Repairing the Broken

In 1847, Margaret Wolfe Hungerford used a phrase in a book that she authored that, in part, has become well used: “…Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Perhaps she wasn’t the initial author of the phrase, but she used it in a modern context to explain that what appeals to someone as something beautiful may not always appeal to everybody else in the same way. Most contemporary and post-modern art is, to me, incomprehensible, while others find it profound, penetrating, and, yes, beautiful. Oh, well, different strokes for different folks.

In our most recent Education for Ministry (EfM) class, we used a picture of a cup very similar to the one above. First, we looked at it as an interesting object, determining what it was, what kind of world it would come from, how it was created, and what it meant to the culture that made it. We were off and running.

This teacup started life as a lump of clay, formed by hand, painted, glazed, and fired. It became an everyday, useful cup that could possibly be found in thousands of homes in Japan. Somehow it got broken into pieces. In our culture, it probably would have been thrown out, but in Japan, someone took the time and expense to repair the cup very carefully, using gold resin rather than ordinary glue. Suddenly, the plain broken vessel became something unique and beautiful, a piece of art that was now worth much more than the original unbroken cup had been. It became a treasure, a thing of beauty in the eyes of many beholders.

In our Theological Reflection (TR), we moved to the tradition questions as a way of looking at the object slightly differently. Where was the brokenness in the image? What reminded you of redemption or restoration?  Where in our Christian tradition (scripture, hymns, lives of saints, stories, etc.) could we recall that might illustrate what this cup could be a reminder?  


We thought of someone taking the time and effort to restore the cup, and that brought us to God taking all of us who are broken in various ways, and healing (if not curing) us so that we could continue our lives in God’s service to the world. We reflected on the healing ministries of Jesus, who took strangers, all broken, and healed them, not to prove his legitimacy as the Son of God but as an example of the power of God and God’s love for the broken of the world.

We are taught to hide our flaws and brokenness. It would make us look bad in the eyes of the world if they could see the cracks and fragments of our inner selves as well as our outer ones. Our self-image, our pride, and our image to the world would be harmed if others could see our internal messes. We are taught to use invisible tape to try to repair things like a torn piece of paper, super glue for just about everything, and an internal form of duct tape to patch the inner flaws and brokenness so that we appear to be whole and healthy. God doesn’t bother with invisible patches (or duct tape, which is far from invisible).  God uses love and care to fix the broken, and if it is visible, it makes it much more beautiful than the original was.

What is more, God doesn’t wait for us to bring ourselves for healing. We present ourselves to God for our own sake, not for God’s. God forgives us even if we don’t ask, but speaking of our sins and brokenness makes it more real to us and helps to bridge the gap left by whatever it was that we did. God uses the bridge to bring the pieces together, stronger than before, because we had the strength to ask and the wisdom to realize that God’s forgiveness is guaranteed. That’s not just a gold resin, it’s pure gold, and it’s available to us without reservation.

The mended cup may not be used for tea or saki after it has undergone the kintsugi process. Instead, it becomes a work of art, to be displayed singly, not buried in a cupboard, or in a collection of other pieces.  Most often, it has a pedestal or tabletop all to itself to prevent anything else from detracting from the object. It is allowed to be studied and appreciated for itself alone, not as a manufactured or cookie-cut piece like thousands of others. Each piece breaks in its own way and is restored to its original shape but with a beautiful pattern of repair that invites reflection and appreciation.

Perhaps we need to see ourselves in terms of kintsugi. God repairs us because of love, just as the artist who restored the cup did, only God does it with so much more than love and resin. Maybe if we thought of ourselves, and others, in that way, we might become closer to the Kingdom of God people we promise to try to be in our baptismal covenant. Perhaps it would be easier to focus on others rather than staring in our own mirror, looking for brokenness to hide and flaws to cover up. Possibly exposing the flaws God has mended would give someone else the strength to seek God’s forgiveness and grace. It’s much more valuable than gold baubles and perfect images, and it is beauty in the eye of the beholder who may just need some beauty in his or her life.

Think about it.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, November 9, 2019.

All Souls 2019

The ghoulies, ghosties, and spooky noises have disappeared for another year, although many houses still have a pile of candy either left over or gained by family trick-or-treaters.  

Yesterday was the first day of November, the official beginning of the new church year and usually listed as All Saints’ Day. This year, churches will celebrate tomorrow as All Saints, as it is celebrated traditionally as a major feast day on the Sunday closest to the calendar date.

Today we celebrate All Souls, a commemoration that usually follows All Saints but which this year is between the actual date of All Saints and the celebrated feast in the church. It is not celebrated as lavishly as All Saints, except in cultures that mark el Dia de Los Muertos, a Mexican and Central-American fiesta unrelated to Halloween. Families decorate the tombs of their loved ones, and often spend an entire night at the gravesites, eating and drinking and remembering the ones who have gone before them. Flowers are abundant and painted caricatures of skeletons and skulls decorate family altars and even shops. It is truly a feast of the dead rather than a fun holiday where children can dress up and ask for candy at neighborhood houses. Many other predominantly Roman Catholic countries decorate the family graves and spend time in prayer and remembrance, sometimes feasting and sharing with their loved ones.

