Jeremy Taylor: the saint of practical living for a holy life

I am back from sabbatical, and today seems like a good day to start posting again on the blog. It is the feast day of one of my favorite Anglican saints, Jeremy Taylor. Here is what I wrote about him awhile back...

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Jeremy Taylor

Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667), one of the “Caroline Divines,”  is chiefly known for his masterful work, The Rules and Exercise of Holy Living (1650) which has never gone out of print.

I've mentioned him in this space on other occasions, and I continue to return to his works and wisdom on everything from church politics to prayer. Above all he strived to be practical; theological theory was meaningless to Taylor if he could not touch it, test it, live with it in the real world. Here is a gem from Holy Living:

“Let everything you see represent to your spirit the presence, the excellency, and the power of God; and let your conversation with the creatures lead you unto the Creator; for so shall your actions be done more frequently, with an actual eye to God’s presence, by your often seeing him in the glass of the creation.

In the face of the sun you may see God’s beauty; in the fire you may feel his heat warming; in the water, his gentleness to refresh you: he it is that comforts your spirit when you have taken cordials; it is the dew of heaven that makes your field give you bread; and the breasts of God are the bottles that minister drink to your necessities.”

Taylor should be known for much more, including his Liberty of Prophesying (1647) a book calling for an end to government-backed coercion in support of religion, an idea that would not take root for another century in the Enlightenment.

In his day, Taylor was known as a great preacher and a masterful crafter of prose, including this from a sermon given in 1653:

“Prayer is the peace of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the evenness of recollection, the seat of meditation, the rest of our cares and the calm of our tempest; prayer is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled thoughts, it is the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness.”

Taylor profoundly influenced his own generation and those who came after him, including Thomas Jefferson who said every educated person should have Taylor on the bookshelf. Many of Taylor's quotes can be found in 19th century "books of days," the forerunner to the contemporary "Forward Day by Day." Taylor's story is worth telling.

Taylor was born and educated in Cambridge, the fourth of six children; eventually coming to the attention of Archbishop William Laud who heard him preach at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. Taylor became the protégé of Laud, who secured for him a teaching post at All Souls College, Oxford, in 1635. Taylor was also appointed chaplain to King Charles I. Taylor was on the ecclesiastical fast-track, and seemed destined to become a bishop, perhaps even Archbishop of Canterbury.

Life intervened.

In 1640, Charles I overplayed his hand with the Puritans in Parliament, and civil war erupted between the armies of Parliament and the Royalists. England was ravaged. In 1642, the king was captured along with his chaplain, Taylor. Charles I was beheaded and as he went to the gallows, he gave his ring to Taylor, who was allowed to go into exile in Wales in 1645.

In Wales, Taylor wrote prolifically, taking an attitude that both sides were profoundly wrong and sinful. He took Anglican theological theory and applied it to real life as he experienced it. In his most popular book, Holy Living, Taylor explained a way of practicing a “holy life” in ordinary walks of life. He lived at a time when prayer books were banned, churches burned, and people felt adrift and worse. How could they worship God – be present with God – if not in a church? Taylor explained how, and it made him one of the most popular and oft-printed religious authors well into the early 20th century.

For Taylor, God was everywhere. Contemporary authors have re-discovered that theme, but few have crafted language as soaring as Taylor's:

“So that we imagine God to be as the air and the sea; and we all enclosed in his circle, wrapped up in the lap of his infinite nature, or as infants in the wombs of their pregnant mothers: and we can no more be removed from the presence of God than from our being.”

When Taylor's wife died, he wrote a companion volume to Holy Living, called Holy Dying. It was truly an ode to his wife, and his own way of struggling through his grief. Edmund Gosse, who wrote a biography of Taylor in 1903 that is still quite readable, considers Holy Dying Taylor's most overlooked masterpiece (the engraving at right is an inset on the cover page to Holy Dying; note the skeleton in the mirror). It is a sad book, and a hard read, but within in the book is hope for new life to come.

Eventually, the monarchy was restored. Taylor was made a bishop, but in Northern Ireland (perhaps because the Royalists did not fully trust him). Truthfully, he had a miserable time as a bishop, fought endlessly with the Irish priests, and longed for a return to England that never came.

In Ireland, he began writing yet another long set of works, including a treatise on how bishops have a role in the church only as long as they are promoting ministry. He also developed his own doctrine of "just war" that was stricter than the prevalent doctrine handed down from the Catholic era in Britain. Perhaps we would do well in our day to take a few pages from Taylor.

