Friday, October 11, 2024

Honoring Saint John XXIII

Today is the memorial of Pope St. John 23. I have not previously felt a personal connection to him like I experienced today participating in a word and communion service at Holy Family Catholic Church in Anaconda. I lived here when the the late saint was pope but I was not raised Catholic so I only had the vaguest sense of who he was and what he accomplished, or at least set in motion before his death in 1962.

Now that I have been Catholic for by practice for more than 5 decades, I am reminded that the changes that came with Vatican Council 2 made it possible for me to become Catholic. As fiercely proud as I was of my Methodist tradition, I would not have ever converted but for the fact St. John opened the windows of change that it was not a mortal sin to be anything else other than a Roman Catholic. If it meant that I had to reject the faith I shared with my parents, grandparents and extended family, I would have refused to do so and I would have been deprived of the vast richness of my life as a Catholic. Perhaps I see things as being more extreme than they actually were but that was the message I heard.


The truth is that teachings of church did not change. Then as now, the Church teaches and has always taught: “Outside the Church there is no Salvation.” That is to be understood as meaning the Catholic Church is the Church founded by Christ Himself. As such, it is in, and through the Church, that it is possible for men to be saved. The Church is the Body of Christ and therefore Christ acts in and through His Body.

That said, were it not for the Church, there would be no Salvation; with that we recognize that there is one Baptism and one Church. Even Protestants are Catholics, in an imperfect way. They are called by the Holy Spirit to continue to pursue the truth. Of course, they would deny this but, the fact is, a Protestant is simply a Protesting Catholic. Given the heroic effort it took for me to look past the “protestations” I struggled to accept, I was truly a “Protesting Catholic”

There was a wide spread and perhaps pervasive misunderstooding of this doctrine and took it to mean one had to be a confirmed and practicing Catholic to be invited into heaven. That mistaken belief would have certainly kept me firmly in the “protesting” camp rather than joining the Catholic camp. I accept there is a difference between the big C church and the little c church. I am grateful beyond words my family can be protesting little c catholics and I can be a Big C catholic and have us end up in the same place.

St. John XXIII,  thank you changing the message to let the truth of the primacy of the catholic church join us all together. Pray for us. 

Friday, June 28, 2024

05/28/2024 Road’s End

The tide is ebbing, and there is an hour until sunset. A fresh wind has quickened, high clouds are being pushed towards from the west, and a misting marine layer is blowing by from north to south. With one layer of clouds rushing across the sky in one direction and another layer rolling in beneath the first layer, the sky is confused and chaotic. All of the movement causes me to look one way first but then another way in the next instant. 

Yesterday, high mare’s tail cirrus clouds were drawn across a cerulean blue sky. The sun felt warm, and the breeze was comfortable on my face. This afternoon, the mare’s tails thickened and lowered into a mackerel sky of cirrocumulus clouds. The signs are there. Stormy weather is coming within a few hours. If we were at sea in a wooden boat with sails, I would be preparing for heavy seas to go and seek the leeward side of some protective structure. 

I wonder for a moment how I can read the weather on the ocean when I have lived most of my life far from it. My forebears moved inland three or more centuries ago, so my ability to see and feel what is coming must be hardwired into my genetic code by ancestors from far back in place and time. 

Flat seas in the morning have given way to a rising surf pushing hard against the outflowing tide, pushing up breakers growing from 3 feet to 4 and then 5 feet. The crash of the surf is all I can hear now except for the screeching of the closest gulls and the hoarse barking of the crows. The roaring of the sea and the enveloping winds have completely engulfed me. I am here in a way that I am always here, not just in my imagination but in reality. 

The sun has disappeared behind the clouds, smudging the horizon, and there will be no colors at sunset tonight. I was momentarily disappointed because we had come to this place to watch the sun set into the sea. We need to catch the point sometimes. The sun does not set. It remains in the same place relative to the earth. The earth spins away from the sun in the evening and toward the sun in the morning. 

