BEYOND

A portable art gallery not big enough to require a building but not small enough to be written on a grain of rice.

Christmas presence

{Click on the images for a larger view}

Icon pin of St Xenia of St. Petersburg, by the hand of Abigail Maria Fernandes, 2007.

In the early hours of Christmas morning, while we were still in Church after the Nativity Vigil and Liturgy, we received a beautiful Christmas care package from my sister. It was carried over the mountains by a friend.

In the care package, atop the other gifts, was a holy image I had commissioned, serendipitously arriving in time to be Krista's Christmas present. We had the image blessed and Krista wore the pin on Theophany.

Here you can see the scale of the icon pin compared with a penny:

We are blessed to have this icon of this strange, holy women whose story and prayers have meant so much to our family.

Winter in the North Country - Wishing I had some Boots of Spanish Leather

This morning as I drove to pick up Krista from her night shift I had on the cd Putumayo Presents American Folk (2005). Though I've heard it countless times before, Nancy Griffith's version of Dylan's "Boots of Spanish Leather stood out to me.

I think of this song as one of Dylan's 'eternal' ballads, because even though it was written in 1963, it could have been written a hundred years earlier.

The lyrics are a dialogue between two lovers, separated by distance and perspective. The one keeps offering the 'things' of this world, whereas all that is really wanted is the presence of the Beloved:

No, there's nothin' you can send me, my own true love,

There's nothin' I wish to be ownin'.

Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled,

From across that lonesome ocean.

Presence is that most essential of realities. I have been recently wading through Walter Ong's The Presence of the Word, but listening to "Boots of Spanish Leather" in the snowy Edmonton darkness this morning finally made it click.

I stayed up late last night, reorganizing bookshelves, and rose early this morning - but I have not felt as awake for some time. I slept while Krista worked through the night. She will sleep as I work through the day, but, as T.S. Eliot indicated, in love there is no distance. I know that full well this morning. I am blessed beyond deserving.

Friesen Family Band

If you like faith-based roots music rising out of the "family band" tradition, you absolutely must check out the sensational Friesen Family Band. This jaw-droppingly talented collective of seven family members - a Mom, Dad and five kids ages infant through 13 - played here in Edmonton last Friday night. Krista and I caught their show at the Lendrum Mennonite Brethren Church and were blown away. Almost all of the songs are original compositions by Chris Friesen. Some are traditional, including a beautiful setting of Gerard Manley Hopkins' "God's Grandeur." The musicianship and vocal ability of these children is pretty astounding.

As well, we are proud to call the Friesens both friends (as we've known them a while) and neighbours - since they only live a few blocks away!

Check em' out. And enjoy.

Sacred Time, Camp, and St. Arseny

I grew up going to Summer Camp. Every year. Days and nights at camp were the fulcrom of the year, and initiated me from my earliest days into the mystery of sacred time. Though I didn't grow up with a highly articulated notion of the liturgical seasons, they were still there, lurking under the weight of a decade of sleeping bags, bug spray, and match-stick crafts. From age zero to five, my family spent summers at Silver Lake Wesleyan Camp in Ontario. All six of us slept in tents for two months. I took my first steps there, in a cottage belonging to our friends. From five until seventeen, the Nazarenes rented Camp Charis near Chilliwack, British Columbia. Most of the pivotal moments of my youth were there.

I think this year marks the fourth annual St. Arseny Camp in the Deanery of British Columbia. I am absolutely amazed by the growth of this tremendous ministry to the young people there in BC. You have to see these pictures to believe it! The dedicated volunteer staff of this camp should be given accolades of thanks. A new generation has the opportunity to encounter the beauty and goodness of God amidst trees, lakes, and rivers.

This Camp, we should remember, is fittingly dedicated to our own St. Arseny of Canada, Archbishop of Winnipeg from 1926-1945. Though he has not been formally canonized by the Church, we here in Canada know how well Christ shone in him. He was even shot (in the "leg") while serving the Divine Liturgy! But he continued to serve, and because of his eloquence, became known as the "Canadian Chrysostom." So, for those of you who don't know him, please meet St. Arseny, and remember his Camp if you would.

Fr. John serving the Proskomedia for the kids to see the Gifts being prepared and the special prayers said.

Glory to God for All Things!

Like gold, refined by fire...

