The Night We Beheld the Holy Grail

 It was on a summer evening about 17 years ago, when a congregation that no longer existed had gathered in the American Legion Hall.

Why that congregation no longer met doesn't matter. And the circumstances that brought us there that evening aren't particularly important either. But there were forty of us, fifty of us, sixty of us, maybe more. We had scattered like the knights of Camelot, chasing wild fires in pursuit of the Holy Grail, but unlike King Arthur's knights, of whom but a tithe returned, many if not most of us were there.

It was time for worship.

It's been years, and memory plays tricks. I like to think Janice Gengenbach was leading, while Robert Hamrick accompanied on his trusty keyboard. I'm pretty sure Marcus Eiland was playing his guitar. Mark was there. So, I think, were Brian and his family.

Churches have a wide range of music to draw on, from the Phos Hilarion down to the latest pop gospel release by Casting Sunbeams, but often they have a repertoire of familiar songs they draw on that gives each congregation its own flavor. Community Gospel Church was no exception.

The songs favored by the church worship team were upbeat and often came from Willow Creek, by songwriters like the unfortunately named Brian Doerkson. They included calls to worship like the fittingly titled "Come Now is the Time to Worship" and the interminable "I Can Sing of Your Love Forever," as well as the occasional rollicking dud like "Waves of Mercy."

My oldest daughter was 3, or perhaps 4, at the time. She spent the entire service dancing at the front of the church, lost in worship as only a child can be.

A third of my life so far has passed since that evening. I no longer remember which songs we sang.

Except one.

Written in 1992 by Gary Sadler and Jamie Harvil, "Ancient of Days" is a song that feels like it could have come straight out of the book of Revelation. The first verse began with a steady beat to stomp the feet to. Voices and instruments alike were subdued but determined, as like Four Living Creatures, the congregation pronounced blessing and honor, glory and power upon the Ancient of Days.

And then, just like that, the second verse began, the volume turned up, and the congregation took it to seven.

"Every tongue in heaven and earth shall declare your glory,
Every knee shall bow at your throne in worship,
You will be exalted, O God, and your kingdom
Shall not pass away, O Ancient of Days."

The third verse began a beat later, and the singing hit 11. Hands went up, eyes closed and every throat opened wide.

"Your kingdom shall reign over all the earth!
Sing unto the Ancient of Days.
For who can compare to your matchless worth?
Sing unto the Ancient of Days."

Congregational worship can be a difficult thing to lead. People respond to songs that they know but they hate music that's stale and familiar. They want something traditional with a contemporary sound, with lyrics that are meaningful but not ponderous. Ditch the organ for guitars and drums, please; but remember that this is church, not a set at a nightclub.

That night, that song, none of those concerns was a problem. Whether it was forty throats or twice that, the voices joined together, and incense rose from the altar. The walls and the ceiling of the hall were made of music and every singer there lost themselves in the choir. For one night at least a congregation that had scattered a dozen different directions was restored to life.

And if those assembled there saw a vision of an arm clad in purest samite holding aloft a cup; well then, it was a true vision, one that still has kept hearts warm all the years since.

Advent: Moving

I moved out of the house when I was 16.

As I recall, the process started sometime before then. I expressed an interest to my parents in becoming an exchange student, and once the idea had won their acceptance, we began exploring the process together.

No one really knew what the process involved, except that it started with an application. There were questions I had to answer, essays I had to write, endorsements from adults I had to procure. There were interviews I had to go through, in person and on the phone. More questions, more essays. and finally resolution: I was going to Rotorua, New Zealand, where I'd been matched with a family called the Hannahs.

At the end of the process was another process. I'd already got a passport. Now I had mere weeks to learn about New Zealand, get any necessary vaccinations for travel, buy tickets and supplies, and do whatever else I had to do to prepare my life and the people whose lives intersected it for the massive disruption that was about to ensue.

I've moved a number of times since then. Back to Pittsburgh. To college. To Haiti. To an apartment in Easton, Pa. To New Jersey. It's never as simple as going from A to B; there's always a process, there's always planning, and there's always a change in store: for me, for those who give with me, for those I move among, and for those I leave behind.

And isn't that what this season is? Advent is a moving notice. God is moving into the empty apartment next door. He hopes his parties don't get too loud, but if they do, please come knock on his door and let him know.

God's from a far-off country, but he's been dreaming for years of coming to town and being neighbors with us. Which pubs serve the best beer for thirsty people, cook the best food for hungry people, and provide the best place for strangers to meet?

