Life, Death & Friendship

This weekend was the Spring Equinox (20) … now the light is winning! It is a wonderful time of the year as, in upstate NY, nature seems to be celebrating the return of the light. My bird feeders are full of activity, bird song is in the air, the squirrels are in abundance, chipmunks and woodchucks have emerged from their winter hibernation. New shoots are pushing through the ground after wintering in the womb of the earth, life that had been held, not lost, through the cold.

Passiontide also begins today, drawing us ever closer to the celebration of resurrection life. The wheel of life is turning, that cycle of death and resurrection reflected in nature, in our lives and in the lectionary. As the earth turns toward light, the church turns toward the cross and resurrection.

 

Today’s lectionary readings offer a foretaste of the Easter story. Two readings of new life being breathed into those who are dead. 

 

In the Old Testament account (Ezekiel 37:1-14), the prophet speaks of a vision of people long time dead, nothing remaining but the old, dried bones. The prophet was urged to speak to the bones, and they arose and became covered in flesh and sinews but had no life breath in them. (8) The prophet was then instructed to prophesy to the breath. When the breath came upon them, they lived (10). It was breath that gave life.

 

In the story in the Gospel of John (11:1-45), Lazarus was recently dead, not yet dry bones but a “stench” (39) of decomposing. As I read the story of Lazarus, which precedes the Easter story, I ponder about the inclusion of it in the gospel; 

Was it preparation? 

Was it foreshadowing? 

Was it to reaffirm that resurrection was a possibility? 

 

So, Passiontide begins by inviting each person to ponder on the idea of death and life with two stories about regeneration. It points towards the day of resurrection where life prevails.

Three stories;

 Ezekiel: breath enters what has long been dead

Lazarus: breath returns to one recently dead

Easter: breath cannot be extinguished

 

I want to highlight a couple of phrases from John which I think are worthy of note.

 

 “I believe that you are the Messiah, the child of God, the one coming into the world” (27). 

 

In the gospel of John, Martha makes this declaration. In the synoptics it is accredited to Peter. I suspect if I asked the question, “Who said, ‘you are the Messiah’?” the default answer would be the male, I’m sure mostly the answer would be Peter.  

Martha does not arrive at this confession through spectacle or proclamation, but in the midst of grief, relationship, and loss. Today, I want to highlight Martha. I want to celebrate this wonderful woman who had this revelation, who made this declaration about the Christ. I don’t want her confession, “You are the Messiah” to be overshadowed. Martha stands as a witness who recognized the Christ pre-resurrection. It is important.

Second, I want to highlight the importance of friendship in this text. The story paints a lovely picture of Jesus’ friendship with Lazarus. It was obviously one of deep love and affection. So much so that when Lazarus needed Jesus, Jesus responded and went to him even if it meant potential harm to himself. The disciples reminded Jesus that they had tried to stone him in that location. They were amazed he would try to go there again (8).  This is not sentimental friendship … it is costly, embodied, and potentially dangerous.  Friendship and love demanded doing something that may not be safe. 

 

In addition, it highlights the friendship between Jesus and the disciples. They were willing to go and die with him. Thomas reportedly said, “Let us also go that we may die with him.” (16) Certainly, the stoic influence is clear, friendship entails a duty to help even in the face of possible persecution. I think this story illustrates the value of true friendship at so many levels. 

 

Therefore, lots of things to muse on this Passiontide; Light, breath, emergence, friendship.

 

As the light grows stronger around me, perhaps I can ponder two questions: 

Where is life waiting to be breathed into me?

Where can I breathe life into other people or situations around me?

Worry, Care and Cold Weather

Don’t worry about what you are going to wear, what you will eat or what you will drink urges the gospel writer this week (Matthew 6. 25-end).

 

The text isn’t concerning trivialities; all three are essential to life itself. No-one can survive without food or drink, and in most climates, some kind of clothing to protect the body is necessary. This is not a quaint sentiment but a deeply challenging one —precisely because it speaks about survival.

 

One possible reading of text is that one does not worry about these life sustaining items because God will provide them. It sounds great on first reading but if I am honest — and when I write these blogs, I strive to be real and honest even if the topic is difficult — it simply doesn’t happen. God does not usually supernaturally provide food. There is only the story of manna in the wilderness and a couple of other tales where that happens. Clothing is not dropped from the heavens. So, I need to think about this gospel passage a little more.

 

Weatherwise, currently we are experiencing a “polar vortex”. That means it is cold and snows every day. When I say cold, I am talking about extreme cold, yesterday we awoke to a felt temperature of -31C. I don’t think I have ever seen it so low. My poor pugs can only go out for a couple of minutes before their legs freeze. Yesterday, our home never reached the set daytime high (70F) even though the furnace was pumping out heat all day.

 

Even so Andy and I were warm, our pugs were warm, we had hot food; I made a great pea soup and fresh baked bread. We had plenty of hot tea to drink whenever we felt a little chilly. So, reading today’s text felt a little poignant as whenever these days and weeks of extreme cold occur there is always additional concern for those who are cold and hungry. Those who are homeless or have insufficient means to keep their homes or themselves warm. 