Anyone who truly knows me, knows that I am a serious and committed whistler. This has gotten me in trouble on various occasions - namely at Church, and when I worked briefly for a firm of highly superstitious Lithuanian lawyers.

When Krista and I were getting to know each other, over a Lenten season, she was curious to find out what this one particular tune was that I was often whistling. My good friend Sandra can attest that it'd been my constant, unconscious refrain for years. The tune is none other than the first verse of the song "Refiner's Fire," by my fellow British Columbian, Brian Doerksen. Some of you will be familiar with this song, and some will not; Some will love it for various reasons, and others will perhaps disdain it. I love it.

The song uses the Biblical metaphor of testing and purifying precious metals to speak of the softening and cleansing of the heart, mind, and spirit.

A man who knows much more about metal than I has written some beautiful words about words. I offer his words, while I wait for my own to return...

the light still shines...

Thanks for your patience... more to come soon.

There's been a lot going on lately...

I usually resist as much as possible the easy road of simply responding "I'm busy" to most questions of how things are these days. But it is appropriate. I've taken on various additional responsibilities in my professional work, am continuing on with various duties in the Church, and Krista and I have had lots of company lately - which, for us, is quite honestly a joy. My lovely wife has had plenty on her plate as well! So it is good in the midst of these seasons of many things, to "unbusy my heart" and celebrate the important things. Our cup runneth over!



Last week we joined with our Church across Canada in celebrating with Archbishop SERAPHIM the 20th anniversary of his consecration to the Episcopate. Krista has known our gracious Bishop since she was five, and remembers fondly throwing flowers as he entered the Church for his first visits to Holy Resurrection in Saskatoon. I've known His Eminence only since '99 or so, but it is always a blessing to be with him, and to share in his immense capacity for the joy of the Resurrection and eternal life. The weekend as totally exhausting (in a good way), and we had Gabe Friesen and his Dad (Protodeacon Wilhelm) with us to share in the love.

His Grace Bishop BENJAMIN, Gabe, and Protodeacon Wilhelm

So hear's to 'unbusyness of heart' in times of many tasks and duties!

Congraduations Krista!

I just have to give congratulations to my esteemed collaborator in life, my brilliant and beautiful wife Krista, on receiving her Bachelor of Science in Nursing degree yesterday from the University of ALberta. It was a truly inspiring Convocation ceremony, and Krista's Baba was able to come from Saskatoon to share in the celebrations. Many years to you, my Love!

Check out a few more memories here.

Author of "Purity & Danger" Dies...

Rest in Peace, Mary Douglas.

three years, five months, and nine days ago...

Thanks, Victoria for passing on this photo. Look how young Jesse looks! Fr. Dennis looks a little different too!

On the Coast of Paradise

For the past ten days, Krista and I have been meandering. We went to BC, for my parents' 40th Anniversary, and then out to Victoria for the wedding of our close friends Mira and Matthew. It is a 12 hour drive, and every time I am amazed by the topography and the verdant green of the Fraser Valley. To me, it is what it means to be returning home. I drink in that green, so distinct from the beige prairies of Alberta.

We were honoured to serve as sponsors for the Bride and Groom, a deep and humbling task in the Orthodox Church, which entails not only holding the candles at their Crowning, but undertaking spiritually for their marriage from that day forever. They are really authentic people, and we got to share this immensely holy, harrowing week with them.


As part of our preparation, Matthew and I made a brief overnight trip to the Hermitage of the Holy Transfiguration on the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia. Founded by Father Gregory Papazian in Quebec in 1977, this community was relocated to the Sunshine Coast around 2000. This hermitage truly belongs to another realm, that of the eternal kingdom, and yet is entirely rooted in this world, in the Creation, the arena of the Incarnation. I won't attempt to capture anything that the monks told me there, because (as you can probably understand) they don't really like to have their words pasted all over the internet. I will say simply that we had many free and full conversations, and meeting Fr. Gregory, Fr. Deacon Samuel, and Brother Moses, was a like a sort of reunion for me. (Not in any sort of strange or mystical way, but simply in the warm, unassuming, and down-to-earth way they showed their hospitality). Matthew D. had been there several times before and was well known to the monks. But very quickly, I discovered that we knew so many people in common that meeting them felt like meeting family.

So I will simply show some pictures and share some of my experience of being there on their 'Mount Tabor.' Click on any image for a larger view.

