The Turning of the Season

As we reach this weekend, the earth turns once again. The solstice marks a threshold, a moment of transition, of the earth tilting gently, once again, on its ancient and steady axis. The seasons turn without human permission or intervention. The natural world keeps its own sacred rhythm. These cosmic thresholds always invite me to pause. To remember that time moves in circles, not just in straight lines.

The church’s calendar turns too. We step now into what is called Ordinary Time. I’ve always found that phrase a little odd. There is nothing ordinary about the unfolding of life. The Celtic wisdom that has shaped so much of my reflection over this past year reminds me that every day is woven with the divine — in tree and bird, in sunrise and rainfall, in breath and heartbeat. Ordinary Time is not empty time. It is inhabited time. Sacred time marked by both cosmic rhythm and human story.

And today, the first Sunday of Ordinary Time, the lectionary brings the unsettling story of a person possessed by many demons (Luke 8:26-39).  Or perhaps more accurately, possessed by a system of forces so strong that when Jesus asks for a name, the answer is Legion — many, a multitude. The name evokes not just personal torment, but collective oppression.

In the story Jesus crosses a lake, encounters a person living among tombs, naked, shunned, chained, suffering, and brought healing. The person is restored, clothed, and in their right mind. The demons are driven out, but not into nothingness. Instead, they enter a herd of pigs, who then hurl themselves into the lake and drown.

I find it a strange and somewhat distasteful story. The cost of this healing disturbs me, especially in light of our recent retreat. The demons, driven out of the person, enter the large herd of pigs, who then rush down the steep bank into the lake and drown.

Of course, I don’t struggle with the healing itself — not with the liberation of one who was tormented and marginalized — but with the ease by which the lives of the animals are discarded, as though their worth is of no account. 

The swineherds’ loss, the drowning of creatures, these should not be read as incidental details but something to pause on and think about the impact. The earth community suffers collateral damage. This is not a minor point, perhaps. especially for those who joined in our year long reflection on Celtic Earth including the most recent session on Animal Kinship.  All creatures are part of the sacred web of life. There is an interconnectedness of all life. I want to think not just about the sacredness of humanity but of every creature. It is sad how quickly animal life is seen as expendable — even in our sacred texts.

I’ve read this story countless times, but I always stumble here. The ease with which the animals are cast aside.  A large herd are lost and drowned. The lives of these creatures treated as expendable. The non-human world is sacrificed for human restoration. It reminds me how easily the lives of creatures are dismissed. Also, I don’t want to forget the swineherds whose livelihood was destroyed. 

Will they receive harsh punishment from the owners of the pigs? Will they be forced to a life of poverty? Is there a hierarchy of humanity reflected in this story?

It troubles me. 

And, as if that is not enough to trouble me, as I linger with this passage, I am drawn to something else, again a theme I talked about at the retreat — the power of naming.

Naming holds power. Naming recognizes existence.  Women are left unnamed in so many Biblical stories. The texts allow men their names, their lineage, their voice but women are anonymous: the woman at the well, the hemorrhaging woman, the Syrophoenician woman, the woman caught in adultery. Their stories are told, but their names are lost. Their full humanity is veiled. Unnamed, unrecognized, invisible.

In the story the demon names Jesus, “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Child of the Most High God?” There is power in naming. To name is to acknowledge existence. To name is to grant presence.

And Jesus asked the demon their name. This is a sharp contrast to the many silences around women’s names. A demon is worthy of a name, worthy of being asked for their name but the woman at the well wasn’t given that same recognition. Again, this is not minor.  It speaks to the centuries of silencing and marginalization of women’s voices and stories. The very act of naming becomes an act of recognition. And recognition is a step toward dignity.

As I step into this new season, as I enter Ordinary Time, I find myself holding all these layers together: the sacredness of every creature; the pain of those whose voices are silenced, the power of naming to restore visibility.

I want to let this story remind me to notice lives that are treated as disposable; to pay attention to those lives the stories overlook, both human and non-human and to join in the work of returning dignity, voice, and presence to all who have been made invisible.

(Photo: Our Evening visitor — June 2025)

Pentecost: A New Genesis

 

This weekend we come to the end of a journey—a year of reflection under the banner of “Celtic Earth.” Three retreats, each drawing us deeper into a spirituality that honours the earth, land, water, trees, mountains and finally animal kinship.

Today, we conclude that exploration as we arrive at Pentecost.

The day the Spirit came—not quietly or politely—but in wind and flame. A day when boundaries fell away, and people spoke across difference. A day when something wild and holy swept through a gathering and changed everything.

That phrase stood out to me as I pondered this was, “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh.”