The sun suddenly shines through the clouds, and even though the sun remains obscured, a brilliant path bathed in sunlight stretches from the horizon to the beach. An invitation is offered, and I cannot resist. My feet remain planted in the sand and comfortably seated on a massive log, but I still travel out toward the horizon. Something from deep inside me responds to the call, and I find myself flying out over the water, so low to the wave tops that I can feel the salt spray on my face. I am accompanied by a string of geese flying alongside and behind me. Gulls circle over me. I see the beaks opening and closing, but I can hear nothing from the rush of the wind. 

I continue to fly toward the horizon that never seems to come closer. Darkness falls but not into blackness but into deep purple and rose color. I can see nothing, but when I glance over my shoulder, I can see a line of yellow and orange brightening on the horizon, and color soon returns to the sky. It is not the bright sunlight of days but the ethereal soft light of dreams. I find myself flying back through time, revisiting other days on this ocean. I see us walking on this and other beaches in Washington and California. The journey continues to Hawaii and up to Alaska. I blink and look down, and I find I am over the northern Atlantic, and then the green of Ireland appears below me. I find myself drifting lower and lower in the sky until I see Skellig Michael, the Cliffs of Mohr and the sands of the beaches of Fanore. I long to land to walk the Irish shore again, but I pulled farther into the dream and when I blink again, find myself flying along the shores of the American Atlantic coast from Maine down to New York and then to Florida, the Gulf Coast and around to the shores of Costa Rica. 


Darkness comes again but this time suddenly and without notice. I am no longer on or of the earth of today but I have been swallowed by the mystery of time. I see faded vignettes of tall ships with sails approaching the shores of Massachusetts and others the safe harbors of Virginian. Somehow, I become aware my ancestors are on those ships, and they are just arriving in the New World. Darkness falls again and then it brightens once more. Now I see the ships leaving ports in England and Ireland. Belfast, Liverpool and South Hampton appear and disappear again. The experiences I sense are not my own but rather have been inherited from those whose DNA makes me a unique human person. 

Darkness comes again one more time and I sense I am flying through time again, further and further into the past. The sea level rises and falls until there is only water everywhere before me. Nothing but water that wells up and settles down like waves rolling into a massive bay. The awareness of where I am hits like thunder from nearby lightening. I am in the first day, the day when the Word spoke the universes into existence. I feel a need to settle down, to just rest and experience the nothingness of the moment. Those who do not believe would stop at this point and vainly believe all has been revealed and there is nothing more to experience. I believe, I know there is more and it is not enough to rest in creation, the Creator calls the created to rest only in Him, the creator we call father. I close my eyes. Now I rest but only for a blessed, wonderful moment. The journey for me continues but I go now with more clarity. Creation does not lead to its self only, it draws us to the creator through pure, complete and unfathomable love. 

Sunday, June 9, 2024

PSALM 130 Out of the depths I call to you, LORD; Lord, hear my cry! May your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy. If you, LORD, keep account of sins, who can stand? But with you, Lord, is forgiveness and so you are revered.

2nd Corinthians 4:16-18

Therefore, we are not discouraged; rather, although our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this momentary light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison,l18as we look not to what is seen but to what is unseen; for what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.

 

Christ the King 9:30 AM 6/19/2024

 

What am I hearing and seeing as I survey the church this morning? People who are familiar but whose names I do not know. Other people whom I do know, many of whom I consider not just friends or acquaintances but brothers and sisters. My love has grown for them incrementally over time as I have been gifted with the responsibility of service to them and from my ability to allow them to be of service to me. I am home here in a way that transcends other churches I have called home, even the Cathedral. This is the place where my adult faith began, and after 5 decades, my journey continues. From here, I sense that this may be where my journey to this side of the veil will be completed. If I could choose based on what I know now, I would choose this to be a place where death becomes resurrection. I have a place here and a purpose, and I offer those gifts to others to return to me for their own glory to God. I watch Lori greet others coming into the worship space, and her groundedness and purpose are loudly stated and plainly visible.