The hermitage is located on the Sunshine Coast of BC, accessible only by ferry from the Vancouver area. We drove country roads for about ten minutes to reach the access path to the skete. The land was donated by an Orthodox couple, for whom the monks spent nearly a year constructing this beautiful home.

Below their benefactor's house is the hermitage itself, built of squared logs with dovetail joinery. In the foreground you can see the outdoor bread oven and the fence of the monastery garden. The entry porch on the left leads into the front hall and directly into the chapel.

Here are the monks themselves, from left to right: Fr. Deacon ("just call me 'brother') Samuel, Brother Moses (I understand according to his monastic vows he would normally also be called "father," but prefers "brother" too, and the Father of the house, Igumen Gregory, a monk of the Great Schema. I think this picture well captures their good humour.

As it turned out, Brother Samuel knew Krista's family from back in Saskatoon. He took a Ukrainian course with Krista's mom, and was encouraged in his vocation by a specific sermon of Fr. Phillip's. As well, Krista had met Brother Moses several years back, just before he decided to become a monk. Br. Samuel, from what I gather, runs the candle factory, and Br. Moses is a gifted iconographer and wood carver. Matthew and I brought several boxes of used beeswax candle stubs from St. Herman's in Edmonton, which the monks will recycle into new candles. (They made the originals too).

We arrived about 5:30pm on Wednesday evening, and Fr. Gregory invited us to sit down and relax for a while. Here you can see Tristan the cat, Matthew, and Fr. Gregory.

Another angle of the main sitting area. The interior of the hermitage is coated with a simple whitewash. Everything is very clean and simple. There is a slight fragrance of herbs. The night was bright and warm, with a refreshing breeze.
Br. Moses prepared supper while we visited. Actually, in this picture he's saying "oh, if you're going to take my picture I better pretend to be cooking."

After a while, we moved around the corner into the small chapel for Vespers, which began with the percussive call of the simandron and the bells. Matthew and I joined in the singing. It was ever-familiar Obikhod chant, led by Deacon Samuel's clear tenor voice. But somehow it sounded fresh. Beautiful. Then this amazing event. At the end of Vespers, while still singing, bread was brought out from the altar area, and was carried to the dining table - all carefully laden with our evening meal (their one main meal of the day). This act connecting the worship of the temple to the sustenance around the table struck me as being totally organic and deeply Christian. Our meal was a delicious soup, served with qinoa, the monastery bread, and some zesty feta. So good. We talked amiably over dinner, and many stories were shared. The monks asked me about my life and I shared my story. We drank some herbal tea, and soon, it was time for evening prayers, concluding with the beautiful setting of "Rejoice, O Unwedded Bride." Fr. Gregory anointed us, and we were bidden "a peaceful night."

It was 8:30pm. Deacon Samuel had given me his upstairs room for the night. I asked him what the schedule would be. He said that he would sound the simandron at 2am, which was usually the beginning of the quiet hours of prayer in the rooms. At four, he would sound it again for Matins. I took a few pictures, and tucked into the small bed which was prepared for me.

Brother Samuel's prayer corner at two-ish in the morning.

I came across this photo of Saint Olga of Alaska upstairs on the bookshelf.

Matins ended around 5:15am, and Fr. Gregory showed me around a little bit, including his cell, where he spends the first week of each month in quiet. The monks made Matthew and I some delicious porridge with butter and brown sugar, and we also drank some cocoa, which they drink bitter, but insisted upon sweetening for us. The conversation was inspiring, and very helpful to both Matthew and I. We boarded the 8:15am ferry back to Horseshoe Bay. Of course, this only skims the surface. Brother Moses had assured me that "this ain't Mt. Athos," and that I should feel free to bring Krista to visit next time. I am looking forward to it.

The Birth of Ambrose

The college I arrived at as an arrogant 17 year old, and later taught at, has changed its name. I could not be more pleased about the change, and its connection to 'the Great Tradition.' Many years to Ambrose University College!

From the press release:

"Ambrose University College is named after Ambrose of Milan, a fourth-century Christian who was called in 374 A.D. from a successful career as a governor to become head of the Christian church in Milan, Italy. Ambrose left his mark as a hymn writer, preacher, pastor, and an educator; he is best known for leading Augustine to faith and for his strong defense of orthodox Christology.

