…and above all, in the Word made flesh, Jesus your Son.


We give thanks to you, O God, for the goodness and love which you have made known to us in creation; in the calling of Israel to be your people; in your Word spoken through the prophets; and above all in the Word made flesh, Jesus, your Son.

This opening paragraph from Eucharistic Prayer B, and especially its last seven words, has had a special resonance for me lately.

It started around Christmas, and all its seasonal references to “the Word.”  The author of John began that Gospel, of course, with the acknowledgment that “the Word” got this whole ball rolling, so to speak:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… (John 1:1)

It’s not easy for me, I must confess, contemplating the sheer foolishness of Christmas, and the whole concept of “Incarnation” — the act of the Divine somehow occupying flesh (or carnis, in Latin).  Think of it — the Ubiquitous Power of all Existence, choosing to appear in that Creation as a utterly helpless and completely dependent bastard infant of a poor, oppressed peasant girl.  Truly absurd.


In the beginning was the Word...

But every so often, Grace breaks through.

Maybe it is the darkness that comes in late December and early January, but there is something about this time of year that seems to pull me further into Mystery.  Natural light is at a premium, and we dwell in darkness, metaphorically as well as literally.

And when it comes to “mystery” it may well be that “the Word made flesh” is the ultimate Mystery of all.

I am a lawyer, not a theologian, and as a habit I don’t like mystery.  (I often tell my staff that it is what I don’t know that bothers me.  I can take just about any bad news, and adjust as the circumstances warrant; it’s the “surprise” that often kills a case.)  If I were theologian, I might know more about all the meaning contained in that one little word, “Word”  (logos, in the original Greek).  As I understand it, though, “Word” or Logos in John’s context puts this whole “nativity” thing into a brighter light.  When the writer of John’s Gospel began his text “In the beginning…” not only was there the intention of going back to the Hebrew text and first words of Genesis, there was the revealing of the whole purpose of Jesus as “The Christ.”

For John, “In the beginning was the Word…” meant that logos was present from the start.  This Greek term was marked by two main distinctions — the first dealing with human reason (the rationality in the human mind which seeks to attain universal understanding and harmony), and the second with universal intelligence (the universal Ruling Force governing and revealing Truth through the cosmos to humankind, i.e. the Divine).

And so for John (and for any of us that are so bold as to dare comprehend it), what Jesus represents is nothing less than the Highest and the Best and the Ultimate of humankind, and of the vast cosmos, merged into human form:

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us…Out of his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.  For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.  No one has ever seen God, but the one and only Son…he has made him known.”  John 1: 14…16

And now, as I write this, we have moved from Christmas into the season of Epiphany. And I guess, even at the ripe “old” age of 62, I’m having one.  This one little word — “Word” — is taking on meaning and depth beyond what I could have thought possible, and certainly more than I deserve.

During the Eucharist in Epiphany, the Celebrant often recites…“Because in the mystery of the Word made flesh, you have caused a new light to shine in our hearts, to give the knowledge of your glory in the face of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord…”  Normally I don’t pay that much attention, but last Sunday, that word jumped out.  That word — “Word” — seems to keep pursuing me, and almost always it is in the phrase “the Word made flesh.”  And frankly, it’s a little creepy.

But maybe, that’s not an altogether bad thing.




Upon another shore and in a greater light…


(Originally posted December 22, 2013)*

One small voice, belonging to a 12-year old boy, begins to sing…

Once in royal David’s city
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby
In a manger for His bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ her little Child.

Other young boys join in, followed by the full choir, followed by the congregation, as the throng of Choristers and Acolytes and Priests make their way forward…

One small, young voice... ushers in the best worship service on the planet.

One small, young voice… ushers in the best worship service on the planet.  (Click HERE.)

The place is Kings College Chapel, in Cambridge, England. The time is a minute or two after 3 p.m. London time on Christmas Eve. The occasion is “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols.”  And for this crusty curmudgeon, it is, quite simply, the best worship service on the planet.

