Prayer Walks: You never know what life, your feet, and faith, will bring you

I love to walk, to feel the blood pump through my legs and fresh air fill my lungs.

In warmer months, that happens in a T-shirt and shorts. In mid-December, with daytime temperatures in the mid-20s (F), that means warm socks, thick fleece pants, gloves, a sweater and a warm coat.

And lately, I combine the physical exercise with spiritual nourishment via recordings on my iPhone: maybe a monk reading from the Psalter, or Orthodox prayers chanted in Byzantine style by Eikona (http://www.eikona.com/prayers-for-orthodox-christians/), or podcasts from Ancient Faith Radio (https://www.ancientfaith.com).

Sure, I could walk on a treadmill in a nice warm Planet Fitness gym (I do have a free membership through AARP). But I like to feel like I'm actually going somewhere -- in both a linear and metaphysical sense.

Which (finally, thanks for waiting) brings me to the theme of this entry: You never know what life your feet, and faith, will bring you.

On Wednesday, for example, I was doing my few miles on the Jordan River Parkway when I came upon a young woman, in her late teens I would guess, sitting hunched over on the side of the trail. As I got closer, I could see the sadness, that look of hopelessness.

We've all been there. And we all remember how it feels. You look at the cold, gray skies -- and in this case the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains rising in the east -- and watch your breath as a wreath of mist, its warmth and hope gone before you can inhale again.

I couldn't just walk by. I mean, I probably could have done . . . but, for crying out loud, I had just heard a homily about the Good Samaritan through my earphones seconds earlier.

So . . . "Are you all right?" I asked, and tried to smile disarmingly. Shouldn't be too hard for a 66-year-old, gray-haired and -silver bearded, bundled up grandpa with a walking staff.

When she turned to look at me, her eyes were swollen, red, wet. "I live over there," she waived toward a residential treatment facility about a quarter-mile away. "I just needed some time to . . .", and her voice trailed off.

I stayed quiet. She looked back up. "I'm missing my parents. I can't reach them. I don't know how they are. They don't know how I am."

Loneliness is the worst, especially this time of year, when Christmas is so hyped as a time for love, gifts and everything bright, yada yada yada.

So, I told her to try to look at herself, from outside herself. "This feels awful now, but life changes, sometimes every time we just stop and look around. I get up, walk, sleep, and get up, and it's changed. Always. Sometimes not much and not for what seems a long time, but sometimes, you realize what hurt so much is yesterday, and today is new."

There was a glance of hope, or at least interest. She was listening for more.

"I lost both my parents this year. Just me and my sister left, and she's almost a thousand miles away," I shared. "I miss them very much, but I pray for them every day, and I know they pray for us."

I suggested that there are people who care about her, too. They may pray for her, they may think of her with love and concern, and that, too, is a prayer of sorts.

But we are not alone. Hope finds a way, and faith helps guide it within us.

"Things will get better, sooner or later. Trust it will, and until then, just do what you need to do to get where you need to be. God bless your day, young lady."

She nodded, sniffed, and seemed to calm a bit. "Thank you, sir." She took my hand and squeezed. We both smiled, and I resumed my trek.

Half an hour later, as I returned on the way home, she was gone. I whispered a prayer for God's mercy and protection for her.

And I wondered, had I done enough? I may never know the answer to that question.

What I did know, however, was that or this senior citizen, the day had a purpose.

Riches in Heaven: Or, how a tiny church in a poor New Mexico town makes a difference

Pastors Paul and Diane Hesch with inmate friends (Hesch photo)

My latest freelancing effort:

"On Sundays, pastor Paul L. Hesch tells the 60 congregants at Victory Life Church about the power of Christ’s love to bring the spiritual riches of faith, hope, and healing to the poverty-stricken community they call home.

For Hesch and pastoral partner and wife Diane, that home is Las Vegas — not the sprawling gambling hot spot in Nevada, but the economically challenged and historically rough-and-tumble city of 13,100 that straddles northwest New Mexico’s Gallinas River. The U. S. Census Bureau reports that 34.4 percent of local residents live at or below the poverty line, compared to the 12.7 percent of the overall U.S. population. . . . "

To read the rest of this story, click on this link: https://bit.ly/34UB2bK

Book review: The Divine Liturgy: When Heaven and Earth are one

As an Evangelical preacher's kid, Sunday worship was this: three drum-and-electric guitar and keyboard pop-rock worship songs, pulsing stage lights and haze from a smoke machine, a sermon and a quarterly and self-served "communion" of oyster crackers and grape juice.

Then, three years ago, I attended Divine Liturgy at an Eastern Orthodox church. I was inundated by the flickering light of candles, incense, icons, vestments, chants and singing, ancient prayers -- true reverence that engaged all the senses -- and stirred the spirit.