When you're new in town, what's a good place to go for a walk? Where can you go to unwind?

The first advent ended, we're told, when God got a lease with some working-class newlyweds who taught him the local language, set him up with a trade, and helped him for a while to keep a low profile and blend in. That move-in, we are told, turned the world on its ear.

And now in the season in which we celebrate that first Advent, we wait for the second one, harder to see because it's by faith, when the move will be permanent, and the glory will be unhidden.

Advent: Joy

Joy is intimate.

Joy is the family who gather around the table with you for a meal, for game night, or for storytime. It's the friends who grow old with you, but it's especially the one who keeps you young.

Joy is timeless.

Look back at your wedding, at the birth of your children, at moments you joined your friends to do something incredibly irresponsible if not actually illegal, and you'll see joy there. She catches your eyes, and waves hello from the past, and you can't help but laugh with her. But when turn your eyes to the future, you'll find that she's there too, still waving but waiting for you. You can see her in the fields of tomorrow, as your children find their footing and make their own way; as dreams come true and even when they make way for other dreams. "There's no hurry," she whispers, and you realize she's here with you too.

Joy is one of life's constants.

We think of joy in terms of big events: a birth at St. Peter's, a wedding in Atlanta, a reunion of friends in Tuscon. But joy is woven like a golden thread through the small things: the touch of fingers as a glass of lemonade passes from one hand to another, in the morning ritual of spotting and counting tropical birds, in the small talk between father and daughter on the front stoop in the summer evening. It is in these moments, sewn together, that life's value is found.

Joy is like a river.

The salmon live in the river, but the river isn't always gentle. It has bends, it has twists and turns, and it has rapids and falls that compel the salmon to make astonishing leaps. The divine joy can be like that as it sweeps us along. It may buffet us and toss us about, but there is no other place to be, because it is where we come alive.

Joy is permanent.

One day fire will grow cold. One day the stars will close their eyes. One day the music will cease and the dancers will quit the floor. One day the audience will leave, the house lights will dim, and we'll find ourselves alone, except for joy.

Advent: Remember

There’s an old and familiar practice of remembering the past.

Our calendars are rounded out with reminders: holidays like Thanksgiving, the Foirth of July, and 9-11; wedding anniversaries, birthdays and adoption days; tokens from special trips, first dates.

Looking back is a guide to the future. The friend who listened as you broke down one September evening is a friend who will stand by you always. The friend who always stood you up on lunch plans is as trustworthy as a wet turd.

Advent is about remembering ahead. It’s about counting down to a promise not yet delivered, based on memories of what was promised before, and whether those promises were kept.

Advent: Perceive

There are a lot of categories to things we know. There’s what we assume, what we’re told, and what we believe, for instance. There’s also what we read, what we experienced, and what we figured out the hard way, which is probably the stuff we value most and have the hardest time unlearning.

Then there’s what we perceive. It’s got a stronger basis than guesswork, and it’s not as blunt as what we figure out the hard way way. Perception goes beyond mere appearances and reaches the heart of the matter. It’s sound judgment with a sharp tip, and it goes far.

Perceived. You can almost see the analysis bowing back, hear the soft release of the bowstring and listen to the perceived truth slicing the air as it races forward.

I perceive you are a woman of integrity. I perceive I have done better than I hoped.

Advent is many things. Chief among these is the end to a period of profound and prolonged waiting, divinely ordained, that reveals the truth of our perceptions of what we have been waiting for.

May all your perceptions be accurate, and may they guide all your arrows home.

Advent: Awesome

For as long as Icarus could remember, his father had loved watching birds.

The hobby had begun soon after they had arrived in Knossos. The king there had hired Daedalus to design a prison that could contain one of the more monstrous of the kingdom's secrets, and from the day Icarus' father had begun work on the Labyrinth, he had taken the boy with him every morning, every evening and every free moment they had together to watch the birds.

"Observe how they fly," the older man had said. "They can teach us about the currents of the air, and how to ride them."

Or: "Look at this bird, and how long its wings are, compared to its body."

Or: "See these feathers, and how different they are from these others. Why do you think they are different?"

Or: "See the sharp beak of the bananaquit, how like a knife it is! We must always avoid these birds when they swarm."

Spring gave way to summer, and when summer's leaves fell from the trees, winter arrived; and though the years passed and the construction of the Labyrinth was complete, they remained in Knossos. The king paid Daedalus generously to improve the royal bath, which he did by designing a shower with water both hot and cold, and still the promised day of departure never arrived.

