Paschal Pain

Posted on June 30, 2026 by fatherbrad1971

Our glory is hidden in our pain, if we allow God to bring the gift of himself in our experience of it.[1]

—Henri Nouwen


The stabbing pain in my left abdomen grew more intense as Janice drove me past the entrance to Mission Hospital, Laguna Beach, California, heading toward the Emergency Department. We passed a large stone statue of Mary holding the baby Jesus at the hospital entrance. The hospital was under the spiritual management of the Catholic Sisters of Saint Joseph of Orange. A brief glimpse at that statue was a comforting reminder of the years of ministry I had shared with the sisters.


Thankfully, we found parking near the ER entrance. As we entered, Janice greeted a hospital worker, returning to the place where she had worked as a nurse practitioner. Our disabled son Erik had come here many times in status epilepticus, with seizures that could only by stopped when the doctor injected valium. Janice and I stroked his contorted face and rigid body, until he was at peace and we had another day of life with him. This has been a healing place.

Soon I was in an exam room, lying on a bed as the doctor came in to assess what was happening. He ordered a CT scan. They moved me into radiology for the scan. As I lay on the narrow gurney, a bright light blinded my eyes so that I could not see the technician stick an IV line into my arm. “In a few minutes you will feel warmth moving through your arm; this is the nuclear tracing fluid that will give contrast to the images.”


I returned to the ER cubical waiting for results. In an hour, the ER doctor took a deep breath and announced, “You have a blockage of the small bowel because of a hernia. They may need to do surgery soon.”


The ER doctor attempted to push the hernia back in past the abdominal muscles, with no luck and much pain for me. “We have to wait for the surgeon on call.” Within an hour, Dr. Steven Chang arrived, an old friend of Janice’s. He explored the location of the hernia. “We have to push this back in now. If we can’t do that, we have to do surgery right away. The problem with that is a higher risk of infection, failure to secure the hernia, and tissue damage to the small bowel. Do you want me to continue to push the hernia back in?” I consented.


The first push elicited a loud cry of pain from me. For twenty minutes, Dr. Change pushed on the hernia. “Just a little more. Oh, it slipped. We’ll try again.”


I gripped the sheets on both sides of me. I felt the heavy weight of someone laying across my legs to keep them from thrashing. My horrific, loud cries echoed throughout the emergency room. Here I was, a priest, crying desperately, “O my God, help me.” In a Catholic hospital.


The intense pain was like entering a blue cloud, blotting out everything around me. A bright light at the end of a tunnel.

One last desperate push, and then a pop. The hernia was back in place. I avoided emergency surgery at that point. The medical team arranged outpatient laparoscopic surgery for the following Wednesday. That surgery was successful.


In the recovery unit, as I slowly returned to consciousness from the anesthesia, an image of my parishioner Ricardo popped up. I could see his face resting on the sofa cushion in his apartment. He attended the Spanish mass at my Santa Ana, California parish. Our congregation sponsored his family in the late 1960s in their immigration from Castro’s Cuba.

Every week I brought the sacrament of the Eucharist to him at his home, as he endured chronic pain from stage four metastatic prostate cancer that had settled into his spine. For years, he was a robust six-foot four high-energy man. At the time of these visits, he had shrunk into a gaunt skeleton, barely able to lift his head from the pillow on the sofa where he lay. He always greeted me with a smile. Waves of pain grabbed hold of him as his face turned red and jaw clenched.


One day, as I set out the Eucharistic elements of wine and bread, I asked him, How did you come to America? I had to draw close to him, as his voice was gravely and weak. The Cuban Spanish was still easy to understand.


“I escaped with my son from Cuba. We lived in Guantanamo, near the American Navy base. I remember it was around midnight. A thick fog blocked the Cuban army’s floodlights from shining on us. I held the hand of my ten-year-old son as we went into the frigid ocean water. We had to swim past the American security fence that stretched out into the sea. At first, we made quick progress, and the surge pulled us outward. When we came to the end of the fence, we had to turn and head toward the American base. The tide continued to pull at us. My son was soon tired. I pulled him onto my back as he put his arms around my neck. The dark ocean water was a cold, endless presence. We were afraid of the sharks that we knew lurked in the darkness. Twice I bumped into something, and I thought we would die. But nothing happened. My heart beat like a drum as we drew close to shore and freedom. The tide continued to pull us out to sea. Finally, I could feel the sand beneath my feet. I carried my son onto the muddy beach, where we collapsed in exhaustion. Soon a Navy guard came running toward us, covering us with blankets, and guiding us into the warmth of a building. We were safe and free. Friends in Florida helped us leave Cuba and eventually come to our new home in California.”

What resilient strength must have sustained Ricardo and his son to endure that dangerous night journey to freedom?


We began the liturgy with the Our Father/Padre Nuestro, holding hands as we prayed. I remember his firm grip. As we prayed, there were pauses as Ricardo’s throat tightened with emotion and tears fell upon my wrist. His hands trembled as he received the Body of Christ.

As I remember these weekly visits to his home, I wondered: How is this holy communion connected to Ricardo’s body? Jesus says to him: “This is my body, given for you.” I hear my parishioner responding, “This is my body. I am not in control. I am weak. I need your real presence.”

The sanctified bread and wine were for Ricardo food for the weak, not a special reward for the strong. This holy food revealed his fragility, which depended radically on God’s grace. As his pain created an inner emptiness, I saw in his cloudy, tear-stained eyes how the sacramental elements filled that emptiness with Presence. As he received the host in his trembling hand, a voice so overcome that he could barely say “Amen.,’ he was on the same road that Jesus walked in his Passion. In this holy communion with Ricardo, God embraced what was broken. This sacred meal was a sacrament of compassion for him. He was once vibrantly strong, independent, and physically powerful; God had softened his heart so that he could receive grace and love.


This was a memory that popped into consciousness as I awakened from surgical anesthesia. Because I believe in the Communion of Saints and that in death lives change and do not end, was this a consoling visit from Ricardo to me in my time of deep pain, reminding me of God’s grace and love that continue to pour out to us in times of vulnerability and weakness?

As I make my desert retreats in the Owens Valley and Death Valley of California, I carry with me prayers for current parishioners who are enduring debilitating deep pain. I continue to be visited by the spirits of deceased parishioners, with whom I had frequently shared holy communion in their time of pain and physical struggle. Like Ricardo, they come to me in a spirit of gratitude for hands held in the Lord’s Prayer and open hands receiving the Body of Christ. I thank God for the privilege of fifty-five years of priesthood with these souls.


As Ricardo saw and carried his son through the shark-infested waters of Cuba to a new life of freedom, I carry our disabled son Erik in my soul in his ongoing daily struggles for life with a debilitating seizure disorder.

Deep physical pain and the desert are connected because both force us into a spiritual landscape of exposure, stripping, helplessness, and a radical encounter with what is real.


For those of us who have had penetrating, intense pain, short-term or chronic, the desert is not a metaphor. Walking in vast emptiness is an experience of being reduced to essentials. Deep pain, like the blue cloud I experienced, does the same thing inside our bodies.


We all carry a false self that we project into our world that embraces distraction, comfort, and illusion. The desert can strip that away, as does deep physical pain. The props holding up our egos collapse, and we are left with what is true and real.

The desert can expose my body to heat, cold, thirst, and silence. Pain exposes my body to its own limits, fragility, and fear. This vulnerability is the doorway to God.

The desert and deep pain force us into the present moment. In the desert wilderness, there is no past or future, only the immediate demands of survival. Remembering the time when the surgeon pressed on the hernia for twenty minutes, that kind of deep pain collapses time. Pain and desert silence pull us into now, this present moment, this present breath.

In the desert, distractions fade away, and God’s Presence is real. In pain, the same thing happens.

Both the desert and pain become thresholds for encounters with the Holy One, whose entryway is through desperate need and vulnerability. Both are landscapes where the loving, compassionate Presence is recognized as being with us at all times.

References

Nouwen, Henri. Turn My Mourning into Dancing. New York: Thomas Nelson, 2004.

[1] Nouwen, Henri. Turning My Mourning into Dancing, 15.

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Three O’Clock in the Morning

Posted on May 2, 2026 by fatherbrad1971

“I woke before dawn, the whole world asleep, and felt myself held in a clarity I could not name.”[1]


My eyes opened suddenly in the dark bedroom, snapping me out of deep sleep. As the call of nature drew my old body to the bathroom, a clear inner voice commanded: “Contact Jerry. Call Jerry.”


I was familiar with Jerry. His family always sat in the second pew on the right, and I had not seen them for several Sundays. The clock read 3 a.m. I wrote on a yellow sticky note, “Call Jerry,” and went back to bed.

In the morning, before breakfast and coffee, I called Jerry’s home. He was in the ICU at St. Joseph’s Hospital. “Please come.”  With a peanut butter sandwich in my left hand and sipping coffee, I rush through rain slick street, red light signals most of the way, I   made my way through security to the ICU waiting room. The faces of Jerry’s family lit up when they saw me. Jerry had a sudden respiratory attack. His condition was grave.

Jerry’s wife Nancy grabbed my hand, guiding me into the ICU room with their son and daughter. I stood before Jerry, looking down at his sleeping face. Placing my right hand on his head, I prayed in silence. Opening a vile of the Oil of the Sick, I anointed his forehead with the sign of the cross, saying “Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.” Dipping more oil on my index finger I anointed the back of each hand, saying “May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.” Jerry’s hands were ice cold with parchment-thin skin. Death was coming soon.