Listening on Christmas Eve mornings to the local airing (WDAV-FM 89.9 Classical Public Radio) of BBC’s live worldwide broadcasts never fails to just leave me breathless, shedding more than a tear or two, trying to grasp my being blessed to savor something I suspect is akin to Heaven.

As the last strands of Processional fade and all are in place, the Dean offers “The Bidding Prayer,” a distinctly Anglican tradition of calling to God’s assembled people to petition the Divine for a particular purpose on a particular occasion. While certain parts change each year, most of the words to this opening “bidding” for lively worship is set in timeless stone, an annual reminder of the poignant and profound beauty that can be found in the words of the Liturgy.

“BELOVED IN CHRIST,” proclaims the Dean in perfect English accent and cadence, “…be it this Christmas Eve our care and delight to prepare ourselves to hear again the message of the angels…”  He urges worshipers to “make this Chapel…glad with our Carols of praise,” and then calls for a series of lovely intercessions.  We are bid to pray “…because this of all things would rejoice His heart, to remember in His name the poor and the helpless…the lonely and unloved…them that mourn…(and) all who know not the Lord Jesus, or who love him not, or who by sin have grieved his heart of love…”

And then the flood gates of tears open.  Especially compelling for me each year is the penultimate paragraph, a call for us to “Lastly, let us remember before God all those who rejoice with us, but upon another shore and in a greater light…

Oh, my.  Thinking of that image of the precious departed — close friends and beloved family — rejoicing together on some distant shore, bathed and basking in God’s perfect light of Love…it is is just overwhelming.  But even more than that, to ponder them rejoicing with us, as we — on this side of Heaven — gather for Christmas reunion and worship, is often a vision just too wonderful for me to bear.

Such a grand thing can often be beyond my ability, or willingness, or both, to even contemplate. Such blessings are too good, too fulfilling, too delightful, too perfect…too much. As the old hymn says, “I scarce can take it in…” much less build my life around.

After all, there are times when the Christmas story, quite frankly,  seems utterly absurd. It is as if the Celestial Master of Ceremonies is saying to us — “Ladies and gentlemen! Now appearing for the consideration of Humankind, please behold the Omnipotent Creator played on this silent night by a helpless infant of an impoverished, unwed peasant girl under bitter political oppression.”  Very strange, indeed.

BUT — there are also these unsettling moments of crystalline clarity, moments that compel me to ask whether a Divine Creator, seeking to be made manifest to our world, could possibly have it any other way? How could a Perfectly Loving God better show us Infinite Love, how could a Benevolent Creator more perfectly demonstrate Intimate Presence than by and through Emmanuel — “God With Us” — in the midst of muddled human messiness? Indeed, isn’t it with our raunchy, imperfect, faithless foibles of human “stuff” that our Loving God somehow does His (or Her) very best work?

That’s why the tears tend to flow on Christmas Eve mornings, as I listen again to the broadcast from across the pond. I am reminded of that which is all too easy and convenient to forget, that “too wonderful” Truth (with a capital “T”) that God, in God’s perfect and relentless Love, beckons me home for Christmas, and every other day of the year.

Beyond The Bidding Prayer, the service continues with “Lessons” of Scripture to “mark the tale of the loving purposes of God from the first days of our disobedience unto the glorious Redemption brought us by this Holy Child”  separated by “Carols” of exquisite choral music that offers us a glimpse of the Divine Mystery.

All serve to overflow my cup even more.

The service ends each year with boisterous singing by all assembled — choir, clergy and congregation — of the traditional “Hark, The Herald Angels Sing,” sending the worshppers off into the lengthening Christmas Eve shadows of Cambridge.

It is the perfect send-off for me each year as well, to deal with the lengthening shadows of my life.  I do again blessed beyond measure with yet another glimpse of God With Us, a reminder of the marvelous Mystery that our God, beyond all reason, somehow still seems to be…
“Pleased with Man, as Man to dwell,
Jesus our Emmanuel.”

