You Are the Sun

Clingman Dome sunset (h) crLight

golden light

fresh from the source.


creation’s colours

calling our senses.


life in its oneness

life in its manifold oneness

all from You.

 You are the Sun from whom the morning shines

You are the River in whom each life-form flows

each face

each race

each cell within our ever-living soul.

This new day we greet You.

John Philip Newell, Praying With the Earth (Eerdmans: Michigan) 12. Photo by Chuck Summers.

Can God Be Reborn?

By Rev. Dr. Duncan Newcomer

The key was in the title and I was looking in the smaller print.

Why was the Downeast Spiritual Life Conference, in Castine, Maine, in mid-July, important and what was it about John Philip’s message that was crucial?

“Spirit,” ”Earth,” and “Human Soul” were all in the subtitle of the conference brochure. These are words that flag our present state of awareness: Spirit we know is somehow the answer to what’s the matter with us; Earth has moved to the top of our list of ultimate concerns, and to address our Human Soul does feel like the way back to life in the Spirit and for the Earth.

The key that John Philip brought was: the divine that is being reborn is in us; the God that is delivering us anew is the Mother God.

But the conference title’s main three words were: “Rebirthing the Divine.”  I was wondering if God could be reborn. So much for a churchman’s theological question.

The key that John Philip brought was: the divine that is being reborn is in us; the God that is delivering us anew is the Mother God.

On the last page of the brochure were prayer words of Jesus from his “Celtic Earth Mass” “Ground of all being,/ Mother of life,/ Your name is sacred.”

Labyrinth photoThe final lecture was centered on the testimony to hope and action of Aung San Suu Kyi, the woman leader in Burma. It is to “Lady Wisdom” John Philip said we need to turn. A key visual image in his talk was the sculpture by Jacques Lipchitz, first called “Our Lady of Delight” and renamed more conventionally, “The Descent of the Spirit.” (See John Phillip’s YouTube Holy Week talk on the piece.)

Where can we see this statue? At the Roofless Church in New Harmony, Indiana, a church conceived of and built fifty years ago by a lady of wisdom and wealth, Jane Owen, who also commissioned the sculpture. Where else can we see it? At Iona. And what did John Philip say was his favorite place to pray at Iona now? The Nunnery, the open air, half-destroyed singularly feminine presence on the island.

Many of the lectures quotes and stories came from the life of Teilhard de Chardin, who while exiled to China learned that it is the “fragrance of The Feminine “that invites us to union with God.

A crucial story John Philip told was of the radical ego-ending epiphany of Bede Griffiths, the British-born Benedictine, at his Ashram in India, where he both had a stroke and came to experience the feminine side of God simultaneously. It was more than his system could take, yet it took him to freedom and peace on the other side of ego. (See Bede Griffiths’s YouTube talk on his encounter with the Feminine Divine.)

Believe, as Martin Buber did, not in Jesus but with Jesus. Have the courage to see with a drafting compass that roots you in the other as in yourself; feel with clarity of heart; and act in order to have full life.

But none of this was some new creed or some correct vocabulary. We were called by prayer supplication words such as “Send out your light. Let it bring me to your dwelling.” “Wait and be of good courage”. Believe, as Martin Buber did, not in Jesus but with Jesus. Have the courage to see with a drafting compass that roots you in the other as in yourself; feel with clarity of heart; and act in order to have full life. Oh, and expect to find Light in the other, chant and breathe, for we are at the time when we can no longer hold on to our religious inheritance but must also open to the religions of the world, for the sake of our Spirit and Mother Earth.

Rev. Dr. Duncan Newcomer, recently moved from New Harmony, Indiana, to Belfast, Maine. He is the author of ”Desperately Seeking Mary” and offers workshops, labyrinth experiences, and Spiritual Formation in coastal Maine. 

*photo above by Collen Meyers during Chris Farrow-Noble’s Class at the Downeast Spiritual Life Conference.

The Mother Heart of God | John Philip Newell | Celtic Spirituality | Isle of Iona

by John Philip Newell

St. Martin's Cross outside the Abbey of Iona. Photo by Caleb Dodson.

St. Martin’s Cross outside the Abbey of Iona. Photo by Caleb Dodson.