I have often read the verse and thought only of human flesh—young and old, women and men, enslaved and free. And, of course, that is true. But, in light of the retreat and our time spent exploring animal kinship, I now fine myself reading it differently — all flesh. All flesh must include fish and birds, insects and rodents, horses and dogs,. That’s much broader than we usually allow. If the Spirit was poured out on all flesh, then perhaps Pentecost wasn’t just a moment for humanity—it was a moment for the Earth.

The Celts spoke of the Holy Spirit as the Wild Goose — not the soft dove of with gentle coos — but a honking, flapping, messy, untamable bird. That image makes sense to me. Maybe the wind that filled the upper room wasn’t meant to be domestic, but to be wild and free.

The Spirit doesn’t simply comfort. It disrupts. It changes the way we speak, the way we listen, the way we live.

And hopefully it changes the way we relate to the other lives who share this Earth with us.

In our retreat sessions, we spoke of Francis and the Celtic saints—Brigid, Cuthbert, Kevin, Columba and Ita who related to animals not as symbols or resources, but as companions. Brother Wolf, Sister Dove, otters who warm a saint’s feet, blackbirds who nest in a monk’s outstretched hand. Each of these saints understood that creation was not beneath us but beside us.

I wonder, on Pentecost, when people began speaking in new languages, if the Spirit which was poured out on all flesh was also teaching the new language of creature kinship.  Maybe the Spirit is still doing that, still teaching the new language of the earth.

In Genesis, Adam names the animals. Sometimes naming can become possession and we’ve seen the damage that does — dominion, ownership, power and lack of caring.

In the Celtic tradition, to name is to honour. Not to control, but to bless. To speak a creature’s name with reverence is to acknowledge that it, too, bears the breath of God.

What if Pentecost is a new Genesis? A new breath sweeping the earth. A new naming born not of dominion, but of kinship.

I think the Spirit is still being poured out on all flesh. And the Earth still waits—not for us to dominate it, but for us to listen to the language of the more-than-human world., to speak rightly back to it, to live as kin with it and finding true communion in the companionship of all flesh.

 

 

Tabitha, the only woman explicitly named as a disciple in Acts, and how she redefined discipleship was the focus of my last blog. Today, I want to muse on the stories of two other women found in Acts, one of whom is the subject of the lectionary reading (Acts 16.9-15). The other is a slave girl who interrupts the story of Lydia. 

Lydia is introduced as a "dealer in purple cloth" (14) from the city of Thyatira. Purple dye was extremely expensive and was associated with wealth, status, and royalty. This suggests that Lydia was a woman of means and independence. She's described as a worshipper of God (15). A Gentile who worshipped the Jewish God and is drawn to the Jewish community but is not a full convert.

Paul and Silas, after a vision led them to Philippi in Macedonia (modern-day Greece) went to a place of prayer by the river (13). 

I just want to interject here about the formation of synagogues in the first century as I think it helps understand this story. The word synagogue (Greek: synagōgē, meaning assembly or gathering) referred to both a group of people and the physical place where they met. Thus, synagogues were local centers for Jewish worship, teaching, prayer, and community life, especially outside of Jerusalem. They were not replacements for the Temple in Jerusalem, but they became the heart of Jewish religious life in the diaspora — Jewish communities living outside Jerusalem.

To form a synagogue there needed to be a “minyan”, ten men aged 13 or older. Without this, a synagogue could not formally be constituted though informal gatherings for prayer and study could still happen. Often women formed religious communities even when excluded from formal structures. Exactly like the women praying by the river in Philippi in today’s text (13).

There was likely not a minyan in Philippi, so no synagogue. Therefore, Paul and Silas went to where the women gathered for prayer which was by the river outside the city gates. This is powerful and important: the early Christian mission in Europe began not in a synagogue, but with a women’s prayer gathering in a marginal space. Lydia became not just a supporter but a founder of this early mission. 

After Paul had spoken, Lydia and her household were baptized. This is another concept that is often hard to understand in our highly individualistic culture of the twenty-first century. In the first century household (oikos) referred not only to immediate family but also to extended family, servants, slaves and business dependents. Lydia is presented as head of her household — this is notable in the patriarchal culture. The concept of household baptism reflects both the Jewish and Greco-Roman pattern of communal identity. If the head of the household adopted a new faith the rest followed. 

So, Lydia’s decision changed the whole households’ identity. Her baptism was not just a personal declaration of faith but the forming of a new community.  It does raise a lot of questions about power, inclusion and consent which I will leave for another day. 

The story of Lydia is suddenly interrupted by introducing a slave girl, who in contrast to Lydia remains unnamed. This unnamed girl is described as having a spirit of divination (Greek. python spirit) which probably alludes to the Oracle of Delphi where the priestess, Phythia, channeled prophetic messages. 

The slave girl was valuable to her owners and was exploited by them. As Paul and Silas were going to the place of prayer, she followed them shouting that they are “servants of the most high God who are telling the way of salvation”. Oddly, Paul and Silas don’t affirm her words.  They don’t show any compassion for the enslaved girl, they are simply annoyed by her, so much so they cast the spirit of divination out of her. 