Ambrose stands as one of the great Christians of his generation who made an outstanding contribution to church and society. In adopting his name for our university college we underscore our commitment to prepare students for service and leadership in church and society in keeping with our historic Christian faith."

And here's a good one from the man himself:

"When we speak of wisdom, we are speaking about Christ. When we speak about virtue, we are speaking about Christ. When we speak about justice, we are speaking about Christ. When we are speaking about truth and life and redemption, we are speaking about Christ."

Christ is Risen!

(Click on the image for a larger view)

A Little Something from "Four Quartets"

{I took this photo at our church on the Sunday of the Cross, a few weeks ago}

The Fourth Part of "East Coker"

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

- T.S. Eliot

Also, here's another poem for Holy Week, this one by Boris Pasternak:

He had renounced with no hostility
as if returning property on loan
his works of wonder and his might
and now,like us,was mortal.
Nights distance seemed the brink
of annihilation of nonexistence
the universe's span was void of life
the garden only a ground of being...
Seest thou, the passing of ages is like a parable
and in its passing it may burst to flame
In the name then of its awesome majesty
I shall in voluntary suffering descend into my grave
I shall descend into my grave.
And on the third day rise again
And even as barges float down a river
So shall the centuries,trailing live a caravan,
come for judgement,
out of the dark, to me.

- Boris Pasternak

Escarpment Blues

Escarpment Blues
If they blow a hole in my backyard
Everyone is gonna run away
The creeks won’t flow to the Great Lake below
Will the water in the wells still be ok?

We’ll need to build some new apartments
And I know we’re gonna have to fix the roads
But if we blow a hole in the escarpment
The wild ones won’t have anywhere to go

If they blow a hole in the backbone
The one that runs cross the muscles of the land
We might get a load of stone for the road
But I don’t know how much longer we can stand

We’ll keep driving on the Blind Line
If we don’t know where we want to go
Even knowledge that’s sound can get watered down
Truth can get sucked out the car window

We’re two-thirds water
What do we really need?
But sun, showers, soil and seed
We’re two-thirds water
The aquifers provide
Deep down in the rock
There’s a pearl inside

If they blow a hole in the backbone
The one that runs across the muscles of the land
We might get a load of stone for the road
But I don’t know how much longer we can stand

- Sarah Harmer.

Thanks where thanks are due...

I thank the Ochlophobist for his stalwart defence of the fruits of our Cistercian brethren's labours.

Jesus Camp

About a month ago, Krista and I happened to be watching late night TV (something we very rarely do), and came across George Stromboulopoulos' The Hour, one of the most worthwhile programs on the good ole' CBC.The main feature of this particular episode was the documentary film Jesus Camp, and the film's Directors were George's guests.

I have to say that I am still processing many of the questions and issues raised by this fascinating film. Originally the documentary was geared more towards understanding the spirituality of children in this particular Charismatic stream of U.S. Christianity (characterized by Pastor Becky Fischer's "Jesus Camps.) Then, as filming progressed, the significant political themes came more and more into the forefront.

After reflecting on it, I don't think I would recommend Jesus Camp to anyone with major baggage or axes to grind about their Evangelical upbringing. For those, I suspect the film would only stir up very painful emotions. For others (and I include myself in this lot) who have any kind of positive regard or appreciation for the Pentecostal tradition, and the relationship of religion to public life, I would wholewheartedly suggest that you see this film. It follows Pastor Becky's ministry, as well as the lives of three children: Levi, Rachel, and Tori - all who attend Jesus Camp. These kids are bright, serious, articulate, and 100% committed to following Christ according to the teachings they have learned. One of the main emphases of these types of camps is intensive teaching/preaching geared towards young children, and their full involvement in the life and ministry of the Church.

Perhaps the most challenging aspect of the film relates to the highly emotional nature of Pentecostalism/Charismatic Christianity. There are many scenes of children weeping, speaking in tongues, and experiencing various spiritual phenomena typical to the Charismatic movement. For various viewers (both secular and non-Charismatic Christian), this type of thing may be disturbing. I have to admit that while I was aware of this kind of thing going on, and come from an Evangelical background myself, it was still at times shocking to see. There was one charming scene where a tiny girl (maybe three or four) brings around a Kleenex box for one particulary moved young boy wracked with sobs. I'll admit I have a deep respect for the seriousness and focus of these "true believers." On the other hand, I am somewhat suspicious that this can easily degrade into the basest form of spiritual manipulation. One of my former colleagues at the Nazarene University College told me one time that he thought Pentecostalism had only a 'theology of speaking,' and no 'theology of listening' or quiet.