On Iona, one of the high-standing crosses in front of the abbey is St. Martin’s Cross, with its distinctive Celtic feature of cross form and circle form combined as a way of pointing to the oneness of Christ and creation. At the heart of St. Martin’s Cross, where the vertical line and the horizontal line intersect, is an image of the Mother and Child. She holds the child against her breast. She has paid the price of labor and now holds the newborn close to her. She has born the pain of giving birth. And now she will sustain the child with her own being, with the milk of her love. In the Celtic world it is said that there is a mother’s heart at the heart of God. At the heart of a mother’s heart is the willingness to make sacrifice for her child. It is a revelation of the very heart of God’s being. And it is a revelation also of the human heart made in the image of God’s heart.

photoIn Christ of the Celts I tell the story of being brushed by an eagle. I had been hiking up an arroyo in New Mexico, and as I bent to pass under a fallen pine tree, I was met by an eagle swooping in the opposite direction with a rabbit in her talons. Either she had not noticed me or was so intent on the catch that she was not bothered by my presence. So we met under the tree’s fallen trunk, and her strong wing touched my left arm. It was an exhilarating experience, to have physical contact with this untamed icon of heaven. I was aware also that it was a spiritual experience, for in Christian symbolism the eagle is associated with John the Beloved, who sees with a height of unitary vision the oneness of all things. But the most important part of the story I did not tell in Christ of the Celts, for it had not yet happened.

After my eagle experience, there was someone in particular with whom I wanted to share the story. It was Ronald Royball, a native musician and storyteller from Santa Fe. We had met years earlier, and he had told me about a life- changing dream in which a great eagle had swept down from the sky to touch his hand with its wing tip. When Ronald woke, he realized he was to be a musician, playing the native flute and sharing the wisdom of his people through music and story.

So it was Ronald whom I especially wanted to tell. He joined me for lunch close to the arroyo where I had hiked the previous year. And with some pride I told him in great detail about everything that had happened, and showed him exactly where on my arm the eagle had brushed against me. When finally I finished, Ronald said, “John Philip, I want you to think about the rabbit.The rabbit is Christ.The rabbit connected you and the eagle. The rabbit made heaven and earth one for you. And he lost his life doing so. I want you to think about the rabbit.The rabbit is Christ.” He spoke not one word to me about the eagle!

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When I heard Ronald’s words, I knew he was right. I had missed the main point of the story. Yes, of course, I shall always be thrilled to know that I was brushed by an eagle. But I would not have met the eagle without the sacrifice of the rabbit. This is not to say that every part of the story can be directly applied spiritually.The rabbit did not choose to offer itself, although Native American wisdom would probably perceive an element of choice in all of nature’s sacrifices. But Ronald’s words prompted me to ask more deeply what this experience was about. His words prompted me to ask what the costly connections are that I am to make in my life. What are the costly connections we are to make? The encounter with the eagle was a meeting also with the rabbit.

John Philip Newell, A New Harmony (Jossey-Bass: San Francisco) 162-164.

Prayer of Hope | John Philip Newell | Celtic Spirituality | Isle of Iona |

IMG_7940O God of life,

who chooses creation over chaos

and new beginnings over emptiness,

we bring to you the disorder of our nations and world

and the emptiness of our lives and relationships.

Bless us and the nations with the grace of creativity.

Bless us and all people with the hope of new beginnings.

John Philip Newell, Celtic Treasure: Daily Scripture and Prayer2005 (Eerdmans: Grand Rapids) 10.

Camino Prayer | John Philip Newell | Camino de Santiago

John Philip Newell describes his Praying With the Earth project and shares a prayer with fellow pilgrims on the Northern Coast of Spain during the Heartbeat/University of Edinburgh’s Camino Peace Pilgrimage.

For more on our Camino journey, follow the Heartbeat Blog.

Stories from Iona Abbey | Celtic Spirituality | John Philip Newell

By John Philip Newell

37541083-thomas-mertonThe new harmony that we seek is not the construction of a new unity. It is, as Thomas Merton says, the rediscovery of an “older unity.” It is not the laying of a new foundation for relationship. It is the fresh uncovering of life’s original groundwork. In the final weeks of his life, Thomas Merton, the American Trappist monk and visionary for peace, met in Asia with leaders of other religious traditions. One of the last things he said to them was, “My dear brothers, we are already one. But we imagine that we are not. What we have to recover is our original unity. What we have to be is what we are.”

