembly, all singing and giving witness to their belief in the presence of the Risen Lord in their midst. Once at St. Mary’s the service ended with Benediction and a refreshment reception in the parish hall.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>(to be continued)</i></span></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-4751229566781658632023-06-05T07:22:00.000-04:002023-06-05T07:22:10.491-04:00Nearing a chapter’s end.<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSg21YKE83jvLrVqXFN8UKA0uRIIh6cejTrMesMpZ1mlf3uBmqMo_T8NFQSatUth1cY3hlXhC4JyhDYPLIte0ipy37h-cuzRF_Kk2hGA3LMqJZtO85OgbFW-Va3TxAhvL9zJ0TWQYc-4zPcfa9MpUM0ME2TLmIckEmgxqRS7YXec1uNIl8HOp4nKtTWA/s4032/IMG_0981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSg21YKE83jvLrVqXFN8UKA0uRIIh6cejTrMesMpZ1mlf3uBmqMo_T8NFQSatUth1cY3hlXhC4JyhDYPLIte0ipy37h-cuzRF_Kk2hGA3LMqJZtO85OgbFW-Va3TxAhvL9zJ0TWQYc-4zPcfa9MpUM0ME2TLmIckEmgxqRS7YXec1uNIl8HOp4nKtTWA/s320/IMG_0981.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Punting on the River Cam near Queen's College</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>On Sunday morning, I walked to St. Bene’t’s for Sunday worship as has become my custom. The changes were ringing out from the various churches as I described in one of my early sabbatical blog posts. It was warm and sunny – a perfect spring morning. But a but a sadness crept in as I suddenly realized that this would be my last Sunday morning walk into Cambridge for worship during my sabbatical. This would be my last Sunday worshiping with the community of St. Bene’t’s that I had adopted as my own for my brief stay. I have another weekend, but I will be in London for meetings of the Ecclesiastical Law Society. Term will end later the week following and must then take my leave.<br /><br />In some ways, it’s a metaphor for life. When planning this sabbatical, there were so many things I had planned to do and to accomplish. I set out to make a study of contextual theological education and assess some implications for the way we undertake formation for ministry within the Episcopal Church in Central Pennsylvania. I set out to make pilgrimage to key sights in the Anglican story that provides the foundation for the religious and cultural contours of the Church in which I serve and that I have come to love. I set out to explore elements of the broad traditions of the Church of England from both its catholic and its evangelical incarnations. I set out to …. <br /><br />Yes. When I set it all to writing, it amounts to much more than could possibly be accomplished in the eight weeks allotted for my time at Ridley Hall. However, I must say that despite my overly ambitious agenda (quite characteristic), quite a lot was experienced and discovered along the way. I shared some of my ruminations through the posts of this blog (and will continue to do so) but realize that so many of the experiences, so much of the knowledge is still in the form of genuinely “raw data” that needs to be processed. <br /><br />For the more technical theology geeks out there, my theological methodology over the years has consistently followed the patterns set out by Bernard Lonergan, introduced to me by one of my seminary professors, Fr. Peter Drilling. In his theological method, Lonergan notes that the first step is “Experience” – or the phase where we gather data on many levels. Our minds begin the process of formulating insights from this raw data (I won’t go into the whole process here!) that often results in an “Aha! Moment,” or “insight” as things coalesce around a central kernel of truth. The challenge for the theologian (in this case, me) is then to discover ways to communicate that reality to others – and this, in turn, becomes the data I and others will use to move the whole process of discovery forward. This is the work on ongoing conversion – of continuing change about the way we think of and view the world - and God. <br /><br />So, with less than two weeks remaining at Ridley Hall, I begin the process of closing another chapter of ministry – a chapter of pilgrimage and of discovery. The journey is not yet over, to be sure, and there is more to come. But it will be a new chapter – something different from what has come before – and that, too, is a metaphor for life.</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-45287304168066920372023-06-03T11:08:00.003-04:002023-07-26T20:09:57.789-04:00Symbols Speak Volumes<p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_r5SNP-iJcRbSeNy8I3QUbo7FcZFfYvYXrFpGa0OD9rdEgexE9gvj-ne4BcchTHTNX8yhrQKsgR3hB4IMexyWGiNuLvJKgU9Ljag7DNEVJmA0RWktdB5ge9Hheg6KdPErP39sajf1R9EAaZz4IZI6KFikazwKbrnjUHNVmV1p_hmJ2ZcliGXAGSkjgg/s1892/IMG_1363.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1892" data-original-width="1468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_r5SNP-iJcRbSeNy8I3QUbo7FcZFfYvYXrFpGa0OD9rdEgexE9gvj-ne4BcchTHTNX8yhrQKsgR3hB4IMexyWGiNuLvJKgU9Ljag7DNEVJmA0RWktdB5ge9Hheg6KdPErP39sajf1R9EAaZz4IZI6KFikazwKbrnjUHNVmV1p_hmJ2ZcliGXAGSkjgg/s320/IMG_1363.jpeg" width="248" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>A simple cross - A chance encounter</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">This afternoon I was walking down Bridge Street in Cambridge.
It passes over the River Cam (obvious, huh?) near Magdalene College. As I
passed by All Saints-St. Mary’s (also known as “The Round Church”) a man in what
I guess was his late fifties or early sixties, hard ones, came up to me and
asked me simply, “Are you a believer?” At first, I was a bit non-plussed. But
then he repeated himself and pointed to my chest where peaking out from behind
the sling of my daypack was a cross that I had been wearing for the last few
days.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Today the cross was more obvious because it was a beautiful
and warm, sunny afternoon and my seater didn’t need to be zipped up. Once I
collected myself I answered him in the affirmative. He followed up, “Born
again?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Yes,” I answered. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">“You share your faith?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">“With anyone who asks,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Good. God bless you,” he said as he smiled and walked away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">This has happened to me before, but for more obvious
reasons. I’ve been in COSTCO with my clerical collar on as I stopped to pick up
something on my way home to Harrisburg from Lebanon one evening when a lady in
the check-out line asked for special prayers. Again, in a grocery store, a man
inquired if I was a pastor. When I told him that I was, he asked me to pray
with him then and there for a special need that he shared with me there in the
produce aisle. These occasions are almost predictable. It’s one of the reasons
we wear the distinctive garb we wear – so that people can recognize not only
the role we play but the One we represent in an authentic and sacramental way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">This time was different. The cross I was wearing could have
been merely an ornament, a piece of jewelry. For this man, for some reason, it
signified that another disciple walks the same walk he did – or so I surmise.
