Perfect web
Morning door keeper
New Mary Oliver Documentary
I watched the first of what will be many viewings of this on Friday. I tried to find a showing of this in theaters that fit my schedule this summer, but I didn’t – one of the most deeply missed opportunities of the season.
So many great moments and feelings in this one.
“Who is the tech doing something for, and who is it doing it to”
In all the talk of how this AI model or that AI model could or could not replace this job or that job, I think it’s always good to ask this foundational question about human relational economics:
“Who is the tech doing something for, and who is it doing it to?”
I know Cory Doctorow can be a bit of an acquired taste for some, but this is a good interview.
One of the niceties of mid August, the hostas in bloom
In Here, Out There
Loved this section from today’s CAC Daily Meditations
To arrive at this mystical vision, I must know that I am, at least in part, the very thing I am seeking. In fact, that is what makes me seek it! God cannot be found “out there” until God is first found “in here,” within ourselves. Then we can almost naturally see God in others and in all creation too. What we seek is what we are. The search for God and the search for our true self are finally the same search. Francis’s all-night prayer, “Who are you, O God, and who am I?” is one the most honest prayers we can offer.
A heart transformed by this realization of oneness knows that only love “in here” can spot and enjoy love “out there.” Thus, all mystics are positive people—or they are not mystics. Their spiritual work is precisely that of recognizing and then handing over all their inner negativity and fear to God. The great paradox here is that such a victory is a total gift from God, and yet we must also want it very much (see Philippians 2:12–13).
– Richard Rohr
McLaren's Book - The Last Voyage
Just finished the first book in McLaren’s new science fiction series, The Last Voyage.
The series is set around a journey to a Mars outpost that will likely be the last hope for humanity’s survival. As always, McLaren does a wonderful job of weaving story and spiritual inquiry together in an enjoyable read.
Game in Springfield, IL. First season for the WPBL - Women’s Pro Baseball League.
Micro Adjusting Text
I find myself more aware of this jumping back and forth between work email, work teams messages, family texts, second job messaging, and 3rd level acquaintances. One thing I do appreciate about AI at work is that I typically relegate most of the information heavy communication (that no one likely reads and is only food for other people’s robot anyway) to it - I do a quick review and don’t have much of a second thought. That has cleared up some mental space for other things.
“Hazrat worries that in our disembodied age, communication demands punctuation that can do more emotional labor than our current marks can handle. She has a point: Think of all the micro-adjustments we have to make as we go from texting family and friends to slacking colleagues to emailing to posting. But I think the problem with online punctuation is that it does too much, not too little. At any rate, my stabs at punctuating like someone in the know generally make me look silly.”
Excerpt From
“Punctuation: A Generational Divide”
Judith Shulevitz
The Atlantic (August 2026)
Punctuation: A Generational Divide — The Atlantic
The Odyssey
I’ve been unusually preoccupied with The Odyssey these last few weeks.
I saw the film, and loved it.
I read the audio book of Emily Wilson’s translation (narrated by Claire Danes), and loved it.
And I’ve loved seeing most of us talk about something that has the potential to surface substantial conversations about art, theology, political theory, and basic human experiences in and around this old, old story. That kind of cultural, conversational center is deeply needed.
I’m still thinking a lot about it.
Here’s the food for much of that thought:
Emily Wilson’s Translation of The Odyssey.
The introduction was worth the read in-and-of-itself.
Emily Wilson’s not particularly flattering review of the film.
After a lengthy rebuke of the film, she ends this way:
Despite all this, the release of The Odyssey is still an event to celebrate. In what we are told is the streaming era, this epic is bringing audiences back to cinemas. In what we are told is a time of declining literacy and the ‘death of the humanities’, translations of The Odyssey, including mine, are flying off the shelves. Some of those who buy the book or show up in cinemas to watch Tom Holland may go on to study ancient Greek. Perhaps the film will persuade a few college administrators not to cut their literature, language and history departments. Nolan, who studied English at University College London – where students still study The Odyssey as a first year ‘foundational text’ – is doing his best to get the general public reading again, and I am grateful.
It’s a fun juxtaposition to Nolan’s interview with Jon Stewart on the Daily Show and a short interview with Zhong Shu that explores some theological questions.
And my favorite is Ezra Klein’s New York Times Opinion Piece on the film.
I like how he ends it:
I do not want to make this too didactic, so I will just end here: Justice in America has come, repeatedly, when those seeking progress realize that the language of the Torah, of the New Testament and of the Declaration of Independence can be wielded on behalf of a new world. It has been some time since religion, liberalism and patriotism had a comfortable relationship in this country.
But the shape of the modern right has created space to do that work again. Regeneration is hard. It requires seeing old values in new ways. It requires recognizing that a moral inheritance that has collapsed into cliché holds power in an age when it has been debased and forgotten. But it can be done. It needs to be done.
Nolan’s Odysseus is not a trickster. He is a man living in the ruins brought about by tricksters. So, too, are we. This movie, and the reaction to it, is a sign that the age of the trickster is ending.
