But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar . . . —Matthew Arnold I’d wait each day for tide to turn as it released the locks imprisoning the oyster-boats moored at the creek’s old docks, and watch the sand bars disappear when morning’s current ran, so knob-kneed piles beneath the pier across our…
This is the wilderness of fasting, prayer— a rugged landscape, marked by rocks and caves— and of the crying voice which will declare the coming of One mightier, who saves. Emaciated, clad in cloak and hide (the beast’s head visible), pale face, raw hand, the prophet waits at sunset, to abide until the time is…
In a world filled with the deafening clamor for justice and, purportedly, for righteousness, how do we distinguish between true virtue and its appearance? After all, everybody claims to be one of the good guys. As ever in matters of virtue, Jane Austen’s nearly inexhaustible riches may provide us some clarity in the matter, and…
Part I of this story reported on efforts of the Reformed Episcopal Church (REC) to double its size, as part of its REC 100 initiative unveiled in 2017, and discussed the Covidtide experience of two new REC churches. Within Anglicanism, the REC has a similar theology and liturgy to the Continuing Anglican churches; Part II…
It is the second Sunday of Easter, April 22nd, 1694, in Water Stratford, Buckinghamshire. The enthusiastic and eccentric rector of St Giles’ parish church appears at a window of his house to an excitable assembly of parishioners and pilgrims drawn from the ranks of the 100-strong millenarian community encamped on the town’s southern approach.1 To…