There is something mystical about that connection. I will never see this man
again. Was it an angel? Was it a test of my willingness to give witness to the One
I profess as Lord and Savior? Was it merely a chance encounter? I will never
really know. But what I do know is this: it once more reminded me that we, all
of us who profess to follow Jesus Christ, in all places and in all times, are sacraments,
signs of his love for the world. We must always be ready to do as St. Peter
admonishes: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: large;">Be ready at all times to answer anyone who asks you to
explain the hope you have in you </i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(1 Peter 3:13, Good News Translation)</span></i></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-81831695370397050812023-06-02T07:35:00.005-04:002023-06-02T11:16:18.219-04:00A Pastoral Letter - From Cambridge - It's PRIDE Month<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjAWGS7eaO0rVRYPgJmM-0dloVfAzZoPKWHXRqWKQqVluex3Uo7xSn98FhyNAnc0pwMg0VXdOSgdXlAVOwv1SYLZyypy6SRuEvfARE20UzYYKya8zANwuCmr-BUJG_FZQ-M5ZiMpeKPLAERQBXKXN0PfYzcAu4BASEVwrzkLFMgnMh8dRjLsDROY3jw/s2048/IMG_1356.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjAWGS7eaO0rVRYPgJmM-0dloVfAzZoPKWHXRqWKQqVluex3Uo7xSn98FhyNAnc0pwMg0VXdOSgdXlAVOwv1SYLZyypy6SRuEvfARE20UzYYKya8zANwuCmr-BUJG_FZQ-M5ZiMpeKPLAERQBXKXN0PfYzcAu4BASEVwrzkLFMgnMh8dRjLsDROY3jw/s320/IMG_1356.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The storefront window of the<br />Cambridge University Press Bookshop. <br />The world's oldest publisher at the<br />oldest bookshop site in the country.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Dear Friends in Christ, <br /><br />As part of its pastoral vision, St. Luke’s has moved to become a community partner in intentionally affirming LGBTQ+ members of the wider Lebanon community as part of its Mercy Works/Outreach efforts. I write to you today as your pastor to affirm that effort and to place it on a theological and spiritual foundation. <br /><br />In recent years, there was frequent talk about “the gay agenda,” or how there was a conspiracy afoot to “destroy the family,” or to “redefine marriage.” None of this is true. Quite frequently, those who espouse such positions will use religious terminology and scriptural references to prove their point. Regrettably, we also know that both the bible and church doctrine have been used to justify positions that, in hindsight, we found regrettable at best and sometimes even repulsive. For example, it was not that long ago that churches divided over the principle that slavery was a permanent and beneficial institution ordained by God. <br /><br />As Episcopalians, we believe that our understanding of God rests on three fundamental pillars: Holy Scripture, Reason, and Tradition. In other words, we read the Word of God, we think and reflect on it carefully, and we consider what we conclude considering the teachings we have received through the ages of the Church’s life. <br /><br />What the LGBTQ+ question confronts us with is really our understanding of God. Why? Because Scripture teaches that we are made “in the image and likeness of God.” We are, in this sense, “icons” of the divine being. We start to get a little mixed up when we start to think about Jesus. We also believe that Jesus is the “perfect image of the living God” – God incarnate – made flesh by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary. As a human being, Jesus had to be made either male or female – and there is the rub. That binary choice. <br /><br />It is that binary division that has been baked into our cultural mindset. We think of it as something so obvious that we apply it to all beings – including God. It is interesting that biological research reflects nature as far more complicated and varied than that. Anthropology demonstrates that other cultures and historical periods have looked at gender differently. Even the bible and early Church tradition have used more fluid gender metaphors and concepts that have been overlooked or deliberately ignored for centuries. Today, in a world where gender issues are discussed far more than most of us even want, we continue to apply strict binary categories – “either/or” choices to many things – even to God. Regrettably, this choice is now being used to divide us as a society and as a nation along political lines. This should not be a political issue. It is a human issue. As such it is ultimately a theological and spiritual issue. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZOwVSH8NVPqBT-jwYv7nztBtuXVzk_YIGmzeeVktrVNzO2iBnUbkNC2Kgqx0uWGkTaocdfnNJt2YAoZLCgDAEH5FX2MxKuPxHtx0dyDMbcJEQ0--m5Bj_hEDiepkP8qiX36BlPam18NgpDVxwwhw4ohniUfV-T_2lSsCbwbaMrPjH6uEXrmia5qNgQ/s4032/IMG_4476.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZOwVSH8NVPqBT-jwYv7nztBtuXVzk_YIGmzeeVktrVNzO2iBnUbkNC2Kgqx0uWGkTaocdfnNJt2YAoZLCgDAEH5FX2MxKuPxHtx0dyDMbcJEQ0--m5Bj_hEDiepkP8qiX36BlPam18NgpDVxwwhw4ohniUfV-T_2lSsCbwbaMrPjH6uEXrmia5qNgQ/s320/IMG_4476.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>St. Luke's booth at Lebanon's Got Pride<br />celebration in June 2002</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Part of the problem comes from our need to categorize things. We use categories to simplify and to organize the complex world in which we live. As things get more and more complex, we increasingly need to use categories. Categories in themselves are neutral. There is nothing wrong with them. <br /><br />The problem arises when categories get in the way of our awareness of reality. If we allow our categories to become too rigid, we only perceive things about the world that match our expectations, rather than interacting with a multifaceted and surprising reality. In other words, we make people fit our categories rather than meet them as unique individuals. We narrow things down even more when our categories provide only two choices, as in: you can be male (a category that requires you also be masculine as I perceive what masculine means) or you can be female (which means you must also be feminine as I perceive what femininity means). But you can’t be both—and you certainly can’t be anything else. “It’s simple biology,” it is often said. Except it’s not biology. Experts can explain to us how assigning physiological sex is far more complicated. <br /><br />Simple divisions like male/female have another problem as well: We have long tended to rank one as better than the other. The assumption that men are inherently superior to women provided the foundation for patriarchy, a form of rigid social categories that began some 5,000 years ago in the Near Eastern societies, an outdated pattern based on social patterns that no longer even exist. Many Christians would disagree. Instead, they say, binary gender (and the roles that emerge from them) is not merely a set of convenient mental pigeonholes but rather a God-ordained reality. The bible, after all, begins with this same division: “God created humankind in his image,” in Genesis 1. “In the image of God, <i>he </i>created them; male and female <i>he </i>created them.” <br /><br />As we are increasingly realizing today, pronouns are important. When the masculine pronoun is assigned to God in this verse (as it is in the original language), it thwarts any implication of equality between male and female. Although we can assert that females may have also been made in the divine image, if God is a “he” who created males first (Gen. 2), then females must somehow be blurry, secondary copies - not quite as complete or accurate as males. Furthermore, a God who is “he” would naturally favor the human most like him, who bears his image most precisely, namely, the male. <br /><br />Some of these assumptions are based on language. For humans, categories and language go hand in hand. We have a hard time thinking about anything for which we lack words. When I was growing up, for example, we didn’t talk about gender. Coming to terms with my own identity as a gay man took longer because I had no language to describe it or understand it. Similarly, I could never conceive of God as anything but male. Only later could I begin to even think of God having any feminine qualities at all. For many of us as Catholics, that was why we developed such devotion