Archive for the 'faith' Category

The roofs of ages come rushing down

May 31, 2009

This made for some interesting reading the other day. Our circle of homeschooling friends here in town include a lovely Orthodox family, the husband of which is also an Orthodox priest who is establishing a church here in town. Towards the end of the evening, a few adults lounged around the family room kibitzing about politics and whatnot. He commended the article to me, and so I commend it to you.  It’s an interesting counterbalance to articles like this one, which is no doubt prompting widespread cases of the howling fantods in an entirely different population.

I think some of the observations in the first article are spot-on. As for the second…I’ve read a few of Jeff Sharlet’s other articles on fundamentalists. Frankly, I think of few of his subjects would benefit from a serious, heavy throwdown with St. Augustine, especially Civitate Dei. My money would be on the Bishop of Hippo.

As for myself, I’d rather see a revolution along the lines of this one, described by Chesterton at the conclusion of What’s Wrong With The World:

I begin with a little girl’s hair. That I know is a good thing at any rate. Whatever else is evil, the pride of a good mother in the beauty of her daughter is good. It is one of those adamantine tendernesses which are the touchstones of every age and race. If other things are against it, other things must go down. If landlords and laws and sciences are against it, landlords and laws and sciences must go down. With the red hair of one she-urchin in the gutter I will set fire to all modern civilization. Because a girl should have long hair, she should have clean hair; because she should have clean hair, she should not have an unclean home: because she should not have an unclean home, she should have a free and leisured mother; because she should have a free mother, she should not have an usurious landlord; because there should not be an usurious landlord, there should be a redistribution of property; because there should be a redistribution of property, there shall be a revolution. That little urchin with the gold-red hair, whom I have just watched toddling past my house, she shall not be lopped and lamed and altered; her hair shall not be cut short like a convict’s; no, all the kingdoms of the earth shall be hacked about and mutilated to suit her. She is the human and sacred image; all around her the social fabric shall sway and split and fall; the pillars of society shall be shaken, and the roofs of ages come rushing down, and not one hair of her head shall be harmed.

Now that’s a platform I could get behind.

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Intra in cubiculum tuum

May 9, 2009

The house is full of company this weekend. Big doin’s afoot. Thus:

All the grandparents are in town. Pancho is making his First Communion today at 2. Tomorrow is also his 8th birthday and it’s Mother’s Day. Two of our smaller girls are leaving us on Sunday, as one set of grandparents is taking them on a long-promised Disney cruise next week.

I spent most of Thursday fooling around with python and our product’s API. Any opportunity to reacquaint myself with python is A Good Thing, and I really should spend a little bit of time every week poking around with it.

The weather here has been – if I may risk my erudition here – craptacular. Huzzah for the rain and all that, but really, we’ve had enough now. All the creeks and rivers are well over their banks, the ground is so wet that there are large standing puddles everywhere and part of our garden area looks like a paddy. To say nothing of the mosquitoes.

I don’t want to turn this into a current events sort of blog, because my posting schedule is just too random. Even so, my thoughts on the local National Day of Prayer kerfuffle. Namely, the fuss raised around here over the mayor and governor’s attendance.

On the one hand, as E. quite correctly pointed out to me, this is a private event which is privately funded. If elected officials wish to attend in support of their constituents or as private citizens, no one has any right to prevent it. But the more I mulled this over, the more I couldn’t quite put my finger on why the whole thing just didn’t sit right. The more I pruned and weeded (my favorite mulling activities), the closer I got, and then it hit me:

When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on street corners so that others may see them. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward.

But when you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you (Mt 6:5-6)

The line between public witness and a public display of religiosity for its own sake may be fine indeed, and it’s probably just as well – none of us were promised an easy road. But what do I know? I’ve my own issues of pride to deal with. Was it prideful to say that?

Probably.

Rats. See what I mean?

On locales

May 2, 2009

The April showers came all at once and spent the better part of today soaking our area. Which is good, since we’re still feeling the effects of last year’s drought in some places. Certainly the area farmers ought to be happy – the hayfields ought to be in good shape, which means better winter feeding for livestock, and so on.

