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It is one of my favourite times of the week. I sit there and watch them make their way up to the front. I see a son kneel down beside his mother; I see an elderly couple slowly make their way up together; couples, families, widows and widowers all walking up to the altar. I see the tangible sign of our grace and redemption being received with open arms and grateful hearts. Today as I watched an elderly woman with a cane being helped up to the communion rail it struck me that this is a clear reminder of how the Christian lives. Sure, there those who will advocate for an individual faith, one centered on the autonomous choice of each person, but this is not how we live. I carried my little newborn son up to the altar to receive a blessing from the priest. Not long from now he will be baptized, welcomed into the community faith and joining in the journey with a whole host of witnesses who have walked the path before him. We can pretend that we walk through this life by our own strength, that we make choices based apart from those around us, but this is not the faith tradition that I am a part of. Isaac, my son, is carried to the altar to receive grace; when he is old enough, he will walk beside me; one day, God willing, he might hold his arm out to assist his elderly father as I struggle with cane in hand to the altar. For now, my dear wife and I will carry him as we go to share in the Eucharist. This is an honour beyond description.
I consider it such a blessing to share in the central Christian celebration with those in my church. I am thankful for the grace we receive in the Wine and the Bread. I am humbled by the reminder I receive every week that I do not walk through this life alone: to be a Christian is to be a part of a glorious community of those who have come before, those who have walked beside others, been carried by others, and carried others on this great journey.
For all those saints who have come before, for all those future saints who walk beside me... I give thanks to God.
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Sunday, February 5, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Leonard Cohen: Show me the place...
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I recently heard this song from Leonard Cohen's new album on CBC Radio 2 (if you're wondering who he is, think "Hallelujah" from the Olympic opening ceremonies... that's his song). Close your eyes and sit down for a listen.
[I really don't have anything to say about it - I just wanted to share this wonderful song]
Gloria Deo
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I recently heard this song from Leonard Cohen's new album on CBC Radio 2 (if you're wondering who he is, think "Hallelujah" from the Olympic opening ceremonies... that's his song). Close your eyes and sit down for a listen.
[I really don't have anything to say about it - I just wanted to share this wonderful song]
Gloria Deo
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Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Quote of the Day
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"So, meat hipsters, drop that smug sanctimony. Sometime soon, bacon-spiked dessert will look just as outmoded as lentil loaf and baby-doll dresses — and vegetarianism will still be a good choice for my health, society at large, and our global environment."
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"So, meat hipsters, drop that smug sanctimony. Sometime soon, bacon-spiked dessert will look just as outmoded as lentil loaf and baby-doll dresses — and vegetarianism will still be a good choice for my health, society at large, and our global environment."
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Thursday, January 26, 2012
Thoughts on my father and my son...
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That's my father in the top middle (and that handsome little guy on the bottom left was me)
Today (Jan 25) is my father's birthday. He passed away several years ago, but he would have been 69 years old today if he was still around. I can't imagine my father being that old. Most of my memories of him are when we my family was still intact - I was young, he was big and strong. I have many memories of him working out in the yard. He built fences, made gardens, constructed a giant swing set, worked on the cars or on the house. In my memories he was big, strong, and usually very tanned (I have no memories of him with his shirt on in the summer time). No, I can't imagine what a 69 year old Elliott would look like.
As I sit here late at night with Isaac sleeping against my chest (he is fussy and seems at times to only sleep if strapped to my chest) I can only imagine how proud my father would be to meet his grandson. I know that my father would be proud to see where I am and who I am. But it brings tears to my eyes to think about my father holding my son. I trust that one day they will meet many years from now when they are both in the arms of our Lord - yeah, that's a bit comforting. Still...
My father was thirty-five when he had me. It struck me today that he was only a two years older when he had me than I am now with my newborn son. If the pattern holds, I'll be in my late sixties before I might be a grandfather and hold a little grandchild. I pray that God will grant me such a blessing.
My father will not hold little Isaac Elliott. But I will take great joy in ensuring that Isaac grows up knowing where his middle name came from.
Father - I pray that you are resting in peace. I look forward to seeing you again one day.
Gloria Deo
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John Elliott Curll
1943 - 1994
Today (Jan 25) is my father's birthday. He passed away several years ago, but he would have been 69 years old today if he was still around. I can't imagine my father being that old. Most of my memories of him are when we my family was still intact - I was young, he was big and strong. I have many memories of him working out in the yard. He built fences, made gardens, constructed a giant swing set, worked on the cars or on the house. In my memories he was big, strong, and usually very tanned (I have no memories of him with his shirt on in the summer time). No, I can't imagine what a 69 year old Elliott would look like.
My son, Isaac Elliott Curll, is named after him.