to another feminine icon – the Virgin Mary. But, we were told, Mary was not God. So, God still couldn’t have feminine qualities, they were still second best – and so were women. It took a long while and a major conversion of thought to overcome that prejudice. Our language not only reflects our beliefs but shapes the way we construct our view of the world. <br /><br />Hebrew has no nongendered pronouns. This means if you were speaking in Hebrew, you would refer to a book as “he” and a loaf of bread as “she.” For the most part, these are purely grammatical categories. This is true in many languages even today. We can argue that the Old Testament refers to God as “he” simply because the word <i>god </i>is masculine in a grammatical sense. However, whenever the same scriptures speak about the Spirit of God, feminine pronouns are used, because spirit, in Hebrew, is feminine in form (as it is also in Greek and Latin). <br /><br />But why do our translators never use feminine pronouns when talking about the Spirit of God? More than likely because they, like many of us, have adopted a perspective that the Triune God is wholly masculine and so cannot have feminine qualities. So, the Holy Spirit is “he” not “she.” If we used “she,” somehow, we would almost immediately conclude we were not speaking about God. <br /><br />The more we dig into the scriptures, the more we find that if we remove our prejudgments just for a bit, we will find that there is more gender fluidity than we would ever expect. In fact, the Old Testament is filled with such images. In the New Testament, Jesus uses many feminine images to describe God: as a mother hen (Luke 13:34); the woman searching for the lost coin (Luke 15:8-10); the Spirit giving birth to our new life (John 3:5-6). How many times do we hear the Apostles speak about God “giving birth to us?” <br /><br />I am not trying to be dismissive or flip here. I am not trying to be super “relevant” or “woke.” What I am trying to do is to point out that many of our prejudices and social biases may be inconsistent with the teaching of our Christian faith even though others may say that these things are required of those who profess such faith. <br /><p style="text-align: center;"><b>The main point is a simple one: God is not gendered. </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>If we are made in the image and likeness of God, then the gender with which we identify in an authentic manner and in which we can sincerely and fully worship the one true God with pure and open hearts is the gender in which God is glorified. The practical implications of living within the physical, psychological, and social world present us with challenges. These challenges must be confronted and resolved within an authentic faith. </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>That journey is unique and requires a place of safety where one can find the space and time to explore, study, pray, worship, and discover the God who created, redeemed, and most of all, loves us all into eternal life. </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>St. Luke’s must provide that space for all people who seek it.</b></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>While this letter was long and perhaps tedious, I can assure you, there is much more to explore. But I wanted you to know that the decisions that have been taken by parish leadership, by the wardens, by vestry, and by me, have been made after much careful thought and reflection. <br /><br />I ask you to reflect prayerfully on what I have outlined here considering our baptismal covenant, especially the promises we make about finding Christ in all persons and striving for justice and peace. I ask you to continue your support for parish leadership as we move with other community partners to be a genuinely open and affirming community to all of God’s children so that the message “God loves you. No conditions. Full Stop.” is boldly proclaimed and clearly heard. <br /><br />With you as pilgrim on The Way, <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYkuQLvB7Tg7D7l0tj7VUE91ER9k72OboN6jN0MepmqLkwfoZGRiv8wjt0Vhgt4QFAT34MKjVY8NyEXlS_HVfdOCv7C9TYZIhRajjsSeyNclamZ0YiJ1QBL_tDqCqvQzzXdFswMz2rcF2Z4hLUgtsJRKwh7R4XjIR7YBbeWYXlBOkCVxQO95LUFKkEw/s772/DAZ%20-%20Signature.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="772" height="37" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYkuQLvB7Tg7D7l0tj7VUE91ER9k72OboN6jN0MepmqLkwfoZGRiv8wjt0Vhgt4QFAT34MKjVY8NyEXlS_HVfdOCv7C9TYZIhRajjsSeyNclamZ0YiJ1QBL_tDqCqvQzzXdFswMz2rcF2Z4hLUgtsJRKwh7R4XjIR7YBbeWYXlBOkCVxQO95LUFKkEw/w101-h37/DAZ%20-%20Signature.png" width="101" /></a></div><br />The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-78927499651552580232023-06-01T11:42:00.000-04:002023-06-01T11:42:52.773-04:00The Competition is Intense<span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3D4MFgjnMFdV8ySIKaK7Kq1s5f6py2J5YZIWrJ_7--jYJal5upauVMEp1Fww97G-_rKp8-GdO3BefO0poMR26SazLYJcwP1p6j3Jrzwj8WQYXNVYsoy80n3aEieIpQNBJ1HWxVebEckhou3TXeXjdkaOj8aTSWFw9JA8zcDOreEbb0hjc5dYNTceog/s2048/IMG_1205.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3D4MFgjnMFdV8ySIKaK7Kq1s5f6py2J5YZIWrJ_7--jYJal5upauVMEp1Fww97G-_rKp8-GdO3BefO0poMR26SazLYJcwP1p6j3Jrzwj8WQYXNVYsoy80n3aEieIpQNBJ1HWxVebEckhou3TXeXjdkaOj8aTSWFw9JA8zcDOreEbb0hjc5dYNTceog/s320/IMG_1205.JPEG" width="320" /></a></div>Not too soon after I arrived at Ridley Hall, I became aware of what was to become one of the highlights of the Easter term - the Annual Lawn Croquet Competition. This longstanding tradition even has a champions’ board posted in the Common Room opposite the Dining Hall. I was somewhat honored to be recruited into the tournament, an honor I quickly declined - I am no croquet master - and as I quickly discovered - neither are many of the competitors! However, having a room on the ground floor of F Staircase gave me ample opportunity to observe the many hours of practice exercised by the teams that had formed from the student body. <br /><br />This is serious stuff, mind you. It is the topic of conversation at meals - the coordination of which becomes the major distraction from study as end of year essays, interviews, and exams begin to stress. And it's all in good fun. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4JHl-w9vxcpuRyrVYTPQbMgEH2NQQzyBNE7SmAA3yuWk_lxh8Um6oScWuw15iJMYm0LJvrdGOjQIrbKGYfORBOFXm4CbQ3Y3HdIbaHbV7FIUJ9sG2iGPh97BmrrUyR8KslPgMSfX1L7babGQqef6UsNHe8xjqjSlKkFQpF_BOsnAowHDHuccxWoFww/s2048/IMG_1208.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4JHl-w9vxcpuRyrVYTPQbMgEH2NQQzyBNE7SmAA3yuWk_lxh8Um6oScWuw15iJMYm0LJvrdGOjQIrbKGYfORBOFXm4CbQ3Y3HdIbaHbV7FIUJ9sG2iGPh97BmrrUyR8KslPgMSfX1L7babGQqef6UsNHe8xjqjSlKkFQpF_BOsnAowHDHuccxWoFww/s320/IMG_1208.JPEG" width="320" /></a></div>I couldn't help but wonder though, how properly British this was - a lawn croquet tournament as the competitive sport. But again, it was perfect. The game does not require a great deal of physical prowess, endurance, or the "stuff" or our more American competitive engagements. It's not flag football on the quad, or half-court b-ball as when I was in seminary (of course there is no gym here at Ridley). It's a gentle and gentile game that allows men and women to play with and against one another. It allows people of all skill levels to make their errors and the occasional great "strike." It is in its own way, fully inclusive of anyone in this community that wanted to be engaged. I can see why it is so attractive. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>It was marvelous to behold just this afternoon as the final game was being played and the championship was coming down to "match point" that nearly everyone gathered around the courtyard as a hushed tone waited on the players to make their moves. When the decisive point was scored there was, you guessed it, polite applause all around. It was a delight to behold. Soon thereafter, everyone got "back to business." Preparing essays, studying for exams, rehearsing for sermons, getting ready for interviews with prospective placement supervisors. It served its purpose. <br /><br />Soon the courtyard will transform again - from a playing field into a lecture hall as a grand marquee (we call it a tent) appears for the Moule Lecture next Wednesday and for the "Leavers Ball" on the Tuesday following. You'll hear more about those events as they draw near. I fear discussing them too much yet since they signal that my time here at Ridley Hall will soon draw to a close. <br /><br />So, let's just let each day come as it will. </span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-19328306523301499302023-05-31T15:02:00.002-04:002023-06-01T15:32:13.249-04:00Poor St. Hugh<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAipRbeIcdSYjp5sMkFZ7xWv4150BhQ_thWdDfogO65ujwGpPKJWRiH0RDGzbqnCbWduytcH6d_5CcpCv7QtuEokENIjyZzCIFbl0O3UcVqSFat9DOctFlRCb-ZclMDzetgBPE42QgYD2dKIxxD-DFOGKcvu3mRJIqesAz84nnjCIcwLAdYBnsxS8mjQ/s2048/IMG_1312.