Christmas joy Interrupted

 

It is tempting, in this Christmas season, to end the story on a high. The Christ child is born. The light has come. The carols have been sung. Peace on earth and goodwill to all.

But the lectionary allows no resting there. Christmas joy is interrupted.

The first Sunday of Christmas pulls the reader immediately into danger, displacement, and fear. The child who has just been born is already under threat. The family must flee. The passage for today is somewhat unpalatable (Matthew 2:13-23). The text raises lots of questions.

 

The story is of God’s protection for the infant Jesus. Herod feeling threatened by the stories he had heard about the rise of a new sovereign had all the children under two years old murdered. 

Joseph was warned in a dream to take the child and flee. The gospel of Matthew recites how Joseph takes the infant Jesus and Mary and flees by night. There is urgency here. No preparation. No certainty. Just movement away from violence, to find safety.

From the beginning, Christ is a displaced child. A refugee. One whose survival depends on the courage of others and their willingness to journey into the unknown. The realm of G*d enters the world not through security, but through vulnerability.

Nevertheless, this text is hard to read. Only one parent was warned to protect their child. All the other children were sacrificed. That is not a pleasant thought. It disturbs me and raises several questions:

Was an all-powerful God not able to save more babies?

Were their lives not also important?

Was it okay for them and their families to suffer?

It is back to the question of theodicy.

 

Reading this text also started me thinking of a connection with the Easter story— a strange paradox.

There, one died to save all. 

Here, many died to save one.

 

I also wonder how Mary and Joseph felt. Their baby was safe, but many others weren’t. The gospel does not shy away from extent of the grief. Other parents were grieving, “wailing and loud lamentation” (18) The story names the cost of protecting the Christ child and the devastation that brought.

It gives the message that Christmas does not erase suffering but enters into it. The birth of the Christ child does not cancel human cruelty but reveals G*d’s decision to dwell within it, to share its weight, to bear its consequences, to remain present even when innocence is destroyed.

Life goes on, but not cheaply.

In the church’s calendar this event is remembered by the feast day of the Holy Innocents (Dec 28) which was established late fourth/early fifth century. The children who were killed were regarded as the first martyrs of the church. In ancient theology these children were called “martyrs in deed not in will” or “martyrs before speech”. This disturbed some early theologians because martyrdom usually involved consent. These children had none.

Interestingly, in Medieval England the sadness and pain of the day was remembered by whipping children as they awoke in the morning. Thankfully, that custom ended in the 17^th Century.

 

This story does not appear in any other gospel. Scholars are divided on the authenticity of it. Roughly, there are three ways of looking at it, historically plausible but uncorroborated, (Brown, Wright, Keener) historically doubtful but theologically meaningful (Crossan, Borg, Sanders) and a literary and theological narrative not intended as history (Allison).

 

Regardless, it is part of the faith tradition so I need to ponder it as I would any other text. 

 

I look around my house still full of lights to welcome the Christ child — it is, after all, only the fourth day of Christmas! Yet, in the middle of this celebration of Christmas comes this very harsh reading. 

 

It raises question about how one deals with these unpalatable passages. Are they to be ignored? Are they to be swept under the carpet? When one is reading the lectionary there is always the temptation to focus on the “good” bits of the story. That has always felt a little dishonest to me. 

 

Faith and honesty in dealing with the scriptures sometimes feels like walking a tightrope. I want to be honest, but sometimes that honesty leads me to say that a passage displays a trait of God which I do not like. This is one such passage — a God who only saves one child, albeit a child with a special mission, feels a little distasteful.

 

Yet, it can remind me that G*d-with-us is not confined to moments of joy, but remains present in fear, grief, and displacement, in all the places where life is fragile and difficult.

I can remember that Christmas with its message of light, love, peace and all-is-well does not end the story but begins a journey with all the vulnerability and uncertainty that brings.

Everything Changes Because of this Story

 

Advent is a journey which today is nearing its end. Just a few more days of preparation before the celebration of the Christ-child. This week the fourth purple advent candle, which represents love, is lit joining the candles of hope, peace and joy.