For the Episcopal and some other churches, All Souls is a celebration of the small-s saints, those who have died in the faith but not canonized by the church and given a commemoration day of their own. All Saints belongs to the Big-S Saints like Francis, Catherine (the multitude of them), Augustine, Hildegarde, and others who we know by name. All Souls belongs to the ordinary people; the faithful departed who might not have done significant miracles but who were present in the lives of those who knew and loved them. They are the mothers, fathers, family members, beloved friends, inspiring teachers and leaders, and heroes who do thousands of small miracles every day, often unrecognized.

Beginning perhaps a week or so before All Souls, churches ask people to submit names of their departed, especially those who have died in the past year. The individual submissions are combined to form a list that rests on the altar until it is read aloud during the prayers at a mass held on November 2nd.  

All Souls is an important day in my calendar.  I have so many people on my list that it would take several minutes just to read them.  There are my birth father, adoptive father and brother, lots of aunts and uncles both related and honorary, and neighbors and friends who have loved me and helped me at various points in my life. Some were friends only for a few years, while others remained friends for decades. There are some people inspired me in so many ways, and some who supported me through difficult times. All of them feel very close to me on this day, and although I am not able to cry, the tears are just below the surface simply because I miss them so much.

One particular saint was my adoptive mother. She and the family took me in when I was about five months old and made me part of that family.  She was a two-time breast cancer survivor who died when I was fourteen, a time when it felt like I could do with a mother even if I didn’t recognize it at the time. Many of my saints were women who filled her shoes from time to time, making sure I had what I needed, whether clothes, advice, a place to visit when I got lonely, and more than occasionally put an extra potato in the pot for dinner just for me. 

I miss Mama more the older I get. Knowing she and I had suffered the same disease made me miss having her advice and experiences so that it wouldn’t be so frightening. Luckily I had a friend who filled in, going to the doctor and surgeon with me and even taking me to the hospital and picking me up after my surgery. Another friend took me to some medical tests and stayed until I was ready for a ride home. Those two have been priceless.  Fortunately, one of them I can still rely on; whatever I need, she seems to be able to supply.  

When I visit back home, I always manage to visit the cemetery where many of my family lie. I wish I could visit that cemetery today, but it’s on the East Coast, over 2,300 miles away, so I will have to content myself with looking at their graves from a distance on Google.  Still, in my heart and mind, they will be with me today as they are whenever I think of them and probably many times when I don’t consciously have them in mind.

I love it that my church has a commemoration where my saints can be remembered, even by those who never knew them, merely by hearing their names read on a list. I appreciate that I can join with others in remembering their saints along with mine, making our community stronger and more connected. Not all denominations have such a remembrance, but since I have found it, I have gained comfort and a designated time to celebrate all of them together. The night of All Souls becomes a thin space, a veil between the world of the living and the dead which is almost able to be penetrated so that the two worlds can join together.  It’s a precious and priceless feeling, one I wouldn’t trade for anything. 

Who are your saints?  If you haven’t made a list already, sit for a few moments and write them down. Then remember why they are your saints and thank them for their gifts to you, and thank God for having put them in your life at just the right times.  It won’t be a wasted few moments, I assure you.

May the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace, rise in glory, and remain with us in spirit until we can join them in the glory of God and the heavenly kingdom. Amen.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul  on Episcopal Café

A Day of Celebrations

I don’t know how many people have stopped to think of it, but have you ever stopped to think about which month of the year has the most birthdays in your family and family circle? Or which months have a collection of special events like local holidays, or even celebrations?  It’s interesting to write down the months in a column and then list birthdays, anniversaries, deaths, and events in each month to compare them and see where the busy part of your year falls.


I tried it and found my calendar was fuller in several months than in the rest of the year. April has two birthdays, an anniversary, and the death of a dear friend. August has three family birthdays plus one more for my first babysitter, my best friend’s birthday, and her father’s and mother’s as well. Then comes October, with many family birthdays (from the 17th – 22nd, if I remember correctly), but three significant dates I mark in red every year.


The date is the same as today, October 19. The church commemorates Henry Martyn, a priest and a missionary to Muslims, born in 1781 and who died in 1812, but I confess I haven’t got him on my list of very special days.


The first commemoration I treasure is an event celebrating the date of October 19, 1781, when Lord Cornwallis of Britain had his adjutant surrender his sword to Gen. George Washington’s aide to conclude this part of the Revolutionary War. Cornwallis couldn’t bear to surrender his sword of nobility to a paltry general (even though that General belonged to one of the most notable families in Virginia as well as a revered statesman). The revolution wasn’t entirely over, but it ended the warfare in the south, and soon after, the north also was able to celebrate peace. In Yorktown, Virginia, my home town, it’s a day of celebration of patriotism, international and interracial cooperation (African Americans, French, Hessians, and Poles, were instrumental in the victory), thanksgiving, and dare I say pride.

Although Washington and many others are now branded as slave owners (there is no denying that), I still can’t help thinking of the sacrifices he made for this country and the risks he took to make it free from British rule, even if freedom for everyone didn’t come until long after 1781, and for which some are still waiting.


The second commemoration is more personal. After sitting on the corner of our street, watching the parade of bands, soldiers, sailors (including some French ones with those endearing red pompoms on top of their hats), and speeches, my sister-in-law went into labor and a few hours later gave birth to my first niece and my brother’s first child. We all thought that it was a splendid day to be born. After all, the celebration of the day didn’t involve presents, so she didn’t get cheated on any of those, and it did have bands, parades, and fireworks, which she could say was to celebrate her natal day.


