Beauty of Creation

Finding Beauty in Easter Living
A book for the New Church’s Teaching Series

Visitors to this space are familiar with my fondness for the words of St. Richard of Chichester: “Day by day, dear Lord, of thee three things I pray: to see thee more clearly, love thee more dearly, follow thee more nearly, day by day.” The theme can be expressed more compactly: We seek to live more nearly as we pray. These words voice our desire to walk a path of beauty in life, such as we find in ‘Easter Living.’

While serving as an Assistant Professor at one of our seminaries in The Episcopal Church, I was invited by the editor of the New Churches Teaching Series to write the volume on Ethics and Moral Theology. This was the third such series of books going back to the 1950’s that seek to provide learning for persons interested in our tradition. Books in these series have addressed a wide range of areas in faith and community life pertinent to our common desire to become informed members. I wrote my book while teaching its content in the seminary, and in about 10 different parish weekend teaching events in Episcopal churches across the country, ‘field testing’ the material. My book was published in 2000, and is still in print. I wish to note that proceeds from all the books in this series were and are donated to the Anglican Theological Review, an independent journal offering the fruits of scholarship for the benefit and educational formation of those within as well as beyond the academy.

At the time of being granted tenure, a seminary trustee asked me what the title of the book implied about its content. It became evident that her concern was focused on my use of the word “after.” I was able to explain that I used the word to mean “in light of.” The book’s title is an indirect tribute to the theological vision of my doctoral supervisor, Oliver O’Donovan, then Regius Professor of Moral and Pastoral Theology at the University of Oxford, whose book, Resurrection and Moral Order, has had a profound impact upon my thinking.

It may be helpful to clarify that I use the terms “Christian ethics” and “moral theology” interchangeably. However, it is worth observing that many within the wider Protestant tradition tend to prefer the term “Christian ethics,” while those within the wider Catholic tradition tend to use that of “moral theology.” Note that “ethics,” as a named field of inquiry without the religious qualifier, is generally understood as a branch of philosophy, which may or may not observably underpin theological writings relevant to this field.

I would like to highlight a number of themes evident within and or suggested by the structure my book, which I think are particularly relevant to Christians at this point of time:

  • Foremost, the interdependence between ethics and spirituality, which I refer to as ‘two sides of the same coin’ despite their separate spheres of concern.
  • The centrality of Baptism in the lives of every Christian believer, and its implications regarding the vital relationship between what we believe and how we live
  • Our historic Anglican dependence upon the natural world as a source of insight about the Creator’s intentions for us and for our lives. This reflects our traditional emphasis upon the Incarnation of our Lord in human embodiment. We look for the complementarity between – but do not equate nor confuse – what the Medievals called the Book of Nature and the Book of Scripture, ‘written’ by the same Author, while having different even if overlapping purposes.
  • The distinctions that I offer between what I call “laws,” “manners,” and “moral principles.” Neglecting to distinguish among what these terms represent frequently causes confusion.

The final chapter of the book moves from elaboration of basic principles in Christian ethics/moral theology to an application of these principles by offering a methodological approach to how they might be applied with reference to a particular set of ethical questions, centering on how we approach a broad concern for all of us: “Should a Christian ever been involved in or associated with an act of violence?”

I wish to stress that this is not a book about “issues.” My goal was -and remains – an effort to recover and present the foundations of a solid Christian world view for how we might best approach any issue that may be of concern. So, this is not a book where you can turn to the index and look up such matters as capital punishment or a discussion of what might be a fair interest rate on loans. I try to remain careful about observing the important distinction between moral or ethical principles that we might share, and particular policy implementations that we then undertake to reflect or enact those principles in our common life.

For those who may be interested, I include here a précis of the structure of my book, articulated in the series of Axioms that are appended within it, as well as bullet point chapter summaries:

EAE_Axioms & Chapter Contents Amplified_for 2026Download

Kengo Kuma’s Little Gem

The Japanese architect, Kengo Kuma, has designed a beautiful contemporary context for a display of traditional Japanese craftsmanship in woodworking. You can find it in a coffee shop at a Starbucks location in Fukuoaka, on Kyushu Island in southern Japan. Specifying the use of the art of Kiguma, the Japanese art of assembling pieces of wood through precise cuts and fittings, but employing no nails or screws, Kuma has created an aesthetically pleasing destination for those who appreciate fine architecture as well as espresso.

Kuma’s Fukuoka Starbucks coffee house, exterior view

Evident in many locations associated with its brand, Starbucks focuses upon providing thoughtfully designed contexts for enjoying their products, whether in self-standing stores or in airport and grocery store kiosks. In this particular case, the choice to engage the services of a design-savvy modern architect, and his willingness to undertake this comparatively small project, speak well to the sensitivities of both Kuma and the corporation.

Kuma’s plan for the interior of this space, complex in appearance, features what looks like a standard series of pieces of cherry wood that measure about six feet in length and of 2″ by 2″ dimensions. Employing these relatively light and small pieces of wood in a way that resembles modern tensile structures, the architect has produced an environment that hovers over and around customers, drawing them in to the interior. The spatial atmosphere he has attained is simultaneously conducive to imaginative reflection and yet also quiet contemplation. Perfect, in my mind, for enjoying a coffee break, while visiting the many historic attractions in this part of Japan.