Now we need those who would remake this world.
It’s a good read, but his video presentation of it brings it the most life:
R.I.P. Lucy
July 29, 2026
I can’t remember exactly when I stopped dreaming (or at least not remembering my dreams). It was sometime toward the end of my doctoral work. Who knows why. I’d been reading and thinking a lot. We just had our second child. I was taking seriously my tendency to live as a theological nomad who wandered around the edges of religious tradition encampments, and had built my pack for exploration and survival. All of these things probably used up whatever spare brain cycles I had left. I simply went to bed each night – and it was almost like a jump cut to the next morning. Eyes closed, eyes open, next day.
Every once in a while I would have some foggy recollection of the self-made-movies of my sleep, but they came infrequently and ambiguously.
Fast forward ten years to 2018 and things were similarly heavy-layered. We had lost my mom to ovarian cancer, we completely gutted and remodeled a 115-year-old-house-turned-college-flop-house, and my dad – who needed a lot of help and medical care – moved in with us. There was a lot going on, but we thought we might try getting a dog since we had settled into a new place and the kids were old enough to help.
And that’s when I had a dream I distinctly remembered.
It wasn’t a long dream, there was no wild plot line or chase scene, just the face of this bright white dog, looking at me with coal black eyes. It was honestly a little haunting. Of all the forgotten or never conjured dreams to break through, why this image?
Within a week, we went to a local dog rescue to see a litter of older “doodle” puppies that had come in from the streets. As we were watching them play in the dog run, the dog I saw in my dream ran right up and presented herself. It was a little unnerving. I’m not a “dreams and visions” guy, even back when I was dreaming, so this was very unsettling. I told Krista about the dream and we took the dog home. She was not very doodley.
I wanted to name her Nooma, because she reminded me of a ghost, but the rest of the family (thankfully) overruled me and we settled on Lucy – which was just as apropos, since it means light - and she was bright white and was an immediate lift to the spirit of the house.
Lucy turned us into kinder people - there’s no denying that. She had a face that invited us to be the best versions of ourselves to each other and to those around us. She was always just a little on alert, but that made her couch snuggle or tail-wag greeting all the better. She was fiercely protective of our home and family, but once she figured out you were ok, she wouldn’t leave you alone.
It’s hard to see the creatures you love (and who have shown you how to love more deeply) quickly decline. We thought we had several more years, but the tumors grew faster than anyone (especially Lucy) expected. To watch her try to be herself and not succeed was the most difficult part of the last few days.
We were able to have all the family there as we held her and said goodbye as she took her last breath.
This really was the dog of my dreams in so many ways. I kept whispering to her in those final moments to “come visit me in my dreams again.” She helped me dream well – a dream about what the world could be when we are kinder to each other. She helped me pay attention to the world around me with a gentler focus. She helped me know that how you love something is how you love everything.
I hope she does visit me in my dreams; but even if she doesn’t, she’s taught me how to dream again – not while I’m asleep (that’s still hit or miss), but while I’m fully awake to opportunities of love right in front of me. I can never thank her enough for that gift.
We used to sing an old Compline (day’s end) prayer with the kids when they were young. I leaned on that again today at Lucy’s death:
“Protect us Lord, as we stay awake,
Watch over us as we sleep,
That awake, we may keep watch with Christ,
And asleep, rest in His peace."
Rest in His peace, ghostly dog of my dreams. You have done well, and I am a better person for your time with us.
Lucy on her first day home with us from the rescue:
Lucy in the shop:
Lucy always enduring the attempts at humor via outfits:
An apology pic after a not so gentle play date with another dog:
Lucy welcoming Tumnus to the family:
Glen Hansard
Sad to hear that Glen Hansard died this week.
Loved Once and the music of the Frames. Most people will remember Falling Slowly (and it’s great), but I love Fallen From The Sky in that film. A battery powered keyboard is always the best way to start a song.
A Nice Flowchart to Have on Hand
One of my favorite flowcharts.
from Nadia Bolz-Weber at As requested - my flow chart when I am freaked out.
Dog Poems
This one’s hitting in a new and tender way today:
Her Grave
Mary Oliver
She would come back, dripping thick water, from the
green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile —
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the
unassuming perfect arch of her neck.It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but anyway, it began to rain
slowly.Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.
Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased
something.My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his
crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.
Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house,
but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of
the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the
refreshment
of her long slumber?A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her,
that you know
almost nothing.Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come
back,
or wait for me, or be somewhere.Now she is buried under the pines.
Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.Through the trees there is the sound of the wind,
palavering.The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?How strong was her dark body!
How apt is her grave place.How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.
Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.
Please Use AI
Nice one about how serendipity is at the core of the human experience.
Definitely do not text your friend who has fly-fished every river in Pennsylvania and biked every backwoods trail, because you might end up texting back and forth for the rest of the day or even meeting up late for a beer and hearing how he has ended each recent night black-out drunk, or perhaps you’ll hear how his cousin is an idiot on Facebook or maybe just that he repaired his own washing machine and is pretty damn proud of that.