I invited the family to join me on the sides of the hospital bed, praying the Lord’s Prayer, slowly, with tears. Finally, I made the sign of the cross over Jerry, praying this final end-of-life prayer, the commendatio animae: “Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the almighty Father who created you, in the name of Jesus Christ, the son of the living God who suffered for you, in the name of the Holy Spirit who was poured out upon you. May you live in peace this day, may your home be with God in Zion, with Mary the Virgin Mother of God, with Joseph, and all the angels and saints.”



Whatever holy Presence that awakened me at 3 a.m. that morning: Thank you! Thank you for the great privilege of being with Jerry and his family. For over fifty years of my priesthood, this early morning voice has held my respectful attention.


I shared this experience with my Spiritual Director, Father Eamon O’Gorman, who informed me that the 3 a.m. early morning hour is a thin place, a time of transitions, common to desert mystics, monastics, and spiritual writers.

That night, I lay in bed praying the monastic service of Compline from the Breviary. It begins with confession, an examination of my conscience. I go through the past day, beginning with Jerry and his family, remembering the encounters I have had with each person I met. I see the face of a delivery person with whom I was impatient at Whole Foods. I listened impatiently to one of Jan’s long stories, regretting I was not fully present. I give all of that over to the Lord.

I read out loud the psalms which sing of God’s protection and a caution to be vigilant. Monastics and faithful souls have prayed Compline in earlier centuries when the darkness was fearful. Now I can get up and turn on the bedroom light if I hear a strange sound outside. In the darkness, I lift up my own fears: the fear of Erik dying suddenly. The fear that I would die and leave his care to Janice on her own. The fear of disapproval from people who are dear to me.

There is a hymn that speaks our fears of the night and the hope that the light of Christ brings:

“Now in the fading light of day, Maker of All,

To you we pray that in your ever watchful love you guard and guide us from above.

Help and defend us through the night. Danger and terror put to flight.

Never let evil has its way Preserve us for another day.”

As I pray this service I feel as if God is tucking me in for the night. These prayers also prepare me for the end of this life. The final prayer is: “Grant us a peaceful night and perfect end.”

I have this memory of a common prayer service in early morning darkness.


Mount Calvary Monastery, an Episcopal Benedictine community, was based within an old Spanish hacienda, high in the mountains above Montecito, California. It burned to the ground in a horrific fire about ten years ago. Throughout each day there were scheduled prayer services in the chapel. Around 3 a.m. a bell rang. Shuffling feet walked past my cell.


I joined the monks as we processed down the dark hallway to the chapel, shoes squeaking on the polished wooden floor. Within the dimly lit chapel, and with dark shadows in the corners, two candles burned beside the lectern. Each white-robed monk had a personal chair. One ancient brother pulled the hood up over his bald head in the cold morning. We began in silence, as a Santa Ana wind blew down from the mountains, rattling the heavy Spanish tiles on the roof. Behind the Holy Table a huge glass window revealed the night sky and twinkling city lights of Ventura miles away.

Religious service and monk choir. Heiligenkreuz Abbey, Austria


The silence was broken by the lone voice of a monk who chanted one of the psalms for the day. The other monks soon joined in. The monks chanted from memory. They prayed all one-hundred-fifty psalms every week.

The pace was slow in this extended prayer service, including many psalms, scripture readings, collects (short prayers) and litany. I pray from the Breviary alone at home, sometimes falling asleep. Praying with these monks at 3 a.m., there was a synergistic energy within this well-prayed in place.

One of the monks told me:

“This early hour is uniquely open to divine communication because the world is silent and the heart undefended. It is a time when the veil between the physical and spiritual worlds is thinnest.”




Across religious traditions, mystics have described these early hours as liminal spaces, where intuition and divine presence break through. It is a kind of holy wake-up call, inviting us to draw close to the Lord and be open to spiritual messages.


The early desert fathers and mothers were the inspiration for the monastic hours of prayer, the Liturgy of the Hours, that we have today.


Saint Anthony the Great (251 AD–356 AD) is known as the Father of All Monks. We learn about his life of prayer from Anthanasius’ Life of Anthony. Athanasius placed Anthony in the Eastern Desert of Egypt, first living in tombs, then in an abandoned Roman fort, and finally, in his old age, in a cave on Mount Colzim near the Red Sea.


Anthony prayed on a rocky cliff outside his cell-cave in the early morning. The cold desert night was silent, except for the wind moving across rocks, deep darkness, and a vast, open sky above, thick with stars.

This is the primordial landscape where Anthony’s soul was stripped bare before God. Anthony kept watch through the night, standing or sitting in prayer, lifting his hands, and struggling against demonic thoughts and temptations. He wrapped his cloak tightly around his body and prayed aloud the psalms that he knew by heart, speaking slowly and rhythmically.

As the interior demons attacked him, he called out: “Lord, help,” “Have mercy,” and “You are my light.”


This was the hour when the desert is most silent and the boundary between the inner and outer wilderness is thin. Anthony waited for the first hint of morning light, knowing that God had been with him through the night.


The desert mystics nurtured these hours of prayer, and Benedict of Nursia, a sixth-century Italian monk, developed them into the canonical hours we have today in the Liturgy of the Hours. You and I can pray these hours today from iPhone apps like iBreviary and Universalis.


As I approach my 81st birthday, I have come to welcome the call of nature in the early hours as potential encounters with the holy Presence.

James Hillman, in his book The Force of Character: And the Lasting Life, asks: What is nature’s wisdom and intent with our aging bodies having to endure interrupted sleep and the call of nature? We lie on our beds trying to go back to sleep. We can be visited by demons, as Saint Anthony experienced. Only in this case it can be unwanted fear, threatening shadows, and other dark spirits that normally do not bother us in the daylight. In the dark, we must deal with them.

Monks understand that true spiritual work with God happens through prayer, especially during Vigil prayers performed at night, when such deep connection can only occur in darkness.


Father Ron Rolheiser writes:

“Monks have secrets worth knowing, and nature eventually teaches them to us, whether we want the lesson or not. Nature eventually turns us all into monks. Our aging bodies eventually become a monastic cell within which our souls deepen, mellow, and mature, like wines being seasoned in cracked old barrels.”[2]


In another 3 a.m. event, the voice and presence of God was close, and I spoke out loud: “You know me! You really know me.” A real, holy Presence is with me.


I am lying on my back, staring at the ceiling in the early morning darkness. “Lord Jesus, night demons visit me with memories of past sins and people I have wounded. They can pull me down into a dismal place where I am stuck and you seem far away. I know now that you are always with me. Thank you for your grace and love that carries me through those nights. Thank you for your prompting voice that guides me on the holy path as your priest and servant. Amen.


Resources:

Merton, Thomas. Learning to Love: Exploring Solitude and Freedom. New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 1997.

Saint Athanasius. St. Antony of the Desert. Charlotte, NC: Tan Books, 2010.

Steindl-Rast, David. The Music of Silence. Berkeley, CA: Ulysses Press, 2022.

Hillman, James. The Force of Nature: And the Lasting Life. New York: Ballantine Books, 2000.

Rolheiser OMI, Ronald. On Praying the Hours. February 9, 1997.

[1] Merton, Thomas. Learning to Love, Journals, Vol. 6, 254.

[2] Rolheiser OMI, Ronald. “A Visit from the Goddess of Light.” July 14, 2014.

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Walking with Jesus into the Lenten Desert

Posted on February 10, 2026 by fatherbrad1971

I have returned from a week-long preLent retreat in the Mojave Desert. As we prepare for our Lenten journey with the Lord, may I share the following as an invitation for your companionship as we walk and pray together:

As Jesus invites us to walk with him in his desert journey, the desert in Scripture and Christian tradition is not only a vast emptiness but a place of testing, purification, and encounter—where distractions fall away and the heart’s deepest desires are revealed. Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness model a pattern of withdrawal, confrontation with temptation, and renewed clarity of mission.

Five core lessons the desert teaches.

  • Reliance on God over self-sufficiency. In the desert Jesus fasts and refuses to turn stones into bread, showing that the spiritual life depends on God’s word and presence, not merely on satisfying immediate needs.
  • Honest confrontation with temptation. The desert exposes the subtle ways power, comfort, and fear can seduce us. Lent invites us to name these temptations and practice resistance with Christ’s help.
  • Embracing spiritual dryness as growth. Desert saints and modern witnesses report long seasons of feeling God’s absence. The desert teaches that consolation is not only the proof of God’s presence and that dryness can deepen trust.
  • Simplicity that reveals priorities. Stripping away noise—media, busyness, consumer comforts—helps you see what truly shapes your heart and vocation.
  • Formation and mission. Time in the desert prepares and clarifies purpose. Jesus returns from the wilderness ready to begin his public ministry. Our Lenten desert should similarly orient us toward loving action.

Practical ways to live these lessons for Lent.

