Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice

Finding Peace in the Storm - Katie Skurja

…all your waves and your billows have gone over me… - Psalm 42:7

Gasping.

Choking.

Flailing.

I could barely keep my head above water. The wind and waves were crashing over my head. The more I struggled to catch a breath, the more I seemed to be taking in water.

 Lord, where are you? I cried out. But I could hear nothing above the raging storm.

I prayed the paradox prayers^[i] that had helped me in so many dark situations: Even though I am drowning, I am loved and accepted by God. Even though I am drowning, I will love and accept myself. Even though I am drowning, I will trust you, Lord.

For a brief second, I heard a quiet voice. Let go.

Not only could I not tell where it was coming from, but it didn't make sense. Let go? What the heck? That did not make sense at all. I am supposed to just drown out here?

Again, I prayed the paradox prayers and again I heard the voice. Let go.

This time, I sensed the voice coming from below me. I looked down and saw the Lord resting on the floor of the riverbed, beckoning me below. How, Lord? How am I supposed to let go? How do I get to you? Why don't you pull me out of this mess?

Let go. Trust me.

Exhaling, I stopped fighting and let myself go limp. The water engulfed me and the storm quieted. Peace. I looked up and saw the storm raging above me. When I focused on it, I began to raise back up to the choppy waters, choking and gasping. I was overwhelmed once again with all the worries. I couldn't keep my head above water once again.

Let go. Trust me.        

Letting myself sink into the water, I drifted down into the Lord's arms. The wind and waves were calm. In his arms, there was peace and quiet.

How, Lord? How can I stay here with you, underwater? Why am I not drowning?            

Am I not bigger than your troubles? Am I stronger than the seas? With me, you are safe.        

My heart quieted to a resting pace. Warmth enveloped me. Curled up in the Lord's arms, I drifted back to sleep.

In the coming weeks, as I weathered the storms of that time, I frequently returned to my sanctuary under the water. During my times of meditative prayer, I discovered something amazing. Not only is the darkness light to him, but also the water is like air to him. In that painful season, the Lord taught me a new way to find peace in the midst of a raging storm by dropping below the wind and waves. 

Though I did not understand the counter-intuitive movement toward peace at the time, it is not surprising that the way out of the internal storm was to drop down under it. Over the years, I have come to believe most, if not all, of God’s ways are paradoxical in nature: Lose yourself to find it. Freedom by letting go. Learning to live by dying to the false self.

Another paradox^[ii] I have come to trust has to do with our deepest fears: We overcome them by naming them and running straight into them. When we pair a deep fear with a declaration of faith, we have what I call a paradox prayer. This is a pattern we can find in scripture repeatedly, the simplest example is the prayer of Job: Though you slay me, yet I will trust you.^[iii]

The book of Psalms is filled with many paradox prayers, the most famous being the twenty-third: Though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil. The psalmist pairs a  statement of fear with a statement of faith, going on to declare for you are with me, your rod and staff, they comfort me.

In the book of Habakkuk, we can find the deepest fears of those who depend on the land for survival accompanied by a statement of faith:

Trust and Joy in the Midst of Trouble

Though the fig tree does not blossom,
    and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails,
    and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold,
    and there is no herd in the stalls,
      yet I will rejoice in the Lord;

    I will exult in the God of my salvation.
    God, the Lord, is my strength;
    he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
    and makes me tread upon the heights.^[iv]

These paradox prayers are much more than simple declarations of faith – they are a neurological exercise, quieting the limbic brain activated by fear. The people of faith in biblical times likely did not understand what we can appreciate today: pairing a deep fear with a statement of faith, creates a connection between the prefrontal cortex and the limbic brain. Thus, we quiet the internal storms, making a way for us to hear the still small voice beckoning us toward peace.

As we approach the end of an unprecedented year of historical events, there is much fodder for fear. When you feel the fears firing up your limbic brain, stand on the shoulders of the cloud of witnesses who have gone before. Name the fears and pair them with statements of faith. Repeat them again and again until your limbic brain calms down.

Then be still.

Listen for the still, small voice.

What is the invitation? Are you being invited to drop below the wind and waves? Are you called to rise above to storm to see from a 10K foot perspective?

In the storms of 2020, may you find peace.

NOTES:

^[i] For an understanding of the use of Paradox Prayers, listen to Katie’s teaching with the Falun podcast:  Overcoming Shame_FalunPodcast

^[ii] A paradox is a truth that holds seemingly opposites together in a way that is counter-intuitive. Many of the core characteristics of God are paradoxical in nature: justice and mercy, truth and grace, comfort and conviction.

^[iii] Job 13:15

^[iv] Habakkuk 3:17-19

Golden Larches - Ron Dart

Golden Larches

 

Rock cathedrals, dusting of snow on them, 

gaze down, silent, much seen.

