Matthew 24:36-44
Jesus said to the disciples, "But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so too will be the coming of the Son of Man. Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left. Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour."
Alexander Shaia in his work The Hidden Power Of The Gospels speaks of a central task, a question that each Gospel asks. This question was forged by the lived experience of each actual community whose struggles gave birth to a Gospel text. Shaia identifies the Jewish Christian community of Antioch, reeling from the destruction of the Temple and struggling to understand the newness brought by their puzzling Messiah, as the progenitors of the Gospel of Matthew, and identifies the burning question of Matthew as: How do we move through change?
This opening text of Year A of the Revised Common Lectionary brings us face to face with the image of change as presented by Matthew's Jesus immediately before his Passion. Sadly, this imagery has been cherry-picked and cobbled together into a lurid brand of selectively-literalistic apocalyptic literature and rhetoric that I say runs contrary to the Gospel's use of it. Popular contemporary Christian apocalyptic is used to hammer home the veracity of certain presentations of the Gospel, for the most part culturally and politically conservative presentations. The imagery of apocalyptic can be employed, as has many "fire and brimstone" teachings through the ages, to literally "scare the hell" out of people, to authenticate the voice of various forms of religious authority and assure obedience to it. An even less savory use is to give a sense of entitlement and assurance to those who have decided they are "the faithful", coupled with an edge of unpleasant satisfaction at the comeuppance given to the unbeliever. After all, what does one do if one is "Left Behind"?
But I do not think this text provides any of these doctrinal assurances or affirmation of entitlement. Jesus says something simpler: the ordinary is deceptive, for nothing is ordinary. The purposes of God are deeper than we can understand. There is unpredictability hard-wired into our ordinary-seeming lives. This is a deeply subversive message, both to our own understanding as well as to the voice of static religious or political authority. Jesus does not say that the good, the pious, the doctrinally or politically correct will be "taken"; only that there will be deep and unpredictable disruption of our lives and our relationships and of our understanding of "the ordinary." What to do, how to be in such a reality? Like a householder on guard--live as a Watcher. Watch! Wake up! Traditional angelology spoke of an order of angels called "Grigori", the "Watchers." Do like a Watcher, and watch! Wake up, look, learn!
archived musings and preachments
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
A joy and a delight
(sermon delivered by Cat Healy on 25 Pentecost, Year C, Nov 14 2010)
25 Pentecost 2010
Isaiah 65:17-25 – Psalm 98 – 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13 – Luke 21:5-19
It strikes me that this week’s readings summarize every campaign ad we’ve seen on TV in the last several months. It’s the same in each election year: Half the candidates promise us new heavens and a new earth, and the other half tell us that anyone unwilling to work should not eat. A few brave ones do both. Beneath all the flag backdrops and political rhetoric, there are kernels of truth in there somewhere. That’s why campaign ads work; we’re all looking for something to believe in.
But Isaiah’s vision of the new earth is much more than a campaign ad. Here, we see God’s promise that the people of Israel, who have suffered so long, will not be destroyed. And more than that, they will be blessed beyond their imagining: “I will rejoice in Israel,” says the Lord; “I will delight in my people.” In every part of the new Jerusalem, God promises transformation. Infant mortality will disappear; no one will be homeless or hungry; even animals will have no need to harm each other.
However, there is another piece of this transformed creation. The ancient Israelites may have used different language for what we now call “social justice,” but they surely understood the concept. Isaiah’s new Jerusalem is about more than long lives and vegetarian lions. When the world is re-created, the workers who build will be able to inhabit their houses, and those who plant will enjoy the fruits of their labors. “They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat.” This is not a faraway utopian vision, like the wolf lying down with the lamb. For this reason, it is much more challenging to us. Think about the world we live in now. The people who haul the lumber and lay the bricks of mansions will never inhabit them; workers spend hour after hour in the hot sun, picking produce they could never afford to buy. We know from the Hebrew prophets that this is not the world God wants. But these kinds of changes are not magic tricks that will be worked by God alone, with no effort from us, the people of the new earth. If we want to live in such a world, we have to do the work ourselves.