In "Orthodox Worship: A Living Continuity with the Synagogue, the Temple, and the Early Church," co-authored Benjamin D. Williams and the late Harold B. Anstall, I learned it was all that . . . and much, much more.

I experienced this work as Ancient Faith's newly updated, audiobook format (https://store.ancientfaith.com/orthodox-worship-audiobook/). At just under 6 and a half hours long, it was the perfect devotional companion for my daily walks.

Striding down forested trails flanked by meadows and streams, I was easily able to immerse myself in the history of how today's Orthodox Christian worship as a continuation, and fulfillment, of the Jewish temple and synagogue liturgical practices Christ's first disciples and apostles knew from their childhoods.

Deacon Kenneth Timothy's engaging and passionate narration conveys both authors' deep faith, as well as his own. In this way, the book becomes something more than words on a page or eBook reader; it is a conversation with a friend and spiritual brother.

This is a book aimed at the layperson, but no less complete in its theological exploration or attention to details of the Divine Liturgy's content and ancient symbolism and rituals, culminating in Holy Communion, the mystical yet real joining of heaven and earth in true worship.

The Divine Liturgy, at its inspired and best, is not a spiritual spectator's sport. To merely listen, occasionally make the sign of the cross, get in line for Eucharist and then leave unchanged within, is a tragic waste.

The blessing comes with participation, Williams and Anstall stress. Given the invitation for a foretaste of the Kingdom of God, along with the saints and angels, why would we not?

'What God can do with a worm,' says former addict-turned-pastor, is a miracle

Latest freelance story for me, this one on a remarkable couple helping the broken and addicted in Hawaii through faith, example, and humility. https://bit.ly/2OoEEN6

A poem: Of 2019, life's hallways, its memories, loss, faith and hope

The hallway is silent,

my heart is not.

It beats with blood, oxygen and memories,

of love, and loss,

dreams of reunion

anchored in

Eternity

Friends and kin,

grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, 

cousins and friends,

all have walked, some

resolute, some unsure,

these same worn, stained tiles

before me.

And opened that door.

Disappeared

From here,

to where?

Well, There.

Now, I approach 

that threshold

slowly, surely,

with resignation

of mortality;

and comfort of faith.

For below the door,

through the keyhole

Light . . .

And, I am not afraid.

---------------

*Don't freak, dear ones. Just a poem, reflections, as 2019, the year of mourning, nears an end.

Ignoring context, inventing meaning: True in both religion, and pop music

As a still fledgling Eastern Orthodox Christian (yes, three years since baptism, and I'm 66 -- but in the context of 2,000 years and counting for the ancient faith's history, I am still just a metaphorical  toddler), I've learned how important "traditions," both oral and those written down in ecumenical councils millennia past, are to seeing beyond the branches and leaves of the Tree to its strong trunk and deep roots.

That realization led me to reinterpret, and in some cases reject, particular assumptions of my Evangelical/Pentecostal upbringing. . . while still treasuring that background for providing me a foundational love for Christ himself. As a child, I learned my faith's supposedly truest expression was born in a 1906 "revival," where people spoke in tongues at a abandoned barn-like building on Azusa Street, which had been repurposed as a church.

Before 1906, with a few barely mentioned exceptions -- Martin Luther and the Protestant Reformation, and maybe an American frontier preacher or two like the evangelical reformers John and Charles Wesley -- Christianity had apparently gone dormant. You know, the Dark Ages and all that.

Traditions? A misunderstood and certainly satanic idea! The Church Fathers? Men and women saints and martyrs? Not important.

It (i.e., what was needful) was ALL in the Bible, and of course, that was just what you as an individual understood it to be; if your denomination's teachings offended you, make up your own -- and heck, start your own movement! You'd hardly be alone; rather, you'd just add to the thousands of competing offshoots already out there since Rome broke the East, and Luther with Rome.

All of that a long introduction to my realization today that, without context and historical, doctrinal and philosophical foundation, it's an all-too-human thing to make things up as we go along, and passing that along as "truth," validated only by repetition and fancy. 

The catalyst for my conclusion?  Why, "Puff the Magic Dragon," of course.



Since my 1970's high school years, I've KNOWN that Peter, Paul and Mary were (snicker, wink-wink) singing about weed. Heck, everyone knows that, right? Well . . . no, not according to Definition.org. Actually, the 1963 hit's lyrics were mined from a poem by Leonard Lipton, a friend of band member Peter Yarrow -- and it was simply about a child outgrowing his imaginary dragon friend, "Puff."