I find this a very sad story. I can’t help but wonder if a rich powerful woman like Lydia had been the one with the power of divination would the story have ended differently? Maybe, the slave girl was a prophet in her own right who was silenced because of gender and poverty. Then, this slave girl simply disappears from the story — no further mention of her is made. Her gender and poverty have made her invisible.

The text reverts to the lives of the men whose actions got them thrown into jail by a very disgruntled slave owner! However, when they were eventually released, the story of Lydia continues.  Paul and Silas immediately went to Lydia’s home (40) where both men and women were gathering. The first house church in Europe, led by a woman, was functioning. 

These two women, juxtaposed in a single chapter, function as a challenge for contemporary times. 

Lydia’s story shows what is possible when women are treated as full participants in spiritual life. It points to a model of spirituality and leadership that transcends patriarchal limitations

 The slave girl’s story warns of the cost of liberation without compassion. True liberation would restore the silenced and honor prophetic voices from the margins.

The story of Lydia is interrupted by the slave girl. Lydia rises in leadership as the slave girl sinks into invisibility. I think this is an important part of the message of the text. Acts 16 is an invitation to reimagine spiritual community as a space where every voice matters, and every woman’s story is sacred.

Caring for Others, the Heart of Ministry.

I’m doing something quite unusual today — something I’ve not done in a while. I’m not focusing on the gospel passage. 

As I read through the lectionary readings it was the story in Acts that really caught my attention. I wanted to spend time musing on that text (Acts 9.36-end). It made me happy to see a story focus on a woman. 

It is the story of a disciple named Tabitha or Dorcas. Just a quick aside on the name. Tabitha is the Aramaic version, and Dorcas is the Greek one, the meaning of the name is gazelle. In the text the two versions of the name are used interchangeably. This highlights the importance of the story for both the Jewish and Hellenistic communities.

My first thought which I do want to emphasize is that Tabitha is amazingly the only woman explicitly called disciple in the book of Acts. The feminine form of the word disciple is rare in the New Testament making her designation unique. I think this is a powerful little story especially to the women who are wondering if they are included in the community of faith.

I want to focus on who Tabitha was, rather than letting the miracle of her being risen from the dead overshadow my thoughts. Miracles are those wonderful moments that break into everyday life, mountain top experiences. But the constancy of a life well-lived is equally if not more important, so her character and day to day ministry are what I am pondering on.

As often is the case with women, not much is written about Tabitha in the text. She is described in one short sentence, but what a powerful sentence it is. “She was devoted to good works and acts of charity.”  This reveals the heart of Tabitha, the heart of faith, a life spent caring for others. 

A life given to others is important and cuts across lots of popular thoughts in contemporary culture. It put me in mind of the ethics of care which is a normative ethical theory that emphasizes the importance of interpersonal relationships and caring as a virtue in moral action posed by Carol Gilligan and others. They highlighted care as primary rather than secondary. Tabitha is a great example of the ethics of care. 

Only that one packed-full-of-meaning sentence reveals who Tabitha was, but her ministry and character is further emphasized by the actions of others when she fell sick and died. Her body was tended and cared for; she who had cared for others was in turn cared for herself. 

It is emphasized in the ethics of care that was not just for women but included and was important for men too. Two men were sent to find Peter and bring him to Tabitha’s home. I found it really heartening to see the community Tabitha cared for embraced men as well. Caring wasn’t side-lined to women’s work.

When Peter arrived, he was shown the garments that Tabitha had made. This indicates that Tabitha’s contributions and care was highly valued. As a contrast with the male leaders who are often validated through public speaking and miracles. Tabitha’s care-centered work is affirmed by those whose lives she impacted directly. Her ministry is not merely domestic or secondary: it’s central to the life of the early Christian Community. 

In this important story, the action of the community she cared for did not accept her death, they sent for Peter and advocated for her. This action resists the notion that women’s roles are secondary or that their loss is less significant. 

So, as I muse on this story today, I see it not only  as a demonstration of Peter’s power but as a testimony to the worth of women’s leadership and ministry.

Life Can Change in a Second.

Life can change in a second. And when life changes there is often a little chaos as one adapts to new circumstances, the need for physical changes to lifestyles and a whole lot of mixed emotions. I’ve certainly experienced that over the last few weeks, and I know others have too. 

 

So, I  have a very, very small glimpse of that unsettled feeling the disciples must have experienced over the Easter events as told in the story told in the lectionary (John 20:19-31). 

 

Life had changed in a second for them. Even after hearing from Mary about the resurrected Christ, for safety they had locked themselves into a room. 

 

I’m trying to imagine the variety of mixed feelings and emotions that would be going through their heads as they ponder the events of that first Easter.