As I sit here late at night with Isaac sleeping against my chest (he is fussy and seems at times to only sleep if strapped to my chest) I can only imagine how proud my father would be to meet his grandson. I know that my father would be proud to see where I am and who I am. But it brings tears to my eyes to think about my father holding my son. I trust that one day they will meet many years from now when they are both in the arms of our Lord - yeah, that's a bit comforting. Still...
My father was thirty-five when he had me. It struck me today that he was only a two years older when he had me than I am now with my newborn son. If the pattern holds, I'll be in my late sixties before I might be a grandfather and hold a little grandchild. I pray that God will grant me such a blessing.
My father will not hold little Isaac Elliott. But I will take great joy in ensuring that Isaac grows up knowing where his middle name came from.
Father - I pray that you are resting in peace. I look forward to seeing you again one day.
Gloria Deo
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Monday, January 16, 2012
Thoughts on That Which is Important: Night time readings with Isaac...
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Last night I was spending some time with my newborn son (my little fussy froggy). My dear wife had just fed him and was getting a few hours of much-needed sleep while I held him so he could also sleep. The lights were low and I was tired. Not too tired to function by any means, but rather too tired to do school reading. I read the news; I paced around; eventually I decided (after staring at my library for quite some time) to do some light pleasure reading. My eyes fell on a book I've been meaning to get into for a while now, The Essential Pope Benedict XVI: His Central Writings and Speeches. Probably not what most of my friends and family would choose to read after the sun has set but I thought to myself, there's no better time than now. So with my little fussy froggy asleep against my chest, I picked it up. Here's what I found:
My little fussy froggy is even now making little froggy sounds as he sleeps against my chest. I do indeed pray that I, by the grace of God, might bear such fruit that he will receive the faith, that he will experience the divine love which this faith brings.
Deo gratias
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Last night I was spending some time with my newborn son (my little fussy froggy). My dear wife had just fed him and was getting a few hours of much-needed sleep while I held him so he could also sleep. The lights were low and I was tired. Not too tired to function by any means, but rather too tired to do school reading. I read the news; I paced around; eventually I decided (after staring at my library for quite some time) to do some light pleasure reading. My eyes fell on a book I've been meaning to get into for a while now, The Essential Pope Benedict XVI: His Central Writings and Speeches. Probably not what most of my friends and family would choose to read after the sun has set but I thought to myself, there's no better time than now. So with my little fussy froggy asleep against my chest, I picked it up. Here's what I found:
"I who chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit that will remain."John 15:16
"We have received the faith to give it to others. We are priests meant to serve others. And we must bring a fruit that will remain. All people want to leave a mark which lasts. But what remains? Money does not. Buildings do not, nor books. After a certain amount of time, whether long or short, all these things disappear. The only thing which remains forever is the human soul, the human person created by God for eternity. The fruit which remains then is that which we have sowed in human souls: love, knowledge, a gesture capable of touching the heart, words which open the soul to joy in the Lord. let us then go to the Lord and pray to Him, so that He may help us bear fruit which remains."I was struck by how profound this little admonition is. It is so simple and true. With the arrival of my son, these words could not ring more true to my ears. What can I do which will remain? I can share love and knowledge of the Divine with Isaac. I can work to sow seeds in his soul which will grow and blossom into glorious fruit. I can live a life which models the great faith which I have received. I can pray that our gracious God will so transform our life that we daily give the give of love to all we meet.
My little fussy froggy is even now making little froggy sounds as he sleeps against my chest. I do indeed pray that I, by the grace of God, might bear such fruit that he will receive the faith, that he will experience the divine love which this faith brings.
Deo gratias
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Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Thoughts on Purpose and Clarity...
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Living life is a continuous act of great faith. I've heard our lives described as small islands of certainty amidst an endless ocean of uncertainty; I think this an appropriate description of human existence. I know the Evangelical Christians like to talk in terms of "the will of God" as if this is something that will always be evident through prayer, but my experience tends more towards letting the transformative love of God guide my reason and judgment in decision making. It seems to me that the will of God, the narrative that explains events in our lives, is often only understood in retrospect - years later looking back and interpreting with the knowledge and growth gained through such experiences. Rather than understanding as walking with certainty, more often than not we take brave and trembling steps of faith, trusting in God's grace and sovereign guidance, making our choices and doing our best. Indeed, there are very few things we can be certain of in this life.
There are moments, though, moments of clarity, moments of certainty. I remember a moment ten years ago (31 Dec 2001) in Rottenman, Austria. It was Silvester (New Year's Eve) and we were watching the fireworks exploding in the sky over the little Austrian town. Looking out into the colourful night sky, I knew that I was on the right path. My life had changed drastically over the prior six or so months following a religious conversion experience. There was no doubt in my mind that I was made to follow Jesus and live the life to which He was calling me. This life of love which he now demanded of me was what I had been created for.