  • Short fasts with intention. Choose one comfort to set aside (snack, social media, extra screen time) and replace it with a 10–15-minute prayer of Scripture reading.
  • Daily examen in the desert mode. Each evening, name one moment you were tempted, one moment you felt God’s presence, and one small step you will take tomorrow.
  • Silence blocks. Schedule 15-30 minutes weekly of phone-off silence—walk, sit, or journal—so interior longings surface without distraction.
  • Scripture memorization. Keep a desert verse (e.g., Matthew 4:1-11; Deuteronomy 8:2-3) on a card and read it when you feel unsettled.
  • Service as fruit. Let the desert lead to concrete mercy: a short act of kindness each week that flows from what you discover in prayer.

Short prayer to enter the desert

Place your hand on your heart and pray slowly: Lord, lead me into the quiet where I can see myself and you more clearly. Give me courage to face temptation, patience in dryness, and a heart ready for your mission.

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An Invitation to a Desert Advent Retreat

Posted on November 13, 2025 by fatherbrad1971

It was a dark and stormy night. Really. It was. Four days earlier, angry Santa Ana winds came in like a freight train, knocking down ancient trees and power lines. Single-digit humidity created anxiety about wildfires. Fire stations positioned trucks and emergency units outside of the station ready to go. Last night, a frigid cold system slid down from the Arctic, bringing welcome rain to Orange County, California, and snow in the mountains.

On the first Sunday evening of Advent, four Sundays before Christmas, Erik (age three, before the encephalitis), Katie (age ten), Janice, and I gathered around our dining room table, wearing hooded sweatshirts or jackets to fight off the sudden chill. I remember we made an Advent wreath: a metal circle holder with four sockets for candles: three purple candles and one rose candle for the Third Sunday of Advent. I had to shop early as the Lutherans tended to corner the candle market. We decorated the metal base with juniper branches and berries from our front yard. As we lit the first purple candle, we turned off all the lights in the room. Erik always tries to blow out the candles. I prayed the Collect for Advent:

“Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life, in which thy Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Ghost, one God, now and forever. Amen.[1]

The tradition of the Advent wreath originated with German Lutherans in the 16th century. Its modern usage originated in 1839 by Pastor Johann Hinrich Wichern. His ministry was to the urban poor. To guide children who were impatient about waiting for Christmas, he made a ring of wood with candles. Every morning, a small candle was lit, and a larger candle was used on Sundays.

That night in our home seemed unusually turbulent. Wind tossed our patio furniture around and, in the morning, we found a chair on the roof. Thick raindrops fell forcefully on the roof and splattered against the windows.

Katie opened the first window in the Advent calendar made of cardboard, with twenty-five perforated windows. She would stiffen up in her chair to sit up straight and with a solemn voice read the Bible passage. In those days, the calendars came from Lutheran Germany. Each window had a symbol relating to the nativity scene and a Bible passage about the prophecies of the coming of the Messiah.

Today, as a counterpoint to our family Advent rituals, Amazon.com markets different Advent calendars, set to start on December first as a secular countdown to Christmas. The varieties of calendars include:

*Lindt Chocolate Candy Calendar

*Brain-teaser Puzzles Calendar

*National Geographic Gemstone Calendar

*Organic Tee Sampler Calendar

*WWII Toy Tanks Calendar

*Fishing Lures Calendar

*Whiskey Sampler Calendar

  1.  

Our family had a palpable sense of beginning a sacred time. The world was already spinning out Christmas music and intense holiday advertising. We lived in that world too. Every night at dinner, when we opened another window in the Advent Calendar, reading the scripture passage and lighting a candle, we stepped back into the hidden reality that nurtures and sustains all things, the compassionate God of love, who invites us to enter into the silent, holy darkness to wait and contemplate God’s coming into our world.

For thirty years I have stepped away for a few days from the busy calendar of Church Advent liturgies and activities, traveling to the desert landscape of the Eastern Sierra near Mount Whitney for an Advent retreat.

The desert invites you and me to patient waiting and attentive listening in the wide, quiet vastness of wilderness, where small stirrings of hope and repentance can become luminous. With careful preparation, respectful attention to the land, and a gently structured rhythm of prayer, a retreat in the desert can deepen your Advent expectancy and open you to the nearer presence of the Christ who comes.

What could an Advent desert retreat look like for you? I will share with you some of the preparations and rhythms that have been helpful to me. What has been central is a deepening attentiveness to Christ’s coming into the world and into my heart by cultivating silence, receptivity, and contemplative waiting. A desert retreat works best for people who already have a basic spiritual practice and can tolerate extended silence; people who are seeking contemplative immersion rather than performance of tasks and spiritual exercises. We must be willing to reduce our digital contact, with the intention of setting aside a rhythm of regular times for personal prayer, simple routines, and inner honesty before God.

Advent in the desert will mean late November days and most of December, when the weather is cooler. While my experiences retreating in the Eastern Sierra and Death Valley have been blessed with mild days and cold nights, sudden rainstorms and snow are not unusual. Be prepared.

You may choose to camp at a campground or RV park in the area. In my old age, I have “camped out” at the historic Dow Villa Motel in Lone Pine, California. Room 20 is where John Wayne stayed when he was making movies in the nearby Alabama Hills.

I am up at sunrise and spend the entire day outside until the sun sets behind Mount Whitney to the west, spending the day in places less than two miles from Highway 395 in case I have problems. After breakfast at the Alabama Hills Café, I drive a short distance into the Alabama Hills, west of Lone Pine. You may recognize this landscape from old western movies that were filmed here; most recently, Iron Man. Jumbled piles of immense volcanic rocks create niches and caves. I enter a cave, sit on a flat rock, and watch the morning sun coming out of Death Valley and illuminating the Sierra Nevada mountains. I pray Morning Prayer from the Book of Common Prayer. At home, I would find the app for the Prayerbook or the Roman Catholic Breviary, but since we want to step away from the digital, I go with a hard copy. Silence captivates me as I lose track of time. I go for a hike in the open desert for an hour or more. Animal tracks in the loose sand speak of a busy night for desert creatures.

Alabama Hills, photo by Bobak Ha’Eri, 2007.

 I take a bathroom break at the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor Center at the junction of US Highway 395 and State Route 136. There are tables outside under an old willow tree for lunch. The vista is amazing, with Mount Whitney and the Sierra Nevada to the west and Death Valley to the east.

After lunch, I travel east on Highway 136 to the ghost town of Swansea. Across the highway are undulating sand dunes on the shoreline of ancient Owens Lake. Finding a deep cleft between high sand dunes, I sit in the silence, listening to the wind and the tiny sounds of sand crystals tumbling toward me. I pray Noonday Prayers from the Book of Common Prayer. The daily prayer settings share ritualized words and psalms that prepare us to enter more deeply into contemplative prayer. Phases from a psalm can stick with me all day, rising to consciousness as I am walking in the desert. I bring with me a printout of short scripture readings on prophecies of the coming of the Messiah. I choose one of them, reading it aloud slowly.[2]

Owens Lake has been revived with new waterscapes, creating mini lakes, which welcome thousands of migratory birds. Close to the sand dunes is a road, leading out into the lakebed and a maze of trails. I park the car and begin a prayer walk toward the Plover Wing Plaza, a metallic land art project.

I begin a walking meditation on the trail. I am aware of the pressure and tension on my feet and legs, my hands hanging down, and the weight of my shoulders, back and pelvis. I slowly shift my body weight from left to right and notice how this affects my sense of balance. I shift body weight to my left side, sensing how the right side feels lighter. I shift weight to my right side and allow my awareness to move through muscle to bone, noticing what is hard and soft, tough, and flexible. I walk with bare awareness, not evaluating the experience. I am not looking around, only a few feet ahead. Thoughts come and go. When I first tried this, there was resistance, and Busy Mind tried to take control. I learned to let this voice pass through.[3]

Author at meditation walk, Owens Lake, 2018.

And now I have arrived at the Plover Wing Plaza, finding rest on a metallic bench bearing cutouts of images of the snowy plover, a protected bird that has nests at the lake. I gaze at the snow-covered mountains and the slow-motion movement of birds as they land on a mini lake. I see a clear reflection of the Sierra Nevada mountains in the pond near me. Grateful that there is no wind today.

My retreats are three days long. By the second day, the Slowing has quieted the critical voices that haunt me about unfinished tasks at church or home, anxiety about Erik’s health, and recollection of people in the past whom I have hurt or disappointed. I am being absorbed into this landscape as God’s loving presence awakens a holy longing for communion with the Lord.

The sun sets behind Mount Whitney around 4:30 pm. For a few minutes, the Sierra to the west and the Inyo Mountains behind me become rose-colored, turning purple, then black. In the twilight the pitch-black mountains look like cutouts in the star-filled night sky.

I return to Lone Pine for a simple meal of soup and bread at the Grill Restaurant as a curtain of chilly night air descends over the village. In the morning, it will be 32 degrees. After dinner, I return to my room to pray Evening Prayer and write in a journal. Gratitude flows for this day and being in the desert place.

 If it is not too cold, I put on a heavy jacket and walk around the perimeter of the village of Lone Pine. This has been a good time to pray the Examen of Conscience, composed by Ignatius Loyola: For what am I grateful? When did I experience the presence of God? When did I distance myself from the Lord? Where is the Lord leading me tomorrow? I walk toward Lone Pine High School and turn toward the Inyo Mountains. The Lone Pine Paiute Reservation appears on my right. At the end of the road are the barns, shelters and pastures for the Future Farmers of America, an award-winning agricultural program managed by my friend Brenda Lacy. As I walk by the fence, curious goats press against the wire fence, bleating. I pass by open rangeland and imagine the wild creatures out there hunting for prey in the dark. I stop to look up into the night sky. Slowly, my eyes adjust and focus on the stars. As the minutes pass, I can see more detail. The Milky Way. Silence.