Interior view

I am intrigued by what I have learned about Kengo Kuma’s design principles, articulated in his book, Anti-Object: The Dissolution and Disintegration of Architecture, positive ideas from his studies that he seeks to be exemplified in his own buildings and their spaces. His primary university eduction in Architecture was at Tokyo University, but he studied for a year at Columbia University, and has taught for short periods at two other American universities. Given his formation and his approach to design, I am inclined to think that he has found a sympathetic parallel to his world view in the lifelong architectural principles of Frank Lloyd Wright, who made seven trips to Japan and who lived there for three years while designing his Imperial Hotel for a location near the Imperial Palace in Tokyo.

A vintage postcard photo of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Tokyo Imperial Hotel, with its Japanese-inspired tile roofs, which survived the great 1923 Kanto earthquake

One observer has summed up Kuma’ approach in Anti-Object in this way: Kuma “critiques the Western architectural tradition of the isolated ‘object’ building, advocating instead for a more integrated, ‘weaker’ architecture that dissolves into its environment. Kuma argues against buildings that stand apart as self-centered monuments, proposing an alternative approach that uses natural light, materials, and context to create immersive, experiential spaces, drawing inspiration from Japanese traditions…”

Our American urban landscapes are filled with ‘object architecture’ of the kind with which Kuma has taken issue. Familiar examples might include the building style featured in the recent film, The Brutalist, and as is arguably represented by the new Presidential Center tower on the south side of downtown Chicago, which given its significant cost could have provided a beautiful addition to the city’s skyline. By contrast, Kuma contends for the goal of harmony with a building’s context, without either slavish imitation of neighboring buildings nor the opposite, a statement-seeking rejection of the style of surrounding structures and their physical environment.

Interior view, with a traditional Japanese structure and tiled roof in the background

A notable element of Kuma’s design for the interior structure of this coffee shop can be seen in the way that the wooden struts extend outward from their crossing points (visible in the photo above). Visitors to Japan might recognize how this feature of Kuma’s project echoes what are called chigi, the crossed roof ends of Shinto shrines, seen all over Japan. Note the affinity between the way that Kuma has employed the cherry wood components of his design, and the chigi as well as the extended wooden rods used in the following example of a traditional Japanese Shinto shrine:

Chigi, or crossed roof ends, as seen at a Shinto shrine in Japan

Having discovered the architectural work and ideas of Kengo Kuma, I look forward to learning more about his other buildings, among them the remarkable Victoria and Albert Museum in Dundee, Scotland, which I hope to feature in a future post.

Nikawa’s Voyage From Coast to Coast

William Least Heat-Moon (the pen name for William Lewis Trogdon, hereafter WLHM), continues to impress me with his nuanced vision of the United States. He consistently offers his readers a synthesis of well-crafted writing, an appreciation for the sometimes hidden beauty of the lands and waters he explores, and a sensitivity to features of our common humanity latent within the historical events attendant to the people and places he visits. I return from time to time to his book, River Horse: A Voyage Across America, a book I love for its clear-eyed record of his water-based journey across this country. On a 26’ C-Dory motor cruiser, and accompanied by several friends whose roles are represented by symbolic monickers (e.g., Pilotis, and ‘the Photographer’), he traces a voyage from the mouth of New York Harbor to that of the Columbia River in Oregon. Readers familiar with geography but new to this book will wonder how WLHM managed to cross the Continental Divide in the C-Dory, and will discover that the author and his friends’ passage was facilitated by a vehicle trailer around some portage points, and by a canoe through and over the western mountains at their highest points.

Nikawa on her trailer, with the handy canoe secured above the pilothouse

WLHM periodically uses unfamiliar vocabulary in a way that may strike some readers as pretentious, but which I generally find apt and instructive. Clearly, he savors words as much as the sights he seeks to capture through his writing. His evident identification with the sentiments expressed in quotations from earlier journals and public documents, and the care with which he treats them regarding the places he visits, tells us a lot about the author.

This is the kind of book that boaters who have a yen for nautical adventure will love. As I do for his other published work, I have a high regard for what WLHM has accomplished with this travel narrative. He has filled it with insight concerning not only geographical terrain, but also with pertinent observations about the people he meets, who interact with or are sometimes indifferent to the beauty he encounters along his passage. As an able and informed observer, the author communicates much about what he sees as well as about its potential significance for others who might come along after him. His book is shaped by his dialogue with the recorded experience of those who have traversed the same waterways and their surroundings before him, as well as by contemporaries familiar with the same areas. By this means, WLHM draws readers in to his own reflective experience. He invites us ‘to look over his shoulder’ and then journey with him through the captivating but also sometimes less than encouraging features of where he goes. To this point, in his expressed appreciation for numerous rivers negotiated by Nikawa, he does not overlook reporting on the accumulated plastic debris that by the mid 1990’s had already collected in certain pockets of at least one river. He then offers brief but also judicious comments with respect to potential remedies for public attitudes about the waters that border our towns and rural lands.