If you fast-forward to Thessalonians, you can watch a community of people trying to live out this mandate. The Christians of Thessalonica were mostly Gentiles; the Scriptures were brand-new to them, so they approached the Hebrew prophets as starry-eyed converts, seeing this vision of the world for the very first time. Though it’s hard to know for sure, you can imagine how carefully they made their chore charts, ensuring that everyone had an equal share of the labor and enjoyed an equal share of the fruits. They wanted to be just like their heroes, Paul and Timothy; just like Jesus and the Apostles; they wanted to make the new Jerusalem. In today’s reading, you can see how that went for them.
They are tired. They are cranky. They are in a bad mood.
Equal sharing of labor is hard. Equal sharing of the rewards is even harder. You don’t need to be an early Christian to know this; you only need to share a kitchen with someone. The Christians Paul is addressing here have a lot working against them. They’re getting picked on left and right by all the other people in Thessalonica, who view them as a cult; they converted as adults, they have no roots in Jewish tradition, and a lot of them are new even to monotheism; and in the midst of all this, they’re trying to revolutionize the labor economy as we know it. No wonder they’re burned out. And so they complain to Paul that their fellow Christians are “living in idleness, mere busybodies, not doing any work.”
And so Paul writes back: Shut up and do your work! Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.
Not because he wants the Thessalonians to starve each other. Not because he is heartless.
But because everyone has to buy into the new Jerusalem, or it doesn’t stand a chance.
Had Paul gone into more detail here, he might have said: If even one of you sits back and hoards your wealth while another goes hungry, the vision falls apart. If even one of you takes a break from your labor in the fields and lets your brother or sister do their share of the work and yours too, allows them to suffer and struggle while you rest in the shade, the new heaven and the new earth are shot.
And this is where campaign ads always fail. They ignore the obvious: We can’t do it alone. If we treat our own good intentions as our only fuel, our only source of energy, we develop compassion fatigue and begin to come apart at the seams. If we try to build the new Jerusalem without God as its rock, we crumble.
In the same way, if we lose our sense of community – if we find ourselves unable to look past “Anyone unwilling to work should not eat” – we fall apart.
Isaiah resonates with us, though, because he tells us that we don’t have to do this hard work alone. As we work on building the Kingdom, as we make our chore charts, as we try to ensure that no one goes hungry and everyone gets a chance to reap what they sow – we are lifted up by one whose strength and patience are infinitely greater than ours. Whose powers of forgiveness are infinite, who, no matter how many times we turn away, is able to remake us as a joy and a delight.
25 Pentecost 2010
Isaiah 65:17-25 – Psalm 98 – 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13 – Luke 21:5-19
It strikes me that this week’s readings summarize every campaign ad we’ve seen on TV in the last several months. It’s the same in each election year: Half the candidates promise us new heavens and a new earth, and the other half tell us that anyone unwilling to work should not eat. A few brave ones do both. Beneath all the flag backdrops and political rhetoric, there are kernels of truth in there somewhere. That’s why campaign ads work; we’re all looking for something to believe in.
But Isaiah’s vision of the new earth is much more than a campaign ad. Here, we see God’s promise that the people of Israel, who have suffered so long, will not be destroyed. And more than that, they will be blessed beyond their imagining: “I will rejoice in Israel,” says the Lord; “I will delight in my people.” In every part of the new Jerusalem, God promises transformation. Infant mortality will disappear; no one will be homeless or hungry; even animals will have no need to harm each other.
However, there is another piece of this transformed creation. The ancient Israelites may have used different language for what we now call “social justice,” but they surely understood the concept. Isaiah’s new Jerusalem is about more than long lives and vegetarian lions. When the world is re-created, the workers who build will be able to inhabit their houses, and those who plant will enjoy the fruits of their labors. “They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat.” This is not a faraway utopian vision, like the wolf lying down with the lamb. For this reason, it is much more challenging to us. Think about the world we live in now. The people who haul the lumber and lay the bricks of mansions will never inhabit them; workers spend hour after hour in the hot sun, picking produce they could never afford to buy. We know from the Hebrew prophets that this is not the world God wants. But these kinds of changes are not magic tricks that will be worked by God alone, with no effort from us, the people of the new earth. If we want to live in such a world, we have to do the work ourselves.
