Simple Questions

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The simplest questions are the most profound.



Where were you born?


Where is your home?


Where are you going?


What are you doing?




Think about these once in a while, and watch your answers change.


- Richard Bach, Illusions


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Listen To Your Life

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Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and the pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.

- Frederick Buechner

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Prayers For Lambeth

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We are standing at the edge
Faced with just one choice
Teach each other to be kind
And let our hearts rejoice
As different as we seem to be
We are still the same
Divided by our separate walls
But joined before the flame

- Beth Nielson Chapman


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We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord
We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord
And we pray that all unity may one day be restored
And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love
They will know we are Christians by our love

We will work with each other, we will work side by side
We will work with each other, we will work side by side
And we'll guard each one's dignity and save each one's pride
And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love
They will know we are Christians by our love


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On the eve of the Lambeth Conference, we raise our voices in song and our hearts in love. Our prayers are with those attending, and with those not attending. And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love. Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.


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For some first-hand experiences:

Bishop Jelinek is posting Letters from Lambeth here.

A small group of Bishops are blogging from Lambeth here.

Bishop Robinson is blogging about his experiences here.

Daisies

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Daisies

It is possible, I suppose
that sometime
we will learn everything there is to learn:
what the world is, for example,
and what it means.

I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing.

Song being born of quest he knows this:
he must turn silent were he suddenly assaulted with answers.

Instead oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered.

At my feet the white-petalled daisies display the small suns of their center piece, their - if you don't mind my saying so - their hearts.

Of course I could be wrong,
perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots.
What do I know?
But this:
it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example - I think this as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch - the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the daisies for the field.

-- Mary Oliver






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