 

I love where I live. I would not choose to ever call another place home in the way I embrace it now. The birds at the feeders, the rustling of the wind through the cottonwoods, the shadows of eagles, hawks and ospreys all demand I accept them as part of the fabric of my life. The grosbeaks, hummingbirds and finches that sit on the back of the chair outside my desk window look back at me. They see me and expect that I see them and that we might connect in a way they might understand, but I do not. I don’t control destiny or outcomes, but for now, today, tomorrow and the day after that, this is where I call home, the place I return to when the need for home seeps in over my senses, leaving me searching for that place of clay and water that anchor my wandering soul.

 

Lori is grounded here. She has made her place, and the place is now of, and for her, it responds to her touch and her wishes. My connection to her has grown as my roots have grown deep into the soil she tends. A gift from the creator that we seek to regift with enhanced beauty and function. I don’t know where we might go or for how long we might be gone, but if we traveled by ship, this would be home port, the place to drop anchor when we have crossed over the last bar that separates home from away.

 

I see Jo and Liz with their children and grandchildren celebrating the liturgy together as a family, as we are called to do by the church. I wish to see their spouses, but that is not a concern for today, and it should be a concern for me if it is for them. I pray that all is well and that it is as intended for them. I grieve I will not likely ever share a pew with my children, and my granddaughter is being raised outside the knowledge of God. I grieve Brian has not returned as we have prayed, either. I have prayed for so long and so hard, and all that remains is for me to give the battle over to God and keep hope. I daily ask for forgiveness for whatever part I might have played in their abandonment of faith and I know I have been forgiven. Still, I acknowledge I may have played a part, and by asking forgiveness, I am also asking for the knowledge of what I might do to make healing amends.

 

I envy that Jo, Liz, and many others seated around me are a daily part of their families' lives. I am also aware that there are others here who share my sorrow of strained relationships and children who have wandered away. I pause to pray for them, for us and for all like us….

 

2nd Corinthians 4:16 prays, “Therefore, we are not discouraged; rather, although our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.

 

This popped up in the readings today. I did not stumble over it either when I previewed the readings or when the lector spoke the words. It was to Lori to see them and call them out to me even though she could not have known was shaking my foundation today. I have been so discouraged so profoundly, and for so long about the damage between our children and us that I scarcely have the strength to consider for more the length of time it takes me to escape the bitter hold it has on me. I see how it has wasted me, wasted us and others in the family with a clarity that makes me wonder if it is something that belongs in a painting or photograph of some other family.

 

I know my inner self is being renewed because I have prayed for renewal every day, and so many others have prayed with and for me. Like the fly on the wall, I can’t see the color of the world yet. I need to back away and rely on faith and trust in God to reveal what I need to know—not what I want but what I need to be my true self for the sake of every other soul I am expected to help into heaven.

 

For the very first time, when I pray to learn what I am supposed to learn from this tragedy that begins again every day, the notion of freedom washes over me not as a gift of its own but as a consolation for what has been taken away. If I am not to have a daily role, I can see myself as I am, someone with a more distant place, and that place does not have to be here.

 

I have for the past couple of years, at least, struggled with the urge to travel, to see things and experience things I have thought about all of my life but for whatever reason did not embrace or, if I have, I want to embrace them again to see places through new glasses and filter the experience through a renewed and remade heart. At first, the urge had to be called an urge to escape, to fly away from the place of constant exposure to the sandpapered relationships between us. I know that, but I also sensed there was something deeper that lay under longings. I traveled enough last year and so far this year to know that the urge to travel remains. It does not just travel for the sake of travel but peregrination, the need to seek places where there is an outpouring of the spirit meant to transform me and keep me moving along the path of discovery. To be a pilgrim might be where I am led. No, becoming a pilgrim is where I have been led.