If you are now considering a desert retreat this Advent, I will share with you some advice about preparation and self-care. When I decide on the days I will take for the retreat, I black them off my calendar. Events and demands will creep up, trying to erode this plan. Be strong and hold firm to these precious days.

*Prep your car for the journey. Leave an itinerary with a responsible contact and set check-in times.

*Have a basic first aid kit and knowledge of the nearest emergency services.

*Have at least two liters of water per day for yourself and emergency food in your car. *Wear sturdy walking shoes.

*When I park in an off-road location, I usually leave a note on my car describing where I am hiking and when I plan to return.

*You will want layered garments for the wide temperature swings in the desert, a hat, and sun protection. *Safety items can include personal medications, a flashlight, and a whistle.

*You may want to bring prayer aids such as a pocket Bible, printed Advent scriptures, small icons or stones, and a rosary or prayer beads.

An Advent desert retreat embraces the holiday season’s paradox: patient waiting held within a landscape of stark clarity. As you and I are grounded in liturgical rhythms, a desert Advent retreat can reset longings, sharpen hope, and release invitations to live with renewed attention for the ways God is coming into our hearts and souls. Deus nobiscum sit.

[1] Book of Common Prayer, 159.

[2] Suggested Advent scriptures and texts: Isaiah 40, Isaiah 9, Psalm 25 and 63, Luke 1-2.

[3] Karelius, Brad. Desert Spirituality for Men, 21.

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Ancient Paiute Waterways

Posted on November 7, 2025 by fatherbrad1971

“The whole valley was our garden.”[1]

Harry Williams, Bishop Paiute Tribe

I am driving south on Highway 395 in the eastern Sierra. The fiery heat of August assaults my car. 105 degrees: hot windows, wheezing AC system, imaginary hot pokers torturing my sinuses in the extremely dry air. After driving for four hours, I have to get out somewhere and walk the numbness out of my legs. South of Olancha, moving through an ancient volcanic field, I find shade within a cleft of granite and basalt boulders. I park the car on a sandy turnoff. With a cold bottle of Crystal Geyser water, I walk slowly into the desert heat. Corse sand and brittle, seared brush crunch with each footstep. Heading toward a withered willow, I study the blow-torched landscape. Over there is a dark red lava rock. Perfect for our garden. I reach down to touch, almost burning my hands. This land is on fire! A few minutes later, I return to my car with a hot bottle of Crystal Geyser water.

Returning to the eastern Sierra in March, hiking a trail west of the village of Independence, winter rains soaked the ground. A vintage year of wildflowers is popping out of Mother Earth.

I imagine Mother Earth in this sacred land of the Owen Valley Paiute tribes. For over a century, Los Angeles Water and Power has siphoned off the abundant water from rivers and snowmelt toward southern California cities, like an industrial vampire. Expanding geothermal plants mined groundwater resources. Over time, the only potential for a living landscape appears in months of brief rain, birthing fragile wildflowers.

There was a time, two hundred years ago, when Mother Earth vibrantly blessed the land and the people with gushing streams and rivers that flowed all year, channeled into a sophisticated system of irrigation dikes.

For the Paiute people (Nüümü), the Owens Valley is a “place of flowing waters” (Payahüünadü). They are custodians of this land.

What was life like for the Owens Valley Paiute?

This was not an arid wasteland before the Euro-Americans. The Paiutes managed a water-rich landscape, directing snowmelt over broad floodplain gardens. These ditches and seepage networks infused local groundwater, multiplied edible plants, and structured seasonal lifeways, as “to bloom as the rose,” according to local Paiute Harry Williams.[2]

These were extensive and sophisticated irrigation networks, which focused on recharging groundwater rather than rapid flows. Raising the water table sustained marshy gardens used to cultivate wild seed plants and tubers. This attention to the sustainability of groundwater supported riparian habitats for fish and waterfowl.

Location and extent of irrigation on Baker Creek, near Big Pine, CA, as indicated by Steward map 1933, redrawn by Lawton et. al. 1974.

The Paiute method of water management created short dams, graded channels and alternating northern and southern plots. Only one area was irrigated in a season. An elected tribal leader, Tuvaiju, used an irrigating tool known as a pavado to direct the flow of water. Productivity was enhanced by encouraging shallow, widespread wetting of soil.

Remains of Paiute Waterworks, PBS SoCal, Clarissa Wei

In her academic paper, Recovering Cultural Memory: Irrigation Systems of the Owens Valley Paiute Indians, Jenna Cavelle writes:

“The tuvaiju was an elected position carried out each spring, and the commencement of irrigation was declared by the ‘district headman’ and approved by the tribe members. The story follows that about twenty-five men assisted the tuvaiju in constructing a dam consisting of boulders, sticks, and mud. Once the water was released into the ditch, the tuvaiju watered the plot using small ditches and dams consisting of mud, sod, and brush. Steward’s mention of an irrigating tool known as a pavado, or a pole 8 feet in length by 4 inches in diameter, suggests that the tuvaiju utilized this instrument in some way to direct the water into the ditch network.”[3]

Not only was this water management practical. It was social and ceremonial. There was no private ownership. The land was communal, requiring kinship obligations.

With the arrival of Euro-American miners, ranchers and settlers in the mid-19th century, land tenure and water access were altered dramatically. Settlers seized Paiute ditches. Conflict and forced removal of the Paiutes took away their control of these irrigation systems. With the exportation of Owens River water by Los Angeles Water and Power via the aqueduct, surface flows were diverted. The wondrous and effective system of indigenous irrigation networks and gardens became an archaeological remnant.

However, there is now a collaborative movement by the Owens Valley Paiute tribes for mapping projects, ethnographic interviews, and an intensive review of 19th-century surveys. Using GPS and GIS, tribal elders have traced ancient ditches, confirming the physical extent of these networks.

In the 1930s, anthropologist Julian H. Steward did extensive research on the Owens Valley Paiute. In Steward’s 1933 book, Ethnography of the Owens Valley Paiute, he provided important information about Paiute irrigation practices. He found a rock art symbol that could represent the system of water irrigation created by the Paiute people:

Rock art etching of Paiute waterworks network

Paiute tribal member Harry Williams shared in an interview on PBS:

“I always thought (the symbol) signified the ditches. I grew up playing in a bunch of them, but I didn’t know what they were. They say it over at Standing Rock, and it’s true: water is life. It creates life. Our ancient ditches made the groundwater rise. They were so flat that the water seeped in easily and raised the groundwater levels.”[4]

Harry Williams spent his childhood days exploring the network of channels, which could extend sixty square miles in the valley. As he grew older, mapping and protecting these sacred waterworks of his people became an obsession. Diverting the waters for the purpose of irrigation long before the Euro-Americans came should be proof that the Nüümü were the rightful owners of the water.

After Harry died, his son Noah carried on the fight for water rights against the LADWP. A research paper in the Journal of California and Great Basin Anthropology, using radiocarbon dating, contended that the Nüümü had been irrigating the Owens Valley for more than 400 years.

Taking a prophetic social stance, Jenna Cavelle writes

“…it has been demonstrated that Paiute ditch networks were an integral part of their culture and survival. Restoration of these networks would return a stolen water source to the Paiute and also commemorate a part of Native American history that has been largely forgotten. I recommend that the remnant ditch networks be mapped using geographical information systems (GIS) and global positioning systems (GPS) technologies to provide current, defensible evidence of the networks in the landscape. I further recommend an extensive investigation into Paiute Indian water rights to determine if these networks would provide them with ‘first user’ rights.”[5]

Using Steward’s map of the old irrigation networks, I walked into the landscape near Birch Creek. Here, it seems that the fragile skin of Mother Earth continues to be revived within the remains of these indigenous waterworks. These so-called archeological remnants, hidden within lush vegetation, are silently working, reviving hopes for the recovery of Paiute custodial care of the water.

Resources

Chalfant, W. A. The Story of Inyo. Rev. ed. Bishop, CA: Chalfant Press, 1933

Reisner, M. Cadillac Desert. New York, NY: Viking Penguin, Inc., 1986.

Steward, J. 1933, Ethnography of the Owens Valley Paiute. Berkeley: University of California Publications in American Archaeology and Ethnology, Volumn 33, No. 3, 233-350.

Walton, J. Western Times and Water Wars: State, Culture, and Rebellion in California. London, England: University of California Press, 1992.

Varner, Gary R. The Owens Valley Paiute: A Cultural History. Morrisville, NC: Lulu Press, 2009.

[1] How the Owens Valley Paiute Made The Desert Bloom | Tending the Wild | Desert Escapes | PBS SoCal

[2] Ibid.

[3] Cavelle, Jenna. Recovering Cultural Memory: Irrigation Systems of the Owens Valley Paiute Indians. Berkeley: University of California. College Writing Programs 150AC, Fall 2011.

[4] Wei, Clarissa. How the Owens Valley Paiute Made the Desert Bloom”. PBS, December 15, 2016.