The author and his boat, observed during his voyage (evidently from a newspaper photo)

Aside from his absorbing description of the commencement of his voyage, which effectively draws the reader into his narrative, several passages in the book linger in my memory. I think of his account of Nikawa’s passage down the relatively gentle Ohio River, which is often calm due to the series of locks and dams. His reflections about the river evoked thoughts of a possible retracing of his pathway through those waters, especially given their occasionally curious personal and historical associations (as in the following vignette). 

In this part of his text, WLHM offers a brief account of an Irishman who was persuaded by Aaron Burr to join a nascent conspiracy to found a new and independent political domain lower down the Ohio and by the Mississippi, a venture later halted by authorities sent under the direction of Thomas Jefferson. This provides a good example of the numerous occasions about which WLHM interweaves observant travelogue with his study of past events. Interspersed within this same portion of the narrative focused on the area around Marietta, the author reports humorous offhand comments gleaned at a diner. After his conversation with a local woman, a beautician named “Enna-mel,” she leaves him with a parting remark that adds spice to the story. 

The author in what may be his second favorite place to be, an historical archives room

Shaping words about the work of an accomplished writer can be hazardous, though I am encouraged by WLHM’s quotation of a portion of William Clark’s Journal from the great 1804-6 expedition to the West. Clark’s struggle to portray the then sublime splendor of the untamed Great Falls of the Missouri River clearly were significant to WLHM. This is evident in the latter writer’s implied recognition of the challenge posed by his own desire to communicate the fullness of his experience of the same waters. 

River Horse is sprinkled with anecdotes from earlier times, along with perceptive observations from William Least Heat-Moon’s journey notes. He well-describes the many rivers through which Nikawa made her way, and almost every page of this book offers detailed insights that will reward an attentive reader, especially those who muse – as I have – about undertaking a similar adventure. 

An ‘Inside’ Passage: Jonathan Raban’s Voyage to Juneau

I find that authors who are effective at reading aloud their own writing offer an extra dimension of insight regarding their work. Jonathan Raban’s recording of A Passage to Juneau, is an example to which I like to return. Being a sailor myself, I find voyages, sailboat cruising, and basic navigation provide more compelling metaphors for how we think of our course through life than the often used one of journeying. Raban’s book about sailing his 35′ Swedish-built ketch from Seattle north to the capital of Alaska recounts so much more than a trip up the Inside Passage through the interior waters of British Columbia. His reflective narrative allows us to witness – through his eyes – how he faces the challenges associated with the death of his father, an English Vicar, as well as the coming apart of his marriage while he remains close to his young daughter.

Jonathan Raban in his boat

Raban includes as a literary companion, on what unfolds as an imaginatively-shared voyage, the technically gifted but personally flawed explorer, George Vancouver, through the latter’s ships logs and historical biography. Raban’s log of his passage in the Penelope is interspersed with perceptive observations about his family off in England and down in Seattle, while also sharing reflective thoughts regarding Vancouver’s own earlier exploration of the same waters. So there are three interwoven strands within the writer’s expressive narrative, Raban’s cruise, his interior journey through memories and toward an uncertain future, and a travel oriented book that shares his evocative impressions of the waters and terrain of Puget Sound and the Straight of Georgia that is mixed with those Vancouver.

The explorer and esteemed navigator, George Vancouver (1757-1798)

Having lived on Vashon Island while commuting to college on the Washington State ferries, I remain drawn to some of the same locations in Puget Sound that play an early role in the book. The immediacy of the author’s description of the area in and around Seattle’s Fishermen’s Terminal where he prepared for setting off, as well as of the beautiful San Juan Islands, provide a very good sense of what he was leaving behind on his travels, while also emotionally carrying aspects associated with those places with him as he ventured into less familiar waters.

A Hallberg-Rassy 35′ ketch much like Raban’s boat, Penelope

Raban was nothing like an enthusiastic newcomer to sailing when embarking upon his “Passage.” His other voyaging books, particularly his account of his circumnavigation of his native United Kingdom (Coasting), as well as his editorship of The Oxford Book of the Sea, attest to his deep knowledge of sailing and all things nautical. His attraction to such voyages is also reflected in his highly readable account of his water journey down the Mississippi (Old Glory), from St Paul to New Orleans, and was the fulfillment of a childhood fascination with the Great River and its history .

The Audible recording of a condensed version of Passage to Juneau nicely captures Raban’s resonant voice and British vocal style. Portions of his recording give a good sense of the author’s subtle humor, accentuated by his sharp eye for memorable detail. Imagining how Vancouver’s voice must have sounded to his shipmates, Raban reads passages from the explorer’s diary with a slightly exaggerated flat nasal intonation, imbuing the historical figure with a fuller sense for us of the 18th century navigator’s complicated humanity. And Raban’s description of his brief interaction with officious Canadian Customs inspectors regarding a suspect American potato, found during a search of his boat, provides a memorable anecdote. Both examples and others like them function, I think, as thoughtful counterpoints to the more difficult aspects of Raban’s ‘interior passage,’ a journey through reflections prompted by the loss of a parent and the diminishment of a marriage.