 

Fear . . . will the religious authorities think we have stolen the body?

Terror . . . will we be crucified too?

Confusion . . . what’s going to happen to us now?

Shock . . . think how traumatic the weekend has been

Guilt . . . didn’t they all scatter and deny Jesus

Regret . . . I wish I’d stayed at the cross

Powerlessness . . . I wish I could have protected Jesus

Hopelessness . . . only three years and it’s ended, it’s all over. 

Incredibility . . . Is it really true what Mary (and the other women) told us? 

Excitement . . .  Maybe it is true.

Hope . . . Maybe Jesus did rise from the dead.

 

A myriad of thoughts, I can imagine them lying awake at night being bombarded by them.

 

But then, life changed in a second! Suddenly Jesus appeared and said “Peace be with you”

 

Wow, amazing, life changing, what an impact those four small words must have had. 

 

Jesus was once again amongst them.

Jesus understood their inner turmoil

Jesus understood their weaknesses but didn’t condemn them

They may have abandoned Jesus, but Jesus didn’t abandon them

 

Then Jesus breathed on them. And something happened, something deep within themselves and it changed everything. Nothing would ever be the same again for them. It was not just an outward change but a deep inner change. Suddenly they had direction and strength and purpose. 

 

Jesus’ mission hadn’t died on the cross, they were going to carry it on. This is the Johannine account of Pentecost. This is John’s account of the giving of the Holy Spirit. It is not spectacular and noisy as in Acts but quiet and relational.

 

The change for the disciples was momentous. They were behind closed doors afraid of the same fate befalling them. All it took was one breathe, and life changed. 

 

But someone missed out. Thomas wasn’t with them. Today, I want to rethink the image of Thomas. I want to shake off the doubting label that has been upon him for centuries. 

 

Not a doubting Thomas but a Thomas who is desperate for inclusion, desperate not to have missed out. I prefer to see Thomas as desperate to have the same spiritual experience as others. I think everyone is a bit like that wanting to see and experience for themselves rather than hearing about it second-hand. 

 

I can relate to that. I know that feeling of being left out, being excluded.  I love the story and humanness of Thomas. I think maybe Thomas represents all who have ever felt excluded.

 

I think we can learn from how Thomas behaved:

 

Thomas stuck around despite missing the initial experience. 

Thomas didn’t need the same experience (he didn’t actually get to touch the wounds)

Thomas was included in his own way. 

Thomas saw his own vision of the risen Jesus.

 

This way of interpreting Thomas contains hope for all of us. Even though we might not get to see and experience life and spirituality in the same way as others, we are still blessed. 

 

A Roller Coaster Ride

Everyone loves a parade — well, almost everyone! Certainly, for the younger generation they are magical. 

Ithaca has a huge parade every year at the May festival. Crowds line the streets, standing or sitting as floats show off their best and local groups dance, sing and play. Children surge forward hoping to be recipients of candy and small trinkets thrown into the crowd. It is bright, it is colourful and it is noisy. It is a window where people can forget their troubles and come together to join in the fun.

Palm Sunday is all about a parade. As I pondered it the words of a song, well known to my generation, came to mind. The first four lines got stuck in my head as I sang them over and over (but not out loud!).

“We skipped the light fandango
Turned cartwheels 'cross the floor
I was feeling kinda seasick
The crowd called out for more”

This same sense of abandoned joy comes across in the parade in our lectionary (Luke 19.28-40) Jesus came riding from Bethphage to Jerusalem on a colt which had never before been ridden. As the parade continued the crowds turned out with cheering, waving branches and laying their cloaks along the road mindful of the young donkey’s hooves.

It always seems a little bit of a strange, completely out of character that Jesus paraded with all the fanfare that the author of the gospel describes. 

Maybe, the author of the gospel included it to emphasize the sovereignty of Jesus. The crowds chanted, “Blessed is the Sovereign” (38)

Maybe, the author of the gospel included it to emphasize the relationship of Jesus to God.

“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of God” (38)

Maybe, the author of the gospel included it to emphasize the connection with the angels at the birth stories and the message of peace.

“Peace in heaven and glory in the highest heaven” (38)

 

All these are worth spending time to think about but I’m not remaining there today. As always as I read the Palm Sunday story each year, despite the joyful words, I feel sad. I wonder once again at fickleness of humanity. 

The parade is only the beginning of a weeklong journey that is a bit like a roller coaster ride. Not that I have been on a roller coaster, but I have watched others on them. The amazing highs with the screams as they drop to deep lows.  

One thing I have noticed as people leave roller coasters they are often disorientated, a little dizzy, they have an unsteady gait and, in some cases, even vomit. But then they queue up for more! The song catches it well “I was feeling kinda seasick/The crowd called out for more”

But this initial air of excitement waned. Within a few days the cries of the crowd changed to “crucify”. The cries of peace turned to cries of violence. It is unnerving and unsettling. What changed the people?  