If you fast-forward to Thessalonians, you can watch a community of people trying to live out this mandate. The Christians of Thessalonica were mostly Gentiles; the Scriptures were brand-new to them, so they approached the Hebrew prophets as starry-eyed converts, seeing this vision of the world for the very first time. Though it’s hard to know for sure, you can imagine how carefully they made their chore charts, ensuring that everyone had an equal share of the labor and enjoyed an equal share of the fruits. They wanted to be just like their heroes, Paul and Timothy; just like Jesus and the Apostles; they wanted to make the new Jerusalem. In today’s reading, you can see how that went for them.
They are tired. They are cranky. They are in a bad mood.
Equal sharing of labor is hard. Equal sharing of the rewards is even harder. You don’t need to be an early Christian to know this; you only need to share a kitchen with someone. The Christians Paul is addressing here have a lot working against them. They’re getting picked on left and right by all the other people in Thessalonica, who view them as a cult; they converted as adults, they have no roots in Jewish tradition, and a lot of them are new even to monotheism; and in the midst of all this, they’re trying to revolutionize the labor economy as we know it. No wonder they’re burned out. And so they complain to Paul that their fellow Christians are “living in idleness, mere busybodies, not doing any work.”
And so Paul writes back: Shut up and do your work! Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.
Not because he wants the Thessalonians to starve each other. Not because he is heartless.
But because everyone has to buy into the new Jerusalem, or it doesn’t stand a chance.
Had Paul gone into more detail here, he might have said: If even one of you sits back and hoards your wealth while another goes hungry, the vision falls apart. If even one of you takes a break from your labor in the fields and lets your brother or sister do their share of the work and yours too, allows them to suffer and struggle while you rest in the shade, the new heaven and the new earth are shot.
And this is where campaign ads always fail. They ignore the obvious: We can’t do it alone. If we treat our own good intentions as our only fuel, our only source of energy, we develop compassion fatigue and begin to come apart at the seams. If we try to build the new Jerusalem without God as its rock, we crumble.
In the same way, if we lose our sense of community – if we find ourselves unable to look past “Anyone unwilling to work should not eat” – we fall apart.
Isaiah resonates with us, though, because he tells us that we don’t have to do this hard work alone. As we work on building the Kingdom, as we make our chore charts, as we try to ensure that no one goes hungry and everyone gets a chance to reap what they sow – we are lifted up by one whose strength and patience are infinitely greater than ours. Whose powers of forgiveness are infinite, who, no matter how many times we turn away, is able to remake us as a joy and a delight.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Sycamore and the Trees of Life
Today’s Sermon
Posted on October 31, 2010 by Carl McColman
Sermon for October 31, 2010, Sts. Peter & Paul Episcopal Church, Portland, OR
Text: So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. (Luke 19:4)
When I was a boy I loved to climb trees. We had two pine trees in our back yard, and one of them I could only climb up maybe five feet or so, but in the other, larger one I could get at least ten or twelve feet off the ground, which was pretty high for a ten year old kid! How fondly I remember my clothes and limbs covered with dust when I would finally descend from the branches. Even having to pull out the occasional splinter was worth the joy of bonding with that tree.
Climbing a tree always gave me a new perspective; I would climb it for fun, or I would do it to get away from it all, or even just to think through my homework. I suppose I was also trying to avoid doing my homework, but I never really thought about it in those terms!
In today’s Gospel, Zacchaeus the tax collector does precisely this: he climbs the Sycamore tree to get a new perspective on Christ. He’s not satisfied with the rumors and hearsay about Jesus. He wants to see for himself. But he’s not a very big guy, either physically or socially. No one is going to do any favors for Zach. So he takes matters in his own hands, and up the tree he goes. And once he does, — guess what? Not only does he see Jesus, but Jesus sees him. Jesus calls to him. And out of this encounter, Jesus comes to visit Zacchaeus’s home, and Zacchaeus is forever transformed. I think the Sycamore Tree is the unsung hero of the Zacchaeus tale. It has been relegated to the status of whimsy in a children’s song. But without that tree, the encounter between Jesus and the tax collector might never have happened.