 

When I read some of the passages in the scriptures I often wonder what they would sound like to someone not in the same privileged situation as many people in the Western world are. I wonder if I was sat freezing and hungry with very poor housing — or even worse if I was watching my children suffer the same fate — what would it feel like to read this passage telling me not to worry because God would provide? If I am honest, I think it would be very hard. Maybe disillusioning, maybe causing some guilt and self-reflection on why this does not happen for me.

 

God as provider, Jehovah Jireh, thought provoking especially as this was only used in Genesis 22 when it was a life and death situation. Abraham was prepared to kill his child, but God provided an alternative sacrifice. Personally, I don’t think this is a good story, but it is not one I’m dwelling on today. However, it does make one wonder if this instant was in the mind of the gospel writer when this story was included; that God’s provision comes only at the lowest point. Nevertheless, this “God provides” language can become dangerous theology when 

detached from human responsibility. Genesis 22 was about an eleventh-hour intervention not everyday economics.

 

As with many texts, somehow, I must hold these two things in tension.

 

Rather than a dialogue about whether or not God provides supernaturally, I think I would  rather think about the story as being about care for each other, being as Christ to each other. God miraculously dropping food, drink and clothing onto the earth is not something I can embrace, it does not happen in contemporary times. But reading the passage in the light of care, does make more sense. As a community — even an international community — caring to ensure all are provided with life’s essentials. This fits well with one of the great Godly commands in scripture — love your neighbour as yourself. People care for themselves, but more essentially care for each other. Often worry paralyses, whilst care mobilizes. So, if everyone is caring for each other all should be clothed and fed. 

 

Of course, we don’t live in a perfect world, a utopia. I am not unrealistic about the reality of what we see around us or in the news. No one can solve all the hunger, homelessness and lack of clothing in the world.  Nevertheless, it is something to strive towards, in our own small ways to build up the habit of care. 

 

One of the illustrations used in the text is birds being fed. Yesterday morning; after noticing my feeders were empty, I donned my arctic outerwear and wellingtons and went through the snow to my bird feeders to ensure these little ones had food. It was so cold a couple of the feeders had frozen shut and had to brought indoors for a few minutes before I could fill them. I know many others who exercised care for these little ones who are part of God’s creation. The birds are fed — but not without the labour, attentiveness and compassion of others.

 

Don’t worry about what you will eat, drink or wear, but exercise care for others.  For me this really illustrates the heart of the gospel. Seeking first the Realm of God looks like organizing life around mutual care. It is not disengagement from material needs but reordering responsibility for them. Maybe, this is being as Christ to those we meet. 

 

Picking Up the Mantle

This Sunday’s lectionary text (Matthew 4:12-23) really continues the story from my last blog about John the Baptizer. In re-imagining John as a leader, I sourced the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus who described him not as a supporting character in Jesus’ story, but as a powerful figure in his own right. John drew very large crowds which caused Herod to be concerned about the impact on his authority.

In the gospel, however, nothing more is talked about John’s mission and the impact that was having on the contemporary society. The text almost moves on too quickly. The reading for today opens with the words, “Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested ...”. 

As I said previously, I think that a careful glance at John gives another lens to interpret Jesus through. So, John is arrested and Jesus picks up the mantle. Jesus is not starting a new ministry or cause but continuing what John started. The text makes that clear— “from that time Jesus began to proclaim, ‘Repent’ …”. The same call John had been making: a call to turn, to re-orient life, to live differently.

The message of John was not going to fade into insignificance with his arrest, Jesus was taking it up. This radical, revolutionary message was not going to weaken but to strengthen. It is no wonder that the authorities ultimately felt threatened by Jesus too. This was not a comfortable domestic message but one that demanded change from all who heard it.

The text continues with Jesus’ encounter with Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John. This gathering of the men to be disciples always saddens me a little. Obviously, other parts of the story of Jesus show that there were women followers, but none so explicitly named or called as the men. However, I have talked about that in past blogs so today I want to muse a little on these four men.

It does not make sense to me that these men saw a stranger and dropped everything. These were not unattached men with nothing to lose. They had wives, they were embedded in families, responsibilities and fragile economies. Yet they dropped everything to follow a stranger. Why would anyone do that? 

Nobody turns their back on everything without a good reason. Therefore, I think they must have had an inkling about what they were joining. It must have been a cause close to their hearts. They wanted to be part of it. They were no longer going to seek fish, but they were going to seek people. They were going to change the world. They were going to make a difference. They had been invited to join a cause that they felt was worth sacrificing everything for. 

As the lectionary invites me to muse of these four men this week, I am reminded that it wasn’t a light or easy thing they did. What impresses me most is that none of this happened in a vacuum. John had already been arrested. The cost of speaking this message aloud was no longer  theoretical. The danger was visible. But still, Jesus took up the mantle. Still these men chose. join.

This is not naïve enthusiasm or blind obedience. It is a decision made in the shadow of risk. 

The call to “follow” was not a call to safety or certainty. It was a call to place their lives alongside a movement that insisted the world could be changed, that people could live differently. Perhaps this is why I find the story unsettling. It asks uncomfortable questions about risk, sacrifice and choices. 