I think this story shows how fickle human beings are. Women’s Ways of Knowing (Belenky et al 1986) details how women think, make choices and decisions about their own lives. I found it interesting that the research showed people will often just go with the majority or follow the opinion expressed by a perceived authority. 

Is that what happened here with the crowds? 

Was it simply a case of going with the perceived authority?

Was it keeping in line with the majority?

 

These are salutary thoughts. They make me feel sad but challenged.

I think this year Palm Sunday offers an amazing opportunity for each of us. 

Would I have swayed with the crowd to change our voice from joy and peace to death and violence?

Or would I have been strong enough to remain with the few women at the foot of the cross?

(For those who didn’t recognize it: A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum)

 

 

 

 

 

Worthy Lost Things

Today’s lectionary reading (Luke 15.1-3, 11b-end) looks at one of a short series of three parables told in response to the “grumbling of the Pharisees and scribes saying, ‘this fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’” (2)

Before I even start to ponder today’s text, I want to make an important point which I have made many times previously. I’m sorry for repeating this often, but I think it is key to interpreting the parables. When trying to understand parables it is important not to assign roles to the various people in the stories. Don’t assume that the central character is representing God or Jesus or the spirit. If one does that it often yields significant problems in seeing undesirable traits for God. The central characters don’t often behave well! Parables were simple contemporary stories told to illustrate a point or, in this case, to address a comment. The details are to engage the audience. So always read parables simply as stories to illustrate a point.

So, what is Jesus saying in these parables in response to the accusation he welcomes “sinners” and eats with them.

As I read them today my first thought is about worth. Everything, every non-human being and every person has worth and should be treated as such.

The lectionary reading is the opening comment then jumps to the third parable. I think it is important to, at least, cast a glance at the first two to see the context.

The first story (4-6) is about a shepherd who tends a hundred sheep. He loses one and leaves the other ninety-nine to the perils of the wilderness to go and find it. The shepherd risks all to go and fine the lost sheep. Not necessarily a wise action but a compassionate one. In the story finding the sheep is a huge cause of celebration which shows how much the sheep was valued. 

The second story (8-9) is about a woman who had ten pieces of silver representing her livelihood. One piece was lost, the woman searched and searched until it was found. Then, she called her friends and neighbours to celebrate with her because she had found her silver. 

So, after briefly seeing the context I want to move onto the final parable, the focus of the lectionary. I think it is important to notice the progression in ratios, in the first story one in a hundred was valued, in the second tale one in ten was valued and, finally, in the third story one in two is valued. This last one is the story of a parent with two sons, one of whom at his own choosing was estranged from the home.

Right at the beginning of this parable the audience is alerted that something unusual happening. The story designed to grab their attention. It is not something that would really happen. This man divided his property amongst his two sons at the younger one’s request. You can almost hear the indignant murmur of the crowd!

This wasn’t fair or right. Culturally, the elder son was entitled to inherit, if not all at least a double portion of the property. So right at the outset of the story is a strange sort of generosity, a deviation from the norm  that will challenge and unsettle the audience.

The story is well known. The younger son squanders everything until his poverty and desperation cause him to realise that he needs to go home to work as a servant. His father’s workers are treated better than he is. 

Yet, while he was still far off, his father sees him and runs to meet him. Regardless of what has happened this younger son has worth and is received in that way. 

At this point in the story the father did not know where his son had been, he did not know how he had been living, he did not know that he was sorry and intending to work as a servant. The father merely sees his child in the distance and ran and welcomed him with a kiss. 

It would be shocking for the first century readers to hear that the father ‘ran’ to the son. Culturally, this would not happen. It would be considered undignified. This would certainly cause another ripple of shock through the early audience holding their attention.

As a side note — there is also reversal of what is considered the norm in contemporary times. Aren’t people taught that forgiveness follows confession and repentance?  Not in this story, here love is poured out before repentance. 

Anne Thurston in her book Knowing Her Place comments that “It is love which creates the possibility for repentance, for true metanoia ‘change of heart’. Conversion is not a condition but a consequence of God’s love.”

The final part of this story, and one which cannot be ignored, is the reaction of the elder son. As with the first two stories, a celebration follows the finding of that which was lost. 

The elder son heard the feasting, the music and the dancing and enquired into their meaning. On hearing about his brother’s return and ensuing celebration, he was angry. And rightly so, his brother had already squandered what should have been his inheritance and now was taking even more of their resources — his share of the inheritance. I can quite understand why the elder son felt he had been treated unfairly. 

Yet, the parent is gracious and explains the worth of the elder son to him, but adds that it is right to celebrate the return of that which was lost.