Indeed, if we take a step back and look at the entire history of our faith, we will notice that trees appear again and again, always at some sort of pivotal moment in the story of our ongoing relationship with God.
We remember, of course, the two great trees in the Garden of Eden: the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge. Keep in mind also that the Tree of Life reappears at the other end of the Bible, when Zion is transformed into the Heavenly or New Jerusalem, with none other than that great tree at its very center. And let us not forget the tree that was felled so that its wood could be used to build the cross — the “tree” on which Our Lord hung, as he suffered and died. For that matter remember that Jesus and Joseph were carpenters, which means that trees provided the raw material by which they earned their daily bread.
In fact, that’s true for many of us, even today. Trees give us the material by which we live and work. As an author, I am reminded of Thich Nhat Hanh, who in his books asks his readers to give thanks for the trees that died to make the paper on which his words are printed. Perhaps in our day of Kindles and other ebook readers, this is changing, but at least for the moment, so many of the words we read come to us on paper made from the wood of a tree.
When I think about the spirituality of trees, I also cannot help but think about the great wisdomkeepers of Ireland, Scotland and Wales: the Celts. Today, of course, is October 31, or Hallowe’en — but it is also Samhain, the ancient Celtic festival marking the end of summer and indeed the end of the year. Samhain was a day for honoring the ancestors, and if we honor our Celtic ancestors, we remember that they had a particular devotion to trees. This is true not only of the pagan Celts, but even of the earliest Celtic Christians. For example, St. Brigit made her home in Kildare, a name that means “The Church of the Oak.” In Kildare archaeologists have discovered the foundation of a temple where nineteen sisters of Brigit tended an eternal flame. Just a short walk from this site are two holy wells which remain, to this day, sites of sacred pilgrimage for Christians and Pagans alike.
For the ancient Celts, what the sacred flame, the holy well, and the great tree all had in common was their function as portals, or doorways, between the worlds. Fire transforms, water flows, and trees reach high. Each of these, in their own way, signify the alchemy of the human spirit as it is transformed, flows into, and reaches for the very heart of God.
I would be remiss if I did not also tip my metaphorical hat to our Jewish brothers and sisters, and their great mystical tree: The Tree of Life within the Kabbalah. The Kabbalistic Tree of Life is a symbol which represents the various stages of reality, or consciousness, that form a sort of creational continuum between the unspeakable splendor of God and the ordinary reality of human awareness. “Climbing the Kabbalistic Tree” is therefore a metaphor or a symbol for the transformations of human consciousness that take place as we seek to “put on the mind of Christ,” which is how Saint Paul describes the journey of inner transformation.
I would like to suggest a metaphor for us to explore this morning. I invite you to join with me in thinking about the great trees of the spiritual world — whether we are talking about the Jewish Tree of Life, the Celtic Oak Tree of Brigit, the World Tree, Yggdrasil of Norse Mythology, the Cross of Christ, or even the humble Sycamore Tree that Zacchaeus climbed: all these trees function as symbols of the human body itself. We stand, our feet planted on the ground and our hands and eyes reaching for the stars. We are creatures of clay animated with the Breath of God. So like these great trees, we stand between the worlds, the worlds of ordinary reality and the always-transforming splendor of our Triune God.
The philosopher Rudolf Eucken said that humanity “is the meeting point of various stages of reality.” In other words, we are, like the great trees of Celtic mythology, the link between the physical and the spiritual dimensions of the cosmos.
This, then, is why I commend to you the practice of Christian spirituality: of lectio divina, or meditative reading of the Bible; of meditation itself, thoughtful reflection on the great mysteries of our faith, and the summit of our spirituality, contemplation, the practice of allowing all thoughts and distractions to gently rise and fall within the greater silence that is our most natural ground of being. When we enter into meditation or contemplation, we are symbolically “climbing the tree” of our own minds and hearts, and in doing so, we reach a new perspective, a new vantage point, a new place where it is possible to encounter the Risen Lord — but, even more important, where Christ encounters us. And in this encounter, he asks to come into our lives, our homes, and leaves us forever transformed.