The Audible version of a cover for Raban’s book, Old Glory

One key to appreciating Jonathan Raban’s, Passage to Juneau: A Sea and its Meanings, lies in its subtitle. Clearly the author has written something more than an absorbing description of a nautical adventure, though he certainly provides that. The interest of this book for me lies in its implicit invitation to reflect on what draws some of us to the sea, to find our way on waters that may have patterns but no directional lines or unnecessary limits. For the sea is where what is called ‘human geography’ and our created pathways may diverge from the given features of the natural world.

As is broadly true with much of our life on land, a parallel to navigation over the water exists with how we make our way forward in our decisions and actions, day by day. This is the parallel we can perceive between sailing and what is formally called casuistry in moral theology. All of us, in all circumstances, are challenged to apply universal principles or rules of thumb to the ideosyncracies of everyday situations. Generic and abiding principles (with boats, it is things like Coast Guard rules and the observed behavior of tides), coupled with familiar tools (a compass, wind direction finder, charts, etc.), need to be brought into engagement with particular circumstances (the wind, waves, and tides, as we find them today). Through this process we discern with greater clarity location and direction, especially when our efforts are coupled with a grasp of purpose. Otherwise, and in more ways than one, knowing where we are and where we are headed can be difficult.

The author on the veranda overlook of his Seattle home

Walter Inglis Anderson and the Experience of Loving What God Loves
A beach on Horn Island, Mississippi Gulf Coast

We are created in God’s image and likeness. We often assume that this is reflected in the way that we think, in our capacity for reason and in our desire for wisdom. But we also reflect our creation in God’s image and likeness in our desire to love. We all want to love, and receive love. Sometimes, especially in this fallen world, we love in ways that are disordered. We love the right things in the wrong way, and we love the wrong things in what we deceive ourselves into thinking may be a good or right way.

And yet, we still love, whether it is ourselves that we love to the point of it being at the expense of loving others and the world around us, or it may be that we love others and the world at the expense of rightly loving ourselves.

The Holy Scriptures remind us that God is love. And that God first loved us before we knew it. And that God so loved the world that he gifted himself in the form of the Word made flesh, who came among us, full of the grace and truth that he has so generously shared with us. “I am who I am” (what God spoke to Moses from the burning bush) becomes the source of “we are who we are,” especially when we become aware of and live into the fullness of who we really are.

And so, to love what God loves is to share in the experience of God’s love. Awareness of this leads us to become more aware of the way we are called to share in God’s own way of loving. To do so actually comes to us naturally, even though we in our fallen state are impaired in our ability fully to live into this reality, and believe we are capable of it.

In my prior post, I reflected on how some of this capacity to love what God loves may be revealed in the life and work of Walter Inglis Anderson, who himself may not have been aware of the fact, nor may have had the conscious ability to believe it. In this respect, Anderson, followed in the spiritual footsteps of John Muir, whose earlier example may help us appreciate this dimension of the Mississippi painter’s relationship with nature. For Muir, through his childhood formation in orthodox Reformed Christian beliefs, came to believe he was loving Creation as God loves it, however much Muir’s vision expanded and broadened over the years so as to appear that he had moved beyond the bounds of traditional faith.

The painter and solitary, Walter Inglis Anderson, portraying himself rowing out to Horn Island

To experience joy when we encounter and perceive the beauty we find in the world – even in ourselves – is to experience God’s love for the world. Beauty in the world is a manifestation of God’s self-giving, and of a love that is self-giving, even to the point where we are capable of bringing harm to it or rejecting it. The same is true for God’s love for us, and for those with whom we have been given the opportunity for fellowship and community. For God’s love is not for us solely, as individuals, but is present in fellowship and in community, especially in communities founded upon this great gift of divine love.

Anderson’s son, John, retracing some of his father’s footsteps

Here, we can come to appreciate another insight we can gain from learning about Walter Inglis Anderson. Like the earlier Muir, Anderson came to perceive – or perhaps always intuitively knew – that to see, to really see what is in and around us, is enabled by ‘getting out of the way.’ When I, as one who sees, am conscious and then distracted by my awareness of my process of seeing and perceiving, I become absorbed with my own subjectivity, at the expense of more fully becoming focused upon the objects of my perception. In seeking to love you, or things in the world around us, my focus upon my process of loving or seeking to love impedes my actual participation in really loving you, you who are a fellow subject of loving and not simply an object of my love.

A Horn Island painting by Walter Inglis Anderson

I think that Anderson was enabled to arrive at such an awareness by enacting his desire to be among and really see the plants, birds, animals, the seashore, and the changing weather conditions, while on his solitary sojourns to Horn Island. Therein lies the paradox. God’s love for the divine beauty reflected in the world that he has made was at the heart of Anderson’s love for the beauty that we find in nature. And in sharing in that same love of beauty, he came to perceive how he was actually not alone, even in his periodic states of hermitage under the shelter of his upturned dinghy.

Awareness of this is one doorway into perceiving and then enjoying what Jesus spoke of when he said, “Wherever two or three of you are gathered, I am there.” The great “I am” is with us, now to behold and embrace, Spirit in Flesh, Word made human, not only in ourselves and in the things around us, but also between us at the heart of our fellowship.