In our home the advent wreath has played a large part this year. Each evening, as we dine, we light the candles as a reminder of the themes they represent.

As we light the first purple candle it speaks of hope. This advent each person will be hoping for different things depending on personal circumstances. Hope is what strenghens each of us on our individual journeys. 

Peace fills our hearts and minds as the second purple candle is lit. Peace in all its many varied aspects. This advent I hope each of you will find peace as you prepare to celebrate the birth of the Christ child.

Joy is at the heart of our advent journey. As we light the pink candle it reminds us that even in a solemn season of waiting and preparation, joy often breaks into our lives unexpectedly. Joy turns darkness to light as we are captured by an intensity of well-being and happiness that can only be described of as pure joy. It may only be a moment in time, a fleeting happening, yet the memory is precious. Joy came, and because of it, life is a little richer.

 

Then this morning, for the first time, we lit the fourth purple candle reminding us of love which completes the message of hope, peace and joy.  As the candle shines out, the lectionary invites us to read the beginning of the Christmas story. It is a story of love.

It is worth noting that the tone of the season changes this week. The waiting becomes more focused, more intimate. The wide, cosmic promises of the prophets narrow into a story of ordinary human life. 

A young woman.
A man who loves her.
A child not yet born.

This week’s gospel (Matthew 1: 18-25) is often called Joseph’s story, but it is also, unmistakably, Mary’s.

Too often in the Christmas story Mary’s role is softened into being only about obedience, as though she simply accepts what happens to her. But the tradition remembers something far stronger: agency. Mary does not drift into this story. She chooses to say yes, not because the path will be safe or easy, but because it is life-bearing. She consents with her body, her reputation, her future. She becomes a participant in divine becoming. G*d’s presence enters the world through flesh, blood and womb. Mary’s body becomes holy ground where life takes root. Mary is not a vessel acted upon, but a collaborator with creation itself.

Joseph, too, acts with courage, but his courage is relational. He chooses not to expose Mary to shame. He chooses protection over righteousness-as-rule-keeping. Even before any angel speaks, Joseph has already aligned himself with mercy.

When the dream comes with the words “Do not be afraid” Joseph consents to stand beside Mary, not above her. He chooses accompaniment.

Together, Mary and Joseph model a shared faithfulness:
Mary consents to bear life.
Joseph consents to shelter it.

Neither controls the outcome. Both trust the unfolding.

Furthermore, Joseph is told the child is named Immanuel which means G*d-with-us.

Not G*d hovering above creation.
Not G*d rescuing us from the earth.
But G*d rooted among us.

The Christ child grows quietly, hidden, nourished by a woman’s body. G*d enters the world the way all life does, slowly, vulnerably, dependent on love.

As we stand on the edge of the celebration of the birth of the Christ child, I am struck by how little certainty anyone has in this story.

Mary does not know how the world will respond.
Joseph does not know how the future will unfold.
The child has not yet drawn breath.

And yet, life goes on.

Perhaps this is Advent’s deepest wisdom:
that love is found not in control, but in consent;
not in certainty, but in trust;
not in escape from the earth, but in belonging to it.

This story of love is so important that it restarts time for all humanity. Hope, peace and joy are redefined. Everything changes because of this one story. 

 

Today, You Will be in Paradise

The great cycle of the lectionary is turning. 

Today, is the last reading of the old year, next week the new cycle begins again, with the hope and anticipation of the birth of the Christ child. But today, it ends with Jesus on the cross. I’m always grateful that each year the lectionary ends with a glance at the crucifixion giving time to ponder death without rushing to the glory of resurrection.

Today’s text is Jesus on the cross having a conversation with the two criminals crucified on either side of him (Luke 23.33-43). There are a lot of themes within this short passage that I could have pondered — forgiveness, mocking those who are vulnerable, standing by and watching — but what really stood out to me, and where I’m going to pause today was the last comment, “… today you will be with me in Paradise.” (43)

If you read my blogs, you will know that I always resist the common interpretation and try to push below the layers to unpack the text. So, I am going to resist the commonly held view that paradise equals heaven when you die. I think when paradise is explored it carries a far richer meaning than simply a post-mortem destination.