Our experiences of communion in life are glimpses into this original unity. They are a rediscovery of what we most truly are—one. Whether it is our experience of gazing into the vast infinity of night skies or looking deep into the eyes of one we love, it is the recognizing of a oneness we did not create but have been gifted with. It is the rediscovery of a harmony that precedes us, the remembering of a unity that is deep in the body of the universe.

church4The best of our rituals and religious disciplines of communion reflect this. They do not create oneness. They help us remember our oneness. They do not make unity. They release our unity. They free us from the forgetfulness of thinking we are essentially separate. They liberate us from the delusions of isolated individuality. In our sacrament of communion in the Christian household, when we share one bread and one cup together, we recite Jesus’ words, “Do this to remember me.” We do this to re-member, to bring back into relationship again what has been forgotten, to reawaken within ourselves the way of oneness, the truth of oneness, the life of oneness.

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One of the great blessings of my four years at the abbey on Iona was gathering together with people from around the world every Friday evening to share bread and wine at the long table. This ancient Scottish practice of communion, in which a table extends the entire length of the chancel, is celebrated weekly at the abbey. Gathered around the table were always many nations and languages, many colors and denominations. It was an experience of the world at table together. And when the world gathers together at table, there is always the sublime as well as the ridiculous.

I shall never forget one Friday evening in particular. Our service had begun at the east end of the cathedral. During the first hymn, I led the procession from the nave into the chancel so that we could be seated around the long table. The first to join me at the head of the table were some lads from Easterhouse, a rough council housing scheme in Glasgow. Perhaps they had never been in a church before.

Sometimes this was the case on Iona, when groups from different traditions and backgrounds gathered together.

The lads were wide-eyed about the proceedings and appeared happy enough to be there. But sitting at table together was probably not what they had expected. The combination of food and drink, together with their being warmly welcomed into the life of the community, made them feel so much at home that they pulled out their cigarettes and lit up at the table. I was hesitant to inhibit their style, but felt they should at least know that this was not our custom at the abbey. So as the rest of the congregation was still singing and making its way from the nave to the table, I had a quiet word with the boys, to which they obligingly responded by putting out their cigarettes. I thought the worst was over. In fact the comedy had just begun. When it came to sharing the bread and the wine, they were the first to receive. And by the time the chalice reached the fourth lad, it had been drained dry. The celebration of an older unity!

As well as absurd occasions at the abbey, there were truly extraordinary moments of oneness. There was the time when Zaki Badawi, a prominent scholar of the Islamic community in Britain, led us in a Muslim call to prayer in the abbey church. This was a sound that had never been heard within the eight-hundred-year-old walls of the abbey. And yet it sounded as if it deeply belonged. It was the sound of a new-ancient harmony that was being born again within us and between us.

And there was the week when Rabbi Jeremy Milgrom, the cofounder of Clergy for Peace in Jerusalem, taught Torah at the abbey. The agreement was that he would teach Scripture in the mornings and for the rest of the day join in as much of the community’s life as he wished. Jeremy fully participated in the pattern of our days. Every morning he would join us for prayer in the abbey church. In the evenings he would sing hymns with us and listen to our Scriptures.

Toward the end of the week, we asked Jeremy if he would preach at the long-table celebration of communion. Being a good rabbi, he said he did not know a precedent of a Jewish rabbi preaching at a communion service. But he knew a precedent of a rabbi singing a table blessing at a Christian communion, so he would sing a table blessing for us. When it came time for the blessing, Jeremy gave it a ten-minute introduction. So we had a sermon after all!

Ali was presiding that evening, so she was seated at the head of the table. And because Jeremy was preaching—or giving the table blessing as he called it—he sat immediately next to her. We assumed he was simply wanting to be present for communion rather than to fully participate in communion. When it came time for the sharing of the bread and wine, however, Ali, intending simply to start the bread around the table, handed it to Jeremy so that he could then pass it on to his neighbor. But Jeremy received the bread and ate before serving his neighbor. And he did the same with the cup.

An older unity was being rediscovered among us, a oneness that precedes our divisions, a unity that underlies our differentiations. In speaking about the communion service later on that night, Rabbi Jeremy explained that it  had not been his intention to receive the bread and wine when he came to the service. But as he sat at table he realized that it was all so deeply familiar, the sharing of bread and wine at table together. He also realized that he had been so welcomed as a Jewish rabbi into the abbey community that he could receive the bread and the wine according to his own tradition. He knew that he was not being untrue to us or to his own inheritance. He was being deeply true. He also knew that he wanted to be true to an older unity, the unity of the human soul, the unity of the earth.