So perhaps what we might need is a new St. Gregory Palamas to rise up in our day, to remind us that perhaps true Christianity has more to do sometimes with listening than with speaking.

The Liturgy of the Pre-Sanctified Gifts: A Long Obedience in the Same Direction

As I have my face to the ground during this Lenten service, the thought crosses my mind, just as you can vaguely hear the priest’s footsteps as he carries the holy gifts: “how beautiful are the feet of him who brings Good News.”


At my first Pre-Sanctified Liturgy, at St. Peter the Aleut, ten years ago this year, I wondered, "how long can I last without peeking?" It's probably only 30 seconds or something, but it seems like a long time. As we were talking about it last week, Krista admitted she always used to peak. Very cute. Even this reminds me that the Apostles were those who had "seen with their eyes." (1 John 1.1) As the Lord said to Thomas, "Blessed are those who have not seen, and have yet believed" (John 20.29).

It is somehow in the singing of the Psalms of Ascent at the Liturgy of the Pre-Sanctified Gifts that I remember who I am. Each year reminds me that I am a member of the sojourning people of God, at search for our Promised Land in God. I grew to love these Psalms first through Eugene Peterson's fine book, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.

I don’t know if it is the same melody in all places, but it is that melody which strangely welcomes me to the Lenten pilgrimage in earnest. We are “going up” in the same way Israel's pilgrims ascended up to Jerusalem for the great festivals of salvation. But, even more, “God is the Lord and has revealed Himself.” We are members of his very Body. The fact that our liturgical journey in this particular Liturgy brings us up to partake of the once-for-all sacrifice of Christ reveals that He is the ‘end’ of all our searching.

Currently listening to

My good friend Mike "T-Bone" Angus leant me this record last night. Brilliant, brilliant music. It reminds me of one of my favourite lines in High Fidelity when a girl comes into Championship Vinyl and asks the existentially in-the-dumps store owner "do you have Soul?"

Ray Lamontagne has soul. But not really James Brown style soul.

T-Bone was telling me that Lamontagne used to work in a shoe factory somewhere in the Carolinas, and then all of a sudden heard a Stephen Stills song one night while lying in bed, and he thought, "why am I not making music?"

The West Beyond the West

{Textile squares hanging in Kim's design studio at Capilano College reminded me of Tibetan "prayer flags"}.

Last Thursday morning Krista drove me to the airport and I flew just over an hour to the city of glass, water, and cedar. Douglas Coupland has written well about this fair city. And soon, in an annual dance, it will be drenched with cherry blossoms. In Life After God, Coupland writes about how the geography ofVancouver, hanging on the edge of the world, created a new moral space, beyond the boundaries of the Rockies, a place where people from "back east" could create something new.

Vancouver has always lived large in my consciousness, since, for most of my childhood it was "the city." My parents used to take us often - a few times a month to picnic on the lawn in front of the Ferguson Point Tea House at Stanley Park, overlooking Spanish Banks. We would stroll through Gastown in the early 80s, and I had a ritual of playing amidst the First Nations' treasures at Hill's, and then buying butterscotch candies in a tartan tin at some Scottish tourist shoppe.

At the course I took on Friday on the topic of "The Challenge of Sustainability for Heritage Conservation" , I learned that in the 1970's the plan was to raze all of Gastown to build a dozen or so high-rise towers. I also learned how, during World War Two, the Canadian beaurocrat W.C. Clifford wrote most of the tax code here in Canada specifically to encourage the demolition of older buildings. He wanted a fresh start, and worked tenaciously to make level every historic urban area in Canada a tabula rasa for his conception of a rational, Modernist plane. Clifford went so far as to actually call those who cherished older buildings "perverts." Are we? Am I? Despite the fact that "sustainability" is perhaps the slipperiest of planning buzzwords, and if you've been to a dozen conferences on the topic you've pretty much been to them all, I took one thing away from this day. That the possibility still exists to foster a culture of repair. This is really what the whole thing is about: finding modest ways to consider what we discard and throw away. The practice of salvage lived large in the course. Salvage is sometimes good - but not "vulturistic" salvaging... robbing Peter to pay Paul. The very fact that the culture of repair was mentioned was hopeful to me, planning as I am to take my broken wedding shoes to a cobbler one of these days.