It seems to me that somehow in this story both the sons have missed the aspect of true relationship. The younger son had planned to return as a servant. His elder brother had talked about himself as working like a slave. Both devalued their own worth.

So, Jesus gave a very long-winded reply to explain why he ate with “sinners”. But I think a very thorough one as the Pharisees and scribes were shown the worth of all, including those they considered lost. It was a cause for celebration.

 

Sant Dewi

This weekend we think about Sant Dewi — Saint David — patron saint of Wales who is celebrated on March 1st. I thought for my blog this week I would reflect on some of the myths and legends about Sant Dewi. It is interesting how many of the signs and miracles in Dewi’s life reflect the stories in the gospels.

 Sant Dewi’s exact dates are unknown, but it is thought that he lived around 500 CE to 589 CE. Like most of the Celtic saints we talk about, the stories about Dewi were carried orally for centuries before being recorded. The earliest and most influential source for the legends about Sant Dewi is Buchedd Dewi (The Life of St. David) by Rhygyfarch in 1090. Stories are also recorded in Annales Cambriae (Welsh Chronicles), 10th century, a collection of writings mainly attributed to Nennius, a 9th-century monk, and in The Cambro-Briton (1829) ed. James Hughes.

One of the most famous miracles is the rising hill which occurred at while Dewi was preaching at the Synod of Llanddewi Brefi which was a gathering of Welsh church leaders. The synod was convened to address the rise of the Pelagian controversy. Dewi was chosen to speak and did so despite his initial reluctance. The tale says that the crowd was so large that those at the back could not see or hear him. In response, the ground beneath him miraculously rose into a hill, allowing everyone to see him and hear his words. At the same moment a white dove descended onto his shoulder, symbolizing divine favor. 

This affirmed Dewi’s authority, and he became a leading figure in the Welsh church. Today, Llanddewi Brefi remains a place of deep historical and spiritual significance in Wales. Nestled in the rolling hills of Ceredigion, this small village continues to be associated with Dewi’s sermon and the miraculous rising hill. In the village the most prominent site for pilgrims to visit is St. David’s Church, the small mound near the churchyard is believed to be the spot where the ground rose. The site is venerated as a symbol of divine intervention.

Other myths talk about Dewi’s ability to perform  various miracles including raising the dead and healing people. From childhood, he was blessed with these miraculous abilities. One story tells of how as a child he made the sign of the cross over a blind monk, instantly restoring his sight. Another legend states a person was brought to him, lifeless, and when Dewi prayed over him, resulting in the person being miraculously restored to life.  In addition, Dewi’s prayers helped drive away a group of Irish raiders who were attempting to attack his monastery. Divine intervention is said to have caused a storm that forced the invaders to retreat.

These legends highlight David as not only a teacher and preacher but also as a conduit of God’s direct power to intervene in the physical world.

During one of his sermons, as he passionately proclaimed the Gospel, his listeners saw a golden light, like flames of fire, surrounding him. Despite the fire, David was unharmed, continuing to speak with unwavering conviction. The sight left the crowd in awe, and they took it as a divine sign that David was truly blessed by God. 

Sant Dewi is associated with several holy wells across Wales, many are believed to have healing properties. One legend says that on one of his journeys as Dewi traveled and preached, he and his followers were in a remote and arid region. They had little water, and the group was in danger of dehydration. In a moment of prayer, Dewi called upon God for help. Suddenly, a spring of fresh water burst forth from the earth, providing the much-needed life-giving water for David and his followers. This spring was later known as St. David's Well, and it became a site of pilgrimage for centuries. This miracle served as a powerful reminder that God provides,even in the most barren of places. 

One of the defining aspects of Sant Dewi’s life was his extreme asceticism, he lived on a bread, vegetables, and water abstaining from alcohol, dairy and meat entirely. This earned him the nickname Dewi Ddyfrwr (David the Water Drinker).

He founded the monastic community at Glyn Rhosyn (now St. Davids in Pembrokeshire), which became a center of religious learning and pilgrimage. His monastic rule, which was particularly severe, emphasized prayer, hard work, and a frugal lifestyle.  

The monks at Glyn Rhosyn were required to plough the fields themselves, not using any animals. This was to emphasized, humility and  was seen as both practical and sacred task. Following Dewi’s practice the monks ate only bread, herbs and water. When they weren’t involved in manual labour they were studying or praying. Only minimal conversation was allowed. Travellers and the needy were welcomed as they received food and shelter. Both hospitality and manual labour were seen as a form of worship.

David is believed to have died on March 1st (sometime in the late 6th century). His last words, as recorded by Rhygyfarch, were: "Be joyful, keep the faith, and do the little things in life." According to legend, David emphasized the importance of the small acts of kindness and faith in building a strong, enduring spiritual life. These words became central to the ethos of the Celtic monastic tradition, which emphasised simple living, prayer, and service as the foundation for a deeply connected life with God.