 

As a Benedictine, I have learned to importance of the balance between stability, the first vow and peregrinatio, a journey of conversion. Both are places of the heart and in the spirit, but also, they are places of the earth and of time. Here I have stability. A grounded wife, a place that calls to me from the depths of the ancient rocks to the depths of my wounded heart, a faith community, friends who are calling me down a life centered in love of the created world and people who miss me when I am gone. I miss them as well, and not just my cat. Because of the stability I have been graced with, I can step into the freedom I did not wish for but will accept that it is indeed what is being presented to me through intense prayer, guidance and patience.

 

So what does this all mean? I am still not sure yet. As it says in the book, more shall be revealed. I believe I have been gifted with charisms that I have only partially opened up. I have spent 10 years writing, reading, praying, reflecting, meditating and contemplating, and I sense I have honed the ability to observe and share what I have encountered. In the past year I have been exposed to nature journaling that allows me to dig deeply into the world around me and to illustrate the connections that surround me as if I were a meatball in a bowl of spaghetti.

 

I sit here today as the middle of the recent and future generations of my family. The story of humanity runs through my bloodlines: the graces and blessings of God, the sorrows and hurts of dysfunction and tragedy. They all exist in me, and I am called to, in some unfocused way, give a voice to them so that they and the places they lived will not be completely lost to the dust of history. I don’t know what all that means, but I suspect more will come.

 

None of this would be possible if I did not come to believe and to have complete trust in what comes to me regardless of what it might reveal is coming from God and he is inviting me to do his way. He is calling me out to live where healing, forgiveness, and reconciliation all await. I finally believe I can step into the unknown thresholds and pass through with God’s grace, but there will always be safe passage back to places I belong and the people to whom I belong.

 

There is more. I can’t continue to remain in place, trapped by belongings and material things that have always been my fool’s gold. Every day more and more that I possess seems to be less and less important, and they stand in the way of my relationship with myself, God and Lori. This is difficult, but this is a time I have to do the hard thing, in many ways, the same as when I jumped into the pool of recovery and found myself carried over the falls into a maelstrom that settled into a promising new life. Addiction in any form cannot be tolerated. There can be no saving something back in case I need it someday. I have what I need. I have more than I need, and when it comes time to accept that I need something more, the clarity of the need will be evident. I long to laugh at the candy and pastries I see as I wander through the store to fruit and vegetables.

 

The words here are mine in that they came from inside me through my fingers to the screen, where they will be seen before being stored away to be reflected on another time and by other people. The ideas, concepts, descriptions and observations did not originate from inside me. They came through the grace of the Holy Spirit that came to me when invited, but in ways I never ever would have expected. I am just now beginning to see how the spirit has been moving in me for over a year - even longer. Perhaps for my lifetime. I won’t go down that rabbit hole today.

 

In truth, I think I would prefer to have things come the easy way. I would like to just sit on my deck on a pleasant day and do whatever strikes me as being fun that day. I know that without struggle and investment, joy cannot be encountered. I trust that others with whom I share this and what else is to come will provide me with the experience of knowing what is of the spirit and what is from my untrustworthy self I pray for the ability to accept, embrace and be grateful for everything that is to come my way.

 

Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of Thy faithful and kindle in them the fire of Thy love. Send forth Thy Spirit and they shall be created. And Thou shalt renew the face of the earth. Let us pray.

 

Be with me, oh Holy Spirit, connect me to the power, love and grace of the Father and the son.


Saturday, June 1, 2024

5/31/2024 Crossing the Bar

We stayed in a condo 20 feet from the sand on Siletz Bay. At high tide, the bay filled up right to the edge of the beach, but at low tide, most of the bay was exposed to the deep channels of the Siletz River and Schoonover Creek. 

I had walked the short distance from the condo to Siletz Beach, facing the open ocean, stretching out from the bar between bay and sea for miles to the north. I planned to catch the sunset, my favorite time of day, to pray evening prayer and be lucky enough to see some natural colors to inspire me as I wander the path of Watercolor art. I was rewarded with a typically incredible view of the sun as it settled into the marine layer, lying far out on the horizon. 
No colors are as vibrant as those radiating from the Pacific Ocean sunset. 