Walter Inglis Anderson and the Beauty of Humanity
Walter Inglis Anderson, Self-Portrait from above

Perhaps like Henry David Thoreau or John Muir, a gifted painter named Walter Inglis Anderson came to discern some things of great significance within the visible beauty latent in nature. Like his venturesome forbears, he did this by seeking out an area of wilderness. It became his habit to row out the ten or so miles to Horn Island in the Mississippi Sound, where he slept on the sand using his upturned dinghy as his hermitage. Out there amidst the shifting dunes, with only the shell of his boat for cover against storms, Walter Anderson perceived more of who he was as he experienced harmony with what was around him. In time, compelling objects of his attention became for him fellow-subjects apprehending the splendor of Creation.

A shoreline inhabitant whose common name (‘hermit’ crab) was often derisively applied to Walter Anderson

Paradoxically, by his solitary coastal journeys, a man who had suffered bouts of mental illness became aware of an elusive but precious quality that he shared with those from whom he was isolated. His transient island resting places, where he spent weeks at a time over the course of twenty years, provided him with fleeting glimpses of what it might mean to be more fully human. There, away from others, he experienced moments when he felt he had become who he was meant to be.

As one writer has put it, “Anderson’s isolation from humanity convinced him, in the end, of humanity’s beauty… [He] believed that if we re-established our primal relationship with nature, we would regain our beauty.” Walter’s youngest son, John, summed it up succinctly: “Solitude was a tool that helped him to find unity with all people and all creatures.”

Anderson’s portrayal of himself rowing out to the island

Walter Anderson expressed the point compactly in one of his Horn Island logbooks: “In order to realize the beauty of man, we must realize our relation to nature.” His son, John, later explained what his father had meant by this. “I think that in those twenty years that he was living in solitude on the wilderness island, he was attempting to realize his relation to nature so that he could realize the beauty of humanity.”

Underlying these words, and the perception they express, may be a nature-mysticism of the kind often associated with Thoreau and Muir. I also find an affinity here with the spirituality we can discern in traditions as widely different as Zen Buddhism and the writings of Christian monastic solitaries.

Eugene Peterson’s rendering of Jesus’ words in John 12:25 (in context), captures a similar perception: “Listen carefully: Unless a grain of wheat is buried in the ground, dead to the world, it is never any more than a grain of wheat. But if it is buried, it sprouts and reproduces itself many times over. In the same way, anyone who holds on to life just as it is destroys that life. But if you let it go, reckless in your love, you’ll have it forever, real and eternal.”

To this mystical vision of the world I think we can also connect an insight attributable to St. Augustine of Hippo, regarding what we love, and how we love. If we love ourselves and our lives, or the world around us, for our own sake, we belong to the ‘city of the world,’ and we live turned away from God. Yet, if we love these same things for God’s sake, we belong to the City of God, and live in a God-ward way. Here it is important to remember that to love in the latter way that Augustine commended may not necessarily be an activity that we undertake with conscious awareness.

Self-Portrait by Anderson

It is actually possible to love God without ever consciously intending to do so. I believe this was the case in the adult life of Walter Anderson. It happens when we love what God dearly loves. And such true love can be expressed unconsciously, in ways that may be apparent to others while not to ourselves.

This truth connects the experience of the non-religious nature mystic with that of the religious contemplative, as both in various ways are focussed upon the Beauty inherent in Creation and within our human experience of Nature. This brings joy to the Author of Creation, who so loves the world that he has brought us into the new life that – through the Word made flesh – he now shares with us.

Emphasis has been added to the Eugene Peterson quote above. In a later post I will offer further reflection on Walter Anderson’s life and work, including his wondrous artistic creations, among which are paintings and drawings, as well as ceramics, linoleum prints and patterns for fabrics.

Reflections Inspired by Tiny Houses
A 14′ Tiny House inspired by Japanese Aesthetics (from the Baluchan website)

As earlier posts of mine attest, I have been interested for some time in the Tiny House movement, which has now become a widespread phenomenon. Whole Tiny House communities are being developed, and Tiny House construction designs have been proposed as an alternative approach to addressing homelessness. Reflecting on this movement, and the broad appeal examples of Tiny Houses seem to have, I have given some thought to what this development in small scale architecture may represent, and to what it may tell us about how we want to live.

I can see an impulse similar to the pursuit and enjoyment of living in a Tiny House in some attractive parallels, which also represent a quest for discerning a simpler way to live. Quite aside from a specific focus on contemporary examples of Tiny Houses, many people appear to have an interest in reading books like Thoreau’s Walden, or those by John Muir. I continue to meet folks who like the idea of having a small boat in which one can actually ’cruise,’ even on local lakes. And still others seem to share my fascination with living environments inspired by Japanese aesthetics.

An interior shot of the Baluchan Bonzai 14′ Tiny House

If these musings seem familiar, learning more about the Tiny House movement is worth pursuing. Here are some observations I have made in the course of my own reflections on the current popularity of this movement: 

First, the appeal of Tiny Houses has much to do with the process of rediscovering, and learning more about the beauty of living simply. And therefore, about more than managing to accept being without some things, but actually doing well with less. Marie Kondo’s videos and published writing have attracted a good deal of attention regarding the desirability of organizing our household belongings, and paring down what we have toward living with what we truly love.