God. With. Us.
I scarce can take it in.



The words above were first published on December 22, 2013.  The reason I am re-posting them now is because this worship service will undoubtedly become even more important for me this year.  I have the truly blessed opportunity to actually be in Cambridge, England sitting in the St. Mary’s Chapel of Kings College to listen and participate in this remarkable service.  To hear it broadcast is one thing; to actually be there is something altogether different.  — mcd 12/18/2017  


To mourn thee, well beloved…

Ah, keep my heart thus moved
to stand thy cross beneath,
to mourn thee, well-beloved,
yet thank thee for thy death.

I’m a word-guy. I love words, and I love the “right word” especially — that difference between “lightning” and “a lightning bug” as Twain put it.

I make my living, such that it is right now, mostly through words, putting them together in such a way that might prove most persuasive for my clients.

Good FridayYet, this day is just one of those days in which my words just fail. I try (because that’s just what I do) to put Good Friday into words.  With its feelings of concurrent and desperate hopelessness and hopefulness, I’m not willing (or able) to just let the moment or the feeling simply be. In that way, I guess I’m a little like Peter, always seeming to interject words when they really aren’t necessary. “Lord, it’s good that we are here…” he eagerly says at the Transfiguration (Matt. 17:4), or “Lord, you’ll never wash my feet, and a breath later, “…Then Lord, not only my feet but my hands and my head as well!” he dramatically exclaims at the Last Supper (John 13:8-9).

I too want to capture the moment, to put into words what I feel when I sit in a silent church with a dear friend for an hour like I did early this morning. But on Good Friday, the best I can do is often just sit, in silence, and and maybe thumb my way through the 1982 Episcopal  hymnal, and let poets do what they do best…

168   O Sacred Head Sore Wounded

In thy most bitter passion
my heart to share doth cry,
with thee for my salvation
upon the cross to die.
Ah, keep my heart thus moved
to stand thy cross beneath,
to mourn thee, well-beloved,
yet thank thee for thy death.


585   Morning Glory, Starlit Sky

…Therefore He who shows us God
Helpless hangs upon the tree
And the nails and crowns of thorns
Tell us of what God’s love must be.

Here is God, no monarch He,
Clothed in easy state to reign.
Here is God, with arms outstretched,
Aching, spent, the world sustain.


And of course, there’s that hymn that thoroughly overwhelms me every time, not only for John Ireland’s sweet and simple and perfectly aligned tune, but most especially for sheer beauty of Samuel Crossman’s heart-warming and heart-wrenching words…

458   My Song Is Love Unknown

My song is love unknown,
my Savior’s love to me,
love to the loveless shown
that they might lovely be.
O who am I,
that for my sake
my Lord should take
frail flesh, and die?

In life no house, no home
my Lord on earth might have;
in death no friendly tomb
but what a stranger gave.
What may I say?
Heaven was his home;
but mine the tomb
wherein he lay.

Here might I stay and sing,
no story so divine;
never was love, dear King!
never was grief like thine.
This is my Friend,
in whose sweet praise
I all my days
could gladly spend.

And so it is this day. I would be disingenuous to say, for sure, that “all my days I could gladly spend” but I will spend this one at least singing silently the “sweet praise” of “my Friend ” who died for me.

Love Unknown

The Choir at King’s College Cambridge: My Song Is Love Unknown



…marked as Christ’s own, for ever.

Then the Bishop or Priest places a hand on the person’s head, marking on the forehead the sign of the cross [using Chrism if desired] and saying to each one…   N., you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever. Amen.

Not sure what it is about Baptism, but I become a misty-eyed old fool most occasions. It’s not the babies that get me all sentimental. After all, cute though they are in their snow white “Christening gowns,” those little cherubs are basically just sleeping & crying & feeding & pooping machines. No big deal.
Christs own forever

The Christian version of branding a calf…signed, sealed and delivered.

And yet, what our tradition offers to them is a very big deal. It is an extraordinary thing we offer these pudgy-faced lumps of flesh in baptism — we name them and brand them.