[5] Cavelle, Ibid, 13

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Seeking the North Star

Posted on August 6, 2025 by fatherbrad1971

Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice…saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”[1]

Book of Isaiah


November 1960. I stand on top of a desert mountain gazing at the remains of the old silver mining town Calico, five-hundred feet below. Next to me stands Don, the advisor to our Explorer-Boy Scout troop. Our group camp is behind us, sheltered within a cluster of granite boulders. Smoke from a sagebrush and mesquite campfire drifts towards us. The black night sky, devoid of big city lights, reveals thousands of stars. It is difficult to identify the constellations because there are so many stars. A strange sight appears on the northern horizon: undulating waves of pale green, pink, vivid red, purple, and blue lights. What is happening?


“The Northern Lights, the Aurora Borealis,” reveals Don. “This is a rare treat. Don’t see them this far south. What’s happening is that charged particles from the Sun are colliding with gases in the upper atmosphere of Earth. The agitated atoms are glowing. Notice how they pulsate and streak across the sky. “Where is the North Star? (Don is always testing us).

EIELSON AIR FORCE BASE, Alaska — The Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, shines above Bear Lake here Jan. 18. The lights are the result of solar particles colliding with gases in Earth’s atmosphere. Early Eskimos and Indians believed different legends about the Northern Lights, such as they were the souls of animals dancing in the sky or the souls of fallen enemies trying to rise again. (U.S. Air Force photo by Senior Airman Joshua Strang)

Hard to see through all those other stars. (I point. ) There it is.

OK. Now get out your pocket compass and see if you were correct.

I hold the weathered official Boy Scout compass in my hand, open the cover. The directional arrow vacillates andquivers. I was correct.

Why does the arrow go back and forth?

It is pointing to magnetic North which is not True North. There’s a magnetized needle inside the facing. Probably made of steel, iron, or cobalt. It aligns with the earth’s magnetic field. It is mounted on a pivot so that it can rotate freely. It’s effected by unseen forces and geography. It’s not wrong, but it is not constant.

What is True North?

I would say it is fixed and celestial, anchored in the geographic axis of the earth. It can be complicated to find, so you need a map or calculator.

Our dialogue stops abruptly as the wonders of this dark night illuminated by pulsating northern lights captivate our total attention.


This desert camping memory popped into consciousness as I read about the northern lights returning again as far south as Utah and northern Arizona this year, 2024. I found my old official Boy Scout compass hidden in my sock drawer this afternoon. Magnetic north. True North.

I am a spiritual seeker holding this pocket compass, watching the quivering needle until it settles. In this world of many voices who speak shifting truths and the magnetic pull of social movements this way and that way, I seek something fixed, something deeper than my natural instincts and the influences of culture. I yearn for true North.


As the Earth’s magnetic field bends and sways, so can my faith and convictions. I want to walk faithfully toward the loving presence I have come to know, Jesus, the North Star.


Every winter and spring for several years I camped in the Mojave Desert with the Boy Scouts-Explorers. Only one hour and a half drive from our home in Pasadena, the desert became a welcoming and enchanting place. Secret caves, old gold mines, and desert creatures like jumping spiders, scorpions, kangaroo rats, and bats, indigenous pictographs and ruins, and old pioneer rock cabins reminded me this was not an empty wilderness.


Decades later, as I progressed through a period of depression and struggled for faith during the health crises of our son Erik, the desert became a healing refuge.


1990. After several years of psychotherapy with Dr. Bob Phillips, he sent me across the street from his office in Orange, California, to the Center for Spiritual Direction of the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Orange. My psychiatrist gave me a medical prescription for spiritual direction, leading me to Sister Jeanne Fallon CSJ.

I began spiritual direction with Sister Jeanne at a small cottage next to the Mother House of the convent. The house was surrounded by a garden of roses and fruit trees. The sisters had a gift for creating welcoming environments, both to guests and to the Holy Spirit. Our first session began in a small room, where we sat on straight-backed chairs facing each other. She was enthusiastic about beginning her new ministry of spiritual direction after ten long years as a missionary in Papua New Guinea. I remember feelings of resistance as I encountered a five-hundred-year-old Ignatian curriculum. However, in my resistance I sensed the presence of my psychiatrist Dr. Bob, imagining him sitting in the corner saying to me, “Brad, as soon as you stop trying to run the Universe and you let God do God’s work in you, the better your life will be.”

 Sister Jeanne led me through a year-long experience with the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius Loyola. I meditated for forty-five minutes each day on different Bible passages which focused on the prophesies of the coming of a Messiah and the life, ministry, Passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Sister Jean encouraged me to use my imagination and enter into the Biblical scenes, asking God to open my heart to what these words were saying to me personally.


At this point, I had already been a priest for twenty years. Preaching and teaching the Christian faith with my parishioners was similar to my college teaching of philosophy. Exegesis of the scripture readings for a Sunday, the context and meaning of the passage at the time of Jesus and application to our own world today. I was missing engagement with the deepest part of myself. I had no spiritual compass.


It was a terrible time for our family in those days. Erik’s life hung by a thread as we lived our lives at hospitals and emergency rooms. Sister Jeanne had compassionate patience with me as she encouraged me to trust in the process of what the Spiritual Exercises could offer me.


As I meditated on the scriptures and met with Sister Jeanne for reflection each week, I noticed a shift from head to heart. As I asked Jesus to open the meaning of these scriptures and to reveal himself to me more deeply, the readings no longer invited analysis. The words appeared as if revealed for the first time to speak to me about my life with God. Jesus was not a historical memory but a living presence inviting me into a deeper relationship. Sister Jean replaced my old, weathered Boy Scout compass with a spiritual compass, recalibrating my life’s orientation toward the North Star, Jesus Christ.


A resource revealed by Ignatius Loyola and guided by Sister Jeanne is the Examen of Consciousness. It provides a daily review of my life, stabilizing that quivering compass indicator more clearly on Jesus, the North Star.

Remember the World War Two naval movies and documentaries? We see officers using plotting boards to track the ship’s movement and plan maneuvers, helping them to visualize their position and the ship’s course over time. The Examen is a memory map of marker points that look back on your life and the past day, the grace-filled crossroads, when God’s amazing grace was there for you at critical moments. Mapping those marker points reminds you that you have not been travelling alone, without a spiritual compass, without the companionship of the Lord. Jesus has been with you.

Nautical Compass, Jacek Halicki 2016


Therefore, you and I can look ahead with confident hope that God will continue to be there with us. Gratitude for the amazing grace we have already received is foundational to our hope for the future. Otherwise, without gratitude, we have only wishful thinking.


I pray this Examen Prayer each night, reviewing the day that has passed, paying attention when I sensed that God was with me and the other times when I felt separated from God. I am reminded of God’s forgiveness.

Here is a description of this five-part meditation, thanks to Father James Martin SJ.[2]


Prepare: I invited God to be with me now as I pray. In gratitude, I recall two or three good things that happened today. I look back on good news, precious moments, perhaps an encounter in nature. I focus on thanking God. A caution: do not rush through this. Savor and relish this revisiting of events for which you are grateful.

  1. Ask for the grace to know your sins. As I look back on this day, where did I turn away from my true self, the deepest part of myself? Where did some curt remark or rudeness happen? Listen to your conscience and that deep voice leading you to be more loving. Do not beat up on yourself but own your need for God’s grace.
  2. Anthony de Mello said, “Be grateful for your sins. They are carriers of grace.”[3]
  3. Review your day. This is at the heart of the prayer. I imagine a video camera playing back my day, from when I first got up. I want to pay attention to where there was joy, confusion, conflict and moments of peace and love. Again, do not rush through this.
  4. Forgiveness. Ask God for forgiveness for anything sinful done during the day. Look for the opportunity to make amends.
  5. Ask for God’s help tomorrow. Close with a prayer.

Here in the desert, after several years of teenage camping trips, the vast empty spaces open my awareness that there is an eternal, loving Presence drawing me into love, peace, joy, and hope.


A trained spiritual director like Sister Jeanne Fallon, CSJ, can help you with your spiritual compass. Coming from an ancient Christian practice of deep listening, the spiritual director provides a non-judgmental space for you to reflect on the movements of God within your life.


Thomas Merton was a long-time spiritual director at his Trappist monastery in Kentucky. He described a spiritual director as an ambassador to the Spirit of Christ instead of a person prescribing specific actions.

Thomas Merton c. 1965. Merton Center


A spiritual director can remind you how Moses, Joshua, Elijah, and Elisha found their spiritual compass and how God can continue to guide you and me today. For forty years, I have found that regular monthly sessions with my spiritual director created accountability and spiritual friendship, encouraging me to continue my spiritual practices and desert retreats, keeping my focus on Jesus, the North Star.


I wrote this book as an invitation to you to make desert retreats and to explore the inner desert of your life. May the creatures and forces of nature I have encountered and the desert fathers and mothers I share with you become your own companions as we navigate our way deeper into the heart of Jesus.







[1] Isaiah 30;21 NEB.

[2] Martin, Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything, 95-100.ds

[3] De  Mello, Wellsprings, 227.