Click on that Definitions.org smart link above; the revelations (and disappointment, and maybe irritation born of misinterpretation) continue, including ballads and hits that had either more innocent, or far darker intended themes than they acquired in the popular hive mind.

R.E.M.'s "The One I Love?" Never meant to be the romantic ballad at all, lead singer Michael Stipe says. Really, only the title is misleading, he insists, adding that hit or not, the song almost didn't make recording because R.E.M. saw it as "too brutal . . . violent and awful." Lyrical hint: "(the lover sung about is) a simple prop to occupy my time."

Remember the Police's hit, "Every Breath You Take?" Not a love song at all, though it has been played at thousands of weddings s since its release in the 1980s). It really is a dark song about an obsessed stalker, says lead singer Sting.

There are many more examples of songs interpreted as both far more noble than they were intended to be, or alternatively raunchier than envisioned.

In other words, musical reflections of the sola scriptura mindset of the Protestant Reformation?

Or, it just could be me seeing an all-to-human tendency to ignore context in favor of seeing, as St. Paul wrote, "through a glass, darkly." 

Whatever. In faith, as in music, we do seem to (mis)interpret meaning and Truth through our own wishful/errant reflections, though.

The sun retreats, the ice creeps; of lakes and memories

A walk today around Decker Lake.

Actually, a couple circuits on an unseasonable cold (20 degrees) morning.

My fancy hearing aids allow audio streaming from my iPhone 7-plus, so I put on the Eikona recording of Orthodox Christian prayers and walked for the next hour.

Reminders of generations, petitioning the Divine
for forgiveness, mercy, understanding, and acceptance of weakness, made strong by faith and actions . . . however weak and seemingly ineffective.

Only two other people were on the pathway around the lake. To the East, the Wasatch Mountains towered, the first snow caps of autumn clear on a crisp, cold late-morning.

Ducks had waddled into the water further from shore, skidding across think sheet of translucent ice into the still-open waters.

Overhead, a vanguard of Canadian geese circled over the lake, seemingly discouraged by the encroaching bank ice, and flew further to the northwest. Seconds later, some 30 more geese, locked in triangular formations, followed their lead.

The skies were clear, a canopy of powder blue, and the sun, mockingly, shone bright but offered little warmth. A  breeze underscored the changing of seasons, so rapidly from autumn to the first chill breath of winter.

The brown leaves, just a month ago so vibrant and green, then for a glorious couple weeks golden and orange, lay at my feet -- brown, decaying and disintegrating.

It all reminded me of my parents. My father died in January, my mother passed in June.

I imagined the snow covering their graves in Eastern Washington, where it is colder, grayer, bleaker as brief autumn gives way to the arctic winds with a sigh this time of year.

As I listened to the prayers of the Ancient Faith, chanted over the millennia by the believing hopeful, I thought of Mom and Dad. Memories flowed,; and I tasted those still-warm recollections, resolute in my hope of safeguarding who they were.

And now, I am the earthly receptacle of those memories, so few, so precious, and so much of the quality of neuronic snapshots of the epics that were their lives.

Kyrie eleison.

Lord have mercy, indeed.

The Journey of Faith: Beyond 'Convertitis,' hopefully deeper in love and humility

It's been a couple years now since I left the Evangelical/Pentecostal upbringing of by childhood, and indeed, the faith foundation of most of my life, and was baptized an Orthodox Christian.

It was not a decision taken in haste, but after much introspection, study, and yes, prayer. The ensuing years since that life-altering choice has been glorious, painful, lonely, and also wonderful in the sense of a new family I've found at Sts. Peter and Paul Orthodox Church.

Like new convert to any faith, there is an initial period of zealous commitment. That is both good -- a joyful, all-in commitment to suddenly exploded horizons of belief and understanding -- and not so good, i.e. the temptation to vigorously "defend" one's new revelation of truth as not just closer to fully right, but to blithely dismiss anything "less" to be heretical, or at least inferior.

The late Fr. Seraphim Rose

The late Fr. Seraphim Rose, likely to someday be glorified as an Orthodox saint, called it "Convertitis."  He was particularly aware of the tendency toward criticism and self-righteousness. In summary, Rose saw such an attitude as a potentially fatal poison to the newly-acquired, precious ancient faith of the apostles.

From his notes for a proposed, but never published (that I could find) “Manual for Orthodox Converts," there is this pearl:

"Such attitudes are spiritually extremely dangerous. The person holding them is invariably in grave spiritual danger himself, and by uttering his mistaken, self-centered words he spreads the poison of rationalist criticism to others in the Church."

Thankfully, my experience with that new convert attitude faded quickly (but still too long, and yes, I confessed it). In a nutshell, I have known, in my 66 years on this planet, too many people of genuine intent and faith for me to presume to judge anything about their relationship with God. 