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAipRbeIcdSYjp5sMkFZ7xWv4150BhQ_thWdDfogO65ujwGpPKJWRiH0RDGzbqnCbWduytcH6d_5CcpCv7QtuEokENIjyZzCIFbl0O3UcVqSFat9DOctFlRCb-ZclMDzetgBPE42QgYD2dKIxxD-DFOGKcvu3mRJIqesAz84nnjCIcwLAdYBnsxS8mjQ/s320/IMG_1312.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Lincoln Cathedral seen from outside<br />Bailgate at the top of Steep Street..</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">On my way back from York, my pilgrimage took me to the Cathedral at Lincoln, once one of the tallest buildings in the world. <br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">St. Hugh's saga began with the pride of King Henry (that’s Henry II). It’s well debated what he really intended by the oft quoted line “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?” but most agree that it led to the murder of Henry’s Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Beckett. What followed was the need for Henry to demonstrate remorse and repentance proportionate to the crime committed. As part of that effort, Henry determined to build a Carthusian monastery dedicated to continual prayer. Things weren’t going well, so Henry appealed to the abbot of the Grand Chartreuse in France that Hugh, who was head of a daughter community of that monastery and whose fame had reached him through one of the nobles of Maurienne, was made prior of the faltering English community. <br /></span><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3oAcUPQhig-cWtF6yb-Gphi3BuoELcXT6UuwlZCFOfbIZU9yzBU1qfhtPZgHbfdZ5AjooD843Nhr1mIBD2mnT64RT2h71L-QQW-fj2UiWDKnYND_LjcC3-cypgFf_J1HxrvZ1uE5yHE7or8QLV4FyzIoSEIxCAlZtjXBcjJglOARGO2CdiKNGny3V1g/s2365/IMG_1327.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2365" data-original-width="1330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3oAcUPQhig-cWtF6yb-Gphi3BuoELcXT6UuwlZCFOfbIZU9yzBU1qfhtPZgHbfdZ5AjooD843Nhr1mIBD2mnT64RT2h71L-QQW-fj2UiWDKnYND_LjcC3-cypgFf_J1HxrvZ1uE5yHE7or8QLV4FyzIoSEIxCAlZtjXBcjJglOARGO2CdiKNGny3V1g/s320/IMG_1327.JPEG" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The ornate shrine where the<br />reliquary containing St. Hugh's<br />head once was displayed. <br />Fortunately, his head is now <br />with the rest of his remains.<br /><br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Hugh’s success and personal integrity in standing up to the king (shadows of Beckett?) eventually led Hugh to be appointed bishop of Lincoln, and under his direction, set about rebuilding the noble cathedral at Lincoln, which had been badly damaged in an earthquake, this time in the “new” Gothic style. He lived only to see part of the quire (choir) rebuilt. After a remarkable career serving both the crown and the church, Hugh died in in 1200. Within a relatively short twenty years the Church named him a saint and his cult spread through England. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">The long and short of it was that poor Hugh was even more popular after his death than before. The simple burial he requested was insufficient for the powers that be, and a grander place of visitation was planned, so his body was exhumed and translated to a special chapel built in his honor. When a second quire section (The Choir of the Angels) was completed, authorities planned a still more ornate resting place for the saint and his bones had to be moved yet again – and this time, regrettably, he literally lost his head – during the exhumation and translation to the new shrine it fell off! So, thought those in charge, all the better, now poor Hugh would be buried in two parts – so pilgrims could pay homage twice in one pilgrimage – and of course, donate twice to the upkeep of increasingly expensive grand cathedral. So, poor St. Hugh’s head was in one place, and his body in another, at least until they were finally reunited centuries later when he was reinterred in his final, final resting place. </span><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_0xYTRI9dFohUH_7kHeEOW-Tx0YBU89jIGQ1v3pvPeyUYHCsbHe3mLzqFt2SRTvbm-w52a1XTt8Vxx4CBm8l5NnZPFi9bjXAZZ_zQd16gBa7JUk1CdlX_Xm9WMnGtqDn7aspLXi0WPV6RfV9os9qOqd2sE6K4_igmZIBDCC8U50eA7J24jXMhTPnpw/s2048/IMG_1308.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_0xYTRI9dFohUH_7kHeEOW-Tx0YBU89jIGQ1v3pvPeyUYHCsbHe3mLzqFt2SRTvbm-w52a1XTt8Vxx4CBm8l5NnZPFi9bjXAZZ_zQd16gBa7JUk1CdlX_Xm9WMnGtqDn7aspLXi0WPV6RfV9os9qOqd2sE6K4_igmZIBDCC8U50eA7J24jXMhTPnpw/w171-h228/IMG_1308.JPEG" width="171" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Steep Street <br />Note the angle of the curbing<br />to the right</span><span style="font-size: medium;">.</span></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Apart from that strange and gruesome story, which certainly befits the medieval context of this place, the cathedral at Lincoln is a marvel to behold. Like so many others of its age, it was founded upon an ancient Roman encampment. High atop a hill to which access is made up a street befittingly named “Steep Street,” (at an approx. 16 deg. incline). <br /></span><div><div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Remigius de Fécamp, became the first Bishop of Lincoln, sometime between 1072 and 1092 under the patronage of William the Conqueror, and laid the foundations of the Cathedral though he could not complete the whole of it before his death. Like his successor, Hugh, St. Remigius is also buried here.<br /><br /><br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwj6KaC7YIw88p9yl_WLudNiroDwzS2FsqKcQYDrKb-Nahk2f1fZ7qngl1M3FfFyG5P6-WUV7isAjH7V8hI7lSXJBVxzojNRtU0570KeGFSyI5rnZtrAf3t128LijFNSAf_TL4ALtNk9N6uMH6KQng3IiFwvn7KGazRdR4c3U-a8jRyGJjHXBRUqo7pw/s2048/IMG_1345.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwj6KaC7YIw88p9yl_WLudNiroDwzS2FsqKcQYDrKb-Nahk2f1fZ7qngl1M3FfFyG5P6-WUV7isAjH7V8hI7lSXJBVxzojNRtU0570KeGFSyI5rnZtrAf3t128LijFNSAf_TL4ALtNk9N6uMH6KQng3IiFwvn7KGazRdR4c3U-a8jRyGJjHXBRUqo7pw/w239-h318/IMG_1345.JPEG" width="239" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Note the lack of alignment in the ribbing<br />of the two sections of the nave. Done in two<br />historical periods because of a massive roof<br />fire, different building techniques resulted in <br />a gigantic, "oops." Could modern people <br />tolerate that today?</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">The cathedral at Lincoln is a precious place. While we moderns are often obsessed with
architectural purity, we find in a place like Lincoln a history of imperfection
– not born of disrespect but symbolic of the progress of learning. As architects,
masons, and other master builders learned the secrets of building these massive
edifices, the mistakes inherent in the
learning process become clear over time – and the cost involved of “erasing”
previous ignorance make the appearance of perfection impossible. So, a building like
Lincoln, begun long before the pinnacle of gothic knowledge and skill had been reached shows us a “learning curve” through history and gives us hope that we, too, can learn from