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Wild Friends

Posted on June 3, 2025 by fatherbrad1971

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way…As a man is, so he sees.[1]

William Blake


Perhaps you have noticed that even in the very lightest breeze you can hear the voice of the cottonwood tree; this we understand as prayer to the Great Spirit; for not only men, but all things and all beings pray to Him continually in differing ways.[2]

Black Elk


The northbound turnoff leads to the ghost highway of old 395, leading to the village of Olancha. A newly divided highway diverts traffic westward toward the Sierra Nevada mountains. As I cruise the old highway, a creepy feeling pricks the back of my neck. For decades, hundreds of 18-wheeler freighters and speeding passenger cars hell-bent for skiing at Mammoth Mountain whizzed by on this road. Today I could stand in the middle of the old highway and not see another car for an hour. Silence. A cold December wind blows off Owens Lake as a scrawny, grey coyote scurries to the middle of the road. I stopped the car, and we have a staring contest.


Driving slowly, I pass a straight line of old cottonwood trees. Back in the 1870s, a rancher used cut cottonwood branches to fence his land. Because of the high-water table, the fence took root, and cottonwood trees were resurrected from the old branches in situ.


I have been enchanted with these trees for years. They are the tallest trees in the Owens Valley, providing welcoming shade in the heat of summer. I know what it is: it is the sound of the rustling leaves that captivates me. I feel a deep communion with these trees, the Freemont Cottonwood. My favorite place for a rest stop is just ahead. A grove of cottonwoods shelters the Ranch House Café from ruthless winds that have been known to blow 18-wheelers off the highway.


As I arrive at the Ranch House Café, there are more goose bumps and bristling neck hairs. The café is closed and boarded up. Huge tumble weeds block the front door. Broken cottonwood branches crushed the rose garden. Another haunting scene. Not long ago, this was a highway oasis after a long drive. In the winter, skiers heading to Mammoth Mountain lined up outside the front door. My favorite table at a corner window gave me a view of thrashing winter storms outside, or cowboys loading Angus cattle up the ramp across the street, and the smell of the barbecue smoker preparing ribs and brisket for summer visitors.

Ranch House Cafe, Olancha, CA


A grove of cottonwood trees is still there next to the café. I always stop here to pray with the trees. The oldest of the trees, Grandfather, has fallen. Burn scars hint at a recent lightning strike.

Cottonwood Tree at Olancha


The ground is covered with broken branches and twigs. I pick up a dried cottonwood branch, rub my hand over the bark, finding bud scale scars, and lumpy knuckles, where leaves had once grown. With a cracking snap, I break the branch at that point. At the center of the opened branch is a rose-shaped, five-pointed star. This was the inner pith of the plant, transporting nutrients to emerging leaf buds. There is sacred symbolism here in my hand.
[3]

Nature writer Deb Mowry shares this:

“Dakota Native Americans tell a story of a little star who wanted to hear the sounds and songs of humans and hid in the cottonwood so as not to disturb the people as they worked. Cheyenne and Arapahoe also noticed the star. In their tradition, if the Spirit-Of-The-Night-Sky needs more stars, it calls upon the Wind Spirit, who blows and causes cottonwood twigs to break, releasing their stars to heaven.”
[4]

The students in my world religions class at Saddleback Community College in Mission Viejo, California, would have recognized this reflection as expressing “animism.” We studied together Native American and African tribal religions, once labeled as “primitive” religions by E. B. Taylor in his book Primitive Culture. Tylor contended that the beginnings of religion saw spirit presence in animals, plants, wells, rivers, and other landscape features.


Mary Frohlick, in her book, The Heart of the Heart of the World, reveals that this mindset is a problem. It looks upon indigenous spiritualities as primitive and immature. It looks upon the primal religions with eyes of Western dualism: spirit versus matter. This viewpoint focuses on belief, which is a “fixed statement of cognitive truth.”
[5]

Frohlich reports that current anthropology offers a postmodern reframing of animism as a “new animism.” This new animism is expressed in a thorough, fieldwork-based re-evaluation of indigenous spiritualities in order to understand better the vast diversity of ways in which their participants experientially engage in living.


Frohlich writes, “Indigenous communities whose survival depends on intimate daily participation in their local ecosystem develop ritualized customs of communication with the creatures and landscape features with which they are interdependent. This communication presumes a certain mutuality between human and other living and non-living beings.”[6]


Within this new animism, there is no longer a hierarchy of creatures in which humans are superior and dominant. Key words are kinship and interdependency. All creatures depend on their survival through a multitude of relationships with other creatures.

You can see that this is a shift from our mindset regarding created things as separate from us and beginning to see dynamic interconnections between us and the rest of the created world.


As a Religious Sister of the Sacred Heart (RSCL), Mary Frohlich draws us deeper into the spiritual heart of creation. She reinterprets the traditional Roman Catholic devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus by seeing it as a dynamic symbol that pulses at the very center of creation. She invites us to perceive the Sacred Heart of Jesus as the essential life-force that unites all beings, a heartbeat that resonates with every element of the earth and every creature within it.




There was a time when people experienced spiritual encounters in nature. Our modern minds have been trained to objectify the world as mechanical. We look on the natural world as an entity to itself, a milieu to be studied and observed, and push the mystical to the side.


Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor writes: “Each of us has a ‘buffered self’ trapped within our own minds and subjectivity, cut off from anything divine or transcendent. We long for transcendence, something that is beyond us. Enchantment is not hard to find; it is all around us.”[7]


I have been dissecting this dead cottonwood tree. There are scientific labels that specify a place within the Linnean botanical map. “Populus fremontii (Fremont’s cottonwood) is a large tree growing 39-115 feet in height with a wide crown, with a trunk up to four feet in diameter. The bark is smooth when young; becoming deeply fissured with whitish, cracked bark on old trees. The 1.2-2.8-inch-long leaves are cordate (heart-shaped) with an elongated tip, with white veins and coarse crenate teeth along the sides, glabrous to hairy, and often stained with milky resin. Autumn colors occur from October-November, mainly a bright yellow, also orange, rarely red.”[8]



I imagine the Hasidic Jewish mystic Martin Buber sitting next to me on this “dead” cottonwood tree. His book, I and Thou (Ich und Dich) describes his mystical encounter with a tree.


“I consider a tree. I can look on it as a picture: stiff column in a shock of light, or splash of green shot with the delicate blue and silver of the background. I can perceive it as movement: flowing veins on clinging, pressing pith, such of the roots, breathing of the leaves, ceaseless commerce with earth and air—and the obscure growth itself.”[9]


With my intense observations of the tree and the rose-shaped, five-pointed star within, this tree remains an object, an It.


Buber continues:

“It can, however, also come about, if I have both will and grace, that in considering the tree I become bound up in relation to it. The tree is now no longer It.”[10]


Buber contemplates this tree, fully present to him here and now. The separation between “It/that tree” and “Buber on the tree trunk” dissolves and for a brief moment they merge into One, in a place that is love—God’s place for you and me.


Buber is looking at you and me as he sits on this old tree, saying there are two ways to look at our existence: there is the I who looks creation and other persons as separate from us, and there is the I that looks at creation and other persons as Thou. This is a mystical connection without boundaries. Buber is helping us see that our life finds meaning in relationships. As we awaken to this I-and-thou connection with all creation, we are brought into deeper relationship with God.

A large crack, as the earth trembles. I fall backward off the tree. As I rise up to see what happened, a seismic break has separated the tree trunk, revealing a gaping wound, a rotting corpse, upon which thousands of brown beetles are feeding. Dust to dust, bark to bark, the giant tree slowly will turn into a pile of sawdust.


Spiritual writer Belden Lane shares a vision of the emerging future:

“Our entire culture is on the edge now of a huge leap in consciousness, leading us from a classical model of perceiving each other as strictly separate beings (subject and object, huma and tree) to a quantum model of knowing ourselves capable of being simultaneously subject and object, tree, and human. Inextricably bound in community.”[11]


As I step away from the dead cottonwood tree, this Grandfather tree, I notice several young, green cottonwood sprouts emerging from the roots of the tree. The rich humus of earth and the high water table will feed their growth. In a few years, the Ranch House Café will collapse. Scavengers will remove wood and other debris. This sacred grove of cottonwoods will continue into another century, resurrecting this place of prayer.




Resources:


Blake, William. Letters of William Blake. London, UK: Methuen and Company, 1907. P. 62.

Lane, Belden. “Trees and the Life of Prayer,” Spiritus 25 (2025):66.

Buber, Martin. I and Thou.

Taylor, Charles. Sources of the Self.

Frohlich, Mary. The Heart at the Heart of the World. Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books, 2024.

Mowry, Deb. The Importance of a Cottonwood Twig. Field Notes. Montana Public Radio. Broadcast 2.23 and 2.26.2022

Black Elk, Sacred Pipe, 75

Mangus, Serena. The Cottonwood Tree. Thomaston, Maine: Tilbury House Publishers

Cain, Kathleen. The Cottonwood Tree: An American Champion. Boulder, CO, 2007: Johnson Books.


[1] Blake, William. The Letters of William Blake, 62.

[2] Black Elk, Sacred Pipe, 75.

[3] Mowry, Deb. The Importance of a Cottonwood Twig. Field Notes. Montana Public Radio. Broadcast 2.23 and 2.26.2022

[4] Mowry, Ibid.

[5] Frohlich, Mary. The Heart of the Heart of the World. 54-55.

[6] Frohlich, Ibid.