The Greek word paradeisos does not originally mean heaven. It comes from the old Persian pairidaeza which has a variety of meanings, a walled garden, an orchard, a royal park or a sanctuary of life. A great composite meaning which evokes a lovely picture; a place with abundance of water, trees, fruit, animals, where sovereigns walked with guests and most importantly where all life is valued and safe.

So, for those around the cross hearing this conversation their thoughts would be of Eden restored, a place where God was in communion with humanity, where life was in harmony — a new beginning.

This understanding of communion and belonging, dignity affirmed and relationship with God restored fits with the ethos of Luke’s gospel. Luke’s themes often include inclusion and restoration of the marginalized. I think it continues with this text, for the thief who asked to be remembered communion and belonging was instantly restored, not a future event. It is worth noting Luke’s use of the word “today “in this phrase.  Luke uses “today” throughout the gospel giving a sense of immediacy. “Today” signals that it is not deferred but that God’s life is breaking into the present. “Today” says to the thief that right now, even in the moment of suffering and ending you are included in God’s restoring life. 

Of course, meaning of words do change and develop over the years. The understanding of them widens, it is easy to see that even by looking at words in our culture. In what is known as the Second Temple period (516 BCE-50 CE) there was a deepening of the idea of paradise. Mainly though the rise of the idea of a resurrection of the dead in Jewish thought expressed in scriptures and other writings (ex. Daniel 12.2). By the time of the conversation with the criminals paradise would also include ideas of a realm for the dead, Abraham’s bosom (Luke 16 imagery) but retaining the idea of a garden awaiting renewal and a place of divine presence. So, to hear the words of Jesus that this is “today” would have been mind-blowing, maybe life-changing to those listening to the conversation (or reading it later).

I think it is worth emphasizing that the text shows that paradise is also accessible in suffering, that divine presence is there at the ending of life and that life continues even when it is failing.

So, I find encouragement in reading paradise in this way. It is not focusing on escaping from the world. Paradise evokes the earth flourishing and humanity in harmony with God and creation. I find it quite a powerful picture and the text fits so well with the themes of the recent retreat, the Celtic understanding of continuity, the ancestors, those who die are not absent but gathered into ongoing flow of life and are being held in God’s living presence. 

 

All Are Alive to God

Remembrance Sunday, 9 November 2025—Luke 20:27–38.

Jesus is faced with a trick question — one that isn’t really about faith at all. 

 The Sadducees, who didn’t believe in the resurrection, present him with a tangled riddle about marriage and the afterlife, a question designed to expose the absurdity of belief in life beyond death.

Jesus gives a brief response but really sidesteps the trap. Jesus won’t play their game of legal definitions and hypothetical scenarios. Instead, Jesus opens a window into something larger: “God is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive.” (38)

At the Lindisfarne community’s recent retreat at All Hallow’s Tide, on the Saturday afternoon I reflected on the ancestors.  Samhain is a threshold time, when summer’s abundance gives way to winter’s dark. When the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is at its thinnest or is seen as porous. Rather than fearing death, at Samhain death was recognised as part of earth’s sacred cycle, decay giving birth to new life. When ancestors are honoured it is a way of acknowledging what is already true: that they are part of a great communion of life, stretching backward and forward. At the retreat we pondered our own lineage both familial and spiritual but in addition to looking back, we looked forward to those each of us will love, nourish and protect.

Remembrance Sunday invites this very same awareness. It is not only about loss, though that loss is very real. My family, like most in the UK, lost friends and relatives to the Great war. But more than loss, it is about continuity. About the lives that were given, the love that was shared, the courage that endured. None of it has vanished, it has become part of the living fabric of the world.

Jesus roots his argument in grammar — “I am the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” (37) Not I was. God speaks in the present tense because divine relationship does not expire with breath. The living and the dead belong together in God’s remembering.

That thought is both humbling and consoling. It reminds me that death is not an erasure but a change of condition. Life goes on. 