out mistakes. </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmho4ZVv6QO00wa6Do8hg4dq8ItM7_XbSWHUzD2oWoiTnYw7u1XmbEygr-B_6dm1aPDM9XZQk1NAgThPxGMaTyBWrr3VMAW-kWfXJgnlGz2LojBMKFO_4poj9JB35s4WgZUAKriEcSP1rDCN1r5skSAS_SJt6Tf1-LPaURd9GgTVTrLiQPRNKTYH69w/s2048/IMG_1338.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmho4ZVv6QO00wa6Do8hg4dq8ItM7_XbSWHUzD2oWoiTnYw7u1XmbEygr-B_6dm1aPDM9XZQk1NAgThPxGMaTyBWrr3VMAW-kWfXJgnlGz2LojBMKFO_4poj9JB35s4WgZUAKriEcSP1rDCN1r5skSAS_SJt6Tf1-LPaURd9GgTVTrLiQPRNKTYH69w/s320/IMG_1338.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The nave looking back from the <br />altar at the crossing</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">That lack of perfection can speak of spiritual realities. For example, whether by design or by happenstance, the south wall of the nave, "God's wall" has even, symmetrical arches, beautifully decorated. The north wall, on the other hand, is called the "Devil's wall." It's arches are irregular and plain. The embedded stone bench is low and uncomfortable, unlike the one on the south wall. More than likely this was because of a need to account for the uneven stone foundation (there is no undercroft at Lincoln - the building is built "on ground"). A clear message is sent however, in the design of the walls. There is no need for "perfection," since perfection resides in God alone and a building, even though erected to the honor and glory of God is but an imperfect monument made by human hands. Its imperfections can tells us more about ourselves than about God.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6TXL7m6--e1bGNUX7S6z5fwXaJvSARu4vhyVTWHneyBGPESL6uxJPPq_eGIqty5aRx8wIlKKl3NR-JXf8f63pCpD2Hj61El5KGXFDOHSiXCqE_ZtRCTqDWN4oQhMU2HJSbNQpPZDUe3spkD1WKRCLr5Kinx1Xf5QzjXt9YRF1iA0l0h5V9R5boz6TA/s2365/IMG_1328.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2365" data-original-width="1330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6TXL7m6--e1bGNUX7S6z5fwXaJvSARu4vhyVTWHneyBGPESL6uxJPPq_eGIqty5aRx8wIlKKl3NR-JXf8f63pCpD2Hj61El5KGXFDOHSiXCqE_ZtRCTqDWN4oQhMU2HJSbNQpPZDUe3spkD1WKRCLr5Kinx1Xf5QzjXt9YRF1iA0l0h5V9R5boz6TA/s320/IMG_1328.JPEG" width="180" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>See the imp seated at the base<br />of the arch point cross-legged<br />and impertinent.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">And then there is the infamous Lincoln imp. Legend has it that one day the Devil was in a frolicsome mood and sent two naughty creatures to cause mischief on Earth. After allegedly stopping at Chesterfield, twisting the spire of St Mary and All Saints Church, the two imps went to Lincoln to wreak havoc in the city's Cathedral. Upon arriving, the naughty imps went inside the cathedral and started to cause mayhem, knocking over the Dean, smashing the stained-glass windows, and destroying the lights. In a bid to put a stop to their antics, an angel was sent to warn the imps off causing any more chaos. One of the imps hid underneath a table, while the other started throwing stones and rocks at the Angel in an act of defiance - “Stop me if you can!” In a moment of anger, the Angel turned the Imp to stone. He has remained in the same spot ever since, sitting cross-legged on top of the pillar overlooking the Angel Choir – a constant reminder of how good will always triumph over evil.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas0nzlVNcYtIdVhaoDgh3r71vTEhB3Pe39ZSjMffNV359eXIzcN1oG_kNqluDWCy7szgxhAB9c_LzXkkAnrWqOUWnT2U5TiuDJntDTNgnRSnMJjvTlpQ14i3tHNlrI9ksV67kj4m49UkMnwuH-yicOLv0YNSHgyB65PB55s4jgnoSbH8hkZrbRnRQ4A/s2365/IMG_1332.JPEG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2365" data-original-width="1330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas0nzlVNcYtIdVhaoDgh3r71vTEhB3Pe39ZSjMffNV359eXIzcN1oG_kNqluDWCy7szgxhAB9c_LzXkkAnrWqOUWnT2U5TiuDJntDTNgnRSnMJjvTlpQ14i3tHNlrI9ksV67kj4m49UkMnwuH-yicOLv0YNSHgyB65PB55s4jgnoSbH8hkZrbRnRQ4A/s320/IMG_1332.JPEG" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>St. Hugh's Quire, looking <br />toward the nave</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The "beating heart" of any cathedral is the choir. Here each bench is occupied a "canon" - a member of the clergy appointed by the bishop for special work within the diocese either to care for a particular region and its parishes, some special ministry within the diocese, or within the cathedral itself. Here is the location of the "cathedra" or bishop's chair along with the dean's stall and the stall for the canon precentor, the clergyperson assigned to care for the liturgical needs of the cathedral. Of course, if the cathedral has a "proper choir" or "canons regular" (a sort of monastic community dedicated to the prayer life of the cathedral), these, too, have assigned stalls in the choir, which are occupied for the praying of the daily offices, especially evensong on the appointed days. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lincoln has two choir areas: St. Hugh's choir (pictured here) and the Angel Choir behind the high altar that comprises a special<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowsTujYFqQWDNFHWNUEQdFth4688AK-AacOL5F7T5o6yzUJqzbyCJLe7_KgZ1W8dG70H8XG7Cj-nssapHQ7PT-BBUCUGzPkILuN0TRF0JojRLcy2YvM4Eowv08HbCiBHdxb7pOq34ncrkuMOUCNTRRTUHWyi_JkLuIj6vCJ3b6aG8-yTK4eHEMsCavg/s2048/IMG_1322.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowsTujYFqQWDNFHWNUEQdFth4688AK-AacOL5F7T5o6yzUJqzbyCJLe7_KgZ1W8dG70H8XG7Cj-nssapHQ7PT-BBUCUGzPkILuN0TRF0JojRLcy2YvM4Eowv08HbCiBHdxb7pOq34ncrkuMOUCNTRRTUHWyi_JkLuIj6vCJ3b6aG8-yTK4eHEMsCavg/s320/IMG_1322.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The "Word Made Flesh"</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>chapel that is the burial place of St. Remigius, St. Hugh, and several other bishops, deans and other notables. St. Hugh's Choir is the "working choir" and centers the prayer life of the cathedral.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div><span><span style="font-size: medium;">Like at York, there are still catholic sensitivities alive and well in this northern fortress city.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">The cathedral is dedicated in the name of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Lincoln. A haunting contemporary icon of the Virgin with Child (by Aidan Hart) occupies a place of honor just off the Angel Choir. Carved from solid native limestone and decorated with egg tempura, its features invite one into a contemplative dialog with the Word Made Flesh, to whom the piece is dedicated. The gaze of the virgin looks down the length of the magnificent south aisle toward the 12th century baptismal font, near the entrance to the cathedral. As she holds the Word Made Flesh, the </span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZqcj3UL2vHZzpp5CVUIb4_AZekVkgluiqEbsmAVHWnsSbijUtvVSbQoTvRhDEh3iEZlzuO0R-qzWZlwWmiH-cjY4a_yLHamYSdx2P2ujB5CDUpjEwjmKw2sXEk-KaxJLke_DiaA-GfvFZlgVL7TfMW1VMxDDxLbFjDpWwNKYv14HBiBaQ8QVTyn3fQ/s2048/IMG_1352.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZqcj3UL2vHZzpp5CVUIb4_AZekVkgluiqEbsmAVHWnsSbijUtvVSbQoTvRhDEh3iEZlzuO0R-qzWZlwWmiH-cjY4a_yLHamYSdx2P2ujB5CDUpjEwjmKw2sXEk-KaxJLke_DiaA-GfvFZlgVL7TfMW1VMxDDxLbFjDpWwNKYv14HBiBaQ8QVTyn3fQ/w169-h225/IMG_1352.JPEG" width="169" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The baptismal font</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Christ Child, the connection is made between our baptism and the life we share in Christ. So at one end, an object carved from Belgian stone in the 1100s connects with one carved from Lincolnshire stone in the 2000s at the other - and we stand in between through the ages.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The two and a half days of pilgrimage to York and Lincoln proved more than I could ever image or condense into these two brief blog posts. There is much food for thought and more than likely, you'll here more about it as time goes on. <br /><br /></span><p></p><br /></div></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-17680892387978584672023-05-29T13:47:00.002-04:002023-06-01T15:25:48.316-04:00So Many Bones<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DdYyWLfND136c1qbISkAJyG6U4YVW346jHf68MBQrYjg49uXmEeruguBJQuWfp0gjfbrD2b-jItoqUD-OE65sWtOUeMemX3BvABJSVwaSSNbrawQ0QmXaD_iNycWMipxuRcNM23qLfSn9hBAfeLV70eyFwnE6xSomf6RxfwFG12Rof58TSVF_dIX_A/s2048/IMG_1286.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DdYyWLfND136c1qbISkAJyG6U4YVW346jHf68MBQrYjg49uXmEeruguBJQuWfp0gjfbrD2b-jItoqUD-OE65sWtOUeMemX3BvABJSVwaSSNbrawQ0QmXaD_iNycWMipxuRcNM23qLfSn9hBAfeLV70eyFwnE6xSomf6RxfwFG12Rof58TSVF_dIX_A/s320/IMG_1286.JPEG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Sarcophagi and burial plaques along the north transept<br />of York Minster</i> </span></td></tr></tbody></table>Bones. Bones. Bones. <br /><br />Everywhere you turn there are plaques telling you there are bones. But you can’t help it when the heritage you are exploring extends over centuries and the core tenet of its culture calls for a belief that these dry bones will breathe again. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRU_Tcs8FhchgzMjnP3WUFJNv6x_5LNlpznzoGaOkHnm1t39vPnu5TIqiYjWBf9GwV6L-T_4Kynjm_KrgHC6Zwahek9Ik1EAhr_zX-707otLqoQ8FE-OhIdCPHFSVUj-PacRpEXHEf3MXqUoE0kxfemoH_k1Ceo5Tv-QCACpUx2c6DlVBEww7V8v_B9Q/s2048/IMG_1276.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRU_Tcs8FhchgzMjnP3WUFJNv6x_5LNlpznzoGaOkHnm1t39vPnu5TIqiYjWBf9GwV6L-T_4Kynjm_KrgHC6Zwahek9Ik1EAhr_zX-707otLqoQ8FE-OhIdCPHFSVUj-PacRpEXHEf3MXqUoE0kxfemoH_k1Ceo5Tv-QCACpUx2c6DlVBEww7V8v_B9Q/s320/IMG_1276.JPEG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The tomb of St. William, patron saint of York in the <br />crypt chapel</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">A place like York Minster, though points mostly to the bones of the rich and famous – lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses – or the well placed – bishops and deans, canons and benefactors of note. Their bones are everywhere to be seen – well not their bones actually, but certainly reference to them: “Here lie the mortal remains …” usually in Latin, sometimes in English. The one notable exception is reference not to the place of rest but a plea for memory for those who gave the ultimate sacrifice of life and limb for their country. Chapels and memorials recall battles and wars, soldiers and their leaders and the ultimate sacrifice they made for “king and country” – more here than in any major church I have seen in this fair land.</span></div><div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7gOjxD9Vtpz9-ep8n6NT_khGjG1Y7LpdEcWukwXzd2mT9h90mo8PNyMwfkHltyWapX6U7sjszw0ZS3X_NBW3b_ljy1l15eNW-tx35vkQHqMqqrO8pgeQKjiEbC4Q-lqJ3fD8HlKUtSM7lTAOm-zMJqYhRh6TvymuCUyU1qAVuGZc9RyiVtg-7ijvNbg/s2365/IMG_1237.JPEG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1330" data-original-width="2365" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7gOjxD9Vtpz9-ep8n6NT_khGjG1Y7LpdEcWukwXzd2mT9h90mo8PNyMwfkHltyWapX6U7sjszw0ZS3X_NBW3b_ljy1l15eNW-tx35vkQHqMqqrO8pgeQKjiEbC4Q-lqJ3fD8HlKUtSM7lTAOm-zMJqYhRh6TvymuCUyU1qAVuGZc9RyiVtg-7ijvNbg/s320/IMG_1237.JPEG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The West Entrance of York Minster</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, York Minster is the second most important church in England. The seat of the Archbishop of York, it is the metropolitan capitol of the Church of England in the north of England, second in honor only to Canterbury, so it makes sense that it holds these calls to honor the memory of those dear to the country, especially those from this region of the nation. <br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Beyond that, there is just so much here it is hard to take it all in. It was here, in this northern fortress town, that Constantine received word that his father had died and was declared to be emperor of all Rome. Of course, there was no minster, since Christianity was still a persecuted religion, but it was Constantine in time that would sanction the Christian religion as a binding power for the empire. Much would happen. Christian missions. Norse invasions. Culture wars that dug deep. It all mixed together to create that unique blend of Christianity that we have come to know as Anglicanism. And it is on full display here in York. <br /></span><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6cMvVKutqzSgjRstezFLj22m_8hLwtvTz01n6VJ13kkpfdWEyPUNtclgjgyMR-tNl1jVY0UlKzsvX7KZFYqA7qlXYDqIF-ZBNo4g8Zr71hRaY0hUUIY_XkS9rliscPdRVYB19ftYtU5TmWEcvvAY1pth_RXkZ3QVRCLTveaq_MJ3kItP2sPaYmo3oMw/s2048/IMG_1285.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6cMvVKutqzSgjRstezFLj22m_8hLwtvTz01n6VJ13kkpfdWEyPUNtclgjgyMR-tNl1jVY0UlKzsvX7KZFYqA7qlXYDqIF-ZBNo4g8Zr71hRaY0hUUIY_XkS9rliscPdRVYB19ftYtU5TmWEcvvAY1pth_RXkZ3QVRCLTveaq_MJ3kItP2sPaYmo3oMw/s320/IMG_1285.JPEG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The magnificent reredos from the Lady Chapel<br />behind the High Altar at York Minster</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">The north of England has always had a distinctly catholic flavor, so it tends toward Anglo-Catholic sensibilities. That is clear in the open appreciation of the Virgin Mother and other devotional practices clear at York Minster. <br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">There was so much here, I could scarcely take it all in. There will be more on this blog about this magnificent place – pictures and even a video montage. It will, I am sure, remain a highlight of this pilgrim’s trek. </span></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-69333730170785130462023-05-28T13:00:00.002-04:002023-06-01T15:25:23.904-04:00God's Language on Pentecost Eve<span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOq1_GYL8Jl7KlSuVuHtW4uTu9z_QdYenwBSwnkRW1ncdA1BEROaeLYODR5l2gUzOpY0rVtHdx4tszms-CfgWg0sdHdbS7SVsPIv01l0D7V5D16BcM2YR9yOcwQMAMiQlkmVhUsPsW9RlkAIzfSLabLow7ojbNInyymlUDqZkDnM-3ev9Y_V2k_wa_g/s640/St%20Johns%20Gate.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOq1_GYL8Jl7KlSuVuHtW4uTu9z_QdYenwBSwnkRW1ncdA1BEROaeLYODR5l2gUzOpY0rVtHdx4tszms-CfgWg0sdHdbS7SVsPIv01l0D7V5D16BcM2YR9yOcwQMAMiQlkmVhUsPsW9RlkAIzfSLabLow7ojbNInyymlUDqZkDnM-3ev9Y_V2k_wa_g/s320/St%20Johns%20Gate.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The porter's gate to St. John's College<br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Low voices.</div><br />That was the posting for Evensong at St. John’s College on Saturday evening. My third time at St. John’s was again an experience of intense appreciation for the beauty of music as it enhances our prayer life. My time here in Cambridge has only strengthened my conviction that there is no better way to pray and to worship God than through the use of music – certainly with the sound of “lyre and harp,” namely through instruments made by human ingenuity, but more importantly through the use of that instrument made by God – the human voice. <br /><br />The ”low voices” Evensong featured the men’s sections of the usual men and boys’ choir – no trebles in view. When high range was required, a counter tenor provided the pitch, but this was only seldom. The psalms were prayed with the restraint of the festal tones of Gregorian chant – plain, simple, exquisite. The anthem was solid, fulsome, strong. A perfect setting for the eve of Pentecost.<br /><br />Last Tuesday I was again at King’s College. That evening, prayer was led by the “King’s Voices,” a choir of mixed voices of men and women – a rather modern innovation for King’s. But again, the varied timbre, the style of music employed, and the ambience that resulted all produced an experience of prayer and meditation that was thoughtful and filled with meaning as we together reflected on the nature of Christ’s post resurrection gifts of peace given to us through those first disciples. Interestingly, the second lesson was not taken from scripture but was a portion of Dr. Martin Luther King’s Jr.’s <i>Letter from a Birmingham Jail </i>– poignant and revelatory as it tied together the words we so easily toss about as Christians – salvation, life, justice, love, and peace. They are all of one piece and they come together in the spirit of the Risen Lord. <br /><br />And still, the noble music of these longstanding colleges is not the only expression of musical prayer freighted with such meaning. The modern praise music of Ridley Hall also touches the heart in unexpected ways, especially when wedded to the words of Samuel and Charles Wesley who through their poetic hymnody sought to warm the hearts of believers in an Anglican church that had grown overly rationalistic and even cold in its approach to the divine mysteries of God's love for the world. <br /><br />At the same time, in the secular world, we heard news of the death of Tina Turner – a giant not only in the industry but among human beings. Someone who certainly was able to persist in what was clearly a “man’s world” even within a relationship filled with pain and abuse, Turner was able to use music to overcome pain and sorrow and to demonstrate the resilience of the human spirit. Music has this power in and outside of the Church. It can be and is often one of our most effective tools for proclaiming good news. Let’s not forget that. Let’s never think of it as expendable or as something nice but non-essential. It is the universal language of the human heart. It is for that reason, the language of God among men.