I remember another such moment of clarity. Almost three and a half years ago, standing at the altar with my new bride, exchanging vows of love fidelity, I had no doubts as to my (our) direction. Looking into her beautiful eyes I knew I was made for this. I was created by love for love. This wife whom God had given to me was given for my sanctification, a gift of divine love and grace, provided that I might grow into who I was intended to be. Indeed, when I looked into her loving eyes that day, I had an unwavering clarity of purpose.
Just over 56 hours ago, I found myself experiencing this same clarity of purpose. When I looked into my newborn sons eyes, when I picked little Isaac up and held him in my arms... there were no doubts or questions, there was only this sense of clarity. I knew in the very core of my being that I was created for this. This precious little gift, this child has been entrusted into our care. I am his father; he is my son. I was created to love him. And thus I shall do.
Indeed, there is very little that I can be certain of in this life. There will be questions and doubts; there will be struggles. I don't know what the future will hold. In this vast sea of uncertainty, I shall let these few certainties be my guide. I know why I am here. I am here to love, and this I shall do.
- - - - - - - - - -
Living life is a continuous act of great faith. I've heard our lives described as small islands of certainty amidst an endless ocean of uncertainty; I think this an appropriate description of human existence. I know the Evangelical Christians like to talk in terms of "the will of God" as if this is something that will always be evident through prayer, but my experience tends more towards letting the transformative love of God guide my reason and judgment in decision making. It seems to me that the will of God, the narrative that explains events in our lives, is often only understood in retrospect - years later looking back and interpreting with the knowledge and growth gained through such experiences. Rather than understanding as walking with certainty, more often than not we take brave and trembling steps of faith, trusting in God's grace and sovereign guidance, making our choices and doing our best. Indeed, there are very few things we can be certain of in this life.
There are moments, though, moments of clarity, moments of certainty. I remember a moment ten years ago (31 Dec 2001) in Rottenman, Austria. It was Silvester (New Year's Eve) and we were watching the fireworks exploding in the sky over the little Austrian town. Looking out into the colourful night sky, I knew that I was on the right path. My life had changed drastically over the prior six or so months following a religious conversion experience. There was no doubt in my mind that I was made to follow Jesus and live the life to which He was calling me. This life of love which he now demanded of me was what I had been created for.
I remember another such moment of clarity. Almost three and a half years ago, standing at the altar with my new bride, exchanging vows of love fidelity, I had no doubts as to my (our) direction. Looking into her beautiful eyes I knew I was made for this. I was created by love for love. This wife whom God had given to me was given for my sanctification, a gift of divine love and grace, provided that I might grow into who I was intended to be. Indeed, when I looked into her loving eyes that day, I had an unwavering clarity of purpose.
Just over 56 hours ago, I found myself experiencing this same clarity of purpose. When I looked into my newborn sons eyes, when I picked little Isaac up and held him in my arms... there were no doubts or questions, there was only this sense of clarity. I knew in the very core of my being that I was created for this. This precious little gift, this child has been entrusted into our care. I am his father; he is my son. I was created to love him. And thus I shall do.
Indeed, there is very little that I can be certain of in this life. There will be questions and doubts; there will be struggles. I don't know what the future will hold. In this vast sea of uncertainty, I shall let these few certainties be my guide. I know why I am here. I am here to love, and this I shall do.
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Sunday, December 4, 2011
The Thesis Journey Nears Its End...
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Last week I hopped in the car and headed out on a little journey. My first stop was Staples Print and Copy Centre to pick up the five printed copies of my thesis. They were stacked up together in a box and felt quite heavy. From there I headed to my old campus (TWU) to pick up the five title pages signed by my thesis advisor and second reader. Then it was over two bridges to North Vancouver to find the little binding company. It ended up being in an industrial section right down by the water. I almost missed it as it was a little hole-in-the-wall place with a tree right out front obstructing the view of it. I went in with my theses in hand. I was excited and a little nervous. I realized that there was no going back on this now: whatever was on these pages was going to be bound and put in the library (and online) for people to read and critique. Any errors were in those pages and were staying there. Anyway, as I entered there was a strange and loud noise made by the door to notify someone of my entry. I stood there in a little entry room waiting. After a couple minutes of no answer I decided to push the door open and make the noise again... still no one. I stood there for a few minutes taking in the room. What an odd little room it was. It was filled with books of course. All sorts of books, most with an old look to them. I don't think they were very old (although there was a small layer of dust across the tops of them) but they had that "early days of modern book binding" look. There were books of all types and genres. I particularly remember seeing a small stack of the Holy Bible and a copy of Bleak House by Dickens. It was a neat (not clean and organized) little room: slightly musky and mysterious.
Finally my patience began to ebb and I peeked my head into the adjoining room. If the first little room was mysterious, this next, bigger one was magical and arcane. It was filled with mountains of books in various stages of the binding process. There were strange machines interspersed amongst the books. Each one seemingly with its own secret purpose. I heard voices conversing off in the distance and called out... no response. I heard a heavily accented man's voice coming from a previously unnoticed stairway leading up from the first smaller room. I stuck my head around the corner and called out. Turning in surprise he noticed me down there. He was an older English gentleman who, after hearing my desire for binding, decided that he would seek out someone who could assist me. He thence led me back into the larger room and called out with his thick accent. Out of the winding piles of books, machines and unidentifiable materials of all sorts came a short grey-haired woman. She too had a thick English accent. Her's was a pleasant, welcoming voice resplendent with history and tradition. We discussed my desire for binding my thesis, came to an estimate of price and required time, and I handed off my precious cargo into her capable hands.
My grad thesis has been one of the most trying and challenging experiences of my life. I greatly appreciated being able to physically hand it off for binding. I could have filled out an online form and uploaded the pdf file (the binders have an agreement with a printing company) but there was something special about making the journey, meeting the people who are going to bind it, seeing the strange place where it will be turned into a bound book, and feeling the unbound copies in my hand. It felt very human, very embodied.
I look forward with great anticipation to picking up the bound copies soon. It will definitely feel good. My grad thesis process is rapidly drawing to its conclusion. When I deliver the bound copies to TWU and physically hand them off, I will officially be done. Oh boy.
Then I can continue my unofficial Augustinian studies...
- - - - - - - - - -
Last week I hopped in the car and headed out on a little journey. My first stop was Staples Print and Copy Centre to pick up the five printed copies of my thesis. They were stacked up together in a box and felt quite heavy. From there I headed to my old campus (TWU) to pick up the five title pages signed by my thesis advisor and second reader. Then it was over two bridges to North Vancouver to find the little binding company. It ended up being in an industrial section right down by the water. I almost missed it as it was a little hole-in-the-wall place with a tree right out front obstructing the view of it. I went in with my theses in hand. I was excited and a little nervous. I realized that there was no going back on this now: whatever was on these pages was going to be bound and put in the library (and online) for people to read and critique. Any errors were in those pages and were staying there. Anyway, as I entered there was a strange and loud noise made by the door to notify someone of my entry. I stood there in a little entry room waiting. After a couple minutes of no answer I decided to push the door open and make the noise again... still no one. I stood there for a few minutes taking in the room. What an odd little room it was. It was filled with books of course. All sorts of books, most with an old look to them. I don't think they were very old (although there was a small layer of dust across the tops of them) but they had that "early days of modern book binding" look. There were books of all types and genres. I particularly remember seeing a small stack of the Holy Bible and a copy of Bleak House by Dickens. It was a neat (not clean and organized) little room: slightly musky and mysterious.
Finally my patience began to ebb and I peeked my head into the adjoining room. If the first little room was mysterious, this next, bigger one was magical and arcane. It was filled with mountains of books in various stages of the binding process. There were strange machines interspersed amongst the books. Each one seemingly with its own secret purpose. I heard voices conversing off in the distance and called out... no response. I heard a heavily accented man's voice coming from a previously unnoticed stairway leading up from the first smaller room. I stuck my head around the corner and called out. Turning in surprise he noticed me down there. He was an older English gentleman who, after hearing my desire for binding, decided that he would seek out someone who could assist me. He thence led me back into the larger room and called out with his thick accent. Out of the winding piles of books, machines and unidentifiable materials of all sorts came a short grey-haired woman. She too had a thick English accent. Her's was a pleasant, welcoming voice resplendent with history and tradition. We discussed my desire for binding my thesis, came to an estimate of price and required time, and I handed off my precious cargo into her capable hands.
My grad thesis has been one of the most trying and challenging experiences of my life. I greatly appreciated being able to physically hand it off for binding. I could have filled out an online form and uploaded the pdf file (the binders have an agreement with a printing company) but there was something special about making the journey, meeting the people who are going to bind it, seeing the strange place where it will be turned into a bound book, and feeling the unbound copies in my hand. It felt very human, very embodied.
I look forward with great anticipation to picking up the bound copies soon. It will definitely feel good. My grad thesis process is rapidly drawing to its conclusion. When I deliver the bound copies to TWU and physically hand them off, I will officially be done. Oh boy.
Then I can continue my unofficial Augustinian studies...
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