So, as the days shorten and autumn deepens toward winter — in our Celtic calendar winter (Samhain) is already here. The trees shed their leaves, but life goes on beneath the surface. The soil rests but still hums with potential protecting and nourishing. So, the year turns, and so do I (each gray hair reminds me of it!). It is part of the cycle of life. That pattern of dying and rising, letting go and becoming again. I want to reframe resurrection not as life after death but as life beyond boundaries — life that cannot be contained or undone.

 I think that is part of the deeper meaning of remembrance: not to look backward with regret, but to see ourselves within the unbroken circle of God’s living presence. Those who have gone before are not lost to us. They are here, quietly interwoven into the fabric of our being, whispering wisdom, steadying our steps, reminding us that love does not end.

*************************************

When I whisper the names of those who have gone before,
I do not call into absence but into presence.
For in God’s great remembering, all are alive —
the earth, the ancestors, the yet-to-be.

Life goes on,
and love, being divine,
forgets no one.

 

Look in a Mirror

Jesus was a great storyteller. I think this was one of his primary ways of teaching. The thing about using stories to teach is that they always engage people. When Andy and I are teaching about children, violence and nonviolence we illustrate with stories and people are drawn to them.

Perhaps, it is simply a part of humanness that people love stories. Contemporary culture encourages new parents to read to their babies and young children, to nurture that love from the beginning and enculture a fondness for reading. Whenever, Andy and I journey we listen to audiobooks; we both have a stack of books on our bedside tables, and our kindles are never far away. And we learn — even when reading fiction, we find that we learn a lot. 

In the lectionary (Luke 18.9-14) Jesus told a story. It is part of a series where Jesus uses the medium of storytelling to speak to his audience about how to live. This story is told to “some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt”. (9)

As I read this opening phrase of the story I wondered if the parable is meant as a kind of mirror encouraging each person to look at their own life.  As I mused on those few words, I wondered if everyone has not at some point in their lives looked on someone else with contempt and thought themselves better. It is so very easy to do, and often subtle, perhaps no one is exempt. I only need to glance at social media to see how this plays out. So many comments and memes suggest that others are foolish, corrupt, or less enlightened therefore hinting that the author/poster is more righteous. It has become pervasive in our society, this small habit of belittling of others to make oneself appear better, wiser, kinder more righteous

A mirror doesn’t flatter or condemn; it simply reflects what is there. Perhaps Jesus’ story is meant to be that kind of mirror — one that helps us see what is hidden from our own view. So, the real question isn’t “Who in my life acts like that Pharisee?” but “Where is the Pharisee in me?”

That’s why I’ve entitled this reflection Look in a Mirror. As I read the words of Jesus, it is tempting to apply them to others who fit the description.  But my concern must be with myself, what I think, what I say, what I write and how I treat others. 

Jesus ends by talking about humility. As I read that I thought of our understandings — so many of them are pertinent to the teaching brought by Jesus in this story. If anyone has not read them in a while I encourage you to read through all of them. 

The fifth talks specifically about humility:

“… we aspire to be honest, real and down-to-earth. Humility is opposed to the arrogance, isolation and deception that pride brings. We accept our spiritual poverty, our limitations and dependency …”

And the sixth talks about how we need to be authentic, not putting on a show of righteousness as the pharisee in Jesus’ story did:

“… to be the same on Monday as Sunday; to be the same at work as at home; to be the same with our family as with our friends and colleagues.”

In the story the Pharisee performed goodness for others to see but the tax collector looked honestly at himself — he looked in the mirror and saw need rather than perfection.

So, this week, this story invites me to pause and look in the mirror before I speak, before I post and before I judge.

Outcasts and Anniversaries

Today, 12 October, is an anniversary. I suppose every day is an anniversary for someone — days that are especially memorable for a variety of reasons, some happy, some sad, some life-changing.

The anniversary I’m thinking of — one that should never be forgotten — is of Matthew Shepard, who died on this day. Matthew, just 21 years old, was beaten, tortured, and left tied to a fence a few days earlier. He was found after two days in a coma from which he never recovered — he died October 12, 1998. Matthew was an outcast in the small town where he lived. It was a hate crime, because Matthew was gay. I have told his story many times in classes I have taught.