Icarus would broach the subject with his father, but Daedalus would laugh and rough the young man's hair as though he were still a boy, and tell him to gather more feathers for their studies.

And then one day Daedalus took his son to the highest tower of the palace, and Icarus realized that his father had seen from the beginning the trap Minos had set, and had for years been planning their escape. The outfits he had made for them looked ridiculous, but Icarus knew they would work. He had joined his father in studying the birds of the Aegean and Adriatic seas for over 20 years, and he knew they would fly.

But before they did, Daedalus had two words of advice for his son. “One, don't fly too close to the sea. The feathers will become waterlogged, and you will fall into the sea, and drown. And two, don't fly too high. The sun is the chariot of Helios; and it moves in spheres too glorious, too awesome for mortals. If you go too close, you will be consumed in its fire.”

And with that, the older man led the way to freedom. With a mighty shout he threw himself from the top of the palace, and began flying to his home on the distant mainland shore. WIth a whoop and a holler, Icarus followed, taking time to circle the town below and share his opinion of the king, before flying out of the reach of the archers and joining his father over the sea.

Their flight took them along the path of the wind, well above the waves below and the ships that passed through them. They overtook and startled a flock of surprised gulls, and flew on as the day grew brighter and the sun rose steadily higher.

The sun.

Icarus contemplated it as it rose in the sky. It was an inspiring thing on the ground, but here in the air it was more than merely inspiring. Its light was brighter, so that he could see every detail on his arm more clearly. He could feel its heat more keenly, so that it warmed him more deeply. It was foreboding and dangerous, but welcoming at the same time.

He flew higher.

"Icarus," his father called from below. "Not so high!"

For a moment, he hesitated and nearly descended to his father's level, but then he stayed himself. He could hear the music of the sun where he was flying, and it was an invigorating thing, a vibrant tenor voice accompanied by pipes and a steady beat like horse hooves. His arms had been growing tired from flying, yet now they felt not rested but renewed. He was not stronger than before, but the sun gave him more endurance than he had known.

He imagined the world from the vantage of the sun, and saw at once how imaginary the boundaries were among the different city-states of Greece. What was Crete? What Sparta, or Athens or Thebes? All were Greece, and all the people in them were Greeks, born ultimately from the same rocks that Deucalion and Pyrrha had thrown over their shoulders.

"Icarus!" a voice called.

Inspired he lifted his head and unwitting flew closer to the awesome chariot of the sun. The light here was brighter still, the warmth was deeper, and his view was grander. There were lands beyond Achaea, beyond Peloponnesia, beyond even Persia. There were peoples who lived there, ignorant of Zeus and Olympus, and yet the sun visited them as well, lighting their days, growing their crops and watching over them from dawn to desk.

There was a voice Icarus heard, from afar off. It was shouting a warning about something, but its words were faint nonsense. The sun was calling him, further up and further in, and so he went.

The light was impossibly bright now. He could see not just the hairs on his skin, but the muscles beneath the skin as well, and the bones that they were stretched over. The music of the sun was now all he could hear, but he was beginning to understand the meaning of its song. Crete was special, it sang; and Athens was special. But all lands were special, and all lands were loved, for the same sun to visit each one in its turn. Icarus could see the whole world turning below him, its kingdoms and empires too numerous for him to count; and in the light of that awesome sun and its all-consuming fire he saw the people as they were, and loved them; and as he flew higher still, a hand reached out and took his, and his mortality burned away.

Advent: Known

There are many creatures in the world that impart wisdom, and chief among these is the oliphaunt. Unique among God's creatures, the oliphaunt is a walking revelation and no one who beholds its glory is left unchanged.

When the oliphaunt came to town, four blind people went to meet it, hoping it would impart understanding and their lives would be changed forever after. But because wisdom is limited to what one knows, and what one knows is often only what one thinks, they decided to meet afterward, share their experiences, and grow.

The first blind man by chance had approached the oliphaunt from the front. He had felt its large ears, like the wings of a bat; run fingers over its leathery face; and mourned the great deformity that had put a tail in its face. But he marveled at how gently the oliphaunt wrapped him in its arm, and at the cool water it could rain on him; and he knew he had met a noble beast.

"I can think of nothing uglier than it, but there is no mistaking its great and gentle heart," he said. "We should always set aside our misfortunes and treat those around us kindly."

The second blind man was surprised, because he had found the oliphaunt by a leg and concluded there had been four of them.