When the colors faded from brilliant to mostly drop, I walked back to the end of the water on the bayside of the bar. Blue-gray dominated the landscape; the only natural variations were in the shades left when the white light was gone. It was just after slack high tide, and the tide ran out hard. I guessed the current speed to be 5-6 miles per hour because I could walk quickly enough to keep up with flotsam headed out to the bar, but it was a pace faster than I like to keep. 

This stretch of water is called Crab Alley because even at low tide, the water was deep enough that the bottom was out of sight despite the clear water in the channel. The bay is very narrow here, and the water runs in and out, maybe 100 feet. I guessed I could throw a rock from my side of the channel and have it land in the sand on the spit across from me. 

Even while the tide was running hard, it was running head-on into the incoming surf that was rolling at a height of 4-5 feet. The collision of the tide and the surf created chaos for the 100-yard length of the entrance channel. While the outgoing water flowed strongly down the center of the channel, the incoming surf pushed back against it. The surf will always win because the outgoing tide will eventually lose its strength, while the surf will always be driven by the flood tide and the prevailing wind. Tongues of current pushed into the bay along each of the channels. The water's surface was confused and chaotic, but it still had a result in mind. The outgoing waters would rush into the surf, where they would be snuffed out by the rolling waves of the open ocean. 

While not as formidable as the one across the Columbia, the bar formed by the exit of Siletz Bay still commanded respect. Its unpredictable nature and hidden dangers reminded us of the need for caution and guidance when attempting to cross it without prior knowledge. 

Since we first took to the sea in boats, we know it makes sense to sail out on an ebb tide and sail in on a flood tide. Even non-sailors know this if they have ever watched a movie or read a book about taking to the water. Those of us who have never sailed don't understand the importance of running with or before the tide to cross the bar from one side. Crossing the bar, either coming in or going out, is easy and straightforward. It is simple and easy. I sat on a drift log and watched the tide for a few minutes, and I realized crossing the bar was a metaphor for life itself. We want to let the current carry us, but if we raise the oars and let go of the rudder, the current will drive us into chaos where we might be lost if we don't set the course for the V-shaped opening that leads us from one side of the bar to another. 

Ancient Irish spirituality informs that life is about thresholds, the crossing over from one side of a place to another. We long to live in a quiet time after crossing over one threshold, but before we are challenged by the next threshold, awaiting us around the corner down the path. Those quiet times don't define us; they don't challenge us to become more of what we are called to be. From where I sat, I could see through the threshold flooded into the water by the bar, but only so far. The falling darkness of night and the misting of the night fog obscured my vision just a few yards to the west. It struck me that I might travel hundreds or even thousands of miles in open water before reencountering land. Sometimes, what lies beyond the threshold of life is equally obscure and hidden. I am still determining, sometimes, what to expect when I cross over. It is then that faith comes to my aid, faith that whatever lies beyond is meant for me to reach and that I am not alone in my travels. My boat will always be enough to carry me through; the navigator will always guide me safely. I don't want to drop sail and try to wait out the tide. It would not work even if I tried to heave and wait. Wait for what? I don't know. All I know is that the ebb tide will take me across the bar. I best get ready and rely on the help there for the asking. 

Crossing the Bar 

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Sunset and evening star,
      And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
      When I put out to sea,
   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
      Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
      Turns again home.
   Twilight and evening bell,
      And after that, the dark!
May there be no sadness of farewell,
      When I embark;
   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
      The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
      When I have crost the bar.

Saturday, March 30, 2024

The Day Between


Today is the day between. Yesterday was Good Friday, a misnomer if there ever was one because it is the day we relive Jesus's trial and brutal crucifixion. Tomorrow is the day we celebrate his resurrection. 