John Philip Newell, A New Harmony (Jossey-Bass: San Francisco) 132-136.

Let us glimpse the eternal. John Philip Newell. Celtic Spirituality.

_MG_5090In the temple of our inner being,
in the temple of our body,
in the temple of earth, sea and sky,
in the great temple of the universe
we look for the light that was in the beginning,
the mighty fire that blazes still from the heart of life,
glowing in the whiteness of the moon,
glistening in night stars,
hidden in the black earth,
concealed in unknown depths of our soul.
In the darkness of the night,
in the shadows of our being, O God,
let us glimpse the eternal.
In both the light and the shadow of our being
let us glimpse the glow of the eternal.

John Philip Newell, “Sounds of the Eternal: A Celtic Psalter”, 67 and 68.

The Heartbeat of God | Celtic Spirituality

By John Philip Newell

photoPerhaps the profoundest words ever uttered were “God is love” (1 John 4:16). They are attributed to John the Beloved, the one who leaned against Jesus at the Last Supper and was said to have heard the heartbeat of God. The profoundest utterances in life are always the simplest of utterances. The problem with truth is not that it is too complicated for expression. The problem with truth is that it is too simple for expression. Three simple words, “God is love,” which is to say that when we love, we are one with God. And when we do not love, we are not one with God.

According to legend, John the Beloved lived to a ripe old age, until over a hundred. He was the cousin of Jesus, son of Mary’s sister, Salome. Youngest among the disciples, he had been especially loved. After the crucifixion, he was silent for years amidst the uncertainties and violence of Jerusalem. With the destruction of the Temple, he fled Palestine for Ephesus with Mary the Mother. There he discovered his voice again and denounced the inhumanities of empire. He was sent into political exile for years on the island of Patmos, and finally as an old man returned to Ephesus. This is the fascinating stuff of legend. How much of it actually occurred we do not know. What is certain, however, is that the Community of John believed in love. “God is love,” they said, “and those who live in love live in God, and God lives in them” (1 John 4:16).

He had witnessed the crucifixion. He had become like a son to Mary. He had dreamed of a new heaven and a new earth. He had threatened the empire with the power of his words and paid the price with years of exile. There was so much he could tell them. But all he would say was “Little children, love one another.”

One of the last stories of St. John’s life relates to his being so weak that he had to be carried to morning and evening prayer in Ephesus. And as he was being carried by members of his community, he would say just one thing to hem: “Little children, love one another.” After a while they became frustrated by this. Here was the great man, John the Beloved. He had grown up with Jesus. He had been part of the inner circle of disciples who entered Jerusalem amidst the song and jubilation of crowds who hoped this would be a new era in the life of their nation. He had witnessed the crucifixion. He had become like a son to Mary. He had dreamed of a new heaven and a new earth. He had threatened the empire with the power of his words and paid the price with years of exile. There was so much he could tell them. But all he would say was “Little children, love one another.” Finally, one day on the way to prayer they asked him, “Teacher, why do you always say this?” To which John replied, “Because it was the Lord’s precept, and if it alone is done, it is enough.”

photoDo we need something more than this wisdom? Or is it just that we pretend we need more and end up doing less? We so much think we need to do more than love our enemy that we end up downplaying our greatest strength, our “incredible power to love.” We so much think we need to focus primarily on our defensive strategies, our accumulation of more and more wealth, our obsession with the human species to the neglect of other species, that we end up ignoring our greatest capacity to redeem the relationships of our lives and world, by loving one another.

You will recall John and Fran, the young couple whom I married on Iona. Because John was Roman Catholic and Fran was Protestant, their families were not supportive of their relationship. The tragic division that had marked Northern Ireland and so many other parts of the Christian household was playing itself out between their families. A number of years after their Iona wedding, they gave birth to their first child, Uist, a beautiful boy. They asked my Ali to baptize him in the River Isla. It was a cold day as we clambered down to the river and found a place midstream that was stable enough for Ali and the little holy family to stand. And gathered together on the riverbank with tears of delight were the two families, one Roman Catholic and one Protestant. Uist’s birth had brought them together.