"They were broad, like trees; and they worked together, to hold aloft some burden that would have been too much for any one of them alone," he said. "And so it should be with us, always together."

The third was unimpressed. He had walked up behind the oliphaunt.

"It was like a rope. When I pulled it, it lashed me in the face so i fell to the ground and it dumped a pile 

of excrement on me," he said. "It seems to me the lesson is to teach people a lesson when they bother you so they don't do it again.

And the fourth? She had walked under the oliphaunt, perceiving its presence but nothing of its shape. It seemed to her that there was nothing to the oliphaunt at all, and that was all the wisdom it had to offer as well.

Advent: Kindle

Think of faith for a moment as a flame. What does it look like?

Is it in a cloth, soaked in oil and wrapped around a stick that you're using to keep wild animals at bay? Is it a candle, carried gently in front of you as you walk to your room through dark corridors? Maybe it's a friendly, warming campfire that you and your family encircle in your sleep; or it could be a raging blaze that is clearing out the dead brush so new life can transform the terrain in a few short months.

Or maybe it's the tiny glow at the tip of a match, strong enough to burn your fingers if you're careless, but ready to out --pffft! with one contrary wind or drop of water.

A week ago I was talking with a friend about the ways the church has given faith a sentimental gloss with popular language about friendship with Jesus or having a talk with God.

"When's the last time you had pizza with Jesus? Literally." My friend is a pastor, and I watched as the impulse to give me a church answer rose to his lips, and then I watched as he shoved it to one side because he knew I would never go for it. 

"When's the last time you asked God something in prayer and you  heard him answer, and didn't check yourself into the hospital for a potential schizophrenic episode?" I asked him. "Literally."

Faith in some ways must always be like that tiny match if it's to be honest. Doubt and confidence are strange companions, but the Bible declares them to be the essential components in the alloy it calls faith, which the author of Hebrew, whoever she (or they) may have been, called the "assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (Hebrews 11:1). 

The torch, the candle, the campfire and the runaway inferno all have one thing in common: They began an small as the flame on the match, but someone saw their potential, and added the kindling.

Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Advent: Presence

The difficulty in connecting with the Transcendent is that it is, well, transcendent. How can the mundane understand the sublime? It’s like a butterfly experiencing the flame, or a slug experiencing flight. The Tao that can be perceived is not the eternal Tao.

And yet Advent marks the waiting for a time when the Tao made itself known, and  the Transcendent drew close. By walking in its path, by moving our feet in the same way its footsteps once fell, we close the distance between one another and find ourselves drawn into the presence that draws nearer to us. 

Writing for me can be a powerful if solitary way to experience that presence. But I love music also. Sacred music, secular, high or low, those distinctions often matter little. 

The other night my daughter and I were in the car, and one of us started to sing. The other joined in. Voices melded in harmonies all the lovelier for their imperfections. Breathing synched up. Heartbeats fell in step with one another. Spirits soared. 

In drawing close to one another through the shared experience of a song, we allowed ourselves to be drawn into the presence of something much older, much wiser and much truer than ourselves individually or even corporately. 

When we do this purposefully, we call it worship; and the Transcendent makes itself known in our    midst.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Advent: Open

There’s a certain comfort in closed doors. If the way is barred, you never need to worry what’s on the other side. It’s blocked off and inaccessible. Going that way is not an option. 

But when it’s open? There’s the rub. An open path may lead to adventure, or it may yield nothing more exciting than a cardboard box. Knowledge, fortune, opportunity, loss, destruction and dragons may all lie ahead when the path is open, but you’ll never know until you explore. 

Fortune favors the bold.

Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Celebrate

The whole family was home for dinner today. There was no work, no play dates, no art, no internship.

There was beef stew. We called friends and put them on speakerphone so they could join us for a meal at a safe distance.

Dinner was loud, it was raucous, it was unruly. It was everything a family meal should be.

God, how I've missed this.

Lent: Listen

Sometimes I think that as writers we get so used to metaphor and symbolism that we forget that words have actual, primary meanings.

It's descriptive if I tell you that Kevin is a vulture. And if I tell you that he followed Ron patiently for hours, circling around as the other man looked for shelter, for assistance, for rescue; well, you know what sort of man Kevin is. And if I tell you that Kevin and his companions descended on Ron as soon as he fell, and didn't leave until they had picked his carcass clean, well that just settles the matter.

Lawyers can be awful people, and Kevin is Exhibit A why.