John’s voice was silenced. Yet it survived. It was carried forward, not without cost, not without loss but with immense courage. These men, these first disciples, were just ordinary people who choose to step into that dangerous yet life-giving mission, calling people to live differently.

Re-Imagining John the Baptiser

Today’s lectionary, (Matthew 3:13-17) is a story of two people who had known each other from infancy. John and Jesus, two boys, relatives, of whom John was the elder by about six months. 

Had they had contact over the ensuing years? I have no idea; there is no source for that information. However, when Mary found herself pregnant it was to John’s mother, Elisabeth, she turned. Elisabeth who played that wonderful prophetic role in affirming the Christ child. So, I think it is likely that the boys knew each other, had even played together, had met probably on several occasions or, at the very least, knew the stories of each other’s birth and history.

I do wonder if sometimes, the import of John is lost a little as the focus is always on Jesus. So, I want to pause here and think about John. Even to reframe John a little, which in turn will open a new lens to view Jesus.  

Outside the Gospels, we have only one significant historical witness to John: The Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, writing toward the end of the first century. In Antiquities of the Jews, Josephus describes John not as a supporting character in Jesus’ story, but as a powerful figure in his own right. Josephus acknowledges John as a good and righteous person who called people to live justly with one another and faithfully before G*d. John invited them to imagine another way of living.

Baptism, in Josephus’s telling, was not a magical washing away of sins, but a bodily sign that a life had already begun to change.

Josephus also tells us something else important. John drew crowds, very large crowds. So many people that Herod Antipas became afraid. Afraid that John’s influence might spark unrest. So, Herod had John killed, not as a moral critique of Herod’s household, but because he feared John’s influence may provoke a revolution.  

This matters, because it reminds me that when Jesus stepped into the Jordan, he is not stepping into a harmless religious ritual. He is stepping into a movement already marked by resistance, by risk, by political consequence. John is not simply preparing the way; John is already walking it.

The longer I muse on this scene, I am also impressed by the quality of relationship between John and Jesus. There is no hint of jealousy, no competition for followers, no anxiety about who is the greater. That alone is remarkable, especially as both the Gospels and Josephus talk of John’s popularity. If anything, John has more social capital at this moment. John has the crowds. John has the reputation. John has the movement.

And yet there is no grasping. John does not cling to status, and Jesus does not exploit it. 

What happens instead is mutual recognition. John recognises something in Jesus and Jesus honours John. Jesus does not bypass him, does not create a separate ritual, does not claim exemption. Jesus comes to John. Relationship is preserved, not overridden.

It is sad that rivalry so often creeps in between people. But here, one calling is not better than another calling. John’s work is not diminished by Jesus’ presence, and Jesus’ identity is not threatened by John’s authority. It is shared faithfulness.

This is strengehend by their exchange.

John tried to resist, “I need to be baptised by you, and you come to me?”

This is not a false humility. It is discernment. John knows what this water means. He knows what it costs. And he does not rush to claim authority over someone else’s body or calling. There is something profound here, something about consent. John does not seize the moment. He questioned it. He hesitated. He pushed back.

And Jesus responded not with a command, but with a request, “Allow it now.” And John consented, consent is named, not overridden.

Jesus enters the water not as someone above it all, but as someone willing to be immersed, fully, bodily, vulnerably. In John’s time the Jordan was not a safe, sanitised river. It was a wild water flowing through the Zor floodplain dense with reeds and shrubs. It was a dangerous water with banks unstable and prone to collapse, with and an abundance of insects, snakes and animals. It varied wildly in depth. The Jordan was also a boundary river with much historical significance. Israel crossed it to enter the land, Elijah and Elisha both crossed it, Naaman was healed in it, So, it was water that has held the hopes of exodus and the threat of danger drowning. 

For Jesus to step into it was to relinquish control, to step into it was to espouse fully John’s mission with all that meant.

Then there is the Spirit.

Frequently imaged as a soft, white, domesticated dove forgetting how misleading that image may be. The bird named in the text would almost certainly have looked more like a rock pigeon, grey, iridescent, common, urban, unremarkable. Not a creature of ornaments or greeting cards, but one woven into everyday human landscapes. A bird you might barely notice.

This feels right, the Spirit does not descend in spectacle, but in familiarity. Not exotic or rare but present. The Spirit rested, abided. As at creation, the Spirit moves close to water, not to dominate it, but to dwell with it. 

And just as Jesus consents to the water, there is relationship again. Nothing forced, nothing dramatic just presence. In this light, baptism looks less like a transaction and more like a web of relationships held in trust: John and Jesus, river and body, Spirit and flesh, heaven and earth. No rivalry. No hierarchy. Just a shared turning toward what is right.

And perhaps that is why the voice that follows does not compare or rank or measure success. It speaks only of love and delight — “beloved.”

As I re-imagine John, I see that John’s importance has never been about standing before Jesus, pointing the way, but about standing with him ankle-deep (or maybe waist or even shoulder deep) in the river, faithful to the work of justice, unafraid to resist the status quo, and willing to bear the political consequences of his stance.

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.