Viewing and reflecting on examples of Tiny Houses can aid one’s discernment regarding needs vs wants. Most of us have probably considered this distinction from time to time, and have likely also experienced some frustration with our halting efforts to enact our reflection upon it. We know we have wants, which often masquerade as needs, while we may not sufficiently consider the potential value to us of having wants that are correlated with our needs. After all, a premise of this post rests on a paradox: the assumption that I not only want to live more simply, but that I may also need to!

The kitchen space between the bathroom and the small main living area

Here, briefly noted, are some potential benefits that may come from spending time in a Tiny House:

  • Living off the grid becomes a much more realistic goal when choosing to live in a Tiny House. Tiny Houses also allow for mobility in relation to one’s surroundings, even if it is not a frequently exercised opportunity. Changes in one’s locale can lead to learning opportunities.
  • Those who build their own or who choose to do maintenance work on a Tiny House are more likely to learn how to use, and use more ably, simple and hand-powered tools.
  • Tiny Houses are well suited as places in which we can experience solitude as a positive aspect of our lives, while also providing an excellent context for significant times spent with others. 
  • Living or spending time in a Tiny House may allow us to have increased time for personal reflection, and an opportunity further to discern our vocation, in addition to our more usual absorption with occupational concerns.
  • Tiny Houses therefore have the potential to be places in which we read more, and spend less time consuming social media or watching videos. While every living place for which we have some care requires time and attention, the theory behind choosing a Tiny House as a place to live assumes that we can devote more time to actually living, rather than preparing to live. Reading makes the world bigger and our lives richer.

For much of the above, and as a both–and rather than an either/or starting point, I commend considering adding a form of a ‘Tiny House’ to your present circumstances rather than making a radical change from them. Experimenting with what can be done with less, while also still retaining one’s present home, can be instructive. This can be accomplished by, for example, purchasing a used but well-equipped small RV. We have recently seen some interesting examples on the road, and ones that could fit in a standard home garage.

For us, it has been our 1988 24 ft trailerable sailboat that has provided this kind of learning opportunity. With its relatively small cabin (about half the length of the boat), comfortable berths (or bunks), a camping stove, cooler, portable toilet, and cockpit which serves as a small ‘back porch,’ we can meet most of our daily needs for a week or more at a time. The slip for our boat is under $200/ month, including electricity and water connections, if needed (ie, if the boat is not yet off-the-grid-ready, though our boat is now thus equipped). DAYSTAR has become our floating ‘tiny house’ or ‘cottage.’

Ably and effectively inhabiting this principle of beautiful simplicity is turning out to be a lifelong project for me, and I believe this is also true for others. I am a neophyte in the process. Perhaps my readers have some similar experience with this ongoing process!

The Act of Joy
An icon of Thomas Aquinas, by Nicholas Markell

A joy that many of us have occasion to experience – either directly or through friends and extended family – accompanies time with young children. Preschool and kindergarten teachers are by the nature of their work in the most favorable position to have this opportunity. The experience of joy we associate with time given in this way stands out for me because it is a shared joy – one shared with and inspired by those young ones who exemplify this virtue. For me, this experience has been awakened especially by my interaction with my granddaughters.

I have written previously about activities that I have enjoyed with our grandson. He shares being a grandchild of ours with six young ‘ladies’ in various stages of growing maturity. Here, I find myself musing about the wonder I have experienced with our granddaughters, who have been the source of some unique experiences for me. Having grown up with three brothers and no sisters, and having three sons and no daughters, I am encountering and learning things with my granddaughters for which I have not previously had the opportunity to experience first hand.

Among our granddaughters is one whom I like to describe as being ebullient. For she just naturally models energetic cheerfulness. She has her challenges, as we all do. But she approaches each new day’s activities with a joyfulness and positive spirit that are infectious. Though being a patient and engaging grandfather is still a growth point for me, I delight in her youthful exuberance.

An image that reminds me of my granddaughters among autumn leaves

I have mentioned before an icon of St. Thomas Aquinas that I particularly value (shown above). I have seen this image attributed to Brother Robert Lentz, but now believe it is by Nicholas Markell. This icon shows Blessed Thomas holding a small plaque with the following words: “Joy is the noblest human act.”

For many of us, joy is a welcome feeling and as such we think of it as something ‘that happens to us.’ Like love and forgiveness, joy therefore is generally an experience we anticipate receiving passively, and an experience for whose value we often rely upon feelings as our guide.

The beauty of Markell’s icon, and the quotation it features, is the reminder it provides that joy is also something we choose, something we do, and not simply something that we happen to feel. We rejoice; we can choose to enjoy; and we are able to express our joy about things we encounter or experiences that we have with others.

We experience joy when we read good books with our grandchildren

We live in a culture that tends to distrust expressions of joy, even though most people we know – and us with them – are sadly in want of it. Perhaps it’s because we encounter so few examples of spontaneous, genuine, and selfless joy, inspired by what we see around us. Is this because there is less beauty in the world these days, or are we less prepared to perceive it? My reflection and training incline me toward the latter belief. 