 

Today is filled with uncertainty because we don't know how to feel or understand the meaning of what we are experiencing. We who are in the middle today see how the story ends or continues with the resurrection of Christ. With that event, we embrace the sure and certain knowledge that if we believe, we will never perish. 

 

Knowing what is coming should fill us with joy, anticipating the fulfillment of the promise. Still, I have always experienced mixed feelings because I know that I, along with every other human, living and dead, participated in the death of Jesus because of our sinful and fallen nature. Salvation delivered by death and resurrection is the only hope for me or any of us. We can’t overcome our nature until we are lifted to be with God. 

 

This year, I am particularly vexed today. For reasons that would take too long to explain now, I became aware of the fact I have never been confirmed as Catholic, a decision I made to avoid putting down my Methodist family because of the mistaken impression that being confirmed Catholic only celebrated conversion and acceptance and in no way harms the importance of my earlier confirmation as a Methodist. 

 

I realized a gap in my sacramental reality when I learned I had decided not to be confirmed. Father Kirby said if I felt I was missing something I desired, I should proceed with confirmation. It was only a short time until I wanted confirmation; I needed it. 

 

As I approach confirmation tonight, I understand I am not denying the past. Still, I am confirming the life I have led since the first eucharist after my return to church following my side trip through the seminary is the life I want to live. I confirm that life in the church as a Catholic is the life I want to live, strengthened through grace flowing from the sacrament. 

 

I sense that confirmation will help me feel more complete despite the years of blessings and riches heaped on me through life in the sacraments. 

 

On Holy Thursday, Father Kirby talked about how he has come to understand that all he needs is Jesus. I know that is true for me, too. All I need is Christ. What remains is the journey from knowing I need only Jesus to where all I want is Jesus. I pray for the ability to pursue that state of grace. 


Tomorrow, we will find that the rock has been rolled away from the tomb, and He will have risen from the dead. I am sorrowful now, but tomorrow I will rejoice!

Tuesday, August 29, 2023

Matthew 16:21-27 Get behind me Satan!

Matthew 16:21-27 
Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly from the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed and on the third day be raised. Then Peter took Jesus aside and began to rebuke him, “God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you.” He turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me. You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.” Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. What profit would there be for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life? Or what can one give in exchange for his life? For the Son of Man will come with his angels in his Father’s glory, and then he will repay all according to his conduct.”

I experience a growing sense of sadness as Ash Wednesday approaches each year. The sadness and regret continue to deepen the closer we get to the Passion. The cause of my discomfort? It is the fact Jesus experienced scourging, beatings, belittlement and ridicule right up to where he was forced to drag the cross upon which he would be crucified to Golgotha. There, he was nailed to the cross and left to suffer as difficult a death as humans can conjure up from the depths of unspeakable evil and then inflict on a living person.

I always question why our faith must be rooted in such an awful event. There had to be, must be a better way to bring us to salvation and life after death than the death Jesus endured. I always viewed my dismay at the death of Jesus as being altruistic. As a person intending to consider the best interest of others, my focus was on the experience of Jesus. I thought there must have been a way for God to work his plan without suffering and crucifixion. Who among us would not wish for Jesus to be spared if there was a way to do so? No one, I would dare say. The disconnect, however, was pursuing that line of investigation put me in the shoes of Peter who was the first to attempt to circumvent the imperative of salvation that requires sacrifice and atonement.

By dreaming up ways to get around the death of Jesus even though all we might accomplish was a less painful ordeal, we were acting as though Satan influenced us. That scares me. A genuine desire to prevent the torture of another can’t be evil. Can it? A simple reading of this passage establishes how what seems beneficial on the surface belies an awful truth that lies beneath the obvious.

During my pilgrimage through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, I uncovered a truth about myself that initially seemed ugly. I was not altruistic about wanting to prevent Jesus from suffering. Instead, my wishes were all about me. Instead of a positive intent, the real intention was to prevent me from contemplating that Jesus's death was as much about me as anyone else at the time of the passion and sense. He died for me and my sins and it is impossible to separate myself from the common and universal fact no one comes to God except through Jesus and there is no way for that to happen other than the way it did.