But words have literal meaning as well. A vulture is bird that eats carrion rather than hunting, and one that has the untoward habit of finding animals that aren't quite dead yet, and then waiting patiently. It's no wonder we use them to malign people we don't like.

Today's photo and word prompt is listen. This does not mean "understand a different point of view,' nor "imagine you are someone else," nor "put yourself in another's shoes." It means "engage in auditory practices that allow you to hear what someone else is saying, and process the meaning of those words."

Listen.

(It seems strange that someone would read a meditation on listening, and also that the word listen would be a prompt for photography, but here we are.)

Listen.

There were a thousand sounds assaulting my ears today, and a thousand messages demanding my attention. So many of them aimed to stoke fear. This virus will drive society to collapse -- buy a gun to protect yourself! Wear a mask! Don't come inside! We can't trust China! The economy is collapsing! The president is an idiot! The media are lying to you!

Listen.

Today I listened to a quieter voice that led me outside. I dug up some of the day lilies that came from my great-grandparents' farm in Cambria Mills, and I moved them to the back yard. I cleaned up trash. I prepared the earth where I intend to plant lettuce, peas and spinach in the next few days. I pulled up weeds.

I listened.

There were no butterflies yet to eavesdrop on, but I did hear a few birds, quietly singing to themselves in the maples. My neighbor was preparing his motorbike for riding weather, and i listened  as it roared its triumph across the neighborhood, I listened as a man stood on the sidewalk across the street and told a woman in her house what supplies he had bought and left on the porch for her.

I listened, and I heard the sound of a new spring unfolding; of life continuing in its familiar routines, however altered; and I heard the soft declarations of compassion, love and basic decency from one human to another.

We're all weighed down right now, sometimes for fear of what the next few weeks will bring; sometimes by the oppressive loneliness of being stranded at home when we want to be at work, at school, or at play; and sometimes by other worries and anxieties we either don't know how or are reluctant to express.

If that's you, reach out. A burden shared is a burden lightened. Talk with me.

I'll listen.

Lent: See

Eyesight seems so arbitrary.

A few days ago I was at the park with a group from my social work agency. As I was pushing him on the swing and talking with him, one of our child clients saw something that caused him distress.

'That's a bad word someone wrote over there," he said.

"Where?" I asked.

"Don't you see it?"

"No."

We kept at this for way longer than was necessary, and the boy became more and more agitated that I couldn't see what he did. I tried explaining about different lines of sight, unclear directions, all the things there were at a park where something could be written.

None of it made a difference. He was distressed that I couldn't see something that he found blindingly obvious. At one point he despaired there was something wrong with him for seeing things other people couldn't, and then I saw it.

One of our local artists had tagged some of the playground equipment in spraypaint with the letters A-S-S.

A little older and more jaded about urban graffiti than my companion, I didn't share his moral umbrage but our patience had paid off. At least we both saw the same thing.

It seems sometimes these days that we all agree there's only one right way to see things -- and it's not the way those other people see it. We fight like crazy, call each other names,and try to argue one another into seeing things the way we do. In the end we're further than ever from agreement, and we often walk away from fracases, head held high, chip on shoulder, convinced of our rightness more than ever and viewing our opposition with disdain and contempt.

Maybe we're doing this wrong.

Maybe we see things differently, big stuff, little stuff and even foundational stuff, because we're meant to.

The writers of the Hebrew Scriptures depicted heaven as a court where God would make a declaration, and one of the angels would take an opposing view. In the ensuing debate, deeper truths would emerge that everyone could see, agree to, and support.

There's no suggestion from Scripture that God took affront to what arguably was a challenge to his own wisdom. There's no indication that God did anything but consider the adversarial viewpoint, give the other party a chance to make his case, and then weigh those arguments and their supporting evidence on their own merits.

No, we probably won't change anyone's mind this way. But if we take the time to see things from one another's eyes, we can end a lot of division and heartache, and we can all grow a little wiser in the process.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Sent

I got this magazine in the mail, as I have almost every month for the past 30 years.

It's not that I'm a raging "Reader's Digest" fan. My mother signed me up for a gift subscription when I moved out, and she's renewed the subscription every year. And so, every month, it gets sent to me.

I doubt very much that the magazine is conscious of what drove my mother to send me a subscription. For my part, I scarcely think of what actions follow this decision: the invoicing, the postage, the sorting, the department budgets fueled and funded by other subscriptions and sales, and the advertising that depends on those other numbers to succeed. Nor do I imagine the magazine is aware of its reception, that my daughter often has been the first to see it, first to remove its plastic wrapper, first to read whatever section appeals to her.