</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-50166582017997476502023-05-26T06:04:00.011-04:002023-05-26T06:14:52.918-04:00Gifts are everywhere to be found <span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRugYV43dBKfTXG3JD9wy1QwKArATth2YWPIz18NclLYPTpaJn0mn-bwlVWI-3KQo3fLmggfNi7g_aBnuQkYB_Yq4Otp5xW-eNDx1TMyJQRTJzk3d6GFUvCYPr4Dl-JbK_jnDXvGRJSEMf8ocmkLG2TQ2EGxxkn6dXbkdo2jnq0pTZog7tZK9VDPG7Yg/s2048/IMG_0985.JPEG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRugYV43dBKfTXG3JD9wy1QwKArATth2YWPIz18NclLYPTpaJn0mn-bwlVWI-3KQo3fLmggfNi7g_aBnuQkYB_Yq4Otp5xW-eNDx1TMyJQRTJzk3d6GFUvCYPr4Dl-JbK_jnDXvGRJSEMf8ocmkLG2TQ2EGxxkn6dXbkdo2jnq0pTZog7tZK9VDPG7Yg/w217-h289/IMG_0985.JPEG" width="217" /></a></div>You never know.<br /><br />As I was walking past Great St. Mary’s on a sunny afternoon, the faint sounds of organ music wafted through the front doors. The doors are usually open beckoning tourists and passers-by alike in to visit the gift shop and take “tower tours” to see Cambridge from heights not available anywhere else open to the public in the city.</span><div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Something else pulled me in, however, as the music seemed more than the usual kind of noontime recital repertoire. What I discovered on entering was that it was “jury day” – the time when organ scholars from the university were sitting for what were essentially their term exams. It’s a time for them to demonstrate to their professors that they are worthy of the credentials they seek from this prestigious university. Here is but one of the pieces heard that noontime (<i>secretly recorded - don't tell anyone</i>).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><script data-use-service-core="" defer="" src="https://static.elfsight.com/platform/platform.js"></script>
<div class="elfsight-app-20e14de7-66c6-4224-9762-fa192c3e9983"></div>
It was a wonderful opportunity to experience the prodigious musical talent on display. <br /> <br />I have no way of evaluating the relative talent of the various scholars as they went through their paces, but it was an unexpected pleasure to be able to walk into this magnificent space and enjoy talent that most likely would only be otherwise available in a concert hall – or after long travel to a designated church or cathedral in a distant city. And here it was, right here. All one needed was to mindful of one's surrounding and paying attention to the gifts that are being given without our even knowing they are there. </span></div>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-89467320997271702182023-05-25T12:00:00.001-04:002023-05-25T12:00:00.144-04:00Cottenham<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1RgF-vHMuocHhL6buJ1vb44gxvTub3xedJ_XJfLd5aK9vUZPrleq4KA0aw559Y-ZpCyeie4JNSXIpAvXcu66V_SK4L_CMx-JWh2XfFgZ9e8eqa_nrkCDg8-huWekMohfiuexQQk-Y18Pgwsz1PJCxpcu420Kk3QfsiKuvUHRkypAfeDQFodTQZzJVw/s2048/IMG_1194.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1RgF-vHMuocHhL6buJ1vb44gxvTub3xedJ_XJfLd5aK9vUZPrleq4KA0aw559Y-ZpCyeie4JNSXIpAvXcu66V_SK4L_CMx-JWh2XfFgZ9e8eqa_nrkCDg8-huWekMohfiuexQQk-Y18Pgwsz1PJCxpcu420Kk3QfsiKuvUHRkypAfeDQFodTQZzJVw/s320/IMG_1194.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Approaching All Saints Church on <br />High Street, Cottenham</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Wednesday’s journey was by bus to a village on the outskirts of Cambridge. My destination was just a bit beyond walking distance for a day trip and the city bus system will take you there – just barely – it’s where the line ends. Cottenham is one of the larger villages surrounding the city of Cambridge, located around five miles north of the city. My pilgrim destination there was All Saints Church, the largest landmark in the village of neatly arrayed English cottage homes interspersed with some larger houses of some pedigree. “Why?” you might ask, “did I go to Cottenham?” What is significant there?<br /><br />That’s a simple point. All Saint’s Church is where my dear friend Robyn Szoke was wed to Philip Coolidge several years ago. The people of St. Luke’s are getting to know Robyn Szoke-Coolidge very well these days, since she is one of the priests that is taking services and providing advice to the wardens and vestry while I am on sabbatical. That fact alone made All Saints a “must see” during my time in Cambridge. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fSNB76rWNU0DgI-tnlSIxtnMGZF16ESajltEsMylsgG__K1yw_6iPtZVZ4DcBXaM5tGQ7SDFzZq-wfv5NnZQnxGppIAaAyeVnA5GITCZoPKK2MxBXD43szLTkPy-Dz_odnpdmEejaEwPSP6TZfdCJPRn9Av3HH6vfJvpU41K1Nd4ZDh0uw7MgVIsRg/s2048/IMG_1196.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fSNB76rWNU0DgI-tnlSIxtnMGZF16ESajltEsMylsgG__K1yw_6iPtZVZ4DcBXaM5tGQ7SDFzZq-wfv5NnZQnxGppIAaAyeVnA5GITCZoPKK2MxBXD43szLTkPy-Dz_odnpdmEejaEwPSP6TZfdCJPRn9Av3HH6vfJvpU41K1Nd4ZDh0uw7MgVIsRg/w207-h276/IMG_1196.JPEG" width="207" /></a></div>The journey gave me a glimpse into the simpler side of life around this sophisticated university town with all its cosmopolitan hustle and bustle – even more so than little Grantchester to the south. Because it is just a little further out and opposite the direction of London, its surroundings are a bit more rural (although urban encroachment is evident). Life in Cottenham is very different. I arrived just before noon and trekked my way to the church – about a mile from the bus stop. Nary a pub or coffee shop to be seen. What was there would not open until closer to supper time. This was a “stop by the house” for coffee town. There weren’t a lot of visitors like me walking the streets. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrZWdMPpN9pnpSPhstlRgFevXHyZmIutXqCPOQiXmB4vNX69tWBtmyFIlPH2UyblySyc-D6cJ9BZzOG986XJ3mCbTDoMe9lpsHtT6cv-Fyxc0hR8IK8WeN091jxPWeO8JkiNUWY4_8rlNlGhpcBHUVWRZq2psAVTD7uFaMcU8aaioFDTECnlneygTCg/s2048/IMG_1200.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrZWdMPpN9pnpSPhstlRgFevXHyZmIutXqCPOQiXmB4vNX69tWBtmyFIlPH2UyblySyc-D6cJ9BZzOG986XJ3mCbTDoMe9lpsHtT6cv-Fyxc0hR8IK8WeN091jxPWeO8JkiNUWY4_8rlNlGhpcBHUVWRZq2psAVTD7uFaMcU8aaioFDTECnlneygTCg/s320/IMG_1200.JPEG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The "lounge" area in All Saints Church</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Once at the church, the peaceful churchyard beckoned a time of quiet reflection in the noonday sun. The church was open (another sign beckoned a visit) and in what I have already observed is the style in these parts, the substantial parish church (larger than the one on Grantchester) used just about every square foot for some activity space from children’s play to a lounging area! There was of course the area for worship. No pews here – moveable chairs that provided, I am sure, for flexible use of space in the nave and a décor that reflected the many historical periods through which this worship space has endured. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixDdP3L29mk32KaBzAZTlcCxILITG5QTAV5vjglSXPbNjkcveIa-KaQwwtAxmOCba_9WzhxSHSClBnSy4WRUYpA7WG_V87gP-bfSrW5_iTO458sYLQwtkWHCDoZneBmpcspwFYg1kKHYZlf7qN_FH4HW4PMPWTy9upMfkOM-yiscBeV08rm7UaZn_jag/s2048/IMG_1197.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixDdP3L29mk32KaBzAZTlcCxILITG5QTAV5vjglSXPbNjkcveIa-KaQwwtAxmOCba_9WzhxSHSClBnSy4WRUYpA7WG_V87gP-bfSrW5_iTO458sYLQwtkWHCDoZneBmpcspwFYg1kKHYZlf7qN_FH4HW4PMPWTy9upMfkOM-yiscBeV08rm7UaZn_jag/s320/IMG_1197.JPEG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Looking down the nave at All Saints Church</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>All Saints was probably founded sometime in the tenth century (late 900s) and fragments of the present structure date from the thirteenth. A storm destroyed all but the base of the original church steeple, but that was rebuilt between 1617 and 1619 – a relatively new part of the church! Elements of the interior décor date as late as the twentieth century giving clear evidence of a living parish community, not merely a relic of history. <br /><br />Another interesting fact about this little village is that it is the home of John Coolidge, who was born in Cottenham, baptized at All Saints' Church in September 1604, and emigrated to the American colony of New England. Among his many notable American descendants is one J. Calvin Coolidge, former President of the United States. Of course, another relative, though I am not familiar with the exact degree of heritage, is Phil Coolidge, spouse to The Very Rev. Robyn Szoke-Coolidge mentioned above. So … now we have come full circle! <br /><br />Pilgrimage is not always about the famous and the notable. It is often about roots and rootedness. In a similar way, I have the hope of ferreting out the place where a certain “Samuel Blanchard – Soldier in King Phillip’s War – June 24, 1676” might have originated before emigrating to the colonies. Indications are that this would have been near Goodworth Clatford, England. The degree of putative relation? 