* * * * * * *

In the course of the weekend, I had many blessings: Attending Kim's classes with her and just getting some good visits in, meeting some new friends (as well as visiting old ones for French Toast on Saturday), and enjoying some peaceful music. Back in the Edmonton airport, as I waited for my Beloved to come pick me up, I talked Church politics (God, forgive me!) with an Eastern Catholic nun from Saskatoon. No matter how enchanting Vancouver is, there is substitute for coming home.

* * * * * * *

Speaking of another kind of "conservation," please do take a moment to check out A Rocha Canada. This is an amazing organization that works worldwide, encouraging Christians to engage in care for the Creation. Our good friends Jay and Milissa Ewing are embarking on a journey with A Rocha as Directors of the Field Study Centre in Canada. This is an amazing work, so please join in prayer with and for them!

"The greatest of these is..."

I have written before about why I appreciate Valentine's Day. So I today I simply offer these words to my Valentine, my Beloved Krista:

"A loaf of dry bread and bare earth for a bed
In the company of the beloved, is full of happiness.
Let humility be the word,
Resignation the offering,
The tongue be the mint of sweet speech."

-Anand Karaj, Sikh Marriage Ceremony, 1552

Rachmaninoff at First Baptist

Saturday night, after Vespers at our own church, we attended the the Da Camera Singers' performance of Sergei Rachmaninoff's All Night Vigil. It was exhilarating to hear the strains of his familiar setting of
Благослови, душе моя (греческого роспева)
"Praise the Lord, O my soul," sung with live voices, and, to my ears, it was sublime. I'm told by those who would know that the mainly English-speaking choir handled the Slavonic well.

At coffee hour yesterday, I chatted with a musically sophistocated Muscovite fellow-parishioner about it. She had avoided the concert because she was reticent to believe that a chamber choir could sustain the vocal power required for the piece. Perhaps this is true, but I didn't notice. I heard subtlety and serene strength. Apparently Rachmaninoff never intended this piece to be done liturgically, but simply as "a sacred choral symphony." I can understand why... it's degree of difficulty would baffle all but the most accomplished church choirs. Nevertheless, hearing this music was witnessing the presence of the eternal Kingdom.

It was also meaningful for me to be at First Baptist Church in Edmonton for the first time, as it is the spiritual home of our friends Greg, Sara and Soren Hendricks, and a sister church to First Baptist in Vancouver, which holds fond memories for me. I used to go there sometimes with my sister Kim, to hear Dr. Bruce Milne's summer preaching on the Book of Revelation, some 12 years ago. Then, and on Saturday night, even without the incense, I knew I was on holy ground.

At Superstore with the Iconographer

Lately Krista and I have been reading a fair bit of poetry since she splurged and bought me Rilke's Book of Hours. And some might know that "On His Blindness," by John Milton, is one of the poems closest to my heart, describing acutely what I felt at a few times on my journey to the Orthodox Church. (I can identify somewhat with this friend and fellow traveller).

On His Blindness

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.

- John Milton, 1608-1674

Last night I had the experience of going grocery shopping with the master iconographer, Heiko Schlieper. He is 76. We are friends. I've known Heiko only 3 years, since I moved to this provincial city in the Spring of 2003, a city locked in winter for seemingly half the year. I started working very closely with Heiko just as his eyesight was dimming. I watched him paint his last icons, a panel of the Protecting Veil of the Mother of God, and Christ's Last Instructions to the Apostles, over the door exiting the narthex of St. George's Church. I interviewed him on tape each morning for about six months, before I went to work at the Tree Stone Bakery, gathering information on the several-year-long project of painting his masterpiece of St. George's.


After some intense training, in December '04, I helped him gild the last icon in the Church (not the dome pictured here, which he did solo in the early 90s). He used double-weight German gold leaf from the Ruhl company, "gold-beaters" Heiko calls them. We mistakenly applied 12-hour gold size and so it was nearly midnight when we climbed the ten-foot scaffold to start gilding. It was incredible. Specs of gold floated in the sacred air. As I recall, Heiko didn't offer his traditional incense (Benson & Hedges 100s) that night. I worked very slowly and carefully. Heiko, nearly blind, worked quickly and perfectly, his fingers knowing his image and the gold so well. Is it sacreligious to admit that we blasted Mahler that night as we gilded?