One can be convinced of one's faith, and its potential to grow in knowledge of the Truth, without judging another's journey.

To so the latter is to usurp the domain of the Divine, an error of ignorance, and a grievous sin. I've learned that the moment I presume to judge anyone's journey of faith, that is the time to confess, repent, and love. I know that . . . but I remain imperfect, and only more convinced of my shortfalls in love and humility whenever I even flirt with judgment.

Lord have mercy, indeed.

The point? Focus on your own faults, working out your own salvation. The best "witness" of the gospel for most of us is to simply live it, to love others . . . and to trust God to touch every heart where it happens to be on its unique journey -- whether dormant, just beginning, lost, or clinging to what they know, through pain, experience and love, to be the Truth.

Do I believe, with all my heart and soul, that the ancient church of Christ is preserved in its purest earthly, yet still imperfect form within Orthodoxy? I do.

But there is one judge of humankind's soul.

It ain't me. Or you.

Questions? Rather than arguments or theological debates, if you are interested in the ancient faith of Christ, I can only offer the advice I once received -- Come and See.

Painting my kitchen: It sure isn't art, but a lesson in humility

Painting, Pablo Picasso said, "is just another way of keeping a diary." 

Vincent Van Gogh, a preacher's kid, like me, declared that, "painting is a faith, and it imposes the duty to disregard public opinion."

Let's face it; they were both at least not of this world, if not just plain crazy. So, there's that. And if they were talking about house painting, well, certifiably insane.

I sing of the paint brush dripping, not the body electric. (Sorry, Walt Whitman). But this is my brush. The kitchen of our condominium, its paint faded and spattered from past cooking experiments, is the "canvas."

But even if I had the skills of a professional interiors painter, this would not approach art. One coat should have sufficed, but then there were the drips. So, there was the second and third coat. At least the prep -- sanding and taping -- kept the new paint (mostly) within bounds.

Ah, you should have hired a professional, you say? Sure, the result would have been better, no doubt. But if you are retired, $1,100 to freshen up a kitchen just doesn't convince.

So, a second or third coat, whatever it takes.

That's how I roll. Which actually is more to the point. I should have rolled the paint on, my wife shared (with a bit too much glee, however subdued), not used a brush.

So, this is me, watching paint dry. And thinking I just may have to roll, if I want to rock this project.

Another lesson in humility. We Eastern Orthodox Christians are told one can never get too much of that.

Writing: Still love it, and thank God, still got it

After spending more than 40 years as a reporter and editing in news wire service and newspapers, I produced, on average, at least one story a day. On one wild, dizzying, heart-thumping day a few years ago, I had 17 bylined articles.

Crazy, that. And far as I know, still a Salt Lake Tribune staff record. But what was I trying to prove that day? What was one more story about squatters starting an abandoned house in fire, or another 7-Eleven holdup?

Idiotic, I eventually, decided. And yet, I didn't know that, a year and a half after getting the ax in the massive downsizing at the Tribune in May 2018, some vestige of that drive would still be defining a portion of my self-worth.

There's a rush when you report, interview and then write up and hit the send button on a story. From the first time I experienced that feeling -- at age 20,working up piece about local farmers hunting rattlesnakes in central Washington -- to my last feature for the Tribune, about the last few octogenarian monks at a remote Trappist monastery, I guess I took that fix of accomplishment for granted.

In my semi-retirement since, I've done some occasional online magazine articles and copyedited a few books. But it had been months since my last gig. A few weeks ago, I started having nightmares where I would sit down to write, only to discover I had lost the ability to find the lead, compose a narrative, or even do an interview.

It was an anxiety that rode my shoulders into awakening, a couple times at 2 a.m., and haunted me when I finally got another assignment. What if the dream was not just than groundless fears?

Today was judgment day. Having done the interviews and research for a new assignment, I sat down to write. When I identified the lead -- in this case contrasting the hard work of Romanian immigrants in building a community of faith in Portland, Oregon, with the success of their American-born children building on that -- I felt a physical wave of relief.

Really. The endorphines kicked in. Shoulder knots relaxed. A budding migraine faded. I took a deep breath, a gulp of home-brewed dark roast java, and soon found the "nut graph," transition to background and a secondary source, and . . . the rest flowed!

The subsequent "polishing" and "tightening" of the piece, grammar and spelling tweaks, and even the task of providing of Web hot links were not tedious chores; they were like making literary love.

Yeah, I smiled to myself. Still got it.

Thanks for that, God. My hair is gray and thinning, my waist a memory, my knees tyrannical, and the days of hitting 3-pointers off a pull-up jumper from the top of the key are ancient history . . . but I can still read, write, and wonder.