8th-great grandfather! Hardly a close relative – and the only clue to relation at all is work on ancestry.com and their DNA database. But that is a story for another time.</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-16368071037298369412023-05-24T04:42:00.000-04:002023-05-25T05:14:18.710-04:00We, too, must persist<span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHlL_VXF8FIikNa3KQYNCNGpcccjWHpME-DjXYJHGejBAdHWtJSOUnJs0obS-a7BKOJkYvPTemfcy40flfT88aafquLY-IdF4T6R60ASZRjZ10AZt4qqRSy5YwNsE7bDltYuobTHw9Xn0dHOOxALsqZHFoyxQ88PYKaULEvutoDJSR4fUWvur3GgHOVw/s2048/IMG_1192.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHlL_VXF8FIikNa3KQYNCNGpcccjWHpME-DjXYJHGejBAdHWtJSOUnJs0obS-a7BKOJkYvPTemfcy40flfT88aafquLY-IdF4T6R60ASZRjZ10AZt4qqRSy5YwNsE7bDltYuobTHw9Xn0dHOOxALsqZHFoyxQ88PYKaULEvutoDJSR4fUWvur3GgHOVw/s320/IMG_1192.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The main gate at Westminster College, Cambridge</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>In a recent blog entry (“In a Sea of Faces,” May 21, 2023), I mentioned Dr. Jonathan Soyars, a fellow Episcopal priest and member of the Society of Scholar Priests. He currently holds a position at Westminster College here in Cambridge and was kind enough to invite me to lunch at the College on Tuesday. Westminster College along with six other religious colleges (of which Ridley Hall is one) forms the “Cambridge Theological Federation” (CTF). These colleges are not part of the University of Cambridge but are affiliated with the university. They concentrate principally on teaching disciplines related to training clergy and, in this, are in some ways closer to the original conception of the main university colleges when they were founded centuries ago.<br /><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhX-BdWPfbW0XNZvmzsuUj4zQ9iRmu05US8uoAEBXA8c5bT7sOHYTyauiiGMv9dgSLNOM1A_wKVU-Yr_Qhu3G7FsfIoSssLez97GmiwuD3y9w7m0AV1VTyDH2JDEPTqfLwvdlz7zo32rctgcbibovkXg3KhyNZBroQFt4YHbBxDBTUcpSKwz2l7pyd5Q/s299/Dunlop%20and%20Gibson.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhX-BdWPfbW0XNZvmzsuUj4zQ9iRmu05US8uoAEBXA8c5bT7sOHYTyauiiGMv9dgSLNOM1A_wKVU-Yr_Qhu3G7FsfIoSssLez97GmiwuD3y9w7m0AV1VTyDH2JDEPTqfLwvdlz7zo32rctgcbibovkXg3KhyNZBroQFt4YHbBxDBTUcpSKwz2l7pyd5Q/s1600/Dunlop%20and%20Gibson.jpeg" width="299" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Lewis and Gibson<br />Founders of Westminster College</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Westminster was founded in London in 1844 and only moved to Cambridge in 1899 following the gift of a prime site of land near the center of the city by two Scottish sisters, Agnes Smith Lewis and Margaret Dunlop Gibson. Although Lewis and Gibson were exceptional biblical scholars in their own right, they were never fully accepted by the Cambridge establishment. Two things stood in their way – they were not Anglicans, and they were not male. Nonetheless, to use a contemporary phrase, “they persisted.” Following an appeal for funds from the wider Presbyterian Church, the college commissioned a new building designed by Henry Hare, which was built between 1897 and 1899. In 1967 the college began to amalgamate with Cheshunt College, Cambridge, foreshadowing the eventual combination of the Congregational and Presbyterian churches that would form the United Reformed Church (URC) in 1972. <br /><br />In our conversations, Jonathan noted how the situation at Oxford University differed – how colleges like Westminster became part of the university structure. Interestingly, he pointed out that those same colleges have pretty much disappeared. It seems that what might appear to us today as elitism and an attitude of exclusiveness, in the end, proved to be the motivation for the colleges of the CTF to maintain the independence of their respective missions – and their path toward continued survival. However, we also discussed how these same colleges are struggling, as are the seminaries of The Episcopal Church in the US. Just how we all respond to these challenges is part of what I have been reflecting upon during my sabbatical, and our discussions on Tuesday gave us both food for thought – and a motive to look for a time to “share a few pints” in the coming days! <br /><br />The lesson for us in all this may be that God blesses us with resources for the day (not a literal day, perhaps). But when that day is complete, we are called to move on, to new horizons, to new destinations within God’s kingdom. Scripture tells us plainly, “My ways are not your ways, says the Lord.” (Isaiah 55:8) Our task is not to change God’s mind about that. Our ask is to discern just where God will lead us … and then to follow. Like the sisters who founded this college, we, too, must persist.</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154350843711739180.post-48852992352923667632023-05-22T10:28:00.000-04:002023-05-22T10:28:07.478-04:00Still Walking with Me?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AEkOnFCK8HXp6KiUhZBtB2V0kZsItGatNbEjiulA3GSECugNya7dkmY_RNTQ5VmLKl9amfuKYsqjzFj5EjQzBJwdTAv0S_tFaXzNikHcAM8-PFqH9PxHU2QAKhOS-fUH7jwyHgGqgFkEj9ODfuxRlXSeYy9TCW58YRtxrabjWdIy1bDLaMRYa7O5yg/s2048/IMG_1189.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AEkOnFCK8HXp6KiUhZBtB2V0kZsItGatNbEjiulA3GSECugNya7dkmY_RNTQ5VmLKl9amfuKYsqjzFj5EjQzBJwdTAv0S_tFaXzNikHcAM8-PFqH9PxHU2QAKhOS-fUH7jwyHgGqgFkEj9ODfuxRlXSeYy9TCW58YRtxrabjWdIy1bDLaMRYa7O5yg/s320/IMG_1189.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I arrived at Ridley Hall four weeks ago. I know it sounds hackneyed, but I’ll say it anyway. In some ways, it seems it was just yesterday. It is hard to believe that nearly a month has passed since I arrived bleary eyed and exhausted after a grueling twenty-something hour journey. I’ve more than made up my rest, to be sure. I’ve acquired some good habits, too. I am to bed at a decent hour – sometimes it is still light out, sort of. (It gets darker later here since we are at a higher latitude.) I walk – a lot – 10,000 steps no longer seem like an unreachable goal. In fact, I surpass it quite frequently these days. I read. And read. And read. (Did I tell you I love to read?) And, yes, I pray, too.<br /><br />Something happened this morning that hasn’t happened in a great number of years. It was 4:35 a.m. I was suddenly wide awake and needed to get up, boot the computer and start typing. I had an idea – a creative thought. That kind of thing hadn’t happened to me since I was writing my doctoral dissertation over twenty years ago. Reading it this afternoon, it probably wasn’t as profound as I thought it was at that hour of the morning. But it did give me joy that creativity was still possible, that I wasn’t merely a hack stitching together strings of other people’s thoughts, that I could have thoughts of my own. Even if they were not going to change the course of time, they were still my thoughts – God’s gifts - something for which I am grateful. <br /><br />It has been a great gift being here in Cambridge these several weeks. There was a time in my life when I really desired a career in the academy. However, it was not to be for reasons I will not describe here. And now, that opportunity is well past. But the taste of it that this time has afforded will be fondly remembered. And the best part? It isn’t over yet. There is still more to come. Stay tuned. I only hope I don’t’ need to be up at 4:30 too often to have more profound insights!</span>The Rev'd Dr. David A Zwifkahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06792982011154838080noreply@blogger.com2