Since the Fall, we have shopped together with Heiko. It is an everyday activity that one can easily take for granted. Heiko had carefully arranged a service called "Seniors Driving Seniors," to take him shopping, but they only drive you, and he needs assistance in the store to procure his gourmet ingredients. So he had arranged with another company to have an assistant meet him there, but when he finally did, the guy they assigned admitted that he could not read! So, it works out much better this way. We go together - and since Krista and I have the requisite skills of both driving and literacy, grocery shopping goes much more smoothly. And, Heiko generously cooks amazing sauces and treats for us to freeze and use at home, always adding, "It's easier to make a larger amount." Last night we went to both the Italian centre and Superstore. Heiko cracks wise, usually with salty limericks about our former Governor General. It is good simply to be with him, to help him find his quail eggs, sardines, and pork fat for his homemade sausages. I sometimes think he can do more blind, at 76, than most people can who have sight and the prime of life. He "best bears His milde yoak."
May God grant him many years...

The south transept of St. George's Church.

Suite Francaise

I go through phases with reading novels. For a time, I will read novels rapaciously, one after the next. Novels are the books that I cannot put down. I have stayed up all night reading: The Great Gatsby, Slaughterhouse Five, Barney's Version, The Brothers Karamazov. Then I will go through months, years! of not cracking a novel, consumed as I can get with the stuff of my last post. But recently a good friend and colleague (another Matthew), recommended Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. She wrote it during the Nazi occupation of France, before perishing in the death camp of Auschwistz. Her daughters protected the manuscript, thinking it was a journal, only to find out later it was a breathtaking fiction. Only recently was it translated from the French. I started it last night, and read the first several chapters. It has the feel, even in translation, of a classic. So, if you're the novel-reading sort, I recommend Suite Francaise.

Chalcedon feels like a guilty pleasure...

Over lunch I browsed the stacks in the Rutherford Library at the University of Alberta. It is one of the reasons I love working on campus. (For those of you who don't know, I am employed by Athabasca University, but work fully integrated into a Government of Alberta branch, helping to protect historic buildings and other cultural landscapes). I came across this new, three-volume, critical edition of The Acts of the Council of Chalcedon. It is beautifully done. I waded in briefly to the first few pages of the proceedings of this Council, and the translation reads elegantly, conjuring up what it must have felt like, eight days before the Ides of October, 451, when the bishops and imperial officials gathered together in the Church of the holy martyr Euphemia. I have to admit, it is almost like a soap opera, with the degree of drama the opening ceremonies of the Council experienced: accusations of murder, threats, and thwarted egos. And in the midst of it, the two Natures of the Incarnate One are revealed. I feel like a fly on the wall. I want to linger.

Our friend Ryan Szarko made these icon-printed t-shirts and gave them as gifts to me, for being the sponsor for his chrismation, and also to Krista, Fr. Phillip, and Fr. Dennis for their encouragement along the way. We've really enjoyed getting to know Ryan this past year since he wandered into St. Herman's for the Litya of Palm Sunday Vespers last year. He is a multi-talented, all-around good guy, who, in addition to creating these wearable holy images is finishing his Master's in Speech Pathology, is an accomplished musician, and also teaches aquasize!

Here you can see Krista's shirt picturing St. Seraphim of Sarov during his thousand days of prayer on the rock.




And here's yours truly, wearing the image of St. John the Baptist and Forerunner, which was very fitting since I'm currently reading Bulgakov's book on St. John, Friend of the Bridegroom.

Thanks, Ryan, for these thoughtful gifts.

Holy Books: Is Religion the Problem?

Clarion is running this essay by my friend, David Goa. Well worth a read with regard to the politicization of various holy texts. Here's an excerpt:

"Two opposing views — the evangelical-literalist perspective for the understanding of the Bible and the liberal-modernist perspective for the understanding of the Bible — have shaped public discourse in North America almost entirely and still largely do. They have influenced, although in not as marked a way, European public discourse as well. What seems to have escaped most of us is that they were born together. They are co-dependent twins. They need each other for their own identity. It is so with all neuroses. Literalists like to see the modernists as the firstborn. They must battle with them for a recovery of a living, engaged faith. Modernists like to see the literalists as the firstborn. They must battle with them for a recovery of reason. My sense is that each of them sees the other as a scapegoat for the problems of modernity. Here is one of the taproots of religious fundamentalism and secular fundamentalism in North America."