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Uist’s birth was the symbol of a new beginning. The word symbol comes from the Greek sum, meaning “together,” and bolos, meaning “throw.” A symbol throws together or brings into relationship what has previously been unconnected. The birth was a union of opposites, of male and female but also of Roman Catholic and Protestant. Uist was of John, and he was also of Fran. Yet he was his own person, entirely unique. As Jung says in his work on symbols, the thing that is born of a marriage of opposites is “not a compromise but something new.” Uist was not the dilution of a Roman Catholic family or the diminution of a Protestant family. He was a new creation. And his life was not bound by the limitations of his heritage.

The divine child born as a symbol of unity is an image cherished in many traditions. And it appears at the very heart of our Christian household. The Christ-child is born of heaven and earth, of God and humanity, of time and eternity. He is not simply one or the other. He is both. And he shows us that we are both, that the spiritual and the material are one, that heaven and earth intersect in us. In the ancient prayers of the Hebrides in Scotland, the Christ-child is referred to as “Son of the sun” and “Son of the moon.”

He brings together what has been considered opposite. He is the marriage of spirit and matter, the seen and the unseen, grace and nature. As Teilhard de Chardin says, he is the synthesis of what we “could never have dared join together.” He is the symbol of oneness. He shows us the pearl of great price. It is ours if we will have it. But it will cost us every- thing. Because its cost is love.

John Philip Newell, A New Harmony (Jossey-Bass: San Francisco) 127-131.

Knowing the Celtic Christ | John Philip Newell | Celtic Spirituality | Heartbeat

JPN at Columba's Bay JPEG
One of the greatest teachers in the Celtic world, John Scotus Eriugena in ninth-century Ireland, taught that Christ is our memory. We suffer from the “soul’s forgetfulness,” he says. Christ comes to reawaken us to our true nature. He is our epiphany. He comes to show us the face of God. He comes to show us also our face, the true face of the human soul. This leads the Celtic tradition to celebrate the relationship between nature and grace. Instead of grace being viewed as opposed to our essential nature or as somehow saving us from ourselves, nature and grace are viewed as flowing together from God. They are both sacred gifts. The gift of nature, says Eriugena, is the gift of “being”; the gift of grace, on the other hand, is the gift of “well-being.” Grace is given to reconnect us to our true nature. At the heart of our being is the image of God, and thus the wisdom of God, the creativity of God, the passions of God, the longings of God. Grace is opposed not to what is deepest in us but to what is false in us. It is given to restore us to the core of our being and to free us from the unnaturalness of what we are doing to one another and to the earth.

Christ is often referred to in the Celtic tradition as the truly natural one.

Christ is often referred to in the Celtic tradition as the truly natural one. He comes not to make us more than natural or somehow other than natural but to make us truly natural. He comes to restore us to the original root of our being. As the twentieth-century French mystic-scientist Teilhard de Chardin says much later in the Celtic world, grace is “the seed of resurrection” sown in our nature. It is given not to make us something other than ourselves but to make us radically ourselves. Grace is given not to implant in us a foreign wisdom but to make us alive to the wisdom that was born with us in our mother’s womb. Grace is given not to lead us into another identity but to reconnect us to the beauty of our deepest identity. And grace is given not that we might find some exterior source of strength but that we might be established again in the deep inner security of our being and in learning to lose ourselves in love for one another to truly find ourselves.

photoThis is not to pretend that there are not infections deep within us and deep within the interrelationships of life. Eriugena refers to sin as an infection, “leprosy of the soul.” And just as leprosy distorts the human face and makes it appear grotesque and ugly, so sin distorts the countenance of the soul and makes it appear mon- strous, so much so that we come to believe that that is the face of the human soul. And just as leprosy is a dis- ease of insensitivity, of loss of feeling, so sin leads us into an insensitivity to what is deepest within us, and more and more we treat one another as if we were not made in the image of God. Eriugena makes the point that in the gospel story when Jesus heals the lepers, he does not give them new faces. Rather he restores them to their true faces and to the freshness of their original countenances. Grace reconnects us to what is first and deepest in us. It restores us to the root of our well-being, which is deeper than the infections that threaten our minds and souls and relationships.

We have tended to define ourselves and one another in terms of the blight, in terms of sin or evil, in terms of the failings or illnesses of our lives, instead of seeing what is deeper still, the beauty of the image of God at the core of our being.