Every year I find myself thinking of him, and of how our world still creates outcasts.

Today’s lectionary reading is also about an outcast — though this story has a very different ending (Luke 17:11–19).

At first glance the story of the ten lepers is about thankfulness: being grateful, acknowledging gifts and kindnesses — the sort of practices we’re taught from a young age. Teaching manners and gratitude is part of the parental task. (Incidentally, this evening is also the anniversary of when I went into labour with our first child — the beginning of a new life. Birth and death side by side; love and violence entangled, as they so often are.)

In the text, Jesus meets ten people with leprosy who call to him for mercy. All are healed, but only one returns to give thanks. It’s easy to read the story as a moral lesson about gratitude, but I think the heart of it lies elsewhere: in how the outcast is treated.

The account is brief, with little detail. We aren’t told if the lepers were men, women, or even children. We only learn that they kept their distance, as required: “Keeping their distance, they called…” (v.12). Jesus tells them to go and show themselves to the priests — a deceptively simple instruction that hides a long and complex process.

Under Levitical law, the priest was the authority who could declare a person free from disease. The rituals of cleansing were lengthy and precise: inspections, offerings, sacrifices, washing, and anointing with oil and blood on the right ear, thumb, and toe. Only then could the person be declared clean and allowed back into community life.

When the healed leper returned to Jesus and fell at his feet, it meant that the long process was complete. No longer shouting from a distance, this person could finally approach others again.

And then comes the line that leaps from the page: “And they were a Samaritan.” A double outcast — both leper and Samaritan — and yet the one who returned in gratitude. The author of Luke thought it important enough to note. Perhaps because it is often the one who has been twice excluded — by body and by identity — who shows the rest of us what wholeness really means.

This brief story, describing events that must have taken place over many days, holds a simple but profound truth: Jesus saw the one no one else saw.

Outcasts often blend into the background, hidden on the edge of society. It’s easy to pretend they don’t exist. While reflecting on this passage, I read about the history of leprosy and leper colonies. I was startled to learn that the quarantine on the last leper colony in the United States was lifted only in 1969 — within my lifetime. People still exiled to the margins, invisible. And, as in Matthew’s case, when the outcast dares to be seen, society too often responds with cruelty, tying them again to the fences of fear and indifference.

If this short gospel text offers any challenge, it is surely this: outcasts still exist on the edges of our communities — unseen, unheard, and unwanted. A spiritual calling is to notice them, to see them as Jesus did, to find Christ within them and to resist any form of “them” and “us” mentality.

 

 

 

How We Live Matters

A complex little story in Luke is the lectionary reading today (Luke 16:19–end).

Briefly, the central character is a rich person who enjoys a fine life while at the gate sits a poor man who has insufficient to meet physical and medical needs. When both died, the poor man went to be with Abraham while the rich man was tormented — a classic role reversal! Later, the tormented rich man asked that the poor man be sent to his family to warn them. Abraham’s response was that there had already been enough warnings given, but each had gone unheeded.

Luke’s Gospel often carries this theme of reversal — the lowly lifted up, the mighty brought down. Mary’s song in the Magnificat (Luke 1) already set that tone. This parable is part of the same vision: a realm of justice where those long ignored are finally honoured.

The first thing I want to say about it is that it is a story and should be read that way. I don’t think it is a discourse on heaven and hell. I don’t think it is meant to give us a description of a physical place of torment with “agony in these flames” and a “great chasm” established between heaven and hell. It is a story with detail, even exaggeration, meant to hold the audience’s attention and make a point.

What strikes me first is that the poor man is invisible. He is lying right at the gate of the rich man’s house. The rich man would have walked past him every single day. And yet he is ignored, disregarded, unseen. Even more, he is unnamed. Actually, in this parable, the rich man is also left unnamed, but he is described by his lifestyle, his privilege, his wealth. The poor man is described only by his wounds, his hunger, his condition. He is defined by his suffering. There is quite a warning in that. Sometimes it is easy to reduce someone to their illness, their poverty, their struggle and forget that they have a name, a story, a history.