The third event was the birth of my son, some 17 years, 8 hours, and some odd minutes, as well as half a world away, of my brother’s firstborn. My then-husband and I were in the Philippines at that time, and the hospital nursery had lots of brown-haired, brown-eyed babies when my blue-eyed cherub with blonde curls joined the crowd. I’ve always wished I could have taken him back home for a birthday with the same celebrations my niece had enjoyed. I’ve always reminded him of the importance of his birthday, both personally and historically.


So, what spiritual connection can I make of this mishmash of more or less personal celebrations? I guess growing up in a town so full of history (and so close to Jamestown and Williamsburg) plus the proximity of relics of both the Revolution and the Civil War made me conscious from an early age that hallowed ground doesn’t necessarily mean blessed by the church or a minister. Among the many graves both in the churchyard and along the rustic paths through the battlefields, there are small plots of land with crosses and plaques that commemorate people who died there, many fighting far from their homes and native lands, but who still gave their lives to help a new nation be born. Some of those crosses and plaques memorialize those who fought on the opposite side, just as fiercely protecting their own country’s interests as the colonists and her allies did for theirs. The blood of all of them and all the non-combatants who also lost their lives in those conflicts sanctified that ground forever.


I celebrate two lives, both born on that same day, who are so dear to me and who are the recipients of the blessings of liberty that the battles and skirmishes of the Revolution brought to all of us. We haven’t finished the campaigns yet; there are still battles of equality and justice to be won so that all Americans, regardless of race, creed, nationality, ethnicity, or orientation, can enjoy the blessings of liberty and freedom.


The fight for freedom goes on here as well as many places around the world. The goal of world peace seems perhaps further away than ever before, but that doesn’t mean we stop fighting for it. We celebrate the heroes and mourn the fallen, whoever and wherever they are, and try to remember that Jesus told us that there would be wars and persecutions, but, as Isaiah said, we can beat our swords into plowshares. That goes for all humanity, for we are required by Jesus to love one another as we love ourselves (and our families and friends).  Jesus reiterated that over and over, even though the translations of his words never specifically told us we had to like those who opposed or who injured us even unto death.  Just as those crosses and burial places of so many unnamed casualties of wars with two sides, we must pray for them to be at peace as surely as we ourselves wish to be at our own end.


Happy Yorktown Day.  God bless all who died for us and for those who still fight.  Amen.


And celebrate with me. It’s a good day.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, October 19, 2019.

The Wind and the Spirit

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you:

But when the leaves hang trembling,

The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the trees bow down their heads,

The wind is passing by.

                        --- Christina Rosetti

It’s a quiet evening. Leaves are barely moving on the trees which means it might be a reasonably quiet night. Last night it was a bit different. The winds picked up and moved quite fiercely, causing branches to rub against the siding of the house and make the blowing dust hit against the exterior wall like Mentos dropped into a Coca-Cola. It comes up, and it goes away. With last night’s dust storm, we got some much-needed rain following the wind. That happens quite often here in the desert and is as welcome as the rain is, although the wind that precedes it and sometimes accompanies it can be a bit unnerving.

As I lay in bed, I thought about what I was hearing. I was pondering whether the wind is visible, or do we only see the results of it? We know the wind and/or its effect on the shaking of leaves as in Christina Rosetti’s poem, and we can also see one, the other, or both in a tornado as it swirls and destroys. We hear the wind howling, but is that the wind itself or is the wind blowing through or against something that makes sound? However it goes, the wind, like many forces of nature, can’t be controlled, summoned, or dismissed.

Last night I also thought about that verse from John 3:8, “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.” The Spirit has been described as a wind like the gust that blew through the congregation on Pentecost and endowing those present with the gift of tongues which enabled them to speak to those whose language was not Aramaic or perhaps Latin or Hebrew. The Spirit, like the wind, can’t always be summoned, controlled, or dismissed. As a member of the Trinity, it is God made manifest in ways that often can’t be seen but only felt and experienced. 

We frequently say that the Spirit calls us to tasks and missions that perhaps we previously had not thought about much less considered. The call is significant to Christians. It is, in a way, the stamp of approval of God upon an individual or even a group. Sometimes the Spirit seems to choose the most unlikely persons or groups, but yet to those who experience it, is a genuine thing, and something which changes them much as the angel on the road to Damascus turned the man who persecuted Christians into the most influential person in the early church.

One thing that struck me is that we can’t always see the Spirit working on and in a person. Sometimes we may judge that a person doesn’t measure up to what we may consider a measuring stick of a Spirit-filled life. Perhaps the Spirit uses different criteria for judgment, and it is our hubris that makes us question that person’s qualification. Like the wind, the Spirit goes where and to whom she wills.

The wind is not always a gentle thing, particularly in cases of natural disasters like cyclones, hurricanes, typhoons, and the like. Neither is the Spirit always a soft, guiding and sustaining image that we often consider. 

We learn in church that the Spirit, the third person of the Trinity, or the third persona of that group, is equal to but not the same as God or Jesus. Together they form God, the Holy Trinity, although we often consider them, like Rublev’s famous icon, to be three individuals sitting down together at a round table. The Spirit is frequently portrayed as a dove and is probably the least understood, yet an essential part of what we call God. The Spirit does come among us, speaking to some, choosing some, and guiding many. Sometimes I think some of the best ideas are inspired by the Spirit, whether or not the person to whom the idea comes is aware of it or not. Like the wind, it’s something that can be felt or experienced but not seen and seldom heard.