The great German mystic Meister Eckhart said: “The eye with which I see God is the same with which God sees me. My eye and God’s eye is one eye, and one sight, and one knowledge, and one love.” This, then, is the heart of contemplation: I gaze at God, and God gazes at me. This is brought about because we climb the tree of contemplation, where, from a new and higher vantage point, this encounter with the Holy is made possible. And when we return from the height of our inner tree, we find that our lives have been changed forever. And out of this change, we are empowered to truly and lovingly serve others.
So on this Hallowe’en Day, I hope that each of us will take time to reflect on Zacchaeus and his sycamore tree. Give thanks for the trees in your life, whether living are dead. From paper to furniture to floors to cabinets, our lives are filled with the gift of trees. So consider this, and give thanks. But give particular thanks for the trees that are alive, the living, sentient beings that bless us with their fruit, and their shade, their roots that stabilize our soil, and most important of all, their oxygen. And finally, consider the sacred tree that you can find within the theater of your spiritual imagination, where you are invited to climb to a new vantage point where, like Zacchaeus, you may see, and encounter, and be encountered by, the One who can change your life with love with truth and goodness and beauty. For after all, it is in his name that we gather today, for the great feast in which he is both priest and victim. Amen.
(see Carl McColman's blog at www.anamchara.com )
Posted on October 31, 2010 by Carl McColman
Sermon for October 31, 2010, Sts. Peter & Paul Episcopal Church, Portland, OR
Text: So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. (Luke 19:4)
When I was a boy I loved to climb trees. We had two pine trees in our back yard, and one of them I could only climb up maybe five feet or so, but in the other, larger one I could get at least ten or twelve feet off the ground, which was pretty high for a ten year old kid! How fondly I remember my clothes and limbs covered with dust when I would finally descend from the branches. Even having to pull out the occasional splinter was worth the joy of bonding with that tree.
Climbing a tree always gave me a new perspective; I would climb it for fun, or I would do it to get away from it all, or even just to think through my homework. I suppose I was also trying to avoid doing my homework, but I never really thought about it in those terms!
In today’s Gospel, Zacchaeus the tax collector does precisely this: he climbs the Sycamore tree to get a new perspective on Christ. He’s not satisfied with the rumors and hearsay about Jesus. He wants to see for himself. But he’s not a very big guy, either physically or socially. No one is going to do any favors for Zach. So he takes matters in his own hands, and up the tree he goes. And once he does, — guess what? Not only does he see Jesus, but Jesus sees him. Jesus calls to him. And out of this encounter, Jesus comes to visit Zacchaeus’s home, and Zacchaeus is forever transformed. I think the Sycamore Tree is the unsung hero of the Zacchaeus tale. It has been relegated to the status of whimsy in a children’s song. But without that tree, the encounter between Jesus and the tax collector might never have happened.
Indeed, if we take a step back and look at the entire history of our faith, we will notice that trees appear again and again, always at some sort of pivotal moment in the story of our ongoing relationship with God.
We remember, of course, the two great trees in the Garden of Eden: the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge. Keep in mind also that the Tree of Life reappears at the other end of the Bible, when Zion is transformed into the Heavenly or New Jerusalem, with none other than that great tree at its very center. And let us not forget the tree that was felled so that its wood could be used to build the cross — the “tree” on which Our Lord hung, as he suffered and died. For that matter remember that Jesus and Joseph were carpenters, which means that trees provided the raw material by which they earned their daily bread.
In fact, that’s true for many of us, even today. Trees give us the material by which we live and work. As an author, I am reminded of Thich Nhat Hanh, who in his books asks his readers to give thanks for the trees that died to make the paper on which his words are printed. Perhaps in our day of Kindles and other ebook readers, this is changing, but at least for the moment, so many of the words we read come to us on paper made from the wood of a tree.