“(Jackson Benjamin or Mary Catherine or John Jacob Jinglehimer…), you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as CHRIST’S OWN…FOR EVER!!!!!!!”
I look at the priest holding that baby, and sometimes think of a little calf scampering off having just had its rear flank permanently seared by the red-hot branding iron. And for whatever reason I mist up, knowing (or at least wanting desperately to believe) that whatever lies ahead for that infant, whatever future choices are made for or by that child, whatever those innocent eyes see (or refuse to see) in the lifetime waiting ahead, I am being told that this newest Christian belongs, not just to our parish, not just to the one holy catholic church universal, but to Christ!
Christ named him.
Christ claimed her.
And Christ marked and sealed that young child as his own.
And NOTHING can separate him or her or any of us from God’s infathomable Love and Grace.
For ever.
Quite overwhelming, when you think about it.

…joining our voices with Angels and Archangels, and all the company of heaven

It is a peculiar notion, utterly absurd yet irresistible and stunning.

At a recent Eucharist, my wandering mind suddenly latched onto the proposition proclaimed just about every Sunday, but rarely considered, at least by me — that I am worshipping with a veritable heavenly host:

Angels and Archangels

The Assumption of the Virgin by Francesco Botticini

“Therefore we praise you, joining our voices with Angels and Archangels and with all the company of heaven, who for ever sing this hymn to proclaim the glory of your Name…”

Could it really be that our voices join with those of Seraphim and Cherabim, of some divine dimension of the Unseen? Contemplating such celestial choirs led me to some deeper thinking (always a dangerous prospect) about the different “voices” of God.

Throughout history, humankind has believed God speaks to us not only through holy scripture, but through fire and rain, the human touch, music and the arts, literature and liturgy. Only recently in this ongoing and unfolding love story has the Almighty revealed glimpses of Mystery and Glory and Divine Love through the use of vanity license plates.

True story…

Several years ago, I was driving around Charlotte one Saturday morning, seething over some minor spat with a family member, cursing myself and all my shortcomings. A car passed by, and I glanced at its license plate. It read, “URWATUR.”

I smiled, being reminded that indeed, for better or worse, “I am what I am.”  I thought back to a story told by Frederick Buechner, who wrote he was once rescued from utter despair (in the midst of his daughter’s near-fatal anorexia) when he happened to see the word “TRUST” on a license plate. It came precisely, he says, at a moment when he desperately needed to simply trust God’s Providence.

He later discovered the car’s owner to be a trust officer at a local bank, but as he asks, does that really matter?

More and more, I’ve come to accept that Buechner is right when he observes that how we respond to these “little” moments determines a great deal of how we live our lives. Do we write them off as some silly bit of happenstance? Or do we seize them, and grasp the memory of them, time and again, like driftwood in a stormy sea?

Most of us, I suspect, do a bit of both.

Again, I smiled and chuckled to myself as the car drove on.  I thought, “OK, Lord, yes, I promise.  I’ll lighten up a little.”  The very next car passed by. Its license plate shone back at me: “GRACE2U.”

Soon after that little encounter was Transfiguration Sunday, which always is the last Sunday after Epiphany, right before Ash Wednesday and the forty days of Lent.  I’m not saying my little encounter was quite the same as seeing Jesus in blinding white with Moses and Elijah up on a mountaintop. Nor can I speculate as to whether my reaction to being shown such mysterious Grace even comes close to that of Peter, James and John.  All I know is that I even my most cynical “rational” lawyer-self cannot dismiss such things out of hand.

Mountaintop visions. Angels and Archangels. Vanity license plates.

“Heaven only knows” what what I experienced that morning.  Was it another manifestation of “The Voice of God,” or just two random drivers trying to get by my slow moving vehicle?  What I can say is that it has stuck with me, and that sometimes I just have to go with what I’ve got, choosing to believe on my better days that it’s not just simply what I have got, but also blessfully what I’ve been given.