[7] Taylor, Charles. Sources of the Self.

[8] Wikipedia

[9] Buber, I and Thou, 14.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Lane, Belden, “Trees and the Life of Prayer,” Spiritus 25 (2025):66,

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Another Book for Lent: Desert Spirituality for Men. 2024 Book Club Selection by Association of Catholic Publishers

Posted on February 20, 2025 by fatherbrad1971

Desert Spirituality for Women is also included, as is a Forward by Sister Eileen McNerney CSJ.

“Inspired by Richard Rohr, Ronald Rolheiser, Belden Lane and Thomas Merton, Desert Spirituality for Men reveals the transformative and healing power of the desert—for men who actively seek God. Blending a memoir of his son’s fight for life, reflections on his own desert retreats and response to the Lord’s persistent desire for relationship, Brad Karelius offers guidance to men in their holy longing for God. An Episcopal priest for fifty years, Professor of Philosophy for forty-five years, husband and father, Karelius also tells about the power of his friendship with six remarkable men, and he describes some of their well-founded prayer practices which will sustain and nurture any man in his quest. This book will encourage men of all callings and stages in life to plan their own retreats to the desert—where God lives and gives life.”

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Remembering St. Mark’s Church, Altadena, California, which burned yesterday in Eaton Canyon Fire

Posted on January 9, 2025 by fatherbrad1971

Remembering St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Altadena, CA

(which burned to the ground in the Eaton Canyon Fire yesterday, January 8, 2025)

I remember:

*January 1963. I attended St. Mark’s for first time with the Key Club of Pasadena High School. We visited a different house of worship each month. The next month we visited The Pasadena Jewish Temple and Center on Altadena Drive, which also burned to the ground yesterday.

*Sitting in a front pew with our advisor John Stewart. As a Presbyterian at that time, I learned that I had no clue about standing, sitting, and kneeling in the service, but Mr. Stewart, an Episcopalian, quietly coached us.

*Meeting the Rector, Father Bob Cornelison, at St. Mark’s. He was handsome, thirty-four-years old, jet-black hair that matched his cassock. Little did I know that this man would change the course of my life and shape my ministry as a priest.

*Returning to worship at St. Mark’s with my high school girl friend. It was a way I could be with her more often. I will always be grateful for her introduction to St. Mark’s Church

*Transitioning from my Presbyterian roots to the mystery and ritual of the Eucharist, God awakened in me a deep longing for the presence of Jesus in that liturgy.

*Witnessing Father Bob’s announcement in 1965 that he was going to Selma, Alabama to march with Dr. King after the violent assaults on Bloody Sunday. I was afraid for him, but off he went. Two weeks later he returned and shared his experience of marching with Dr. King, and his own visceral feelings of fear and dread, as they marched through taunting, rock-throwing crowds. And my life changed forever; something stirred within me. I wanted to live my life like Father Bob.

*Estranged from my parents, St. Mark’s became my family. I taught two-dozen third graders in the Sunday School. There was an open window in the back of the classroom. I had to be vigilant, because the boys were always trying to escape the class out that window.

*Singing in the choir. I had a weak voice, but that experience deep within the action of the liturgy fed my love for this congregation.

*Learning about the Pepper Project, the low-income housing project sponsored by St. Mark’s in the historic Black neighborhood of northwest Pasadena. The parish transitioned from being a traditionally white congregation to being a welcoming and inviting parish to the Black Community.

*Leaving for seminary in Berkeley, CA, in 1967, encouraged by Father Bob and sponsored by St. Mark’s for ordination.

*Grieving the death of my mother, who died on Easter Day 1989, and celebrating her Requiem at St. Mark’s Church.

We are reminded that a church is more than a building; it is the people of God who worship there. At the same time, when I would visit St. Mark’s in later years, wherever I looked within the church: the pulpit, the choir stalls, the memorial windows, the Blessed Sacrament, conjured precious memories and deep gratitude for how St. Mark’s drew me into the loving arms of Jesus and sent me forth as a priest into the world.

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Desert Dust, Holy Ashes

Posted on January 3, 2025 by fatherbrad1971

I looked: I saw an immense dust storm come from the north, an immense cloud with lightning flashing from it, a huge ball of fire glowing like bronze.[1]



The essential tremor in my left hand is acting up. I concentrate on holding a spoon and scoop finely ground black ashes into the gold scallop-shaped bowl, making a mess. Ashes fall on white linen. Holding my right hand over my left hand, I continue to fill the container. This is not the traditional way to do this. I am supposed to burn the palms from Palm Sunday a year ago and grind the ashes into a fine powder, using a small mortar and pestle. It always came out lumpy, so I confess to you I ordered the ashes for this Ash Wednesday from a church supply in San Diego. Now I have these fine, holy ashes I am spilling all over the place.


Walking to the altar in the sanctuary, I bow and place the ash upon the Holy Table. Turning around, I see that the church is full for the traditional Ash Wednesday Mass at my Episcopal parish in Santa Ana, California. Miercoles de Ceniza: more of my Latino parishioners will attend this service than on Easter or Christmas. We are in a densely populated city with the highest percentage of native Spanish speakers in America and the first major California city in the USA to which Latino immigrants come.

Ash Wednesday, 2012 Jennifer Balaska


A long line of the faithful approach the altar and kneel at the communion rail. I rub ashes between my thumb and index finger, marking each forehead with the sign of the cross and saying,


Recuerda que tu eres polvo y al polvo volverás.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.


Five-year-old Maria Vasquez, with downcast eyes and solemn face, pushes her black hair to the side of her forehead. I kneel on the ground facing her, blessing her with holy ashes. Her father, Alberto, lifts up his six-month-old son, so that I can bless him with ashes, using my pinky finger.
Why are these holy ashes so popular? They are primal and archetypal, speaking to our soul.


Spiritual writer Father Ron Rolheiser writes, “Something inside of us knows exactly why we take the ashes. No doctor of any kind needs to explain this. Ashes are dust, soil, humus; humanity and humility come from these. Ashes have always been a major symbol of all religions. To put on ashes, to sit in ashes, is to say publicly and to yourself that you are in a penitential mode, that this is not ‘ordinary time’ for you. Smudging oneself with ashes says that this is not a season of celebration for you, that some important work is going on inside you, and that you are, metaphorically and really, in the cinders of a dead fire, waiting for something fuller in your life.”[2]


In the Hindu tradition, Vibhuti is a sacred ash made of burnt cow dung used by devotees of Shiva, who applies three horizontal lines across their forehead.


In Judaism, liturgical use of ashes has its origin in the Tanakh, the Jewish scriptures. They symbolize mourning, mortality, and penance.


In Buddhism, ashes are a symbol of impermanence. Life is transient. Eventually, everything returns to dust. The dead are cremated, and the ashes may be collected and placed in a sacred monument called a stupa or in an urn. Some Buddhists create colorful sand paintings called mandalas. Ashes are mixed with colored sand. At the end of the project, the mandala is dismantled as another reminder of impermanence.


Native Americans who lived in communal long houses made fires for cooking and warmth in the center of the building. Sometimes a man or woman would withdraw from the daily tribal routines, become quiet, sit in the ashes on the side of the fire, eat a little, and stay inside. The silent sitting within these ashes had a healing effect on that person.


Father Rolheiser continues, “Lent is a season for each of us to sit in the ashes, to spend our time working and sitting among the ashes, grieving some of the things we’ve done wrong, refusing to do business as usual, but rather waiting in patience as some silent growth takes places within us. Lent is a time to be still so that the ashes can do their work.”[3]


I carry the imprint of the holy ashes with me as I begin a Lenten desert retreat in the Eastern Sierra of California, where I make a home base in the village of Lone Pine, at the foot of Mount Whitney. The stress of multi-tasking parish work slowly fades as I drive north on Highway 395. I pass through Adelanto and a Buddhist temple. The desert landscape opens up with a view of a sagebrush ocean. No fences. The road climbs toward a notch between two volcanic reefs into Owens Valley. I am greeted by an overflowing blue-green lake, Little Lake. Remnants of ancient volcanic activity fill the landscape. Finely ground red volcanic ash covers the ground.


For forty years I have retreated to this desert space every Lent, where my soul feels like a dusty, worn bedsheet, exposed to the dry desert air scented with sagebrush and juniper.


South of Lone Pine, I have the first sight of Owens Lake.


The dying lake has a grand history. The lake basin may be one million years old. Twelve-thousand years ago, it contained two-hundred square miles of water two hundred feet deep. Water from melting glaciers of the waning Ice Age overflowed the lake southward into Rose Valley and China Lake. In the last 110 years, it was a 108 square mile lake, 25-50 feet deep. The water began to disappear when the Los Angeles Aqueduct opened in 1913, diverting Owens River water away from the lake. The once vibrant ecosystem that sustained birds and plants has dried up into an alkali encrusted sump of a lakebed.[4]

Dust on Owens Lake, Richard Ellis, 2008


Years ago, windstorms blew dried lake dust high into the area, creating the most polluted air in America.