I have enjoyed looking at the myths and legends surrounding Sant Dewi. Many of the themes can be applied to contemporary spiritual life. I hope, together, we can explore them more fully in the future as Dewi’s life is a rich source of inspiration.  Dewi’s life was a powerful influence on Celtic Christianity with themes which explore simplicity, steadfastness, service, prayer, community, connection to nature, sacred earth and finding greatness in small, consistent acts of love.

 

 

Level Ground

 

The Gospel of Luke brings us a raw version of the Beatitudes — it is not a message we hear from the world, especially in this time when we see the very rich and powerful holding position and dominating all the decision making. 

As I read the text (Luke 6.17-26) the first thing I noticed is that in Luke’s version of this story, Jesus stands on level ground (17) and looks into the eyes of the crowd. I don’t think I have ever paid specific attention to that verse before. It has sort of been the introductory verse leading into the main points, perhaps skipped over a little too quickly. Today, I lingered there and thought about that approach to talking to others — level ground and looking into their eyes. I think there is something very significant here, something very powerful. 

So, Jesus stands on level ground, looks into the eyes of the crowd, and speaks a dangerous truth: Blessed are the poor. Blessed are the hungry. Blessed are the weeping. Blessed are the ones the world rejects. This is not a comfortable word. This is a revolutionary word. 

In Luke the words poverty and hunger are not spiritualized. There’s nothing to soften the blow. Jesus is speaking to those who have nothing, who feel the gnawing ache of hunger, who weep. Jesus is speaking to those who are hated, excluded, reviled and defamed. 

And Jesus is saying to them, God is on your side.

I think this is a challenging message for these days. We need to stand on level ground and look into the eyes of the hungry, the poor, the excluded, the reviled and the rejected. It is hard to do, especially as in the face of what we see there can be a sense of our own inability to help

And if that message alone was not radical enough, Jesus then delivers the woes. Woe to you who are rich, who are full, who are laughing now. 

I don’t think this is because wealth, food, or joy are bad in themselves, but more because if we allow them to, they can lull us into complacency. They so easily convince us that we have no responsibility to our neighbor. However, after our conversations at the retreat yesterday, during our discussion on the theme of theodicy, it was encouraging to hear everyone express concern for the plight of others in this current time plus a willingness to do what they could to change the situation.

Today’s gospel fits well with that theme as a radical Jesus invites each of us to live differently recognizing that those who are blessed are the unhoused person in the cold, the refugee seeking safety.

Jesus’ message is clear. If we find ourselves in places of abundance, we are called to stand in solidarity with those who are hungry, poor, excluded, reviled and rejected — to look at them from level ground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Anna and Simeon

The author of the gospel writes of two older people—Simeon and Anna—who waited for the birth of a savior (Luke 2:22-40). The story talks of Mary and Joseph taking the infant Jesus to the Temple as required by the law. They had two significant encounters. They met Simeon and they met Anna, who both confirmed that this child was indeed the promised Messiah.

Simeon, who was described as righteous, devout, and one on whom the Holy Spirit rested, had been told that he would not die until he saw the birth of the Messiah. As he saw the baby, he praised and prophesied, saying he was now content to depart the world.

Simeon also added a word to Mary—that “a sword would pierce her soul” (v.35). I often wonder how it would feel for Mary to be told these things. A bit like saying your child will do great things, but it will be a rough ride and all end in heartbreak. How hard must that be for any parent to hear?

Anna was 84 years old. She had resided in the Temple since being widowed seven years after her marriage. I calculate that must be about 60 years. She too praised and prophesied about the child.

I can’t resist interjecting a feminist thought here—note the ways the two prophets are described. Simeon is described through his character—righteous, devout, Holy Spirit on him (v.25). Anna, on the other hand, is introduced through her relationship to men—her father, her husband, and her late ancestor. Yet, Anna was a prophetess, and not just in name. She played an essential role in Temple life, and her presence there for decades suggests she was deeply respected.

Anna was not alone in her lifelong dedication to the Temple. Historical evidence suggests that certain women—especially widows and prophetesses—were part of the spiritual fabric of the Temple. The Court of Women was an active space of worship, and some women, like Anna, took on a more sustained role.

These women were not merely passive worshippers; they engaged in acts of prayer, fasting, teaching, and service. Anna’s life of devotion mirrors what we later see in early Christian communities, where widows and women of faith were called to intercession and guidance (1 Timothy 5:5-10).

Anna, then, was not simply a background character. She was a spiritual leader, a woman who recognized the Messiah before almost anyone else. She stands as a witness, reminding us that the voices of women in faith communities’ matter.

I also want to dwell briefly on two aspects of both these people that stood out as I read the passage.