Tonight may be a quiet night, but later, when the sun goes down, and the air grows cooler, it may pick up and once again make itself known by the movement of the branches, twigs, and leaves. We will know when it is here, and when it leaves. I think with the Spirit, it’s probably best for me to assume that the Spirit is always present in one way or another, and for me to be constantly aware of that presence, whether or not I feel a gentle breeze against my cheek or my house shakes with the force of it.

How do you experience the Spirit? Is a gentle breeze, an angry twisting form, or something that moves the waves on the ocean, whether ripples or giant waves?

This week I will work on sensing the Spirit, however she may manifest herself. I invite you to do the same.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café August 31 and October 26, 2019.

A Spiritual Salad

The shortening off of days and the cooling temperatures always put me in the mood to do more reading. Oh, I read all year, but it seems like longer evenings and nights spark more opportunity and more reason to sit in my rocking chair, with a lap robe over my feet, a cat in my lap, a cup of tea next to me, and a good book in my hands.


One of my latest reads has been Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others by Barbara Brown Taylor. In it, she describes teaching a college class on world religions and what she has learned herself through teaching, discussing, and experiencing the similarities and differences among a variety of world religions. Her class sounds fascinating; I wish I could attend a term or two of it.


In reading the book, I encountered a thought I’ve had before, namely that it would be interesting, challenging, and stimulating to be part of a religion other than the one in which I grew up. I did do some denominational dancing at several points in my life, wishing I was something besides Southern Baptist. Roman Catholicism offered rituals, lots of saints, and repetitive prayers rather than a lot of emotion, long sermons, and confusion teachings.  I liked the formality of the mass and that (at that time) it was in Latin was eye-opening. Besides, I had a school friend who was RC and had attended Catholic school for her first four years. She always put a small cross at the top of her class papers and exercises, which seemed rather exotic and yet very meaningful to me, so I did it too – for a while. I wonder now why I stopped?


Throughout my life, I have read lots of books of different types and persuasion. I read all the Rabbi Small mysteries, which made me think about Judaism and be curious enough to do some research on it. The prayers (in Hebrew) intrigued me, and hearing the music as well as the chants struck me as a longing for a God in whom I could have faith, even through the most trying of times. Reading Rumer Godden’s In This House of Brede made me want to join a Benedictine monastery, with its rules, silence, and chants. Of course, my family would have had a collective stroke if I even mentioned such an idea to them.  It was hard enough to tell them that I had found the Episcopal Church and undergoing confirmation before my next birthday.  The gasps were audible, some of the arguments bantered back and forth got tiresome, but in the end my adoptive father gave me his permission, and I followed my heart to the altar for confirmation and my first communion as an Episcopalian.


Over the years, there were more books, more new experiences, and more wanting to sample other faiths. It was like going to a salad bar and choosing bits of this, that, and the other on the plate and covering it with dressing to bind it all together.  I had Mormon downstairs neighbors once, so I did some reading up on that. It didn’t take long to realize it wasn’t for me, but it was a little dash of something to add to my salad. I tried Roman Catholicism for several years, but it didn’t seem quite right either. I still loved books about Jewish characters from Rabbi Small to Anne Frank. I continued to add small dabs of new things to my salad until I had nearly a plate full.


I’ve learned to appreciate Buddhist meditation, Jewish traditions, prayers and music, the Five Pillars of Islam, the Native American feeling of oneness with Creation, respect for the elders, and the practice of walking in beauty. There are times when I wish I could do more than try to practice their beliefs in more than a superficial way, to truly belong to them as do the believers of each of them.  Still, even a contemplation of and attempt to follow some of their customs, as different as they may be, bring peace and satiation, like a well-balanced salad with lots of different flavors and textures.


I know many people have had some of the same experiences as I have, that of wanting to experience as a member and true believer rather than just a Christian trying to enact an authentic Seder or sit in meditation for hours without moving or having the mind stray. I know Christianity offers me a channel for meditation, good works, ritual, memorized prayers for various occasions, and encouragement to respect creation and all parts of it. Christianity offers me God as the dressing, by whatever name a person calls God, that binds the salad together and provides many different flavors to tempt the spiritual palate.


I’m glad I’m Episcopalian. After some journeys to other spiritual paths, I find myself returning every time to the Episcopal Church. When I come back and first sit in the pew after an absence, either long or short, it’s as if God is putting a hand on my head with the commands, “Sit! Stay!”  Maybe those are the bacon bits or scallions to garnish the salad?


The world is not monochromatic, single-flavored, or even of one texture. God made creation with an infinite amount of diversity, so would that same God say that only one way could be enjoyed, believed in, or practiced?  Is Buddhist meditation going to make me less of a Christian?  Am I going to be harmed by reading Harry Potter because it talks about spells and magic? Will I to hell because I read the Qu’ran (in English) or the Talmud of Judaism?  Am I sinful to bless trees, flowers, cats, rocks, or rivers?  Am I diluting my faith by watching a program on the Kaaba of Islam, appreciating those who maintain it as well as the millions who save for years to afford the one Hajj of their lifetime required by the Five Pillars of their faith? Am I unChristian to want to see the good in every single person and thing in creation, even if I fail at it much of the time?


I’m grateful to have the ingredients of a spiritual salad available to me to study, learn, perhaps practice, and appreciate. It keeps me spiritually fed and nourished as well as going my heart good to acknowledge that God is present all around and within. Whether God is called God, Allah, Elohim, Abba, Mother, Center of the Universe, or any of a million names, they acknowledge the Higher Power that enables us to live, breathe and have our being.


Try some new ingredients in your spiritual salad. You might find some great new additions to the life the Spirit has given you.


God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, October 12, 2019.

Listen to the Donkey

Numbers 22: 1-35


I was reading a fascinating book*, one that made me think and also gave me some “AHA” moments. The one that particularly grabbed my attention was a subheading of “Failure to Communicate .” It dealt with a fundamental lack of communication, as exemplified in the story of a man named Balaam and his donkey found in Numbers 22.  It doesn’t seem to appear in any lectionary reading, which means it isn’t read unless someone stumbles across or finds it referenced somewhere.


To condense it a bit, Baalam was a non-Israelite diviner with the gift of blessing or cursing. Balak, king of Moab, sent representatives to Baalam with the intent for Balaam to curse Israel, which was threatening the land of Moab. Balaam refused twice and even consulted with God both times, but in the end, God told Balaam to go with the representatives but only to say what God told him to say.

Balaam was on the road, riding his donkey, along with two servants. God sent an angel to block the way, which Balaam could not see. The donkey did, though, and refused to go ahead despite blows from Balaam’s stick.

This happened twice more, until the third time when the donkey, with nowhere else to go, laid down in the road and suffered a severe beating. God opened the donkey’s mouth and allowed her to question why he had beaten her in such a manner. Balaam was angry, saying the donkey had made a fool of him, and he wished he had a sword to kill her on the spot. The donkey reminded him that he had ridden her for years, and she had never caused him to treat her in this manner. Balaam had to agree.  It was then that God opened Balaam’s eyes and he saw the angel who had blocked the path. The upshot was that Balaam followed God’s direction and returned home, presumably on the same donkey, but this time without difficulty or beatings.

Poor donkey! She suffered cursing and beatings because she saw something Balaam didn’t, and couldn’t communicate this to him in any other way than to try to get around the angel blocking the road or lying down where she was. She tried her best to let Balaam know that something was wrong, but he only understood that she was not obeying his command to move ahead. Finally, God gave her the words to make Balaam stop and think about his anger and how unjustified it was, given the length of time he and the donkey had been working together. She also gave him an awareness that she had seen something he had not, and that her behavior was not just a whim but rather a sign that he missed.  


We often miss communications because we act first, think later. We miss hearing essential things and get into trouble because of it. We depend on sound-bytes rather than entire messages, simply because we are in a hurry in a world that demands we keep moving, no matter what stands in our path that we should notice.  We even ignore the growls of the dog we are walking, pulling on his leash to move him ahead when he is warning us of danger nearby.                                                                                                                                                                                                 
Israel had prophets to warn them of things, not necessarily the immediate threats, but the ones further down the road. We have prophets today who look at the signs and see perils ahead if we do not correct the path on which we are moving. We depend on financial advisers to tell us when to buy or sell commodities or stocks to maximize our wealth but ignore the experts who warn us of climatic and ecological peril as a result of our greed. We don’t hear the voices of the trees and beasts as their various species die out due to deforestation and loss of habitat, not to mention overhunting and fear. Maybe we need a few more Balaam’s donkeys around; we might believe the messages if something utterly improbable spoke to us.

Donkeys are strong, intelligent, cautious, and with a great sense of self-preservation, which we often call stubbornness. They are playful, gentle, quick learners, and sure-footed, all of which make them valuable in many cultures and jobs. Is it not surprising that God had a message to pass to Balaam through the voice of the donkey?

To make a further point of wordless communication, Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a colt of a donkey that had never been ridden. Emperors rode into a new city on the back of a strong, imposing white stallion, but the King of Israel chose a more peaceful, gentle method of entry to communicate his message, intent, and purpose.

Perhaps we need to listen to a more non-verbal way of passing along messages and lessons. We don’t need words to show love to our fellow humans, as well as all of creation around us. I believe it would be good if we could show respect for not only our neighbors but also the creatures, flora, fauna, and even inanimate inhabitants of our world.

I have a friend who has a donkey named Duncan. I think I’ll ask my friend if Duncan has given him any messages lately. It might be that Duncan has lessons he could pass on to his owner’s Education for Ministry group – and the world. Who knows, God might speak through Duncan and give us the words to enable us to see and feel the world as others do. It might just help us to be better God-followers as well.

God bless.



*Roach, Jonathan C, and Gricel Dominguez, Expressing Theology: A Guide to Writing Theology That Readers Want to Read, (2015) Kindle edition, Chapter 4, Subheading “Failure to Communicate,” paragraph 1.  Portland OR. Wipf and Stock Publishers.

 
Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, October 5, 2019.

Mothers and Saints

Today we commemorate Paula and Eustochium, monastics, scholars, and women of influence in the Fifth century CE. Paula was a member of a ranking Roman family, married to a nobleman and the mother of five children with one son and four daughters. Paula was widowed early and while dedicated to her family, became increasingly interested in religion. In 382, she met St. Jerome, a noted theologian, who initiated the Vulgate, or Latin translation of the Bible and also commentaries on the Gospels.

Her daughter, Eustochium, accompanied her mother and Jerome on a pilgrimage to visit holy sites. They eventually settled in Bethlehem where Paula and Jerome founded a double monastery, half for women only, where Paula and her nuns followed a strict regime of asceticism. Paula also devoted herself to in-depth Bible study, often with Jerome, which also included her daughter who later became a scholar in her own right. Paula devoted herself to teaching her nuns and maintaining contact with local clergy and bishops. She was an important member of the Christian community and after her death was given the title of Saint. Eustochium followed her mother’s example, and Jerome credited her with assistance in the project along with influencing his commentaries.  Both women were considered Desert Mothers, Christian women living in the deserts of Israel, Egypt, and Syria, many of them living as hermits.

Paula (347-404 CE) and Eustochium (ca. 368 to ca 419) were examples of families or members of families dedicated to the Christian faith in times when to be affiliated with such a group could be very dangerous. They represented the influence faith in families could have, but they were far from the only examples of families in which sainthood seemed to run.

We immediately think of Mary and Joseph, as well as Mary’s mother and father, Anne and Joachim, along with their cousin and her miraculous son, Elizabeth and John the Baptizer.  There were also James and John, the disciples who were brothers and who were given the title of saint following their deaths.

One of the most extensive families of saints was that of the Turkish woman Macrina (born ca. 270, died ca. 340), also known as Macrina the Elder. Her family consisted of some very prominent religious people. One of her daughters, Emilia, and son-in-law, Basil, were persecuted for their faith and were declared saints. Of Emilia and Basil’s numerous children came Macrina (later called the Younger) who, like her grandmother, became one of the Desert Mothers in the area of Cappadocia, a region of Turkey converted by the apostle Paul. Two of Macrina the Elder’s grandsons were St. Basil the Great and St. Gregory of Nyssa, both listed as Cappadocian Fathers, a group of scholars and theologians who helped define the doctrine of the Trinity and also fought against Arianism, a heresy which denied the divinity of Christ. Another grandson was Peter, bishop of Sebaste.


We also remember Monica of Hippo, whose constant prayers and tears helped to convert her wayward son, Augustine, from a dissolute life to that of one of the great Doctors of the Church.  There is also Benedict of Nursia (c 480 CE) who became the Father of Western Monasticism for his efforts to reorganize and refocus the monastics of his area from dissolute living to the Benedictine order we know today with their vows of poverty, stability, and obedience.  His twin sister, Scholastica, also was a monastic and abbess of a Benedictine monastery in Monte Cassino. The two were very close although they saw each other infrequently.


There are probably tons more family members who followed or served in the church and the people of Christ. These are just a few, but they represent the power of faith in the family and the dedication to God and Christ. Many of them showed a mother being the leader who dedicated herself to the church with her children, male and female, following her into similar paths. In times when women were usually subject to their husbands, fathers, and brothers, women like the Macrinas, Scholastica, Monica, and others, it took strength, conviction, and often a bit of personal wealth, for them to break away from the family and seek a life of faith. It was usually a very different lifestyle from that in their former life.

Women like the Desert Mothers were known for centuries for their wisdom and sometimes rather pithy sayings. They are being sought out again today for those sayings which speak to a world very different from the desert hermitages and communities in which they lived. The voices of women, silenced for many generations, have been resurrected and used for guidance in the way of faith.

Paula and Eustochium are quiet voices seldom heard these days, but in the collect for the day, we are reminded of their example and their contributions to the faith we try to uphold today.

Compel us, O God, to attend diligently to your Word, as your faithful servants Paula and Eustochium, that, by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, we may find it profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, and for instruction in righteousness; and that thereby we may be made wise unto salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. Amen. *

It makes one proud to be a woman sometimes. It also gives women models in teaching and guiding children in the paths of righteousness.  To many of us, our mothers are saints without official canonization but with attributes of love, faith, and hope that they seek to instill in us.  It’s not a bad vocation.

God bless.



*Lesser Feasts and Fasts (2018).  General Convention, p.500.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café, Saturday, September 28, 2019.

Hurricanes Within and Without

It seems like this week the topic about which a lot of news media attention has been given as been the East Coast hurricane, Dorian, which created havoc in the Bahamas and then moved up the eastern coastline of the United States. Some places that were expecting a lot of wind and rain got wind and rain, but not enough to destroy whole towns and cities with wind damage and flooding while others were not so fortunate. Hurricanes, like many other natural disasters, are nothing to fool around with. They are dangerous, cost lives and property damage, and tempt people to risk their lives unnecessarily by thinking nothing will happen to them and that they will be just fine. Silly people.

I remember hurricanes coming through my hometown at various times in my childhood. The howling of the wind and the force of the rain frightened me because I could feel the gusts of wind pushing on the sides and roof of the house. We never lost a window or even very many shingles, but branches from the trees and the total loss of my favorite tree in the front yard, a lovely weeping willow that was like my kindred spirit, broke my heart, and it still hurts today, over 50 years later. I still remember that after the hurricane passed, there would suddenly be the sound of lots of frogs croaking in a temporary pond in a depression of the landscape at the end of my street. The pond didn’t last very long as it was only there until the water soaked into the ground. With that drying up, the frogs soon quieted down, but I remember hearing that amphibian choir in much the same way Noah might have greeted the rainbow. It was a reassurance.

Hurricanes are real physical dangers but I think they can also be internal ones. I think through my life and consider times when it felt I was in my private and personal hurricane, being drenched by pounding water and blown about like leaves on a tree in a high wind.

Personal hurricanes have blown through my life figuratively and literally, each one making me feel battered and in some cases torn apart limb from limb. For me a lot of it dealt with death of people I loved and lost, incidents of my life that I learned to regret, and sometimes I still feel the battering of the wind that comes from time to time only to fade for a while and then rises again with the next storm in my life.

I think about the times in the Bible where there are real and symbolic winds and rain concerning the relationship between God and the people of the Bible. Job certainly endured a lot of battering when God and the Shai-Tan, the adversary, had a small wager on whether Job would turn on God if all the blessings that Job had received would be taken away suddenly. Job’s crops and herds were decimated,  all of his children died when a house fell on them,  and then Job himself was left sitting on an ash pit, covered in boils, and with friends trying to console him by demanding that he confess what sins he had committed that would make God punish him with so many losses. Of course, Job was innocent of such charges, and eventually God restored not only Job’s life but everything that had been lost. I wonder what Job’s three friends thought of that.

I would truly hate to think that the God I know would punish anyone except me for my sins. I would hate to think that because of the sins of humanity, the Amazon would be burning, the animals would be caught in natural disasters and maimed or killed, and children who were so innocent and pure would be snatched away by a God who felt some parents needed to be punished and punished heavily. It just doesn’t make sense to me, and I really can’t reconcile myself to the fact that I used to believe that that was the cause of disasters in the world. Yes, I learned that in church as a child, and I accepted it. After all, the people who were teaching me were adults, supposedly much wiser than I and who were my teachers and my guides.

Today I can’t do it. I think if a child is ill, it is due to circumstances, not God. If a child is murdered, it is because some person, for whatever reason, wanted to take that child’s life. Their children who die of diseases not because of their sins, but of causes beyond their control or even their knowledge. I think that people sometimes cause their own internal hurricanes, and choose to visit that disaster on innocent people solely for their own reasons. I don’t think God has anything to do with it; I’m pretty sure that’s how it goes. The people choose to do evil things, and none of those thoughts come from God.

I pray for all those who have been and are afflicted with the hurricanes of the past and the present, and even those who will suffer from them in the future. I pray for the people whose lives will be impacted by storms and tempests caused by the climate change that we refuse to acknowledge and try to correct. I pray for all victims of both natural and human-made circumstances. Most of all, I pray that those of us who reside in relative safety have the goodness of heart and the inspiration of God to help in any way we can to make it possible for people who have lost so much to rebuild their lives and those of their neighbors. I pray that we will learn that we have a God who loves us and who doesn’t punish us for the sins of others or punish the innocent for our sins.

We are God’s hands on earth, and if we think we can do nothing, remember the joke about the person who was stuck on a roof after a flood and who prayed for safety and rescue. After several opportunities, such as floating boards and other floating objects but which were rejected because person expected God to take care of him. There was even a man who came by in a motorboat offering help, but again the man on the roof rejected the offer. When God appeared in front of him, and God asked him why he had rejected all the offers of help that God had sent. The man was speechless. He didn’t see that God often uses other things and people to effect a rescue.

Think about it. Where has God sent help to us only to be rejected because we expected some miracle with a notice signed directly by God rather than a mere man in a boat?

Be the boater. Offer help, because that’s what God has in mind, whether or not it’s the kind of rescue someone else expects from God. Love your neighbor enough to help in times of trial. Don’t be a Job’s comforter; grab a boat, and start paddling.

Now where did I put my oars?

God bless.


PS – God bless those who work to keep us informed of the current conditions surrounding such storms as Dorian, and the first responders and organizations who rush in where fools fear to tread, being God’s hands in time of tragedy.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café, Saturday, September 7, 2019.

King of the Hill

Luke 22:24-30



When we were children in kindergarten and elementary school we spent a lot of time on the playground. We had organized games and less organized games, but we played a lot together. That was a good thing because many of us didn’t have siblings at home who were of an age to play with us as equals, so it was essential for us to learn to play with people our age and size, more or less. One of the organized games that frequently became disorganized was one called “King of the Hill.” I don’t remember a large mound, but the whole idea was to get to the “top” and proclaim that one of us was King of the Hill. It didn’t matter whether you a boy or girl, and we usually didn’t play more than one round of it during recess, but there was a feeling in the one who had won the game that was a sense of self-confidence and pride. The next day someone else might win, but for that day, they were the king of the hill, even if the feeling was just inside them.

Today is the commemoration of St. Bartholomew, one of the disciples that we don’t hear a lot about. He certainly wasn’t prominent like Peter, or as persistent as James and John, the Sons of Thunder, who wanted to know who was going to be on his left and right side when they came into power, and who even had their mother ask Jesus for those positions for her sons. Now, really! To most people, it would be utterly embarrassing, but if it got the job done, then that was what it took.

I have a feeling that because Bartholomew is seldom heard of in the Gospels and not often mentioned outside the Gospels either, that he was probably a very humble man. He didn’t take the spotlight, and he didn’t push his way into situations that would bring him into prominence. Traditions have it that he traveled to India or Armenia to do mission work and was martyred by being flayed alive and then beheaded.  Some scholars consider him to be the apostle Nathaniel, a friend of Philip. There isn’t much more known as to his history, but because he was one of Jesus chosen, he is commemorated and the Eucharistic gospel for this day is the reading about being humble.

