FD of St Bede (d 735), a monk in Northumbria. In his great History of the English Church and People he told the story of the arrival of Xty in the British Isles and its role in knitting together its disparate tribes and peoples into a common history, linked to the apostles.
I was so glad to have this deep conversation with 96-yr-old Br David Steindl-Rast, a modern spiritual master, about his new book, "You Are Here: Keywords for Life Explorers." @OrbisBooks@grateful_orgpiped.video/watch?v=UtoGPjeE…
Happy to share news that in addition to being Professor of Philosophy, Religious Studies, and Theology and Director of the Center for Spirituality at @SaintMarys College, I have accepted a concurrent position as Affiliated Professor of Spirituality at @OblateSchool of Theology...
I found this clip from an email taped to my dad’s computer. I sent it to him at a time of discouragement when he was ready to give up writing his book “The Doomsday Machine.”
So proud of my sister @MaryEllsberg, receiving Presidential Medal from George Washington University where she is Founding Director of the Global Women’s Institute. An epidemiologist and activist she has done much to document and elevate recognition of violence vs women and girls.
LOOKY! The Anderson Council's "Times on the Thames," which I co-wrote, is this week's "COOLEST SONG IN THE WORLD" on @littlesteven_ug, @StevieVanZandt's @SiriusXM station! Buy/listen: theandersoncouncil1.bandcamp…. See next tweet for the video as well as the source of the image below.
Happy Ascension Sunday! The Dorothy Day ferry is settling into her regular schedule of trips between Manhattan and Staten Island. Our favorite "gray-haired pacifist" made the NYTimes yesterday (gift link to follow): nytimes.com/2023/05/20/nyreg…
Scraps of poetry, remembered over a lifetime, float to the surface: Auden, Jeffers, Neruda, Yeats, Shakespeare: “I am dying, Egypt, dying; only
I here importune death awhile, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay up thy lips.” And Edna st Millay:
“Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.”