He outlived most of his children, and died in 1667. From Holy Dying: "When we descend to our graves, we may rest in the bosom of our Lord, till the mansions be prepared where we are shall sing and feast eternally."

May you have a blessed feast day of Jeremy Taylor.

By James Richardson, Fiat Lux

The Saints of Summer: Jeremy Taylor, Anglican Divine

Today is the feast day of one of my personal favorites on the Anglican calendar of saints: Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667), one of the “Caroline Divines.” Taylor is chiefly known for his masterful work, The Rules and Exercise of Holy Living (1650) which has never gone out of print.

I've mentioned him in this space on other occasions, and I continue to return to his works and wisdom on everything from church politics to prayer. Above all he strived to be practical; theological theory was meaningless to Taylor if he could not touch it, test it, live with it in the real world. Here is a gem from Holy Living:

“Let everything you see represent to your spirit the presence, the excellency, and the power of God; and let your conversation with the creatures lead you unto the Creator; for so shall your actions be done more frequently, with an actual eye to God’s presence, by your often seeing him in the glass of the creation.

In the face of the sun you may see God’s beauty; in the fire you may feel his heat warming; in the water, his gentleness to refresh you: he it is that comforts your spirit when you have taken cordials; it is the dew of heaven that makes your field give you bread; and the breasts of God are the bottles that minister drink to your necessities.”

Taylor should be known for much more, including his Liberty of Prophesying (1647) a book calling for an end to government-backed coercion in support of religion, an idea that would not take root for another century in the Enlightenment.

In his day, Taylor was known as a great preacher and a masterful crafter of prose, including this from a sermon given in 1653:

“Prayer is the peace of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the evenness of recollection, the seat of meditation, the rest of our cares and the calm of our tempest; prayer is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled thoughts, it is the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness.”

Taylor profoundly influenced his own generation and those who came after him, including Thomas Jefferson who said every educated person should have Taylor on the bookshelf. Many of Taylor's quotes can be found in 19th century "books of days," the forerunner to the contemporary "Forward Day by Day." Taylor's story is worth telling.

Taylor was born and educated in Cambridge, the fourth of six children; eventually coming to the attention of Archbishop William Laud who heard him preach at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. Taylor became the protégé of Laud, who secured for him a teaching post at All Souls College, Oxford, in 1635. Taylor was also appointed chaplain to King Charles I. Taylor was on the ecclesiastical fast-track, and seemed destined to become a bishop, perhaps even Archbishop of Canterbury.

Life intervened.

In 1640, Charles I overplayed his hand with the Puritans in Parliament, and civil war erupted between the armies of Parliament and the Royalists. England was ravaged. In 1642, the king was captured along with his chaplain, Taylor. Charles I was beheaded and as he went to the gallows, he gave his ring to Taylor, who was allowed to go into exile in Wales in 1645.

In Wales, Taylor wrote prolifically, taking an attitude that both sides were profoundly wrong and sinful. He took Anglican theological theory and applied it to real life as he experienced it. In his most popular book, Holy Living, Taylor explained a way of practicing a “holy life” in ordinary walks of life. He lived at a time when prayer books were banned, churches burned, and people felt adrift and worse. How could they worship God – be present with God – if not in a church? Taylor explained how, and it made him one of the most popular and oft-printed religious authors well into the early 20th century.

For Taylor, God was everywhere. Contemporary authors have re-discovered that theme, but few have crafted language as soaring as Taylor's:

“So that we imagine God to be as the air and the sea; and we all enclosed in his circle, wrapped up in the lap of his infinite nature, or as infants in the wombs of their pregnant mothers: and we can no more be removed from the presence of God than from our being.”

When Taylor's wife died, he wrote a companion volume to Holy Living, called Holy Dying. It was truly an ode to his wife, and his own way of struggling through his grief. Edmund Gosse, who wrote a biography of Taylor in 1903 that is still quite readable, considers Holy Dying Taylor's most overlooked masterpiece (the engraving at right is an inset on the cover page to Holy Dying; note the skeleton in the mirror). It is a sad book, and a hard read, but within in the book is hope for new life to come.

Eventually, the monarchy was restored. Taylor was made a bishop, but in Northern Ireland (perhaps because the Royalists did not fully trust him). Truthfully, he had a miserable time as a bishop, fought endlessly with the Irish priests, and longed for a return to England that never came.