In a sense, this story holds up a mirror. It asks uncomfortable questions: Who do I not see? Who sits at my gate? Who is rendered invisible in my world?

Today in our culture, it would be unusual for a beggar with sores to lie at our doorsteps. I’ve never experienced that! Nevertheless, the invisible are still here, the unhoused, the lonely, the migrant worker, women — I needn’t make a long list as I have talked about those who are invisible so many times

I think at the heart of the story is the truth that how we live matters. Not in the sense of securing a reward in the afterlife, but in the way that our choices affect others here and now. Maybe the “great chasm” in the parable is already dug in life, when one person turns away from another’s need. This chasm between rich and poor is already real in this world.  Gated communities, exclusive clubs and underfunded schools. Walls are built that keep people apart.  Maybe, this deliberate segregation is why sometimes compassion feels so hard and is sometimes missing..

So, for me, this parable is not a descriptor of the afterlife but a call to awareness now. It is a story about how I allow chasms to be built in my life. It is a story about what it means to see, to name, to honour the other. 

The challenge is not to speculate about heaven and hell, but to ask: how do I live today so that no one at my gate is unseen, unnamed, or unloved?

Foolish Shepherds and Extravagant Women

The parables of the lost sheep and the lost coin (Luke 15:1–10) are often read as simple allegories: God is the shepherd, or God is the woman, seeking out what is lost.

However, as I have said many times, assuming the main character in a parable is God can lead to all sorts of problems. Often God can be given some undesirable traits, which then leads to twisting the parable to explain them away.

Even in today’s text God would be portrayed as a shepherd who abandons ninety-nine sheep or imagined as a woman who seeks a single coin and then squanders the money on an expensive party. So, as much as the feminist theologian in me would love to talk about the image of God as a caring woman, I think it would be wrong to do so from this particular text. Parables should disrupt, unsettle, and provoke questions.

In this story a shepherd with a hundred sheep realises one has wandered off. Ninety-nine remain. Any sensible farmer would cut their losses, protect the majority, and accept the missing one as the cost of doing business. But not this shepherd. This shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to risk everything for the sake of one. It’s foolish, reckless—even irresponsible. And yet, when the sheep is found, the shepherd calls for celebration.

And the same disruptive logic appears in the next parable. A woman with ten silver coins misplaces one. Many people would shrug, have a brief look round, maybe hope it would turn up later, then move on—nine out of ten is still not bad. But this woman lights a lamp, sweeps her house, bends and searches until the coin is found. Then she does something even stranger: she invites her neighbours to a party that may well cost more than the coin itself. Extravagant, irrational joy.

These are parables of disruption. They push against our instinct to write off what seems insignificant, to measure value only by what’s sensible or practical. They are pictures of people who refuse to accept loss, who insist that even what looks expendable is worth the effort of reclaiming.

So, as I muse on these two parables this week, I will ponder these questions:

·       Who are the ones I write off as not worth the search?

·       Who do I quietly count as expendable to protect the ninety-nine?

·       And when the “lost” return, do I celebrate—or, like the Pharisees, grumble that the wrong people are being welcomed?

Jesus tells these stories not to describe God in human images, but to provoke us into imagining a different kind of community, where the missing are sought out, the overlooked restored, and joy erupts in places where others see only waste.

These are great parables to muse on in the church’s season of Ordinary Time—that long, green stretch of the year where nothing is dramatic or festive. Ordinary Time is about the daily work of faith: the steady growth, the slow noticing, the patient tending of what might otherwise be forgotten. These parables remind us that in the midst of the ordinary, extraordinary things can happen. A single sheep matters. A single coin matters. A single life matters. Ordinary faith means keeping watch for what’s missing, sweeping through the dust, and daring to rejoice over the smallest restoration.

So, these parables aren’t to remind us that God is like a shepherd or a woman, but that in the rhythm of everyday life there is an invitation to act with extravagant generosity, reckless inclusion, and disruptive joy.

 

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.