When I think about the spirituality of trees, I also cannot help but think about the great wisdomkeepers of Ireland, Scotland and Wales: the Celts. Today, of course, is October 31, or Hallowe’en — but it is also Samhain, the ancient Celtic festival marking the end of summer and indeed the end of the year. Samhain was a day for honoring the ancestors, and if we honor our Celtic ancestors, we remember that they had a particular devotion to trees. This is true not only of the pagan Celts, but even of the earliest Celtic Christians. For example, St. Brigit made her home in Kildare, a name that means “The Church of the Oak.” In Kildare archaeologists have discovered the foundation of a temple where nineteen sisters of Brigit tended an eternal flame. Just a short walk from this site are two holy wells which remain, to this day, sites of sacred pilgrimage for Christians and Pagans alike.
For the ancient Celts, what the sacred flame, the holy well, and the great tree all had in common was their function as portals, or doorways, between the worlds. Fire transforms, water flows, and trees reach high. Each of these, in their own way, signify the alchemy of the human spirit as it is transformed, flows into, and reaches for the very heart of God.
I would be remiss if I did not also tip my metaphorical hat to our Jewish brothers and sisters, and their great mystical tree: The Tree of Life within the Kabbalah. The Kabbalistic Tree of Life is a symbol which represents the various stages of reality, or consciousness, that form a sort of creational continuum between the unspeakable splendor of God and the ordinary reality of human awareness. “Climbing the Kabbalistic Tree” is therefore a metaphor or a symbol for the transformations of human consciousness that take place as we seek to “put on the mind of Christ,” which is how Saint Paul describes the journey of inner transformation.
I would like to suggest a metaphor for us to explore this morning. I invite you to join with me in thinking about the great trees of the spiritual world — whether we are talking about the Jewish Tree of Life, the Celtic Oak Tree of Brigit, the World Tree, Yggdrasil of Norse Mythology, the Cross of Christ, or even the humble Sycamore Tree that Zacchaeus climbed: all these trees function as symbols of the human body itself. We stand, our feet planted on the ground and our hands and eyes reaching for the stars. We are creatures of clay animated with the Breath of God. So like these great trees, we stand between the worlds, the worlds of ordinary reality and the always-transforming splendor of our Triune God.
The philosopher Rudolf Eucken said that humanity “is the meeting point of various stages of reality.” In other words, we are, like the great trees of Celtic mythology, the link between the physical and the spiritual dimensions of the cosmos.
This, then, is why I commend to you the practice of Christian spirituality: of lectio divina, or meditative reading of the Bible; of meditation itself, thoughtful reflection on the great mysteries of our faith, and the summit of our spirituality, contemplation, the practice of allowing all thoughts and distractions to gently rise and fall within the greater silence that is our most natural ground of being. When we enter into meditation or contemplation, we are symbolically “climbing the tree” of our own minds and hearts, and in doing so, we reach a new perspective, a new vantage point, a new place where it is possible to encounter the Risen Lord — but, even more important, where Christ encounters us. And in this encounter, he asks to come into our lives, our homes, and leaves us forever transformed.
The great German mystic Meister Eckhart said: “The eye with which I see God is the same with which God sees me. My eye and God’s eye is one eye, and one sight, and one knowledge, and one love.” This, then, is the heart of contemplation: I gaze at God, and God gazes at me. This is brought about because we climb the tree of contemplation, where, from a new and higher vantage point, this encounter with the Holy is made possible. And when we return from the height of our inner tree, we find that our lives have been changed forever. And out of this change, we are empowered to truly and lovingly serve others.
So on this Hallowe’en Day, I hope that each of us will take time to reflect on Zacchaeus and his sycamore tree. Give thanks for the trees in your life, whether living are dead. From paper to furniture to floors to cabinets, our lives are filled with the gift of trees. So consider this, and give thanks. But give particular thanks for the trees that are alive, the living, sentient beings that bless us with their fruit, and their shade, their roots that stabilize our soil, and most important of all, their oxygen. And finally, consider the sacred tree that you can find within the theater of your spiritual imagination, where you are invited to climb to a new vantage point where, like Zacchaeus, you may see, and encounter, and be encountered by, the One who can change your life with love with truth and goodness and beauty. For after all, it is in his name that we gather today, for the great feast in which he is both priest and victim. Amen.
(see Carl McColman's blog at www.anamchara.com )
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