Alexander Scott, the nineteenth-century Celtic teacher, uses the analogy of a plant suffering from blight. If such a plant were shown to botanists, even if the botanists had never seen that type of plant before, they would define it in terms of its essential life features. They would identify the plant with reference to its healthy properties of height and color and scent. They would not define it in terms of its blight. Rather they would say that the blight is foreign to the plant, that it is attacking the essence of the plant. Now this may seem a very obvious point botanically. But maybe it is so obvious that we have missed the point when it comes to defining human nature. We have tended to define ourselves and one another in terms of the blight, in terms of sin or evil, in terms of the failings or illnesses of our lives, instead of seeing what is deeper still, the beauty of the image of God at the core of our being.

Given what we now know of the interrelatedness of life and how even the unborn child is infected by the psychological scars of its family or by the pollution of its wider environment, we may wish to say that sin is lurking inside the door of the womb. The shadow comes very close to the beginning of our lives, but deeper still is the Light from which we come. The conception of all life in the universe is sacred.

When Eriugena and other Celtic teachers speak of Christ as our memory, as the one who leads us to our deepest identity, as the one who remembers the song of our beginnings, they are not ignoring the depth of sin’s infection. They are not suggesting that our true self is just under the surface of a film of falseness, easily recovered, or that the harmony deep within all things can be recaptured with just a bit of fine tuning. The infections within the human soul are chronic. There are diseases of greed and limited self-interest among us as individuals and as nations that are ageless, so much so that we can hardly imagine what the true harmony of the earth sounds like. These are not just superficial infections. They are tangled in the very roots of our being. They are cancerous. And some of them need to be surgically removed.

Eriugena uses the analogy of sin pouncing on everything that is born. In commenting on the words from Genesis 4, “Sin is lurking at the door, its desire is for you,” Eriugena says that sin is hovering at the door of the womb, ready to infect everything that comes into being.

To say that the root of every person and creature is in God, rather than opposed to God, has enormous implications for how we view ourselves, including our deepest physical, sexual, and emotional energies.

To say that the root of every person and creature is in God, rather than opposed to God, has enormous implications for how we view ourselves, including our deepest physical, sexual, and emotional energies. It also profoundly affects the way we view one another, even in the midst of terrible failings and falseness in our lives and world. Satan is sometimes referred to by Eriugena and other Celtic teachers as Angel of Light. This is a way of pointing to the deepest identity of everything that has being, whether creaturely or angelic. The extent to which our energies, and the energies of any created thing, are evil and destructive is the extent to which we are not being truly ourselves.

IMG_5202Eriugena may well have believed literally in a personal presence and source of evil, named Satan, as most of the medieval world, whether Celtic or imperial, did. More significantly, however, he is inviting us to be aware of our own capacity for falseness and the potential for distortion in everything that has been created. But most important of all, he is recalling us to our deepest identity as born of Light. We become sinful to the extent that we are not being truly ourselves. We become false to the extent that we are not living from the true root of our being. And Eriugena is pointing also to the path of healing and transformation. We find new beginnings not by looking away from the conflicting energies that stir within us but by looking within them for the sacred Origin of life and desire. In the midst of confusions and struggle in our lives, we are being invited to search deeper than the shadows for the Light of our beginnings. It is also the Light of our true end.

We can be part of a new birthing within us and between us today. And the new birthing relates to the ancient song that we are invited to hear again. It may seem such a distant song that we hear it only as in a dream. But the more we become reacquainted with its music, the more we will come to know that the deepest notes within us and between us in our world are not discord. They form an ancient harmony.

John Philip Newell, Christ of the Celts: the Healing of Creation, 2008 (Jossey-Bass: San Francisco) 9-15. 

In the Silence of My Heart

DSCN3614.JPGIn the silence of the morning
I am alive to the new day’s light,
alert to the early stirrings of the wind
and the first sounds of the creatures.
In the silence of my heart
I hear the yearnings that are in me and the fears,
the hopes that rise from within
and the doubts that trouble my soul.
In the beginnings of this day, O God,
before the night’s stillness is lost to the day’s busyness, open to me the treasure of my inner being
that in the midst of this day’s busyness I may draw on wisdom.

Assure me again of my origins in you,
assure me again that my true depths are of you.

John Philip Newell,  Sounds of the Eternal: A Celtic Psalter  (Material Media: San Antonio) 14. Pre-order JPN’s new book, The Rebirthing of God here: