Love and Betrayal

Judges 16:1-14

The story of Samson and Delilah is one of those stories that we don’t hear often, but we know it when we do listen to it. It’s a story of love and betrayal, all the characteristics of an epic that pits love against guile.

Samson was the seventh judge of Israel, a leader of his people for 20 years. He was born to a barren couple, dedicated at birth to the Nazirite life, and only as he grew did he realize the strength that he had was a gift from God. God promised him that as long as he lived the Nazirite life (which consisted of avoiding grapes and wine, and never allowing a razor to touch his head), his strength would be invincible.

The scripture portion for today opens up with Samson visiting a prostitute, who was approached by other Philistines in an attempt to gain the secret of his immense strength. The Israelites and the Philistines had been at war for some time, and, like many other tribal wars, each side tried to get the best of the other, and if it required a bit of spying and treachery, that was just a cost of doing business. Philistines tried to catch Samson in the morning after he had visited the prostitute, but Samson had slipped out at midnight and so was gone by the time they went to arrest him.

Samson then fell hopelessly in love with another Philistine woman named Delilah. The men of Philistia offered her 1100 pieces of silver from each if she could discover how to humble Samson and give him into the hands of the Philistines. It seemed to be an offer too good to be passed up. Delilah, far from using feminine wiles, wasn’t afraid to approach the subject of how Samson strength could be curtailed. She tried these three times, and each time Samson gave her a different answer. When she tried the various things he had told her, and then tried to wake him up by crying loudly that the Philistines were coming, Samson merely snapped whatever was holding him and proved that that was not the answer. That’s where the story ends today, but you can be sure there is more to come.

The offering of such a significant amount of money to Delilah was indeed an impetus for her to attempt to secure the reason for Sampson’s strength. He had already killed thousands of Philistines, at one time killing a thousand using a jawbone of an ass. He was a force that had to be subdued, and the Philistine men realized that the way to do it was through Delilah.

Delilah may have been attracted to Sampson, but it certainly seems as if the money that she would receive for betraying him was more important than a continuing relationship with the strongest man in the world. Perhaps she didn’t like the idea that he was an Israelite. Probably Samson represented a possible disaster for her and her people. Maybe she was trying to save her people from a traditional (and immensely strong enemy. However it happened, Delilah was determined to find out Samson’s secret and then betray him to her own people.

Love and friendship have always been components of stories of triumph and tragedy. Some spies have betrayed their country because of either a false loyalty to an alien ideology or perhaps just for money. How many have been killed because they were deceived by one person who never knew them, but who put his or her own good above that of thousands of others? Maybe Delilah did it for love, at least the love of her own people and their well-being. Who knows?

We have to be careful about people who want to know things about us. There are so many warnings out these days about scams were people call or knock on the door asking for information and offering to provide plans and programs that could benefit the person to whom they are talking. It’s only when it is too late that most people realize that they have been scammed, as it were, and that their savings have been lost. We listen to campaign promises from politicians saying all the things that they are going to do for their constituents, and some of them actually do come through, but it seems that many don’t. They put the benefit of themselves and their fellow congressmen, business partners, and golf club fellow members ahead of what’s actually right for the constituents.

This is not what Jesus had planned. Loving one’s neighbor doesn’t mean taking advantage of them. Loving one’s neighbor does not mean betraying them for personal gain. Loving one’s neighbor does not mean making false promises and ignoring them when the time comes for payment. Loving one’s neighbor means doing things that would benefit them.

Then the question comes to my mind, wasn’t Delilah doing something that she felt would benefit her people by learning the secrets of an alien from another tribe proposed a very significant threat to the Philistines? Maybe it wasn’t all the money. Perhaps she honestly thought that she was doing the right thing by gathering up his secret and passing it along to those who could implement the actual entrapment.

Maybe Judas was doing what needed to be done when he betrayed Jesus, as much as we would like to think it was purely monetary. We’re taught to focus on the 30 pieces of silver and the idea that Judas was greedy. But is that the whole truth?

We have to be careful. A betrayal can mean something as simple as letting out a secret that wasn’t ours to voice. Betraying our superiors’ trust in us when we “borrowed” pencils and paper from the office or even money out of the cash box. We can say to ourselves, “Oh, well, they’ve got plenty,” but it’s still a betrayal that can cost many thousands of dollars to employers who trusted that the employees would do right. I have been totally surprised by the number of people I’ve known who have taken funds from employers, betraying them, and going undetected and unpunished.

Samson eventually lost his life, but he actually took a lot of people with him. I wonder if Delilah was in the Philistine temple the day that Sampson pulled it down in his final act of strength and appeal to God? I don’t know, but maybe that would be payment for betrayal?

We have to learn to be faithful and honest and most of all, aware of who and what is around us. We need to take care that we avoid betrayal of friends, family, business associates, and even God. We must be aware that our duty in life is to honor God by following the teachings of Jesus and living honest, upright lives. It may not be the easy way, but it’s God’s way, the only way.

God bless.             

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, August 18, 2018.

Clare and Francis, Special Friends

Luke 2:32-37 , gospel reading for the commemoration of Clare of Assisi

The story of Clare of Assisi, whose feast we commemorate today, is one that almost sounds like a fairytale, but not quite. Claire was born into a rich family, and grew up living almost the life of a princess. She was educated, taught needlework and household skills that highborn girls were expected to have, and she was expected to marry well. That’s where Clare and her family held very different viewpoints.

Claire was a devout girl, and one who was eager to explore the spiritual side of herself. She was not interested in getting married and told her family that. It was not what her family wanted to hear, and especially after Clare had heard an itinerant preacher in the town, and was persuaded by his simplicity, eloquence, and his faith. She began to speak with Francis of her desire to live a life totally devoted to God and service to the poor.  Her family had arranged a marriage for her when she was 15, but she was having none of it. One night, when she was 18, she ran away to attempt to live the life to which she was called. She met some monks who took her to Francis who accepted her as a follower.

He cut off her long beautiful hair, gave her a stiff homespun shift and a coarse rope to serve as a girdle. He then sent her to a cloistered Benedictine house. It is said her family attempted to remove her from the house, but she clung to the altar and finally ripped off the veil to reveal her shorn head. The family gave up, and Clare remained in the house for 41 years.

She continued with both visits from and correspondence to Francis, and their relationship deepened, not in a sexual way, but in the role of close friends who are comfortable with themselves and each other. Claire grew and blossomed under the discipline of the Benedictines and the discussions that she had with Francis. The friendship they shared lasted for the remainder of their lives. As Francis lay dying, Claire was by his side as his nurse and support. After his death, she returned to her duties in the Abbey where she had been made Abbess when she was only 21. She died in 1252 after a long illness.  In 1255 she was made a saint, based on several miraculous events and a lifetime of dedicated to the service of God and God’s children.  She is considered the patroness of a number of occupations and conditions such as needleworkers, goldsmiths, laundry workers, gilders, and also of television, telephones, and those with eye disorders.

I think the thing I like about this story is not the miracle of turning back a marauding army simply by standing in the window of the church, holding up a monstrance with a consecrated host which stopped the marauders in their tracks and saved not only the Abbey but also a number of local people. The thing I like most is that here was a woman in a time when women were seen as possessions and almost chattel.  This woman was intelligent, hard-working, and dedicated, had a friendship with one of the great theological figures of the time, re-wrote the Benedictine instructions the nuns were ordered to live by, and was the first woman to have done so. With Francis, nothing suggests that it was a master- servant relationship, or a father-daughter relationship; it seems to have been more a meeting of great minds, two people with the same goals and the same approach, and the same faith in what they were doing. It’s a good reminder that men and women can have deep friendships without it necessarily turning into something more carnal.

Both Francis and Clare were dedicated to caring for the poor. Francis and his followers went about preaching and evangelizing but also helping to raise awareness that God loved the poor. Clare, in her turn, created the Poor Clares, who lived very austerely, and did all that they could to help others to live more godly lives. The nuns slept on the floor on burlap with a burlap coverlet every night. They wore course habits and went barefoot. They ate only food that was donated, and shared it with those who came to them hungry. They gave up any form of luxury for themselves in order to help others, including caring for the sick, elderly, and infirm. The lesson from Luke was about serving others while remining as humble and invisible as possible. Clare and her nuns did their best to live lives that exemplified that teaching.

With Claire and Francis, we see the partnership that can be beneficial to both parties while at the same time leading them to follow what Jesus had preached so much about, loving one’s neighbor as oneself, and in so doing, making the world better. They didn’t focus on the material things. If they had to live on bread and water, they lived on bread and water, but they didn’t do it begrudgingly. They gave this as a gift to God and a gift to their fellow human beings. They worked together, as did their individual houses and followers, and, as a consequence, they both were given the accolade of saint. Claire’s beatification came only two years after her death.

The order of Friars Minor and the order of the Poor Clares gave us a glimpse of living a Christian life the way Jesus explained and taught. They didn’t have Jesus to go to in the flesh as the disciples did, but yet Francis and Claire both seem to catch on to Jesus’s message far more easily. With them, it was a partnership with God, a meeting of the minds, the joining of the hearts, and a gift to all the generations to come after them.

I think Francis and Clare together helped to change the world, even if only a little. I think Claire shows us what being steadfast and open to the will of God can do, regardless of gender or economic status. Sometimes it is the strength of love rather than the strength of arms that make things change.

Now to go out in the world and not fear to make a change. Claire was one person, and a woman worth admiring and emulating.  I may not be of her caliber, but I can always try my best to be even a small force for change.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, August 11, 2018.

Watching the Money

While they were going, some of the guard went into the city and told the chief priests everything that had happened. After the priests* had assembled with the elders, they devised a plan to give a large sum of money to the soldiers, telling them, ‘You must say, “His disciples came by night and stole him away while we were asleep.” If this comes to the governor’s ears, we will satisfy him and keep you out of trouble.’ So, they took the money and did as they were directed. And this story is still told among the Jews to this day. Matthew 28:11-15

Part of the gospel for today seems to be another one of those tales that echo down through the ages as a model of what not to do. Granted, looking back at it from our point of view, it seems almost contemporary. The story is familiar; only the cast has changed.

The chief priests and the Pharisees convinced Pilate to put guards on the tomb of a man considered to be a revolutionary and who had been crucified in the most public and shameful way. A respected man had given his own unused tomb to hold the body, and then a big stone was rolled across the front. Now who was going to break into a tomb and steal a body? Evidently enough powerful people thought it was not only possible but probable as well. After all, whoever heard of someone rising from the dead and disappearing? It was just too hard to understand and believe. The guards seem to have been witnesses to the appearance of Jesus, the “dead criminal,” over whose tomb the guards were expected to stand watch, after his resurrection and his meeting with two Marys. Upon their return to their barracks, some dared to go to their employers and report what they had seen.

Anxious to keep the true story a secret, the priests and the Pharisees together decided that the men who were guarding the tomb should say nothing, but if they were pinned down, they were to say that Jesus’s followers had broken into the tomb and stolen the body while the guards were asleep. That’s when some money changed hands, just to ensure the guards had enough motivation to do as they were told

It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see a similar situation in our contemporary society. In fact, if I look hard enough, I can undoubtedly find lots of examples of payoffs covering things that the higher-ups do not want known. It’s almost a way of life. Today, however, it seems to be a way of life in certain quarters, not just in the gangland societies, where if you slip some dollars under the table, it will get somebody’s legs broken, a family member of an important person kidnapped, or just about anything else. It seems that money makes the world go around. The “haves” are always happy to have a group beholden to them and upon whom they can call to do certain little jobs for pay that will keep the higher-up’s hands clean, at least until somebody figures out who is behind whatever the action was.

Money, or the love of it, is said to be the root of all evil. Scruples can be overcome if the amount of money offered is sufficient to make the scruples of even an honest person totter a bit, or even fall completely. Gangland bosses know that, politicians know it, captains of industry and chieftains of commerce know it, the government knows it, even the church knows it. In short, it far from an uncommon thing to pick up a newspaper or turn on a news broadcast and not hear something that someone has done for which they were paid to deny that it ever happened. It’s almost become a farce, and it runs through all levels of society, although the poor are usually the ones that are set up to take the fall while the rich go on about their merry business with the most innocent faces in the world. Somehow, I think things like that would probably make Jesus cry – or at least face-palm.

Jesus understood money. He spoke of it from time to time and always in the sense that money is not something that should be the be-all and end-all of things. Wealth is to be shared, not hoarded and not paid out to accomplish something criminal or even slightly criminal. Proof of that was in Jesus’s own disciples; Judas betrayed him for 30 pieces of silver. Now whether it was something that Judas had to do or whether it was offered to him and made into such a good offer he couldn’t refuse, Jesus himself betrayed because someone paid money to get rid of a pesky problem and to make sure that the originators of the plot looked as innocent as newborn babes.

I think I’m going to have to look at the news a bit more critically and to see where the money trail goes. I may not be able to find out much, but I think if I see where that money trail is leading, I’m going to find that it’s not leading to God’s kingdom on earth but rather to the enrichment of those who are already rich and the increased marginalization of the poor who, we are told, are always with us. I think I have to choose whether to follow Jesus or follow the money. The truth is that Jesus was a poor man, killed by the rich, and by people who bought off others to betray and to lie. I don’t think I’m going to have to look very far to find who the Judas is and where the tomb guards are operating in the world I live in.

Look for yourself. Remember that the kingdom of God may require money, but not at the price of someone’s life, freedom, or beliefs. It’s time to get serious about this kingdom business and doing things the way God wants us to, not with the ways of the world.  It’s time to watch the money and see where it goes—and where it should go.

God bless. 


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, August , 2018, under the title "Moneychanging."

The Boys in the Band

There is a line in one of my favorite British thriller series where a highly educated detective sergeant is listening to a distinguished professor of English literature at a very respectable college in Oxford. The professor is discussing some of the great poets of Britain, referring to several of them by name. The DS, being of a somewhat lugubrious demeanor, stated that during his time in college, the students referred to them as "The boys in the band." The professor nearly had a stroke, although sometime later in one of his lectures when the DS happened to be present while on duty, the professor did refer to the poets as “Boys in the band.”

As a teenager and a college student in the 60s the boys in the band meant groups like the Beatles. Granted, I'd never heard of those particular boys in the band until I went to college, but I liked rock 'n roll, and listened to it quite frequently. But my heart belonged to an entirely different genre and an entirely different time.

My late lamented husband, a definite pre-Vatican II Roman Catholic, encouraged me to go to church with him when we were first married. I went, but two things made me stop within a year or so, which did not please my husband at all. I told him that for one thing I couldn't accept some of the theology that they preached, and I was specific about which ones. Growing up Protestant, actually Southern Baptist, it was hard to accept things like the adoration of Mary when in the church of my growing up she only appeared at Christmas and Easter and maybe, maybe a couple of times if the preacher decided to mention her in some other capacity. The second thing I disagreed with was the music. There was very little of it, and most of it was, to be honest, unpalatable to me because of the repetition of just a few favorite songs, and the fact that a lot of times, there was no music at all. I grew up in a singing congregation, and I missed the music. When I became an Episcopalian, long before I met and married my late spouse, one of the things that drew me to the church was the music. I couldn't give up on something that important to me.

I looked at names of the commemorated for today, namely JS Bach, George Frederick Handel, and Henry Purcell and I started to smile. To me, these are the guys in the band. All three of them were noted church musicians, although they did compose music for other occasions such as operas, plays, court music, and commissions for the rich and noble.

 Purcell has left us with some great anthems, Handel has left us a number of oratorios (like operas only set to Biblical or theological themes), and Bach, well, there might've been a lot of Bachs, but there was only one Johann Sebastian. These three people left us with a legacy of music that was rich, powerful, and interesting. It wasn't just singing the same word over and over without doing something different with it, it wasn't a repetitious type of music, most of it was far from simple to sing, and it layered voice on voice to create intricate harmonies that were almost like a taste of heaven.

They all lived within a relatively small time frame. They were born in 1685 for Bach and Handel, with Purcell being estimated as 1659, just a short time earlier. It was a very prolific time when these boys (plus lots of others) were active all at the same time, yet they had their differences. Bach wrote for his Lutheran church using the Germanic chorale-type harmonies as well as counterpoint. With the chorales, the congregation usually sang the final verse with the choir in a simple block type of harmony which we notice in chorales like “A Mighty Fortress.” Start singing that in a Lutheran Church and there will seldom be a dry eye anywhere. But that was only one tune out of so many that Bach wrote for the church and it has been adapted and incorporated into many other faith traditions, such as the Anglicans, Presbyterians, and others. To me, Bach is the highest pinnacle of organ music and cantatas, and I will be very disappointed to get to heaven and find him not in a place of great honor.

Purcell wrote a number of works for the church and as a youth sang as a chorister in the Chapel Royal, for which he later wrote a number of great pieces. He wrote music for the coronation of James II and music for commemorations such as St. Cecilia's day. He was an all-around composer, but he also made significant contributions to church music in general.

And then there's George. What would Easter or Christmas be without a group singing of Messiah, his oratorio that combines prophecy, gospel, epistles and even Revelation. He also wrote music for the court and his Water Music and Royal Fireworks music have become standards of orchestral performance and features at modern royal venues. Although he was born in Germany, he spent much of his time in England and became a British subject. It is, however, the music of Messiah that brings all sorts of people into the church for a listening experience and is perhaps one of the best examples of vocal evangelism. At least, I think so.

When it comes my time to hopefully rise to the pearly gates and the Golden Street stretching forth to the throne, I hope there's a lot of music going on and not just “Holy, holy, holy” sung by a group of angels singing in plainchant. I think God would probably enjoy the variety of music composed in God's honor and also as part of the worship of the church, so I'm hoping that there'll be plenty of concerts featuring the boys in the band with perhaps an angelic choir as backup singers and perhaps a choir that even us less than angelic folk can join. After all, it's all going to be praise, and, as someone once said, the person who sings prays twice.

I can't wait to hear the glorious sound that will be there. I'm glad we commemorate these three together and on this day. It's a reminder to me of the value of music and the opportunity for it to be an uplifting and inspiring form of prayer.  And that also goes for a lot of other great composers too – but they will have their days.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, July 28, 2018.

Lot's Wife and Me

Last week, for the first time since before the turn of the century (I've always wanted to say that), I left the state of Arizona to travel. It meant leaving my cats for four days, the longest I had ever been separated from them since their birth 11-1/2 years ago. Although I knew my best friend, who loves them dearly, would make sure they did not suffer a lack of attention during my absence. Still, I looked forward to my trip, despite the rigors of things like getting to the airport on time, getting through the TSA checkpoint, and flying to Portland, Oregon. Still, I made it through, and only got lost when I got to Oregon. I forgot that north, south, east, and west are a little different there than they are here in Phoenix. My bump of direction was completely turned around.

I had gone to visit my old friend Mouse, I say old friend because we've been good friends since we worked at the same construction site in the late1970s. We both like to read, we both love cats, love all things British, and being able to sit in our own living rooms and not be bothered by anyone other than our cats. I hadn't seen her in a long time, and I was really glad to have the opportunity for even a few days of her company, and believe me, she is excellent company.

I lived in Oregon before, but I had lived over on the eastern side, in a high desert environment that I hated. I swore I would never live in another desert as long as I lived. Surprise. Guess where I've been for the last 38 years, and where I will likely end up for the rest of my natural life. Going to the west side of the Cascades, which I'd never spent a whole lot of time in, was a treat. It was green, oh, so green, and so many shades of green. It was a bit more humid, but it cooled off at night so that sleeping was a pleasure instead of a sweaty mess. Driving up to Mouse’s house, I couldn't see the house from the road because of all the trees. Now to me, having that kind of environment is second only to having a river nearby like I had at home. But hundred-foot-tall evergreen trees, nice little flowers and plants, and an almost monastic silence except for an occasional car going by on the road was like heaven. There were no boomboxes, nothing really but the rustling of leaves and branches and the occasional chirp of the bird or other small critter. I was in tree-lover’s heaven.

One of the highlights of my trip was a journey of about 60 miles away to the ocean. I hadn't seen the ocean in so very long. I visit my river every time I go home, and spend time just enjoying it and feeling peaceful there, but I had not really spent a whole lot of time near the Pacific Ocean since about the 1970s. When we got there, it was a long walk over the dunes, and even my favorite trick of walking flat-footed on loose sand didn't prevent my shoes from accumulating a certain amount that I only found when I got home. But I walked through dunes covered with sea grasses and tiny flowers until finally there was the ocean in front of us. Another quarter-mile walk, and we found the packed sand that we could stand on and listen to the ocean.

It was a glorious day. The temperature was lovely, the sky was blue with occasional puffy white clouds, and the ocean a deep, rich blue. I was transfixed. There were people playing games around us, but all I could think about was that ocean and the peace that I felt there, and the feeling of being at home there. We stayed for some minutes before we needed to leave to get home again before dark.

As I turned and started to walk away, I felt a compunction to turn around and look just one more time. I actually did it several times. Each time I thought how hard it was to leave a place that I loved so much, and then I thought of Lot’s wife, turned into a pillar of salt because she turned around to look at a place she had lived in, loved, and would never see again.

I think we all tend to want to look back at some place that we love as we leave it, knowing that it may be a very long time, if ever, before we return to it, and even then, it will be different than on that day of departure. I can understand why Lot’s wife wanted to turn around and take one last look. Granted, God had said not to turn and look, but she did. God punished her for it, but it's always been hard for me to understand why such a drastic punishment for loving something and wanting just one more glance.

Of course, Sodom and Gomorrah, which was the area where Lot and his wife lived, was not exactly a place of godliness. It was a place where hospitality was not a rule, even though the desert dwellers expected a certain amount of hospitality from people they came across, whether in the cities or in tents. Two angels came to visit, and the men of the town, wanting to show their superiority and their power, wanted to get to know them in a way that was not common. Lot got the angels to his house and the crowd followed. Lot even offered his wife and his daughters to the crowd, but it wasn't sex they wanted; they wanted to show their contempt for the newcomers in a carnal sense. They didn't want sexual release, they wanted to shame the visitors.

That in itself makes it hard to perhaps understand why Lot’s wife would have wanted to turn around and look again at her hometown. Undoubtedly, she still had family there, and it's not easy to think of the family going up in flames as the buildings, the trees, and everything that lived in Sodom and Gomorrah did. Maybe she had to look to believe what she had been told would happen, maybe even while praying that it wouldn't. Still she turned and looked. Back at the ocean, even though God never told me not to turn around and look back, I still felt that to keep my heart from breaking I should just walk straight ahead.

Hopefully one day in the not too far future. I'll be able to once again go visit Mouse, the lovely trees, and the ocean. It was hard to walk away from such beauty, power, and feeling of God being all around. I'd like to be there still.

I know I want to go back because I know God's there just is as God is everywhere. It's just God's a little closer when I smell the salt air, hear the gulls cry, see the seagrass waving in the wind, and watch the waves roll onto the beach, and I have a very dear friend standing next to me. I hope you have some place that is as special to you as the ocean is to me.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Caf é Saturday, July 21, 2018.

When Moses Died

Deuteronomy 34:1-12 (RSV)


Every life has to defining moments -- that of birth at one end, death at the other. Whether one is a Queen or the poorest of the poor, life is bordered by those two events. Of course, there are other milestones in each life lying at various points along the journey, and each life has a number of those points differing by age, culture, education, religious beliefs, and happenstance.

Moses definitely had an unusual beginning. Because Israelite babies were not welcome in Egypt, midwives were instructed to kill all newborns. Two midwives who attended Moses' birth disobeyed the orders and quietly let the child live. The birth mother told her daughter, Miriam, to take  him to the river and put him in a waterproof basket, hoping someone would find him and adopt him. That's precisely what happened. Pharaoh's daughter came for a bath in the river and went home clean and with a new baby, which she raised as her son.

In the course of Moses' life, he was raised as a prince of Egypt, but killed an Egyptian who was beating an Israelite to death. He fled to Midian, where he met his future father-in-law and married his wife. He took care of sheep and had a life-changing event on a mountain where a mysterious bush caught his attention. It was a turning point in his life.

Fast forward a few decades. Moses had returned to Egypt where he became God's spokesman to Pharaoh. He warned Pharaoh of the coming plagues and trials, but God had made sure Pharaoh wasn't buying it -- until they happened. Eventually the last plague was the last straw. Pharaoh's firstborn son and all other firstborns, whether human or animal, died, but all the Israelites (who had the lintels of their doorposts painted with blood) survived intact.  Moses was  permitted to lead the Israelites out of Egypt on a journey that would take them 40 years and with not a few adventures of various kinds.

There's an interesting thing about that journey taking so long. They could have gotten there in probably a quarter of the time, but God had other plans. During the time of the exodus, the whole 40 years, those who had lived in Egypt the longest and had been most infected by the long stay and the exposure to the religion and culture of the Egyptians would die on the trip, and their influence would be weakened. By the time they were ready to cross into the Promised Land, new generations would be ready to follow God. Moses, though, was another story.

Moses had been a faithful follower of and transmitter of God's will to the Israelites. He'd made one big error by doing something other than God had told him to do (striking a rock twice rather than speaking to it). As a result, Moses was told he would not be permitted to set foot in the Promsed Land with the Israelites he had led for so many years. Still, God was merciful. Moses was led to the top of a mountain where he could look into the Promised Land from a distance, and there Moses died. His body was never found lest it become a place where the people would stop and create their new land there where Moses' body would have been entombed. It's happened before and also since with other great leaders.

People become attached to places where loved ones or martyrs have died or where they have been buried (or even believed to have died or buried). That place becomes a shrine, much like the little ones we see along the road where a person has been killed in an accident or a murder. There's a little white cross with a name and imitation flowers placed around it. It's a reminder to the family who visit it on significant dates, and also to the public, who need to be reminded of the deaths automobile accidents and murders can cause. Memorials like those of the Unknown Soldiers in various countries memorialize young men who have paid the final price for their country, and becomes a place where families whose children probably never came home for a regular burial can go to pay their respects and remember their lives.

The death of Moses was a big thing for the Israelites. For years he had led them, put up with their grumblings, brought them through hardships, and kept their focus on God and the Promised Land. Suddenly he was gone, and their GPS, internet, wi-fi, and smart phone that he had been to them had disappeared with him. They didn't really have a place to memorialize him, like we do for people like Martin Luther King Jr and John F. Kennedy. Even a family tombstone in a local cemetery becomes a place of memorial to those we have loved and lost, although we often need to move away from their locale because of circumstances like job relocation and the like. Still, those tombstones are there for us to visit whenever we return.

The death of a leader can mean the death of a group or a movement. Most often, though, it means a change. In the case of the Israelites, it meant a new life in a new place along with new leadership. We have seen the results of this type of situation throughout history and still see it today. It is not always a death of a leader that produces such changes, and often there are a lot of mistakes that accompany a learning experience.  Moses and Aaron had worked hard to keep the Israelites' eyes on God, and now it was the job of a new generation to continue moving forward.

The lesson of the death of Moses is that life does not stop because one life does. There is a time for mourning the loss, but the world continues to turn, and changes happen. As Christians, our job is to keep our eyes on God, who has given us the tools to carry on and to continue to build God's Kingdom on earth. Human changes may let us down in some way, but with God's guidance and attention to that guidance, will carry us through. The Israelites made mistakes, just as we will when changes threaten us. Still, God's there and with us, if we stay faithful to God.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, July 14, 2018.

Spem in Alium

Spem in alium nunquam habui praeter in te Deus Israel qui irasceris, et propitius eris et omnia peccata hominum in tribulatione dimittis. Domine Deus creator caeli et terrae respice humilitatem nostram.

I have never put my hope in any other but you, God of Israel, who will be angry and yet become again gracious, and who forgives all the sins of suffering man. Lord God, Creator of Heaven and Earth, look upon our lowliness. - Response to the 3rd reading of Matins during the V week of September according to the Sarum Rite, adapted from the book of Judith, chapter 9


I've loved music all my life. I sang hymns and TV commercials by age 3, started piano lessons at 5, sang in children's choir and started with the adult choir about the age of 12. At 10, when I was asked about what I wanted for Christmas, I told my parents I wanted a set of the recordings of Handel's Messiah. I'd read about it in a book and was intrigued, and even more so once I heard it for the first time. I've loved it ever since.

I've acquired a lot more favorites over the intervening years, everything from Rhapsody in Blue until I finally settled on favoring Renaissance and Baroque music. Like hymns and the like, I have favorites acquired over the years, especially English church music, and most especially sung by the clear, pure tones of a choir of men and boys singing in a great gothic church, the sound bouncing off the stonework and ornamented ceilings. It simply gives me chills and makes me wish so much to be present to hear it in person.

I listen to classical radio at night as I drift off to sleep. This past week, they have played one of my most favorite pieces several times, an unusual frequency for that particular piece. It was written by Thomas Tallis, one of the greatest English composers. The piece itself is composed for 8 choirs of 5 singers in each, totaling 40 separate voices. It is a fairly long piece, lasting about 9 minutes and 15 seconds, but it is so totally captivating, it seems like only a short time. Spem in Alium is adaptted from the apocryphal book of Judith, chapter 9, entitled "Judith's Prayer," and is part of the daily readings in the Sarum Rite.

What Spem in Alium does for me is to make me feel calm, reverent, transcendent, and happy. I feel my soul rising up as the music increases in volume and complexity, until it feels like it is coming out of the top of my head and rising to the very throne of God. It isn't a melody I can whistle or sing as I move around the house, but it never fails to captivate me, no matter what is going on or what I am doing. That's a wonderful thing about music. I think all of us has some piece of music that does that for us, and isn't it wonderful when it does?

Music has a history in the Bible. Jubal, a descendant of Cain through Cain's son Enoch, has been named in Genesis 4:21as the father of all those who play stringed instruments (harp, lyre) and pipes (flute). Children are taught the song about Little David he shepherd boy who grew to be a musician called to aid the King (Saul) in his melancholia. Later, David became king and danced in front of the ark of the covenant  (unclothed, which seems as scandalous to  us as it was to David's wife). David is crediting with writing psalms that are hymns to which we have no existing music, but we have created new settings for them. Psalm 150 lists instruments praising God, and is one of the favorites of composers.  Angels sang at various times, especially at the birth of Jesus. Music wends its way through the  whole Bible.

Judith is not a book that is read often, so it is unfamiliar to most. Toni Craven has written a very interesting and informative commentary on the apocryphal book which is available at the Jewish Women's Archive, Encyclopedia. Judith is a widow noted for her wisdom. This gives her some credibility with the local leaders, and she uses this credibility to set everything on the right path from which the leaders have forsaken. Chapter 9 is noted as the "Prayer of Judith, " where she begs God to give her, a woman, the power and ability to lie convincingly.  It's not a first for a woman in the Bible to use wiles and half-truths to accomplish something that would otherwise not happen, but Judith was recorded as a bit more forthcoming with what she wanted and why.  

I loved the motet long before I found a translation of it, but reading it in English makes it even more dear. The words are those of faith and trust in God no matter what the situation. Those are words and feelings that are always good to remember and acknowledge.

I heard this piece again last night as I was trying to go to sleep. Thinking of not only the intricate harmonies but also about the words, I found myself drifting off to sleep quite peacefully. I'm not necessarily recommending it as a sleeping aid, but it worked for me, at least once. Do give it a listen and see what feelings and thoughts arise in you as you hear it.

God bless.




Tallis, Thomas,  Spem in Allium, sung by King's College Choir, Stephen Cleobury, conductor. Licensed by UMG (on behalf of Universal Music); Public Domain Compositions. Found on YouTube. *Judith: Apocrypha by Toni Craven, found at Jewish Women's Archive, Encyclopedia. Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, July 7, 2018. This is a corrected copy.

The Joy of Hospitality

It's always interesting to read back things that you've written in a diary or a blog or just on a piece of paper somewhere that you run across and it starts to make you think. It seems that subjects seem to have a span of time in which they are talked about on an almost daily basis, while others fade away only to be resurrected weeks, months or even years later. The funny thing about topics of interest, especially topics that seem to be the talk of the town now, is to see how a viewpoint or train of thought can change with time, and how subjects seem to come around in cycles.

Think about hospitality for a moment. Several years ago, it was a great topic of conversation in Episcopal circles, particularly regarding how our churches and parishes exemplify Christian hospitality.

The first thing that happens when a person walks into a church is usually something that sticks with them even after they leave after the service. When they walk through the door, did someone offer to shake their hand? Did someone smile at them and hand them a bulletin or service booklet? Did someone engage them in conversation, ask if they were new and perhaps how they found this particular church? Those are different levels of hospitality.

Thinking about that brings me to the thought of the first time that I walked through the doors of the Episcopal Church of the Nativity in North Scottsdale. I was a person who'd been hurt by the church in general and who decided to visit this church where I knew a couple of people. The church had just moved into a new building, and so I set up my GPS to take me there. The sight that struck my eye as I drove towards it was that this was a slightly different looking church, something I'd call industrial Gothic. It had pointed windows that covered nearly the whole expanse. Lots and lots of bright light came in through the clear but lightly tinted windows that let in the light but would help keep the inside from being an oven or a foretaste of a place that we don't mention too often except in the Creed. Anyway, I thought this was going to be an interesting experience.

I walked through the door and was greeted by this very personable lady and the biggest smile in the world. She introduced herself as Joy and asked if I was new. Yes, I said, but I knew the Rector, and one other lady who was a member of one of my Education for Ministry (EfM) groups. Joy drew me over to the visitor's book, had me sign, gave me some information on the church, and welcomed me as warmly as I could have wished. This lady had an immense gift of not only joy to match her name but the gift of hospitality, making people feel welcome and a part of the congregation five minutes after they walked through the door for the first time. To me, Joy represented the perfect kind of hospitality ministry that every church should have. People who walked in with children were welcomed warmly and introduced to the people who cared for children in the nursery, Sunday school, and children's chapel so that they would feel comfortable leaving their children in safety with good, kind people. Older people were welcomed and assisted, if necessary, to seats in the church where they could meet and greet others around them, not just shuffled away in the back of the church where they could be overlooked. They were asked if they needed assistance in going to communion, or if they would like communion brought to them. Note was taken of where they were sitting and identifiers that would allow the altar party to find them and make them a part of the Eucharist at the Lord's table. 

There were other members of the hospitality ministry there, all doing many of the same things Joy was, it was just that I met Joy first. Imagine my surprise when I went back a couple of weeks later and she remembered my name! I loved Nativity the first time I went there, but the second time, in large part because of Joy, I felt like a member of the family.

I wish there were more Joys in the world, especially now that the shift in hospitality has gone from the world of the church to the national scene. It's become a topic that is controversial and rather painful for many on both sides. There are those who feel their safety is being imperiled, as well as those whose safety is truly in danger. We talk of building walls to keep people out, and we exemplify that by the number of walled housing developments that we have now with gates that require passwords or special decals and membership cards that must be swiped to allow admittance. The hospitality door seems to have slammed shut. The same is now beginning to slam shut on our national borders, or at least, to the one to our southern border.

So now maybe this is time for the church to start teaching the country. Yes, we have a number of churches that put on their signs in the front that they are a welcoming and affirming congregation, or that all people are welcome and the ones that they love are welcome as well. We welcome people of color, those who are American-born and those who have fled horrendous regimes around the world. We are establishing congregations within congregations, the services of the Eucharist and various ministries aimed at other ethnicities other than Caucasians. We host groups like Integrity, scouting, various twelve-step groups, and services and classes in other languages. Now, more and more groups are finding ways to help those who have come to us as new brothers and sisters, people who can contribute to the church and the world, without fear of their status, orientation, or any other perceived difference. All we need are 1 million Joys at the doors of our churches and the fences and gates of our borders rather than a few thousand AK-47s pointed across that short space between us and the rest of the world.

Joy still greets people, still smiles, and, with brightly-lit eyes, welcomes people to our little place in the Episcopal Church and our little corner of Christianity. This world needs a lot more like her. They need people who take joy in hospitality and extending hospitality. We need more who make us feel welcome rather than not.

Joy has found her gift and we at Nativity are the beneficiaries. I hope other congregations find their own Joy and share her enthusiasm that can lead to both church and kingdom growth. Just look for the little lady in the brimmed hat with streamers.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, June 30, 2018.

Yes, No, or But

Matthew 5:33-37

I have always liked the book of Matthew. It is one of the synoptic Gospels, sharing similarities with both Mark and Luke, yet with some differences. Matthew and Luke both seem to have copied bits of Mark but put in different emphases and different viewpoints. Matthew was written for the Jewish people, while Luke was written for the Greeks.

Much of the reading today is about swearing vows, especially vows to God. Today we hear a lot of swearing but it's not necessarily religious vows or even polite words or phrases. Matthew looks back to ancient history and the instructions to carry out any vows that they made to God, not to make the vow and then forget about it. Matthew also talks about swearing upon one's own head because there's nothing about our physical selves that we can really do a whole lot about. Of course, now we've got Clairol and other products that will change white hair to black and black hair to white and all the shades of red and brown in between. They had some of that stuff back in Jesus's time since Egyptians had used it when Israel was in exile in Egypt. But still is difficult to change the color of one hair and without aid of cosmetics. Matthew's point attests to the impossibility of changing without going to great length and great difficulty, and even then, it's usually not 100% successful.

But the part that really grabbed my attention was the very last verse, "Let your word be ‘Yes, yes,’ or ‘No, no.’ " I find it very interesting that it is an instruction to be definite in one’s answer. Since this was a lesson from Jesus, it makes it even more interesting.

It’s apparent that Jesus neither left out a word or ever intended for to be there, and it's a word we often hear in context of a yes or no answer. It's a simple little word that can change the entire structure of the answer.

In this passage, Jesus never inserted the word "but". The man with the dead father wanted to join Jesus yet he fell even more deeply into the mire when he said, “Yes, but let me go bury my father first." That little word “but” changed the whole thing. The man was serious in wanting to follow Jesus, although he felt he had a prior commitment that had to be taken care of first, making following Jesus of secondary importance.

Politicians are great about throwing in silent “but” words along with their yesses or their nos. They are fond of saying, “Yes, we will do this for you, but we will do more for this group over here.” They will say, “No, we will not raise taxes or make these other changes," but just listen for a while. You'll find there is a real or implied “but” somewhere down the road.

Jesus never intended for there to be a “but” when a person makes a vow to do something or refrain from doing something. Statements were unequivocal. Love your neighbor as yourself, not love your neighbor but not if they are _____ and then fill in the blank with whatever the current target is. Jesus never said that if you see a person without a coat, to give them yours--that is, unless it’s expensive, super high quality, or necessary to indicate the status quo of the owner.

Jesus used the word, but in the context of “rather.” One of the phrases he often used was, “You have heard it said, but I say to you…” He was redefining words, beliefs, and practices that had been in place for centuries. Jesus presented those ancient words and practices to the people who already understood them in one way, and suddenly turned it around to be something different. He was teaching them a new way, built on the old.

There are times when we can unequivocally say yes or no; we do it by the way we vote, the way we acquire goods and services, saying yes to this one but no to that one based on economics or political position or the like. We've gotten so used to “Yes, but…” or “No, but…” We wait to hear that little word because we are so used to hearing it and we know it's going to happen in there somewhere.

Jesus attributed the things like the “but” to something that came from the evil one. It's easy to understand because what it is becomes an entry for the shaitan to win others to the dark side, as it were. He is all too interested in attempting to thwart God by corrupting God's children, and, unfortunately, a number of them seem to be all too willing, even as they insist they are trying to do God's will and have no truck with evil. You can tell the ones that say yes to God because they do God's will as they were taught by Jesus.

The next time you watch a crime show or courthouse drama, listen to the oath that each witness must give, ending with "…So help me God." That's the end of the vow. If you notice, there is no “Unless I might incriminate myself,” or “But I can’t tell them about A or B.” Listen to that and see how much different it sounds when you mentally add those things on, because there are a lot of those implications in a courtroom. The oath may end with “... So help me God,” but there's often more that could be said.

This week, I'm going to try to work so that my yes is yes, my no is no. I need to learn to see where a gray area is truly justified, and where the answer must be solid and substantive. It’s going to be a long week…

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, June 16, 2018.

A Personal Prayer

Great God, Father/Mother, Creator,

Loving Jesus, brother, teacher, savior,

Gentle Spirit, powerful guide,

I honestly don’t know where to start. There are so many things to say that they all seem to be whirling ab out like numbered balls in a bingo cage. Everybody prays the right number will fall out when it stops, but usually the cage quickly spins again before the mind can focus on more than the fact that the last number didn’t match the empty space on the bingo card that would have made for a winner.

I sit here in my chair, looking at the western sun shine through the green leaves of the tree and the light making the white brachts of the bougainvillea glow like miniature light bulbs. It is such a beautiful sight, and it brings me peace. There are so many places on earth like that, and I’d be willing to bet that just about everybody has a place of beauty that brings them peace. Well, perhaps not everybody, because as beautiful as this wonderful planet is, there are so many places where war, famine, natural disasters, human-made disasters, human cruelty, rape of the earth and of humans who inhabit war-torn areas exist and seem to flourish. There are places where the ground is soaked in blood, and the air screams in pain from the sights and sounds of barbarity.  This is not the earth that I believe You planned. This earth is far from the Eden where life began, and all was in harmony, and it has been this way for thousands of generations.

It seems as though we reel from disaster to disaster. Children who should be safe in their schools are traumatized, shot, injured and killed on almost a weekly basis. A concert or a nightclub becomes a focus for hate and the body count rises rapidly. Before we can completely digest these atrocities, there is a flood, a fire, an eruption, a plane or train crash, a wrong-way driver who takes out innocent people and leaving other innocents mangled and suffering. The daily news is full of lies and half-truths, new proclamations that benefit a few at the expense of the many. Now we have young children, far from home, torn from their parents’ arms, thrown into cages, and given mats on the floor with a scratchy, noisy blanket that doesn’t wrap securely around their small bodies. Their captors probably don’t speak any language or dialect the children could understand, even if they weren’t so frightened they cannot take in the words being spoken to them by people wearing uniforms, sometimes like the people in uniforms their parents struggled to get away from in their native country. These children undoubtedly will suffer with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) for the rest of their lives. Think of that: a 3-year-old with PTSD, a hell-like mental prison that even grown soldiers can’t conquer.

As if that weren’t bad enough, we are at the mercy of people who are determined to be like dogs on a walk, making sure to mark every possible tree, fence, rock, or sign that another dog has previously marked as his own territory. Maybe that isn’t fair to the dogs of the world; they are doing what nature programmed them to do. As for the humans, anything that disagrees with their philosophy, religion, or cultural identification seems to need to be stripped from the world, no matter how many people those programs aid or how many lives they save. We seem to have slipped into the “I’ve got mine, too bad about you” mode of thinking and doing, and again, this isn’t the way the world was planned to be, was it?

The prisms in the window have now caught the flashes of light of the setting sun and there are rainbows all over my ceiling. It’s beautiful, but transient, just like the peace that the twilight sun brings. In the time it has taken me to write these words, the rainbows have disappeared, taking the joy with them. Another news story, another disaster, another atrocity, another planned cruelty comes across the TV or computer screen. How long, O Lord, how long?

Jesus gave us such a beautiful lesson about blessings for those who are kind, merciful, good to the poor and needy, accepting of the strangers, welcoming of the aliens in the land, loving to all, including those who have wronged them. These are the people we should be seeing rather than focusing so much on those who are busy dismantling what is left of Eden on this earth. More than that, we should be doing our best to fight back, to be the crusaders for those who have no voices no matter what their age is. Honestly, I wonder if it is even possible. It seems so disheartening.

Ok, so there aren’t rainbows on the ceiling every minute of the daylight, and nature can be planned for if not controlled. Those are things we can’t do anything about. What we can do is to see where we can make a difference, no matter how small. One grain of sand doesn’t make a beach but get enough grains together and they can put a buffer between the land and the restless sea. Get enough individuals involved and seeming miracles can happen.

I wonder if I could replace the darkness in my life with not just the sight or memory of things that bring me joy or peace but with some sort of action in some direction and some way. I know writing these reflections and prayers help me to refocus and re-purpose my life, but is there more I can do? Of course, there is. I just must be aware of it and also be willing to do something about it. I have to find another passion and work at it. 

I keep saying I need to do this, so maybe now the sight of those little children torn from their parents and caged, those mothers who cry and feel the desolation of empty arms, those who are innocent yet sit in prison waiting for who knows what?  What about those who are shut in or perhaps dying who need a friendly face or a few kind words to make life a bit more bearable?  What about cuddling crack-addicted infants in hospitals, or playing and loving puppies and kittens at the shelter awaiting adoption?  Maybe replanting burned-out areas or volunteering at a soup kitchen?  The possibilities are limitless – I just need to find my niche and get to work.

Thank you for listening, God, Jesus, and Spirit. I know you are always there for me, it’s just that I need an overabundance of tragedy like today to really understand that.  Thank you for being there.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, June 23, 2018.