In Ireland, he began writing yet another long set of works, including a treatise on how bishops have a role in the church only as long as they are promoting ministry. He also developed his own doctrine of "just war" that was stricter than the prevalent doctrine handed down from the Catholic era in Britain. Perhaps we would do well in our day to take a few pages from Taylor.

He outlived most of his children, and died in 1667. From Holy Dying: "When we descend to our graves, we may rest in the bosom of our Lord, till the mansions be prepared where we are shall sing and feast eternally."

May you have a blessed feast day of Jeremy Taylor.

Episcopacy asserted: Part I

Our Episcopal and Anglican world is regularly rocked by the doings of bishops, and in recent years, how they become bishops. This is perhaps not surprising, given our name is “episcopal,” the Greek word for bishops, and our church structure is (theoretically) hierarchal with bishops at the top.

The selection of American Episcopal bishops is recently in the international news with the election of The Rev. Canon Mary Glasspool of Maryland (photo below) as an assisting, or “suffragan,” bishop in Los Angeles. Canon Glasspool, if confirmed, will be the second openly gay bishop living in a partnered relationship; her election has roiled the waters of the already fractured Anglican Communion.

You may recall that in 2003, the Episcopal Church elected and confirmed Gene Robinson, an openly gay partnered man, as bishop of New Hampshire, and we are still living in the aftermath of that election.

You might also ask why have bishops at all if this is so much trouble. Or perhaps you are a faithful practitioner of another church, or another faith tradition, that is not so encumbered by bishops, and you might find the rest of this posting less than relevant to your life. Fair enough.

Whether to have bishops at all was a hot topic in the Reformation, and a number of Protestant churches have gotten along perfectly well, thank you, without bishops. Also fair enough.

But we in the Episcopal Church have bishops, and like it as not, we are joined at the hip with the other bishops of the Anglican Communion, that odd creaky federation of churches that is an outgrowth (or backwash) of the British Empire. We in America were the first to break with the Brits, and our Episcopal Church was the first to find its own path, and our path not surprisingly has always had a major independent streak from that of England.

What I’d like to do today is look a bit at the topic of bishops and make a few observations that I hope might clarify some of the issues before us. I have no huge solutions to offer, but perhaps some smaller ideas that I hope will add to the dialogue. This is not a posting about gay inclusion issues, so please hold your fire on that for another day. Today, let's talk about bishops.

In my estimation, there are two countervailing forces at work that make this debate over bishops seem intractable. The first is a difference among Anglican provinces in how bishops are selected. The second is a conflict in how the various Anglican churches view the authority of bishops. The two are interrelated, but let's pull them apart for the sake of argument.
Today I will look at the election of bishops, and another time, at their authority.

The American Church began electing bishops in local church conventions soon after independence was won from Britain. The first American so elected, Samuel Seabury (picture at right), sailed to Britain in 1784 seeking ordination from the English bishops. The Archbishop of Canterbury and his fellow bishops refused to “lay hands” upon him, so Seabury went to Scotland where a group of “non-juring” bishops ordained him.

The Scottish “non-juring” bishops were dissenters from the English bishops on the matter of choosing monarchs. Their political arguments are not so important to us now, but they highlight that the American Episcopal Church got off to a rocky start with the English bishops, and since then Americans have never really consulted the Archbishop of Canterbury on who should be a bishop in America. The snub from England was patched over in the decades that followed but never really forgotten.

It needs to be underlined that our election of bishops by a church convention is a novel, thoroughly modern idea, and it is a practice not widely shared in the rest of the world. In one sense, we are not very Anglican at all because we have long practiced a form of democracy in the election of bishops.

To understand how different we really are, I’ve gone back into the depths of Anglicanism by reading Jeremy Taylor’s essay, Episcopacy asserted, written in 1642, his first major work. At the time it was published in Oxford, Taylor (1613-1667) was a rising star in the Church of England (years later he would be made a bishop) and he was considered the most eloquent "divine" of his generation; at the time, Taylor and the Church of England were battling the Presbyterians over whether there should be bishops at all.

Taylor (picture at right) painstakingly traced the history of bishops from the early letters of the New Testament forward through the early church and into his own time. His conclusion was that Christ commanded that there be bishops, and that the earliest apostles would “fix” a bishop in place whenever they established a new church.

How a man became a bishop (they were all men, after all) was not by an election of a local church, but by the other bishops or apostles. “But here lies the issue and strain of the question,” Taylor wrote.

And so it is the “strain of the question” for us. Centuries ago, the English church began selecting bishops with the approval of monarchs and their ministers, and sometimes with their active promotion.