Beyond Issue 15

I wait with bated breath for Beyond Issue 15. Two seasons have passed since I interviewed Nelofer Pazira for this luminescent Canadian magazine, and now the cover has been unveiled.

Carve out a few hours of leisure and go read this. The Ochlophobist is the new Josef Pieper.

Mount Cheam by E.J. Hughes, 1913-2007

This is the mountain you see from my parents' kitchen window. Of course, this is more the Agassiz view of Cheam than the Chilliwack view. Rest in peace, E.J. Hughes.

H2O and the Waters of Remembrance

This past weekend I walked with Krista along the banks of frozen Lac Beauvert. {At least, it was mainly frozen. Every once in a while we would hear sharp rumbling noises as the ice cleaved and cracked.} We were there as guests of Krista’s parents, who had brought us to the venerable Jasper Park Lodge, as a generous family Christmas gift. It was here, over a weekend when we remember the renewal of all creation in Christ – commemorated by the blessing of water – that I had the chance to reflect upon the goodness of the past two weeks.

We were out in BC for ten days with family and friends: carols with my Mom and Dad, Vancouver with Kim, Deep Cove with Ryan Wugalter and my good old friend Erik Hermans (who I haven't seen in years), walks at Cultus Lake with the Lanteignes, and, of course the Jordans' epic New Years’ party. It was a Psalm 133-type of holiday, in that the goodness of simply being together broke up most of the clouds of gloom that often attempts to haunt holidays with family and friends.


Krista and I skipping stones with Amy and our Godson Owen Lanteigne at Cultus Lake.

It is intriguing to me how much of our liturgical worship focuses on water. Not surprisingly, most of the 32 readings for Theophany are entirely centred upon images of water. Likewise each Vespers (for the day begins at sundown) lifts up Psalm 104, rehearsing how God provides water for all of His Creation. From each of our own places of imprisonment we have been offered a "way out," literally an exodos through "water and the spirit."

Some years ago, Ivan Illich wrote a compelling essay entitled "H2O and the Waters of Forgetfulness." in which he contrasts mere "H2O" to the allusive element we call "water." His argument highlighted our constant temptation to reduce the good through comodification. In myth and Scripture, water takes on a much more potent, and polyvalent meaning than simply its chemical ingredients. In Genesis, as in Gilgamesh, water stands for chaos. But it is also charged with holiness as it close to death and life. It is the void out of which dry land is redeemed. The sea usually takes on this chaotic character. It is wild, untamable and free. Rivers are places of transformation - often cleansing and healing (think of the Jordan River or the River that flows through the New Jerusalem). This year, storms compromised the city of Vancouver's water, forcing millions to change their daily routines and stand in temporary solidarity with those for whom clean water is a luxury.

So I raise a glass (of water) to our dear friends and family near and far. With the Feast!

Copyright Sufjan Stevens 2006

If you like, you can click on each image to enlarge.

The Blessed Virgin compared to the Air we Breathe

WILD air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,
That each eyelash or hair
Girdles; goes home betwixt
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed
Snowflake; that ’s fairly mixed
With, riddles, and is rife
In every least thing’s life;
This needful, never spent,
And nursing element;
My more than meat and drink,
My meal at every wink;
This air, which, by life’s law,
My lung must draw and draw
Now but to breathe its praise,
Minds me in many ways
Of her who not only
Gave God’s infinity
Dwindled to infancy
Welcome in womb and breast,
Birth, milk, and all the rest
But mothers each new grace
That does now reach our race—
Mary Immaculate,
Merely a woman, yet
Whose presence, power is
Great as no goddess’s
Was deemèd, dreamèd; who
This one work has to do—
Let all God’s glory through,
God’s glory which would go
Through her and from her flow
Off, and no way but so.

I say that we are wound
With mercy round and round
As if with air: the same
Is Mary, more by name.
She, wild web, wondrous robe,
Mantles the guilty globe,
Since God has let dispense
Her prayers his pro