I have no choice but to accept that he died for me, but rather than feel responsible and ashamed, I should experience profound relief and gratitude. He died for ME. Even if I doubt it for myself, he finds me worthy of his love and salvation just because I exist and because it is how he is. No one deserves salvation. We all bear responsibility for his death, but ultimately, his death was about sacrifice and redemption.

I am curious to see if I can refocus my thoughts this year as Lent progresses to accept the unbelievable gift of love and life.

Monday, June 5, 2023

The Oathing Stone - An Cloch Mhionn

 The ancient Celts did not have a written history or use written documents for even the most important of uses, including treaties, records or contracts. Instead, the spoken word was the only source of agreement or promise.

A tradition developed that honored not only the necessity of keeping promises but stamped an element of significance to the conclusion of the negotiations between people and tribes. It also was drawn from the Celtic belief in the four elements of nature:

  1. Fire
  2. Water
  3. Air
  4. Earth

I speak of the Oathing Stone and the tradition of swearing oaths over stone. Imagine I want to make a solemn promise to you and be emphatic that I will keep the contract no matter what challenges threaten my ability to uphold my intention. If I were a Celt, I would want to use something familiar and natural to center my vow, which gives permanence to my promise. 

Fire refers to the sun and all other fires that are a part of life, such as the bonfires of the season, fires in the hearth that warm the body and provide the heat needed for cooking, and fires that bring light to darkness and represent the intensity of feelings. Fire is good. It brings light and heat, but fire is also destructive because it can become uncontrolled and consume things needed and vital for life. All fires but the sun are transient and unpredictable, so they cannot offer the promise of being always present to remind me of the vow made to another. The sun is permanent, but it is not ours to hold and possess in place we can return to when we need to be reminded of our obligations.

Water is what is fluid and liquid in nature. Water moves in streams, rises up into the air, becomes part of the sky, and falls from the sky as rain or snow to refresh the earth. It is the source of our lifeblood and the sap that runs in the trees. A promise made that is centered in water will wash away in the currents of time or dissipate into the vapor of memory. It cannot be held because it simply drains away and is lost. 

A pledge that relies only on the air that carries the words from heart to mouth to ears and heart of another can be lost in the wind that can carry away words and scatter them across the geography. Air has no memory, only a form we cannot see or hold in our hands. When we close our fists on words, nothing remains when we open our hands. 

Next comes the earth, which is made of stone and dust made from stone. Stones are the bottom of our geography, the foundation upon which we stand. Stone is solid; they offer permanence because it can only be intentionally destroyed. Left alone, stones are forever. Stones, unlike fire, water and air, have memory. They cannot fade, float, or be carried away by time alone. Stones represent what is unbreakable and unforgettable in our existence. 

Suppose I want to make a promise of utmost importance, a promise I will keep no matter what the other person might do in the future. In that case, I will ground my commitment in something immutable that will remind me of my oath whenever necessary. I want to ground the covenant exchanged in something permanent. 

I will hold the oathing stone in my hand when I reach out to you to bind an agreement. If you hold fast to my hand with the stone between the palms of our hands, the stone will hear words spoken between us and remember them long after we have gone back to the earth. 

Whenever I witness a marriage commitment, I ask the couple to hold an oathing stone between their palms. Then I place one hand on top and one the other hand below their hands so that the stone will hear them speak from the heart to each other and remember, the stone will listen to my words of solemnization as the witness to their commitment and remember my words. 

Do you wonder if stone may have a memory? When you visit a church made of stone or brick, put your hand on the wall, close your eyes and listen. What you will hear sung back to you by the rocks will amaze you. 

That is why I will hold the rock given to me. It reminds me of how the Holy Spirit moves among the children of God.