Today, humility doesn’t seem to have a lot of push to it. It’s all about status, social position, financial status, and a corner office with glass windows on the top floor of the corporate building. Is what it’s about a waiting room full of client or patients who have come especially to see this particular person who has such a reputation for solving problems and taking care of business. It can be hard to find anyone who thinks that humility is a good thing. Okay, maybe we can count Mother Teresa, Pope Francis, and John Paul II. We have people like Jimmy Carter, Dorothy Day, Fr. Mychal Judge, and many others who did a lot in their quiet way to make the world a better place.

 Humility is about going around doing good and not trying to call attention to oneself; no pictures in the paper, no soundbite on a TV newscast about some heroic act or something similar. Humility merely is seeing something that needs to be done and doing something about it without calling a lot of attention. That’s the kind of humility Jesus practiced and taught his disciples and the crowds to follow.

It seems these days we’ve got lots of people screaming about their being the king, or, in some cases, queen of the hill.  We have people among us who not only try to make that claim to be the chosen or even possibly the King of a significant religious group.

Those today who claim to be the king of the hill seldom show any humility at all. Instead, they proclaim their powerfulness and prestige, much of which seems to be somewhat exaggerated if not significantly so. But what can a body do? Anybody can claim to be the king of the mountain. Not everybody wants to or can claim to be the humble one at the bottom. 

Jesus was humble man, although he was known for his very occasional acts of temper and his occasional displeasure with his disciples when they were slow in catching on to something that he had tried so hard to get across to them. He was kind to people, even people he didn’t know, or people with whom it would not be reasonable for him to interact, like the woman who washed his feet with her hair. Was it really Mary Magdalene? Was it Mary of Bethany? Who knows, but what we do know is that it was an act of humility and an act of love, and Jesus recognized it as such.

Humility is a quiet virtue. It is difficult and not always seen as a popular position, but it is what Jesus consistently taught as the path that we need to follow.

This week I think I need to look at humility in my own life. The Lord knows I never really have attempted to be king of the hill (at least since elementary school). I still need to look at those experiences where I have fallen short of the humility goal and see what I need to do to make it a more integral part of my life and to contribute more to those around me rather than looking for my own self-glorification. Anybody care to join me?

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, August 24, 2019.

Suffer the Children

Matthew 19:13-15


The Eucharistic gospel for today is a familiar passage about the disciples trying to decide who can come close to Jesus and who can’t. This time it is children. When the disciples tried to shoo them away from Jesus, he very firmly told them to let the children come to him because they had faith and trust that adults didn’t and that the kingdom of heaven would be theirs. I wonder how long the disciples pouted and pondered that particular bit of information.

It’s interesting to look at the verse in several different translations. I was brought up on the King James version which read, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” Others use “Let” or “Allow” or something similar. The Greek translation uses the word aphete, which is translated as “permit” or “let.” Regardless of which version a person reads, Jesus’s intent seems to be to have the children approach him and be blessed.

Reading this passage today, and thinking about the translation of my youth which uses the words suffer, it made me think about the kids in this world, all the little children that Jesus would welcome and bless. He didn’t specify their state of health, wealth, lawful residence, or religious purity. Instead, I am convinced that had there been those who were hungry, sick, in cages after being seized from their parents, or who die because of lack of care and because people refuse to help them, Jesus would have welcomed them with open arms.

It’s hard these days not to think about the children of the immigrants who were ripped from their parents' arms and still have not been reunited with them. Many of them have not received placement where hopefully they sleep in beds, have clean clothes, basic hygiene, medical care, and a chance to be like children they should be. It’s hard to look at pictures of those children, just like it’s hard to look at images of children suffering anywhere. The eyes of children so often reflect hopelessness the children shouldn’t have enough. Their eyes glaze as they realize people approaching them are not there to help but to move them around, shuffle them to a different place, or even abuse them. I confess that looking at those eyes tears my heart apart. Instead of suffering the little children to come, I see them made to suffer, and I have to ask myself if that’s the Christian way? What would Jesus think?


So how do we change things? How do we help the hundreds of children in our country, no matter where they came from, to allow them to be children again and not prisoners of some undeclared war? Somehow I feel God’s heart is breaking because, despite all the words about helping the poor and needy and treating the alien in your land as one of you, we quite often forget them, ignore them, or both.  There are many times in the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament that reiterate again and again the imperative to love your neighbor as yourself. How can we say we love our neighbors as ourselves when we allow children to be held hostage? That s not love.  

We saw what happened in Germany, Austria, Poland, and other countries in Europe during the Nazi era. We saw children being made to leave their parents, some to be made guinea pigs for inhuman so-called medical procedures. We saw children rolling up their sleeves for a camera to show the numbers that had been tattooed on their arms to indicate that they were somehow dispensable and deficient, whether or not they had any physical or mental disorders. It seems we have forgotten those pictures if we ever saw them or paid attention to them at all.

The kids that are held in custody came with their parents to look for a better life. Listening to the stories of some of the parents, all they wanted was to keep their children safe, and hopefully to give them a more secure life than they would have in the countries that they fled. Those children will be marked for life because of their experiences Yet many who have made that safety and better life almost impossible claim to be Christian and followers of Jesus. What would Jesus say about that?

Let the little children come; let them learn to trust us as they would learn to trust Jesus. Let them be sheltered and housed as befitting children of God, not children of unwanted aliens. We have an enormous problem, one we need to address and need to solve now. Let the little children come to us and let us be the blessing that Jesus would like us to be. Theirs is the kingdom of heaven, and if we want to share in that kingdom of heaven, it’s up to us to make sure that all of God’s children are welcome.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, August 17, 2019;