We have some good friends locally who raise some of their own beef. Late last year, we bought part of a side and it was delicious. We’re down to the last dozen or so oddball cuts and haven’t had a stinker yet (well, except for the ribs – they were a bit on the fatty side). They’ve upped the ante and gone to three head this year. Last week, the kids got to go over and feed them. From big bottles. We didn’t belabor the fact that we will probably be eating one of them at some point. The cows, I mean. Our friends always name their food animals after food (“Big Mac”, “Whopper”, “Chocolate”, “Steak” and so on). Seeing their place outside of town renewed the itch I’ve had to buy a real piece of property somewhere Out There where there are no covenants or city ordinances to prevent, say, a beehive or a chicken or two.

On the other hand, at the 2 year mark in this house, I think we’ve finally just unpacked the last box recently. Certainly I’m in no hurry to try to stage and sell a place that\’s still full of small kids. Ugh. We got lucky when we moved up here from Atlanta – put our place on the market and had an offer in the first week. Not sure we could pull that off again. Maybe in a few years. Our neighborhood is great, and we’ve finally reached a point where the insides and outsides are Our Own Place: paint, some landscaping changes, vegetables, compost bin. All the little things. We’ll see. Meanwhile, we scan the real estate classifieds and daydream about some of these 10 and 15 acre lots that are out there. Mmmm. I, for one, miss being surrounded by mature wooded areas. Most of the area around here is reclaimed pasture, so you can imagine that it’s a bit on the bare side. There are whole populations of birds and critters that go along with the trees, and I find myself missing them.Most of them. Not the roof rats. I don’t miss those little bastards at all.

Now everyone’s in bed and we have some movies to watch. Disc 1 of Season 4 of BSG and Munich. Have to pace ourselves, you know. Tomorrow, if there’s a break in the rain, I’ll unwrap the statue of the Blessed Virgin that we brought with us and install it near the butterfly garden. May is the Marian month, you know.

A note to the children: I found another one on the upstairs door frame. Hear me well: one of these days, I\’m going to catch whoever is doing this. When I do, that person is going to have two problems: a bloody nose and a broken finger.

Breaking The Galilean Spell

April 23, 2008

Stuart Kauffman writes about the shortcomings and ultimate failure of reductionism in science.

If no natural law suffices to describe the evolution of the biosphere, of technological evolution, of human history, what replaces it? In its place is a wondrous radical creativity without a supernatural Creator. Look out your window at the life teeming about you. All that has been going on is that the sun has been shining on the earth for some 5 billion years. Life is about 3.8 billion years old. The vast tangled bank of life, as Darwin phrased it, arose all on its own. This web of life, the most complex system we know of in the universe, breaks no law of physics, yet is partially lawless, ceaselessly creative. So, too, are human history and human lives. This creativity is stunning, awesome, and worthy of reverence. One view of God is that God is our chosen name for the ceaseless creativity in the natural universe, biosphere, and human cultures.

Because of this ceaseless creativity, we typically do not and cannot know what will happen. We live our lives forward, as Kierkegaard said. We live as if we knew, as Nietzsche said. We live our lives forward into mystery, and do so with faith and courage, for that is the mandate of life itself.

[…]

Across our globe, about half of us believe in a Creator God. Some billions of us believe in an Abrahamic supernatural God, and some in the ancient Hindu gods. Wisdom traditions such as Buddhism often have no gods. About a billion of us are secular but bereft of our spirituality and reduced to being materialist consumers in a secular society. If we the secular hold to anything it is to “humanism.” But humanism, in a narrow sense, is too thin to nourish us as human agents in the vast universe we partially cocreate. I believe we need a domain for our lives as wide as reality. If half of us believe in a supernatural God, science will not disprove that belief.

We need a place for our spirituality, and a Creator God is one such place. I hold that it is we who have invented God, to serve as our most powerful symbol. It is our choice how wisely to use our own symbol to orient our lives and our civilizations. I believe we can reinvent the sacred. We can invent a global ethic, in a shared space, safe to all of us, with one view of God as the natural creativity in the universe.

via aldaily.com

Catholics – cf. CCC, 31-35. This is interesting writing. As a Christian, of course, I also believe that it’s seriously deficient, but interesting nevertheless. A god of strictly vegetative spirit is no god at all, but rather instead a convenient shorthand. A spirituality centered on it worships the painting at the expense of the artist. Prof. Kauffman gets a little close to Anselm’s ontological proof, but this is still a long way from the idea of Emmanuel, God-with-us. Still, he is to be commended for continuing to seek and knock. The section at the end about the “four injuries” bears particular scrutiny.