Thomas Cranmer was the pick of Henry VIII as Archbishop of Canterbury. As the British parliamentary system grew, bishops took seats in the House of Lords. Church and state grew intertwined in the persons of bishops.

In the modern Church of England, the Prime Minister, in the name of the Queen, approves the bishops. The selection process is done largely in secret, and is a mystery to all but the insiders. That church and state in Britain are a muddled mess is a major understatement. Indeed, most Americans would be highly offended if the Congress and President picked our bishops, but that is precisely how bishops are chosen in Britain.

Meanwhile, Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams has repeatedly suggested that the American Episcopal Church should consult more widely with the Anglican Communion in the making of bishops. He holds that our “catholicity” requires us to consider how our bishops are connected one to the other across national lines. He is perhaps correct. But his assertion invites scrutiny of how he was selected as a bishop and how other Anglican bishops are selected in other provinces.

The question for Williams should be this: Should the rest of the Anglican Communion, including the American Episcopal Church, be consulted on the appointment of the next Archbishop of Canterbury? After all, we define Anglicanism, in part, as recognition by the Archbishop of Canterbury. We have a stake in who holds that office.

And that should raise a very uncomfortable question for the Church of England and all of the Anglican Communion: Should the Anglican Communion continue to be entwined the British government? The Anglican Covenant, promoted by Williams, should address this issue as well.

This is no small question, and I would submit the issue is a major reason why our churches seem to be talking past each other. The bishops in the rest of the Anglican Communion, including in Britain, have consistently brushed off our arguments that our way of church governance is crucial to our understanding of our identity.

Meanwhile, we have perhaps underestimated (and taken this value for granted) that our church is not an arm of the U.S. government. In fact, much of the world assumes correctly that their governments and religions are enmeshed, and not just in the Christian world (though it should be noted that the Vatican would never put up with the Italian government thinking it could pick bishops). The separation of church and state is still largely an American value, not well understood or appreciated in other countries, and much misunderstood in our own.

This is an old issue. Taylor himself touched on it in another book, A Discourse on the Liberty of Prophesying, published in 1646. The book itself has a curious history. Taylor, once he became a bishop, tried to disown it and asked his publisher to gather up any copies that could be found and burn them. He did not succeed; I have a first edition copy in my personal library, and Liberty can be found in the compendiums of Taylor’s work. And thank goodness, for it is a little known masterpiece of the English Reformation.

In the book, Taylor argued that governments are ill equipped to enforce matters of faith. He rested his argument on the fact that there are honest differences by faithful people in interpreting Scripture. In Taylor’s view, to allow a government to be, in effect, the final authority on scriptural interpretation was irreconcilable with the freedom of conscience of individuals. “For it is best every man should be left in that liberty from which no man can justly take from him.”

The larger Reformation issue he addressed was that the Roman Catholic Church asserted that it was the sole interpreter of the Bible; reformers like Martin Luther disagreed, but some Protestant reformers sought to replace the Vatican with themselves as the sole authority on Scripture. Taylor thought it just as wrong to insert the state in place of the Vatican.

But Taylor also hedged here. He wrote that God spoke through the conscience of human beings (Ductor Dubitantium, 1660), but he also believed that bishops should rule the church. Taylor did not resolve the inherit tension in his stance, and it may be that in his English muddle much of the current Anglican tensions lay.

The notion that bishops are all-powerful is certainly a legacy of the early church and was inherited by the English Church. The issue Taylor confronted was a Puritan government trying to control the church and the bishops. Taylor took it for granted that bishops should govern the church alone with no interference from the people in the pews. “I say they [bishops] had power alone to govern alone, for they had the government of the church alone before they ordained the first presbyters.”

The American Episcopal church, though, took a much different course, shaped by the events of and between the War of Independence in 1776 and the Constitutional Convention of 1789. The Episcopal Church inherited a system of federal checks-and-balances from the founders of the United States; the Episcopal Church saw the authority of bishops differently than their English counterparts. Authority was spread among the people and clergy, and limits were put on the power of bishops. That, too, is underappreciated and misunderstood in the rest of the Anglican world.

Next time I will look at episcopal hierarchy and suggest a different way of viewing the authority of bishops.

What is prayer? A personal journey: Part I

“Let everything you see represent to your spirit the presence, the excellency, and the power of God; and let your conversation with the creatures lead you unto the Creator; for so shall your actions be done more frequently, with an actual eye to God’s presence, by your often seeing him in the glass of the creation.