Over the last twenty years, the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power has accomplished the largest dust control effort in the world. Today there is a grid of dolomite berms within the lake, which outlines several mini lakes. The remarkable renewal of Owens Lake resulted in unanticipated but remarkable results. It has created a rich habitat to welcome migrating birds and the elevated berms provide perfect observation sites for birdwatching.[5]


Jay Owens, writing in her new book, Dust: The Modern World in a Trillion Particles, describes the result of twenty years of lake renovation:


“The landscape resembled an estuary or salt marsh. Within its rectilinear scaffold of roadways, a more organic land was forming swathes of pale gold saltgrass surrounding curving puddles of water and wide plains of mud. The water’s edge was viscous, black with brine fly. California gulls paddled in the shadows, trampling their feet to stir up larvae to gorge on. Further down the lake, brine areas had grown a deep evaporated crust of salt that cracked into tortoiseshell plates several meters across.”[6]


Approaching Lone Pine, I see a cluster of green trees and the Boulder Creek RV Park. I turn right just before Boulder Creek, driving north toward the Inyo Mountains. I remember that there is an entrance to the grid of roads on the lake. An information kiosk marks the entrance, guiding visitors to explore this renewed ecology. The road is wide for the LADWP trucks, who continue restoration work daily. I notice a deep pool of blue-grey water on the right. Wind creates small waves that lap against the berm. I stopped the car and walked out to the edge of the road. The rhythmic sound of crashing waves is surrealistic in this vast, dry desert landscape. I do not know how long I stood there. Time evaporated. I remember the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains in the distance, reflected in the water. It seemed that the mountains and sky had fallen into this mini lake.


I drive further on to a narrow berm, with only room for one car width to pass through, a 15-foot drop on each side into brackish water. I head east toward the Inyo Mountains. I remember that there was another entrance to the lake from a previous visit. Suddenly, a fierce wind blows, shaking my Honda Pilot. I drive cautiously forward, meeting a thick cloud of desert dust blowing off the lake. It was more like a thick, brown fog. I could not see in front of me. Was the road going to turn? If I continued, I could fall off the berm into the lake. My heart is beating like a loud drum. Stop and wait. The choking dust is hot and thick. Finally, the dust storm fades, and I can see ahead. I drive through the maze of berms, going in circles for an hour. I can’t get out of this place. Finally, I saw familiar metal pumps, which transferred water between the mini lakes. That is the road leading to where I first entered. I exit the lake as a memory of another dust storm rises in my mind.

Haboob Dust Storm, Jakeorin 2019


I walk on a dusty trail north of the lake and east of Lone Pine, with a view of the faded-yellow Southern Pacific Railroad station ahead of me. The dry, still August air changes suddenly to a strong, hot wind. I see a smudgy brown swirling cloud ahead of me. A dust devil! Driving desert roads, I have felt how these turbulent little twisters could spin across the highway and shake my car. The dust devil is heading toward me, with no shelter nearby. I kneel on the trail, pull my t-shirt over my head, covering my mouth and nose, waiting for what was to come.


Thousands of sand granules pelt naked arms. Wind buzzes in my ears. I felt as if I was being suffocated in a dirty old blanket. I can’t avoid breathing the dust. After a few terrifying minutes, it is gone on its capricious way, leaving me feeling like a horned toad covered in desert siftings.[7]


Jay Owens writes:

“Dust devils and dust storms are creatures of soil and sand lifted from the earth and raised into the air by strong winds. Sand grains are mostly quartz, silica dioxide—the dust tinted various colors by the other minerals it contains. The dust-laden winds that move north over Europe in the spring are rust-red from iron-rich sands in the Sahara, while China suffers from sandstorms of yellow dust sweeping down from the Gobi Desert.”[8]


Two months after this experience, my health changed. Intense fatigue possessed me, every day weaker and weaker, with night sweats. I could hardly lift my head up from a pillow. I felt as if someone was trying to strangle me.

Dust Devil, Desert Spirit Press 2015


My internist, Dr. James Sperber, ran all kinds of tests for brain tumor, lung cancer and leukemia. He remembered that two weeks earlier, he had treated a nurse with similar symptoms. Rechecking my blood work, Dr. Sperber believed I had valley fever, coccidioidomycosis, a fungal disease in desert climates, where microscopic spores proliferate in the dusty soil. When the wind stirs up the dust, the spores can land in the moist lung tissue. The disease is increasing in California, because of droughts and expanded home construction in the desert. Untreated, the spores can perforate lungs and possess the body with debilitating consequences and death. Was valley fever the curse of King Tutankhamen’s tomb, where several members of the archaeology team died from a mysterious disease?


Dr. Sperber prescribed Diflucan, a common antifungal medication. Within two days, I was up and active again, with a profound respect for the mysterious dust devil.


These small, dry-weather tornados can be only a few feet high and soar hundreds of feet, swirling in the atmosphere, joining millions of tones of mineral dust that constantly circulate over the earth.

The day after the encounter with the blinding dust storm on Owens Lake, I visited my friends Mike and Nancy Prather at their home in the Alabama Hills, between the village of Lone Pine and the Sierra Nevada mountains. Mike and Nancy taught school in Death Valley and at Lo-Inyo School in Lone Pine. Now retired, Mike has become the spiritual shepherd of Owens Lake. We sit on metal chairs in the middle of his garden, as we face the mountains and the sun warms our bodies. The native plant garden that surrounds us includes trees and shrubs that Mike and Nancy have nurtured from seedlings. I share my stories of the dust storm on the lake and my encounter with a dust devil years before that resulted with valley fever. Sitting in that garden with Mike has a deeply calming effect on me, a generous and welcoming presence. Later, as we walk through the garden, Mike reaches into a pocket in his Oshkosh overalls for a clipper to trim a broken branch. He describes many of the plants to me, what they are and how they grew from seeds. It was like a grandfather describing his grandchildren, the level of communion between him and each plant was that intense. He shares with me a belief in the interconnectedness of all living things.

Nancy brings two cups of coffee and some cookies, as we return to the chairs in the middle of the garden. Mike reflects on his love for Owens Lake, which he calls Patsaita, the original Paiute name for the lake. The restoration work on the lake created a renewed environment for migrating birds. Mike was instrumental in founding an annual Audubon sanctioned Bird Festival. Recent rains flooded the lake to the extent that visitors could travel slowly and quietly over the surface of the lake in canoes, in the manner of the Paiute First People. His reminiscence of these journeys on the lake evoked again his holy communion with all living things.

On a recent Facebook posting, Mike says:

Canoe on Patsaita, Mike Prather, 2024

“I miss Patsaita deeply.

When water covered half of her surface reflecting the deep blue of the sky.

A gift from the winter of 2022/2023 and tropical storm Hilary in August.

The water remembers, the birds remember.

We were called to go out and feel her presence once again.

Dreamers imagined no end, but deserts expect their share, and evaporation always prevails without continued flow.

We were blessed with her beauty and felt awe and wonder paddling across the slick surface.

Trillions of brine shrimp watching below us.”[9]



Transmigrating dust descends on the campus of Bryn Mawr College, Pennsylvania. Professor of Chemistry, Michelle Franci-Donnay returns to her academic office after a six-month sabbatical at the Vatican Observatory. Dust thickly covered her desk. Where did all of that dust come from, with windows and doors securely closed? This required careful cleaning. Michelle walks to her bookcase, searching for a book of poems. Finding the book, she opens to “Dusting,” which reads.

Thank you for these tiny

particles of ocean salt,

pearl-necklace viruses.

winged protozoans

for the infinite

intricate shapes

of submicroscopic

living things.[10]


We are dust and to dust we shall return. The dust of our remains will co-mingle with minute organic and inorganic matter, dispersed, and scattered over the earth, fertile humus for the creation of new life.


An Orthodox Christian burial hymn reminds us we come from the earth and to earth we shall return:


Give rest, O Christ, to your servants with your saints,

Where sorrow and pain are no more,

Neither sighing, but life everlasting.

You are only immortal, the creator and maker of mankind.

And we are mortal, formed of the earth, and to earth shall we

return. For so did you ordain when you created me, saying,

‘You are dust, and to dust you shall return.’ All of us go down

to the dust; yet even at the grave, we make our song: Alleluia,

Alleluia, alleluia.[11]


Resources:


Owens, Jay. Dust: the Modern World in a Trillion Particles. New York: Abrams Press, 2024.

Kirkham, Harold. IEEE Instrumentation and Measurement Magazine, Dust Devils and Dust Fountains, December 2006 48-50.

Smith, P. D. Dust to Dust.
McCorkle, Rob, Ghostly Little Twisters, Parks and Wildlife, July 2012.

Nelson, Marilyn. Dusting. Poems.org.

Franci-Donnary, Michelle. The Spiritual Case for Dust. Ignatian Spirituality.org.

Karelius, Brad. Encounters with the World’s Religions on Highway 395. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2015.










[12]

[1] Ezekiel 1:4-9

[2] Rolheiser OMI, Ron. Lenten Ashes, March 14, 2022

[3] Rolheiser, Ibid.

[4] Quoted in Desert Spirituality for Men, p.

[5] Karelius, Ibid, p.

[6] Owens, Jay. Dust. P 300.

[7] KareliusKarelius, Desert Spirit Places, 17-18.

[8] Owens, Dust, 7.

[9] Michael Prather, Facebook, December 19, 2024

[10] Dove, Rita. Dustings. Poetry Magazine, November 1981.

[11] Book of Common Prayer, 499.

[12] Karelius, Desert Spirit Places 20-21.

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