Loss of Faith

April 5, 2008

Dr. Hutchens writes about the loss of faith at Mere Comments, the blog for Touchstone magazine, which I highly recommend to any and all.

At the base of the religion of mediocrity, I came to believe, was our church’s doctrine of “security” in which the admonition, found in numerous forms in the New Testament, to “be the more zealous to confirm your call and election, for if you do this you will never fall . . . .” was so heavily discounted. We did not, in fact, believe in striving or zealotry in confirming one’s call or election, for these things were assured once we had prayed to accept Jesus. Along with this came the option of doodling away one’s life in the belief that hard-won accomplishment among Christians was presumptive evidence of infidelity.

Language, and our responsibilities to it.

April 3, 2008

I place a great deal of stock in precision in language. Words and how they are used, after all, are a direct manifestation of our thoughts. Once upon a time, I’d wanted to teach English, but a quarter in the College of Education cured me of that. I didn’t even finish it out, dropping the classes and immediately applying to the Journalism school. I never worked as a journalist, but have nevertheless found that a command of language is an invaluable tool regardless of the field of work. It was very common for me to, over time, acquire the additional role of copy editor/wordsmith for whoever my manager happened to be at the time. Frankly, I was happy to do it. Few things give a grammatical nitpicker pleasure like ruthlessly editing a poorly-written press release, e-mail or customer communication.

I’ve occasionally considered returning to school to study literature, perhaps with an eye towards teaching it when I get older and have more time and fewer responsibilities. Usually, a brief chat with a friend of ours who actually is a college English teacher is enough to bring me back to reality. So I press on – slowly picking my way through the Canon and brushing up on usage and style whenever I can. Curiously, the improving ability to clearly express myself has also resulted in a…I’m not sure how to put this…greater sensitivity to what I hear when I’m listening to others. Here is a person, expressing their thoughts. What I do not hear – the pauses, omissions, brief reflections – tell me almost as much as the words themselves. It’s worth the time to carefully listen to the other person, to reflect on the totality of their expression.

This, I think, is a great gift, and one that I hope we can pass along to our children. I think anyone can attain it. Take up and read. Find things that are difficult and try them. Revisit the things you read in high school and college – you will doubtlessly find that a few years of life experience since graduation will bring these books back into clear focus. You will be surprised – don’t be. They are classics for a reason. Themes and symbols that utterly escape the average teenager will come into clear relief after you’ve spent some time in relationships, getting married, starting a family, building a career, struggling and so on.

The plan, inasmuch as we have one, looks something like this:

  • Increase their exposure to good books, teaching them to read as soon as they are ready, and make a library card an important rite-of-passage.
  • Eliminate the presence of the television in our home. There is no cable or satellite connection.
  • Carefully monitor their use of other visual media – we have a room just for movies, and they are allowed to watch things from a small library we keep.
  • Associate, as much as we can, with others who share similar views
  • Emphasize the role of communication and text in terms of our relationship with God, through participation in the Liturgy, study of the Scriptures and acquaintance with the Fathers.
  • Set the example by continuously improving and learning on our own. We don’t stop learning until we die and we know as we are known.
  • Seek wisdom in the received texts of our western patrimony
  • Utterly reject of the modern method of criticism. Strive to understand the works on their own terms and in their own contexts. The dead, too, deserve a vote.
  • Encourage an intense curiosity in (and appreciation of) the natural world around us, which hopefully leads to further reading and research.

The fruits, I think, are already evident. Glossing over things isn’t as easy as it used to be with our oldest children, and the younger ones are hot on their heels. The four-year-old will probably start her reading lessons this summer. Our youngest progresses daily in talking. The baby…well, she’s still just crawling around. Let’s not go crazy here.

Easter

March 24, 2008

We hope everyone had a good Easter. We certainly did – lots of visiting relatives, including cousins which bring the brood-count up to 8. The bunny came and left candy, all of us went to a very crowded Mass, then we came home and hunted eggs. We believe all of them have been found; time and scent will let us know otherwise. The cousins (and auntie) are staying with us through most of next week, so the fun, noise, and chaos will most certainly continue. As it should.

I meant to post this the other day, but was trying to limit online usage through the weekend. Here’s Edmund Spenser’s “Easter Sonnet”, which shows up in Amoretti, which are all beautiful but are mostly concerned, as sonnets usually are, with his lady-love. This one is a frank expression of Easter joy.

Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day,
Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin;
And, having harrowd hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin;
And grant that we, for whom thou diddest dye,
Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
May live for ever in felicity!

And that Thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same againe;
And for Thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy,
With love may one another entertayne!
So let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought,
—Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Easter, for us, is not over – the liturgical season of Easter lasts until Pentecost Sunday, which, according to my calendar falls on May 11. We then shift back into Ordinary Time, which lasts until season of Advent at year’s end. So it goes – the cycles, seasons and their sanctification. The heavens show forth the glory of God, says the Psalmist, and the firmament declareth the work of his hands. For those who are constantly peering upwards at the movements of sun, moon, star and sky, these words are self-evident.

“…the mythic fancies / Sung beside her in her youth.”

March 20, 2008

Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote the following poem, inspired both by a legend and an account of Plutarch. In them, the ancient gods of Greece swooned and died at the hour of the crucifixion. The pagan landscape, lost Arcadia, was left silent and empty at the hour “when One in Sion / Hung for love’s sake on a cross.”

I don’t know why these sorts of things disappear from the web, but this one is usually hard to find. Herewith, then, Browning’s poem.  Sorry for the length.

I

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,
Can ye listen in your silence?
Can your mystic voices tell us
Where ye hide? In floating islands,
With a wind that evermore
Keeps you out of sight of shore?
Pan, Pan is dead.

II

In what revels are ye sunken,
In old Aethiopia?
Have the Pygmies made you drunken,
bathing in mandragora
Your divine pale lips that shiver
Like the lotus in the river?
Pan, Pan is dead.

III

Do ye sit there still in slumber,
In gigantic Alpine rows?
The black poppies out of number
Nodding, dripping from your brows
To the red lees of your wine,
And so kept alive and fine?
Pan, Pan is dead.

IV

Or lie crushed your stagnant courses
Where the silver spheres roll on,
Stung to life by centric forces
Thrown like rays out from the sun?
While the smoke of your old altars
In the shroud that round you welters?
Great Pan is dead.

V

“Gods of Hellas, Gods of Hellas,”
said the old Hellenic tongue!
Said the hero-oaths as well as
Poets sings the sweetest sung!
Have ye grown deaf in a day!
Can you speak not yea or nay?
Since Pan is dead?

VI

Do ye leave your rivers flowing
All alone, O Naiades,
While your drenched locks dry slow in
This cold feeble sun and breeze?
Not a word the Naiads say,
Though the rivers run for ay.
For Pan is dead.

VII

From the gloaming of the oak-wood,
O ye Dryads, could ye flee?
At the rushing thunderstroke, would
No sob tremble through the tree?
Not a word the Dryads say,
Though the forests wave for ay.
For Pan is dead.

VIII

Have ye left the mountain places
Oreads wild, for other tryst?
Shall we see no sudden faces
Strike a glory through the mist?
Not a sound the silence thrills
Of the everlasting hills.
Pan, Pan is dead.

IX

O twelve gods of Plato’s vision,
Crowned to starry wanderings, –
With your chariots in procession,
And your silver clash of wings!
Very pale ye seem to rise
Ghosts of Grecian deities –
Now Pan is dead.

X

Jove, the right hand is unloaded,
Whence the thunder did prevail,
While in idiocy of godhead
Thou art staring the stars pale!
And thine eagle, blind and old,
Roughs his feathers in the cold.
Pan, Pan is dead.

XI

Where, O Juno, is the glory
Of thy regal look and tread?
Will they lay forevermore thee,
On thy dim, straight, golden bed?
Will thy queendom all lie hid
Meekly, under either lid?
Pan, Pan is dead.

XII

Ha, Apollo! floats his golden
Hair all mist-like where he stands,
While the Muses hang enfolding
Knee and foot with faint wild hands?
‘Neath the clanging of thy bow,
Niobe looked lost as though!
Pan, Pan is dead.

XIII

Shall the casque with its brown iron,
Pallas’ broad blue eyes, eclipse,
And no hero take inspiring
From the god-Greek of her lips?
‘Neath her olive dost thou sit
Mars the mighty, cursing it?
Pan, Pan is dead.

XIV

Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther
He swoons, – bound with his own vines;
And his Maenads slowly saunter,
Head aside, among the pines,
While they murmur dreamingly,
“Evohe – ah – Evohe – !”
Ah, Pan is dead.

XV

Neptune lies beside his trident,
Dull and senseless as a stone;
And old Pluto deaf and silent
Is cast out into the sun:
Ceres smileth stern thereat
“We all now are desolate –
Now Pan is dead.”

XVI

Aphrodite! dead and driven
As thy native foam thou art;
With the cestus long done heaving
On the white calm of thine heart!
Ai Adonis at that shriek
Not a tear runs down her cheek –
Pan, Pan is dead.

XVII

And the Loves, we used to know from
One another, huddled lie,
Frore as taken in a snow-storm,
Close beside her tenderly, –
As if each had weakly tried
Once to kiss her as he died.
Pan, Pan is dead.

XVIII

What, and Hermes? Time enthralleth
All thy cunning, Hermes, thus, –
And the ivy blindly crawleth
Round thy brave caduceus?
Hast thou no new message for us,
Fall of thunder and Jove-glories?
Nay, Pan is dead.

XIX

Crown’ed Cybele’s great turret
Rocks and crumbles on her head;
Roar the lions of her chariot
Toward the wilderness, unfed,
Scornful children are not mute
“Mother, mother, walk afoot
Since Pan is dead.”

XX

In the fiery-hearted centre
Of the solemn universe,
Ancient Vesta, – who could enter
To consume thee with this curse?
Drop thy grey chin on thy knee
O thy palsied Mystery
For Pan is dead.

XXI

Gods, we vainly do adjure you, –
Ye return no voice nor sign!
Not a votary could secure you
Even a grave for your Divine!
Not a grave to show thereby
Here these old grey gods do lie
Since Pan is dead.

XXII

Even that Greece who took your wages
Calls the obolus outworn;
And the hoarse deep-throated ages
Laugh your godships unto scorn;
And the poets do disclaim you
Or grow colder if they name you –
And Pan is dead.

XXIII

Gods bereav-ed, gods belated,
With your purples rent asunder!
Gods discrowned and desecrated,
Disinherited of thunder!
Now the goats may climb and crop
The soft grass on Ida’s top –
Now, Pan is dead.

XXIV

Calm, of old, the bark went onward,
When a cry more loud than wind
Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward,
From the pil-ed Dark behind;
And the sun shrank and grew pale,
Breathed against by the great wail –
“Pan, Pan is dead.”

XXV

And the rowers from the benches
Fell – each shuddering on his face –
While departing Influences
Struck a cold back through the place;
And the shadow of the ship
Reeled along the passive deep –
“Pan, Pan is dead.”

XXVI

And that dismal cry rose slowly
And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit’s melancholy
And eternity’s despair!
And they heard the words it said –
“PAN IS DEAD – GREAT PAN IS DEAD –
PAN, PAN IS DEAD.”

XXVII
‘Twas the hour when One in Sion
Hung for love’s sake on a cross;
When his brow was chill with dying,
And his soul was faint with loss;
When his priestly blood dropped downward
And his kingly eyes looked throneward –
Then, Pan was dead.

XXVIII

By the love He stood alone in
His sole Godhead rose complete,
And the false gods fell down moaning,
Each from off his golden seat;
All the false gods with a cry
Rendered up their deity –
Pan, Pan was dead.

XXIX

Wailing wide across the islands,
They rent, vest-like, their Divine!
And a darkness and a silence
Quenched the light in every shrine;
And Dodona’s oak swang lonely
Henceforth, to the tempest only,
Pan, Pan was dead.

XXX

Pythia staggered – feeling o’er her,
Her lost god’s forsaking look;
Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror,
And her crispy fillets shook,
And her lips gasped through their foam
For a word that did not come.
Pan, Pan was dead.

XXXI

Oh ye vain false gods of Hellas,
Ye are silent evermore!
And I dash down this old chalice,
Whence libations ran of yore.
See, the wine crawls in the dust,
Wormlike, as your glories must,
Since Pan is dead.

XXXII

Get to dust, as common mortals,
By a common doom and track!
Let no Schiller from the portals
Of that Hades call you back,
Or instruct us to weep all
At your antique funeral.
Pan, Pan is dead.

XXXIII

By your beauty, which confesses
Some chief Beauty conquering you, –
By our grand heroic guesses,
Through your falsehood, at the True, –
We will weep not..! earth shall roll
Heir to each god’s aureole –
And Pan is dead.

XXXIV

Earth outgrows the mythic fancies
Sung beside her in her youth;
And those debonair romances
Sound but dull beside the truth.
Phoebus chariot-course is run:
Look up, poets, to the sun!
Pan, Pan is dead.

XXXV

Christ hath sent us down the angels;
And the whole earth and the skies
Are illumined by altar-candles
Lit for bless-ed mysteries;
And a Priest’s hand, through creation,
Waveth calm and consecration –
And Pan is dead.

XXXVI

Truth is fair: should we forgo it?
Can we sigh right for a wrong?
God himself is the best Poet.
And the Real is His song.
Sing his truth our fair and full,
And secure his beautiful.
Let Pan be dead.

XXXVII

Truth is large. Our aspiration
Scarce embraces half we be:
Shame, to stand in His creation,
And doubt truth’s sufficiency! –
To think God’s song unexcelling
The poor tales of our own telling –
When Pan is dead.

XXXVIII

What is true and just and honest,
What is lovely, what is pure –
All of praise that hath admonisht,
All of virtue, shall endure, –
These are themes for poet’s uses,
Stirring nobler than the Muses,
Ere Pan was dead.

XXXIX

O brave poets, keep back nothing,
Nor mix falsehood with the whole:
Look up Godward, speak the truth in
Worthy song from earnest soul!
Hold in high poetic duty,
Truest Truth the fairest Beauty.
Pan, Pan is dead.

Mandatum novum do vobis.

March 20, 2008

“I give you a new commandment.”

Today is Maundy Thursday, Holy Thursday according to my calendar.

The final days of Holy Week are upon us – on this night, our Lord instituted the Eucharist, prayed the High Priestly Prayer as found in John’s narrative and entered into the agony of the garden. This is the night that he was betrayed, when he took bread into his sacred hands, and looking up to You, his Almighty Father, he broke the bread, gave thanks and gave it to his disciples, saying “Take this, all of you, and eat it.”

On this night of betrayal, during the final moments before the collision of Jerusalem and Rome and at the end of a week in which crowds welcomed their savior and then condemned him to death, He prayed that his disciples may be one, even as we are one.

This night, and the days to come – they send ripples through time itself. Backwards, they are seen in our collective longing for redemption, reflected in a thousand imperfect myths and dramas. Forwards, they’ll move towards the day that He returns in glory, gently lapping the shore of the world to come, the one without end. How could it be otherwise, when the Author enters his own story, befriends the characters and then departs from the page?

“Rum thing,” said a friend of Lewis, during a fireside conversation. “Rum thing, that stuff of Frazer’s about the Dying God. It almost looks as if it really happened once.” And this from an avowed atheist, as steadfast as Lewis was at the time.

Lorica of St. Patrick

March 17, 2008

I’m back home for a day and jetting out again tomorrow. I’ll be back tomorrow night, which is good, then home for awhile, which is even better. Since this is St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll post his Lorica (“Breastplate”), which dates to around 377 AD.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity
Through belief in the threeness
Through confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension
Through the strength of his decent for the Judgement of doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of Cherubim
In obedience to the Angels,
In the service of the Archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of Apostles,
In faiths of confessors,
In innocence of Holy Virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun
Brilliance of moon
Splendor of fire
Speed of lightning
Swiftness of wind
Depth of sea
Stability of earth
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God’s strength to pilot me:
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s way to lie before me,

God’s host to secure me against snares of devils
against temptations of vices
against inclinations of nature
against everyone who shall wish me ill,
afar and anear,
alone and in a crowd.

I summon today all these powers between me and these evils
Against every cruel and merciless power that may oppose my body and my soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of heathenry,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of women and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that endangers man’s body and soul.

Christ to protect me today
against poison, against burning,
against drowning, against wounding,
so that there may come abundance of reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left
Christ where I lie, Christ where I sit, Christ where I arise

Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Thrones,
Through confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of Creation