In the face of the sun you may see God’s beauty; in the fire you may feel his heat warming; in the water, his gentleness to refresh you: he it is that comforts your spirit when you have taken cordials; it is the dew of heaven that makes your field give you bread; and the breasts of God are the bottles that minister drink to your necessities.”

From The Rules and Exercises of Holy Living, by Jeremy Taylor, 1651

(Chapter I, Section III)

What is prayer? Many have tried to answer the question, and every answer I have ever heard has both truth and limits. So I give my own answer today with great trepidation. I hope there is a kernel of truth here, but I expect this will fall short.

The best way I can give an answer is by telling you about my own prayer life, which has had many ups and downs over the years. At its best for me, prayer is a conversation, much as Jeremy Taylor above describes. At its driest, prayers are words on a page, or meandering thoughts with no heart or no substance. Prayer for me has many peaks and valleys, as does life itself.

Let me describe a little of my private prayer life (as distinguished from my public prayer life of sacraments and community worship). I provide this not as a recipe guide, but simply as a sketch of what works for me (and it will inevitably change, so this is a snapshot). This might work for you, or might not.

I’d be most interested in hearing what works for you in prayer. This is intensely personal stuff, so I do not propose telling you more than I am comfortable telling you, nor would I expect you would go beyond your own comfort zone in your description of prayer.

So here goes…

My foundation for prayer are the Biblical texts read as prayer. Stay with me and I will explain. My private prayer life for many years (20 years to be exact) has been built atop The Daily Office, which is the Episcopal/Anglican cycle of Morning and Evening Prayer. The prayers come straight out of The Book of Common Prayer, and each day has biblical readings and canticles assigned rotating on a two-year rotation. The church year begins on the First Sunday of Advent, so we have just entered Year Two of the Daily Office cycle.

To make my life slightly easier, I have a big fat leather-bound book that contains all of the biblical readings, in order, day-by-day for the full two years (the book was a gift at my ordination from Barry Beisner, who was my shepherd through the ordination process; he has gone on to become the Bishop of the Diocese of Northern California). You can also find all of the daily readings and prayers each day by clicking HERE.

That is the superstructure upon which my prayers are built.

My method has taken me many years to develop, and truthfully, is always evolving. I learned a

prayer method many years ago from George Murphy, S.J. (and you may recognize this as Ignatian). I have also worked with spiritual directors (mostly Jesuits) who have helped me adapt this method and keep it fresh.

After reading the passages for the morning, I sit quietly, close my eyes, try to quiet the noise between my ears, and imagine myself somewhere in one of the biblical passages. Which one speaks to me today? I paint an imaginary picture of the scene, what it looks like, what it sounds and smells like, and then I put myself into the picture.

I do my best to describe what I see and feel, and then I listen. I don’t crank up my advice machine for God, but instead notice who else is there with me – usually some very familiar friends and family, but sometimes a few surprising people as well. Those I know who are sick or hurting or in trouble are there. Sometimes Jesus comes into the picture with us. I listen to what Jesus might be saying, if he is saying anything at all. Sometimes he just sits awhile.

Usually the scene is a familiar place. It is real. I do not imagine scenes out of a Cecil B. DeMille Bible movie, or even out great religious art (not that there is anything wrong with that; praying with icons is a rich tradition all its own). I may linger for several days in a single place.

For several weeks running in my prayer image, I was sitting on a ridgeline in the High Sierra, a rocky spot very familiar to me. But I’ve sat in Mexican villages and at a cattle ranch where I stayed years ago. I've also sat in the dark catacombs of Canterbury Cathedral. When Jesus teaches while sitting on a beach by the sea, almost always I end up sitting on a log at Pope Beach at Lake Tahoe with Jesus.

Sometimes Jesus looks like Jesus in popular art, white robes flowing, or he might look like the icon to the right. But that is rare. Sometimes Jesus looks like a park ranger, or a ranch hand. Sometimes Jesus is male, sometimes Jesus is female.

The important thing for me is that I sit and listen. I am not there giving God advice. There are times when I feel Jesus is asking me a question, and I try to answer. But I am not telling God what to do.

Some mornings this picture is vivid and stays with me all day; other mornings, it doesn’t come at all. When the picture doesn't come, I sit with a few words from one of the passages and think how it might have something to do with what confront me for the rest of the day. Some mornings even that will not work. Prayer has peaks and valleys.

When the image goes, I return to the prayers of the day, and sometimes they have a particular vitality that is fed by my prayer images.