Joy is not one of the seven formally identified virtues taught to us by the greater Christian Tradition (among then, faith, hope, charity {or love}, prudence, justice, temperance and fortitude {or courage}). Yet, the traditional listing of virtues is not meant to exclude naming others, but rather to help us perceive their common source as well as their unity, being gifts given to us through Creation and through Redemption. Like other virtues, joy is a human capacity and a strength that we can develop through practice.

The rite for Holy Baptism in The Book of Common Prayer includes words that are prayed over candidates after they are baptized. Some of these words are particularly appropriate when thinking about the joy we often see expressed by children, but are also about something that we pray will be given to adult candidates for Baptism. In the rite, the officiant asks God to give the newly baptized persons “an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works.”

Here we discern a principal attribute of Beauty. In Beauty, among God’s works, we find a repository of joy and a source of wonder. For the beauty that we find in the world embodies and expresses our Father’s love for his Creation. Encountering this love brings us joy as we perceive its source and embrace him.

Today, I am thinking about the joy that each of my grandchildren encourages me to experience with them. I notice the natural joy that many children seem more able to find than do adults of my age. More readily, children delight in the world around them and in the experiences they are blessed to have. At the same time, and especially in this next phase of my life, I am reminded that joy – like Beauty, Goodness, and Truth – is not simply passively experienced. More importantly, joy is something that I want to – and can – practice.

So, with my grandchildren, I choose joy!

I close with a prayer attributed to St Francis, which speaks of joy as something we can contribute to a needy world:

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is
hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where
there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where
there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where
there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to
be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is
in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we
are born to eternal life. Amen.

Two Architects Build Houses for Themselves
Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin East, entry courtyard

Frank Lloyd Wright and Philip Johnson number among the most well known American architects of the 20th century. Both are remembered for their many commissions by others, for buildings constructed both in the United States and overseas. Notably, each of these men designed a house for himself and each reflects something of the respective architect’s vision for an ideal domestic building. The results differ dramatically and beg for some explanation, especially in the case of Philip Johnson’s Glass House.

Philip Johnson, Glass House, exterior

To help appreciate the theoretical basis for these vastly differing houses, I find it helpful to draw upon a distinction made by the earthscape artist, Andres Amador (featured in a prior post). Speaking about his temporary compositions ‘sketched’ upon large stretches of beach areas at low tide, Amador refers to some of his works as “geometric” and others as “organic.” The geometric works display a quality readily suggested by the name for them, and reflect Amador’s training in math as an engineer. The organic works arise, he says, from the site, and he suggests that these pieces communicate their form to him. For me, Amador’s distinction can also be referred to as the distinction between pattern that is ‘received,’ as compared with pattern that is ‘imposed.’

Amador’s distinction between the organic patterns that arise from the site, and the geometric patterns that result from conceptual pre-planning, can assist us in perceiving some themes that are implied by the architectural designs produced by Wright and Johnson for their homes. In the case of Wright, he built Taliesin on family property in Spring Green, Wisconsin, in an area where he grew up and with which he had a deep attachment. Like much of his other work, Wright wanted Taliesin to appear as if it was an extension of the materials and features of the site in which it is placed, being an ‘organic’ development of a human habitation within a natural setting. Wright’s intent is evident in the way that the horizontal bands of stucco on the facade, as well as of the limestone in the foundation and walls of the building, parallel and mirror the layers of stone found on the site.

Exterior elevation of the house, as if emerging from the site (photos above and below)

While Philip Johnson’s architectural practice was located in New York City, he planned to build a house for himself and weekend guests in nearby New Canaan, Connecticut. Johnson’s Glass House clearly reflects his indebtedness to the work of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, and the European modernist movement in architecture generally known as the International Style. Employing Andres Amador’s distinction, the Glass House clearly embodies a geometric conceptual basis, with the result that the building does not so much emerge from the site but instead sits upon it as an imposed human-made form. The carefully clipped and very flat lawn, and the linear walkways serve to emphasize the distinction between the structure and its natural surroundings. This leaves the Glass House appearing to be like a sculptural object that has been placed on a plaza, or like a vase on a smooth table-top, rather than as something arising from within its setting.

The Glass House, exterior view (above), and interior view (below)

Brief attention to the history of these two buildings provides further insight. Wright lived at Taliesin much of his life, while also retreating to Taliesin West in the Arizona desert during the winter months. Over the years, he gathered a sizable community of apprentices who lived and worked with him at both locations. To this day, the architectural fellowship that is part of his legacy maintains both homes and studios. By contrast, though Philip Johnson first lived part-time in the Glass House himself, he soon discovered how it was largely unsuitable for that purpose, other than for entertaining guests in the living and dining areas of the structure. Given the sudden notoriety of the house, the constant presence of unwelcome visitors and architecture-minded prowlers made it problematic for every exterior surface of the house to be comprised of glass. Johnson soon made it a habit to stay in the adjacent bunker-like Brick House, designed for the site as a guest house, when spending time in New Canaan.