The first thing I want to mention was the patience both Simeon and Anna exercised. We live in an age of instant results—where we expect immediate responses from technology, whether it’s a search engine delivering answers in milliseconds or AI predicting our next move before we’ve even finished typing. We’ve become so accustomed to speed that waiting can feel like a waste of time.

Yet, Simeon and Anna waited for years to see the fulfillment of their hopes. And the passage gives no sense that their lives were wasted in that waiting. Instead, their patience was a practice of trust, an active kind of faithfulness. They lived fully, with meaning and purpose, even as they waited. Perhaps that’s the deeper lesson—waiting is not an empty pause but a space where wisdom, readiness, and hope are cultivated.

The second thing I considered was that they were both elderly. Anna was documented as 84, and although Simeon’s age is not mentioned, it is reasonable to assume that he was also advanced in years, given his expectation of departing the world soon.

In our contemporary times, there is sometimes a disdain for the elderly, and society is poorer for it. Wisdom and experience are lost. Youth can be arrogant, brushing aside the knowledge of those who have lived longer. And yet, youth often bring energy, vision, and passion.

Both contributions have value. The ideal is not one over the other, but the partnership of wisdom and enthusiasm. What a good thing Mary and Joseph took time to listen to the words of the elderly. What a blessing would have been missed if they had ignored Simeon and Anna because of their age.

Anna and Simeon remind us that waiting is not wasted time, wisdom is not irrelevant, and women’s voices—though often overlooked—have always been central to the story of faith.

(Photo: Seagulls on a Snowy Beach — Lewes Beach, January 2025).

 

Mary's Revelatory Role

Today’s gospel lectionary reading brings us to a familiar and well-loved story: the wedding at Cana (John 2:1-11). Weddings are joyous occasions. They brim with celebration, hope, and the anticipation of a new chapter in life.

I have written and reflected on this wedding several times as it holds a unique place in the gospel narrative. Yet, it feels right to return to it again and again because it is foundational. This is the moment where Jesus’ public ministry begins—a pivotal scene that sets the stage for the journey ahead. It’s also a key text for exploring feminist theology and the role of women in scripture because Mary is a central figure in this story.

The gospel doesn’t specify who was getting married, but there are hints. The mother of Jesus appears to play the role of host, suggesting the wedding involved a close male relative, perhaps a brother or cousin. Cultural context provides further clues. In Jewish tradition, the groom’s family was responsible for hosting the feast. Weddings of that time were deeply rooted in social and economic transactions: marriages marked the transfer of a bride from her father’s household to her husband’s, often accompanied by negotiations of property, gifts, and wealth.

The preparation for marriage could take over a year, with the groom building a bridal chamber within his father’s home. Meanwhile the bride would take part in ritual cleansings. The timing of the wedding was determined by the groom’s father, and the bride wouldn’t always know the exact day. This uncertainty led to the tradition of trumpet blasts and shouts to announce the groom’s arrival.

Once the ceremony concluded, the groom’s family hosted a feast—a grand event meant to display their status and hospitality. To run out of food or wine would be a source of deep shame and public disgrace.

Returning to the text, it’s clear that Mary is at the center of the narrative. When the wine runs out, the servants turn to her. Her pivotal role highlights her agency, though John’s gospel notably omits her name, identifying her only as “the mother of Jesus.” This is, unfortunately, common for women in scripture—defined only by their relationships to men rather than as individuals.

Another notable detail is the apparent affluence of this wedding. It’s easy to think of Jesus’ family as poor, but Joseph, a carpenter, was a skilled tradesman, and this account suggests a certain level of means. The presence of servants, stewards, and the free-flowing wine indicates a celebration of some scale.

Now, I want to return to the heart of the story: the miraculous turning of water into wine. I want to focus on the exchange between Jesus and his mother which is fascinating. This conversation is a clear indication that Joseph had already died. As the eldest son, Jesus would be the head of the household and thus the one to take responsibility for the feast. When Mary alerts Jesus to the problem, strangely he replies, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” It’s an enigmatic response. On the surface, Jesus seems reluctant to intervene. Yet Mary remains undeterred.

She doesn’t argue or plead but simply tells the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” In that moment, Mary demonstrates remarkable faith and insight. She knows it is the right time, even if Jesus hesitates. And in an act of quiet submission to her wisdom, Jesus performs the miracle.

The transformation of water into wine wasn’t just a solution to a social faux pas; it marked the beginning of Jesus’ ministry. Mary, often remembered for birthing and nurturing the Christ child, is now the one who recognizes and reveals the moment for the ministry to begin. Her role is not peripheral—it’s central.

This story reminds us of the essential contributions of women in scripture, even when their names go unspoken. It challenges us to honor Mary not only as the mother of Jesus but also as a woman of vision, courage, and faith. She knew the significance of the moment and helped unlock the door for Jesus to step into his calling.