At the end of the day, I engage in an “examine.” I ask what I have done that fits what I heard in my morning prayer; where did I fall short? I try to enfold my day in prayer.

You could say this is simply me listening to my imagination, and you would be right. But I believe that God especially reaches us in our imaginations, in our dreams, in our moments waking and our moments sleeping, and in those moments when the outer world is quieted for a time.

Yet I am also aware that this kind of prayer can be self-absorbed, and if I am not careful, it will block the world from my doorstep, separating me from the community of faith – and the wider community of no faith at all. The danger is my prayer could become all imagination, all fantasy, all selfishness.

And that brings me squarely to the written words on the page, the sacraments, and the community at prayer - all grounding me in the reality of life. More on that next time.

The Saints of Summer: Jeremy Taylor

Today is the feast day of one of my personal favorites on the Anglican calendar of saints: Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667). Lori would say he is at the top of my list.

Taylor is chiefly known for his masterful work, The Rules and Exercise of Holy Living (1650) which has never gone out of print.

Taylor should be known for much more, including his Liberty of Prophesying (1647) a book calling for an end to government-backed coercion in support of religion, an idea that would not take root for another century in the Enlightenment.

In his day, Taylor was known as a great preacher and a masterful crafter of prose, including this gem from a sermon given in 1653:

"Prayer is the peace of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the evenness of recollection, the seat of meditation, the rest of our cares and the calm of our tempest; prayer is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled thoughts, it is the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness."

Taylor profoundly influenced his own generation and those who came after him, including Thomas Jefferson who said every educated person should have Taylor on the bookshelf. Many of Taylor's quotes can be found in 19th century "books of days," the forerunner to the contemporary "Forward Day by Day." Taylor's story is worth telling.

Taylor was born and educated in Cambridge, the fourth of six children; eventually coming to the attention of Archbishop William Laud who heard him preach at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. Taylor became the protégé of Laud, who secured for him a teaching post at All Souls College, Oxford, in 1635. Taylor was also appointed chaplain to King Charles I. Taylor was on the ecclesiastical fast-track, and seemed destined to become a bishop, perhaps even Archbishop of Canterbury.

Life intervened.

In 1640, Charles I overplayed his hand with the Puritans in Parliament, and civil war erupted between the armies of Parliament and the Royalists. England was ravaged. In 1642, the king was captured along with his chaplain, Taylor. Charles I was beheaded and as he went to the gallows, he gave his ring to Taylor, who was allowed to go into exile in Wales in 1645.

In Wales, Taylor wrote prolifically, taking an attitude that both sides were profoundly wrong and sinful. He took Anglican theological theory and applied it to real life as he experienced it. In his classic, Holy Living, Taylor explained a way of living a “holy life” in ordinary walks of life. He lived at a time when prayer books were banned, churches burned, and people felt adrift and worse. How could they worship God – be present with God – if not in a church? Taylor explained how, and it made him one of the most popular and oft-printed religious authors well into the early 20th century.

For Taylor, God was everywhere. Contemporary authors have re-discovered that theme, but few have crafted language as soaring as Taylor's:

“So that we imagine God to be as the air and the sea; and we all enclosed in his circle, wrapped up in the lap of his infinite nature, or as infants in the wombs of their pregnant mothers: and we can no more be removed from the presence of God than from our being.”

When Taylor's wife died, he wrote a companion volume to Holy Living, called Holy Dying. It was truly an ode to his wife, and his own way of struggling through his grief.

Eventually, the monarchy was restored. Taylor was made a bishop, but in Northern Ireland (perhaps because the Royalists did not fully trust him). He began writing yet another long set of works, including a treatise on how bishops have a place in the church only as long as they are promoting ministry. Perhaps we would do well in our day to take a few pages from Taylor. He outlived most of his children, and died in 1667.

I have a postscript that is my story:

Ten years ago, Lori and I took a summer course in Anglican theology at Oxford. I wandered into Blackwell, the great bookstore in Oxford, and found a set of Taylor's works printed in the mid-19th century; the books were in pristine condition and the price was beyond my reach.

That evening I described these books at the pub to our summer classmate friends. The next thing I knew, Dick Toll, the rector of a church in Oregon, took out his checkbook and wrote a check to Blackwell for the price of the books.

The next morning I waited at the door of the store, impatient to be first inside lest someone else buy the books (never mind the books probably had languished on the shelves for decades). I bought the books and then scurried off to Morning Prayer.

I took my pew, opened the service leaflet, and that's when I noticed: It was August 13, Jeremy Taylor's Feast Day.