Obviously, it is easy to stress the marked differences between these houses designed and built by Wright and Johnson for themselves. Andres Amador’s dual approach to his earthscapes may help provide a reminder of the way that both-and thinking can aid how we consider certain objects of interest. Wright’s organic home and studio, emerging within and receiving inspiration from its site, and Johnson’s temporarily lived-in Glass House, imposed as a geometric sculpture upon its site, share a common distinction. Regardless of functional considerations, each house has its own way of displaying beauty, and both remain among a small list of internationally recognized architectural achievements of historic significance.

Note: A short introductory video about Andres Amador and his work, giving examples from both of the geometric and organic categories, introduced above, has been produced by KQED of San Francisco. It can be found on YouTube ( https://youtu.be/T_tIG5mo1DM?si=0MkjxkTEK48eC-aV ).

Taliesin East has been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and the Glass House is a National Historic Landmark.

Andy Warhol visits the Glass House

Nature & Grace, and What We May Learn About Beauty
Found Beauty: a colorful palette in front of a local garden store

I continue to be grateful for things I have learned from my former teaching colleague, Ralph McMichael. Among the insights I have gained from him is one way to sum up some basic understandings that people have of the relationship between Nature and Grace. Whether by these names or not, we all seem to have a concept of this relationship. Nature, an all embracing category, is the common term widely used to refer to what Jews and Christians call Creation. Grace is a term that some use to refer to the presence of the supernatural realm, as it may touch upon or be found in Nature.

There are many ways of thinking about the relationship between these terms, and what they represent. Among them are four basic concepts or models of the interaction between them, which Ralph McMichael often presented in his teaching at the seminary. His articulation of these four ways can be summed up with four words: Compatible; Opposition; Identification; and Fusion. The most common understanding of the interaction between the supernatural realm and the natural world is represented by the first two terms. I will explain.

Many of us were raised in social environments where this interaction was seen as one in which the supernatural, or Grace, only episodically touches aspects of the natural world, or Nature. Based on the first model, some of us tend to see this interaction as involving the compatible yet occasional way that Grace touches Nature. It touches Nature here and there, unpredictably ‘gracing’ the natural realm in which we find ourselves. In this first model, Grace is a friendly presence to and upon those beings or things that it visits, making up for something of value that we seek or yearn for. 

In the second model of the relationship between Nature and Grace, the latter is once again seen as episodic, touching Nature just as unpredictably. But, in this case, Grace – although sometimes also friendly – can appear to be incompatible with some things it touches. In this view, while Grace may be friendly to Nature, aspects of Nature may be unfriendly to Grace, and opposed to it!

Found Beauty: Boat rudder in clear northern water

The third model for understanding the relationship between Nature and Grace might not be as familiar to many of us, and it may represent a reaction to the perceived inadequacy of the first two models. This third view has affinities with what is called pantheism, the view that Nature and Grace are so intertwined that they are indistinguishable. In this view, there is no separation between sacred and profane, or between God and the world, for – despite appearances and sometimes contrary experience – the two ideas or things are really one. Hence, according to this third mode of approaching the question, Nature is Grace.

McMichael referred to the fourth model as the Fusion model, one that he and many ‘catholic-minded’ thinkers commend. In this model, rather than seeing Nature and Grace identified as one entity, Nature is best seen as infused by Grace. With this understanding, we can see Nature and Grace as distinguishable but also as inseparable. Nature is graced. A theological extension of this idea is for us to say that ‘there is no place where God is not.’

In offering McMichael’s four models for understanding the relationship between Nature and Grace, I realize that I have presented a conceptually-dense set of ideas. Yet, I encourage you to consider them – and muse about them – for I believe you will come to recognize how you – like me – often assume one or more of them. Sometimes we think with these four models in overlapping ways, or at other times inconsistently when viewing one set of circumstances followed by another.

Found Beauty: A rainbow breaks through a late evening storm

These four models, because they so fundamentally shape our world-view, continue to play a role in my reflection upon Art, Beauty, and the theme of Transcendence. I invite you to join me in reflecting on how these models for understanding the relationship between Nature and Grace might inform our thinking about Beauty, its presence in the world around us, and how Beauty is a fundamental aspect of our experience of the natural realm in which we find ourselves every day.

Here is one way to apply McMichael’s four models to how we think about Beauty:

  • Beauty graces Nature episodically, in a compatible way.
  • Beauty appears in Nature episodically, and challenges that which is other than beautiful.
  • Nature is identified with Beauty.
  • Nature is infused with Beauty, and thoroughly permeated by it.

If we identify with the fourth view, as presented here, we of course need to do some thinking about those circumstances when we are confronted by an encounter with ugliness, as well as with evil. We must then try to explain our experiences of these latter real aspects of what we encounter. Here, both-and thinking will serve us in a way that either/or thinking will prove unsatisfactory. And, hence, we must be sure to distinguish the Identification model (which tends toward pantheism) from the Fusion model (which can be consistent with traditional theism).

Found Beauty: A quiet early morning at the same marina

Additional note: the photos included in this post were taken in Charlevoix, Michigan, in the summer of 2025