I just open the mailbox,and there it is, a fading relic of American right-of-center values, an unstated reminder that mom cares and is staying connected with us. Sent as ordered,  and duly received to fulfil its purpose.

Lent: Light

Sleep is no comfort to the well-rested,
Water brings no relief to those who are not thirsty.
Food has no use for the well-fed,
And more light is wasted on those who live in the sun.

Do not begrudge the weary a moment of sleep.
Give a drink and more to those who are parched.
Give your bread to the hungry, and your meat too.
And light a match in the darkest places.

Lent: Revealed

About 30 years ago, I woke my roommate up talking i my sleep.

I'd been reading the "The Brothers Karamazov," and was trying to figure out which of the two main suspects it was who had killed old Karamazov, and why. I'd been knee-deep in the novel for two weeks, and it was driving me nuts.

The reveal is one of the great things about mysteries. Who can watch "The Unicorn and the Wasp' and not want to know who tried to kill Donna, poison the Doctor and murder Lady Eddison's son? For that matter, who can read any Agatha Christie novel and not wait for the moment when the killer is unmasked and brought to justice? We all love it when the truth comes out.

Lent is meant to be a period of reveals. Certainly its focus on fasts is meant to bring us to a place where we are open to experiencing the transcendent through incremental revelations and gains in understanding. But any time of contemplation also leads us to understand ourselves better.

There's a story told in these parts about a man who hid himself so well that no one knew who he was, not even he himself. But he grew in understanding and in time his commitment to the truth revealed not only who he was, but everyone else as well.

The truth, once revealed, set people free.

What truth is revealed about and within you?

Lent: Celebrate

Here's a neat little observation about celebrations: They always require other people

Fourth of July cookouts. Bat mitzvahs. Graduation parties. Thanksgiving dinner. Wedding receptions. They all involve food, but more importantly they include the presence of loved ones.

You don't even need a reason. Just gather some friends and some family around, and enjoy one another's company. You'll celebrate in no time.

Lent: Fruit

Fruit is an odd photo prompt for mid-March. We still have six weeks to go until last frost in this state. We're just getting started planting cold weather crops like lettuce and peas. Fruit won't grow on the trees until July.

These little fellows came here from Mexico. My daughter likes to snack on them, and I was able to get them at the store on Tuesday before the leagues started canceling games and everyone started to realize how ill-prepared we were for a pandemic.

The rush on stores the past several days are fruit too, born of the seeds we planted months and years ago, to elect someone unqualified for office, to wait idly by when news of the virus first surfaced in China, not to store items sooner, not to store our own surplus produce from last summer's garden, not to garden at all.

Every moment of our lives, we sow the seeds of the future. Every moment we harvest the fruit of the seeds we sowed in the past, or that others sowed before us.

Sometimes the seed fails, and other times it's a bumper crop we'll be eating for years to come.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Work

Lots to do this coming week, There's paperwork to catch up on for my internship, assignments coming due for class, and projects that while not due yet, are now visible on the horizon.

Then there's the never-ending procession of work and projects that happen when you live in New Jersey have a family, and own a house. It never stops.

And then there are the other thing we do, to give life meaning and purpose.

Work is a good thing. It was one of the first gifts given in Paradise.

Work while it is still light; night is coming when no one can work.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Seeks

There’s a saying attributed to Jesus in the gospels that goes like this: Seek and you shall find; knock, and the door will be opened; ask, and the gift shall be given.”

It all begins with our determination to seek. An old woman tears apart her house looking for the money she’d planned to live off in her old age. A jeweler looks for the deal of a lifetime. A heartsick father goes searching highways and ditches for his headstrong absent child.

The tricky thing about seeking is that what we think we're looking for and what we find aren't always the same thing. We tell everyone we want to climb the mountain; we may even describe with fascination the road to the peak and the wonders that wait at the top. But all the while, our feet tell a different story; the path we choose day to day takes us to the beach instead of even to the foothills.

Why the discrepancy? It's a question many of us face halfway to the finish line. Maybe we really do want to stand above the snowline and plant our flag there, in which case we need to make major changes and reset our daily priorities in order to realize our dreams. Maybe we once desired the blazing glory of the mountaintop but have a discovered a softer glory in obscurity. Or maybe we still want it, but have lost our way and are fighting a contrary current to push our way back and seek what was lost before it's too late and opportunity is gone forever.

What is it you seek? And are you seeking it in such a way that it will be found?


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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