They will last the winter.

They have weathered many storms and winters.

 

Spring and summer season of the journey

finished for the golden larches, no return

to beginnings, their season in time over and

done.

 

Final autumn gift, thin needles turn golden

yellow, high alpine trails carpeted in soft

larch middens, pathways to walk for those,

carving their way to the high regions, easing

their journey, trees aglow like lanterns, beckoning

to another dimension.

 

Snow returns, golden needles fade, return to the

soil, final autumn phase bountiful beauty, a royal

road for others to walk.

Jersak & Young's, "The Pastor: A Crisis" - review by Becky Parker

The Pastor: A Crisis - Review by Becky Parker

Before I began this book, I knew I’d be uncomfortable with some of the material. I’d heard an interview in which the authors confirmed that the topic of child sexual abuse was discussed.

Since I am not a victim of sexual assault, I was not afraid of triggering in that regard. I knew that my discomfort would be the deep fear such a topic invokes in me especially as a mother. Even the thought that such abuse could happen to me or one of my children causes me to experience fear and anxiety.

As I read, a realization came to me that I didn’t like to admit. It was not just my fear for my loved ones that made me uncomfortable. It was that my fear and anxiety took a dark turn and produced a mix of condemnation, vengeance, and self-righteousness. This book forced me to take on all these dark expressions of my own fear and anxiety.

The story reveals the devastating damage caused by sexual violence and how not even a perpetrator is exempt. My heart was stirred to compassion for one that I would normally have been quick to condemn to the harshest penalty and just as quickly to elevate myself as one much superior.

The story forced me to look into my own heart to scrutinize and ask the questions: Who do I struggle to love? Can I see the image of God in all people? Do I wish to be the judge of others? How does a desire for vengeance and retribution keep me from being free? Am I glad when I see others forgiven? Do I trust that I am loved and forgiven? Perhaps the most telling: Do I truly wish to see everyone redeemed?

This story was a refining fire for me. I was confronted with one of my worst fears and one of my most steadfast scapegoats, and I realized those two were related and needed confronting in my life. As I know the Lord does not wish any to perish, but all to come to repentance, I know also that as I am made in His image, I should feel the same. If I do not, something is going on within me that should be confronted. Strangely, that is not a burdensome feeling, but freeing.

As “The Pastor” discusses in depth the pain, trauma, and despair that results from sexual abuse, it also moves toward hope. It was this feeling of hope that impressed me throughout the story. Hope of forgiveness, mercy, and healing. It is also a powerful story of surrender and the need for self-forgiveness, and the alternative of self-destructive coping mechanisms that we cling to.

“The Pastor” resonates with all of us. Those who have suffered abuse in its many forms, those grappling with a disheartened view of religion, and all of us who, at some time, have struggled with offering forgiveness or accepting love.

Double Down on Jesus - Kenneth Tanner

Those who follow my social media know that the vast majority of my stories and images are about Jesus—his authentic humanity and his vulnerable divinity, how his unique person is our salvation and the salvation of the world. I’m astonished by and obsessed with Christ.

This same Jesus, who embodies the law and the prophets, who became one of us—a frail human who’s not immune to hunger, thirst, pain, and death—in order to liberate captives and set the oppressed free.

Those who bear the name and work of Jesus as they lead the church are not allowed to remain silent about the illnesses effecting their societies. We are held accountable for silence and inaction.

Our nation’s war on drugs and on terror has slowly eroded civil liberties and presents us with a crisis about personal freedoms, police powers, incarceration, and so on, and black Americans have shouldered the cross of what’s wrong.

Jesus came to set prisoners free—actual prisoners.

Justice systems are corrupt, are punitive rather than restorative, and America is not immune. 

The gospel seeks to upend all of that with a profound trust in the ability of humans to heal—to be forgiven and to forgive—a trust that’s not shared by our nation’s “survival of the fittest” mentality. 

Jesus stands with the poor, the refugee, the prisoner—not the ideal poor, or employable  refugees, or model prisoners but the kinds we find in the real world, just as they are in all their inconvenience—and he expects us to lift up their cause. 

What’s happened lately is that the political Left and the political Right define a lot of what the gospel urgently calls us to embody and to do as “political,” as supporting the ends of political movements, figures, or parties. 

For the Left, if you believe that pre-born children have the right to life, for but one instance, then you must be a Republican or a supporter of the President.

No, you are simply applying to our public life together ideas of humanity, creation, and personhood taught in the Scriptures. 

For the Right, if you want immigrants and refugees welcomed and treated with dignity, for but one instance, then you must be a Democrat or a supporter of their leaders.

No, you are simply listening to the law and prophets of Israel and applying to our public life together their relentless and ubiquitous warnings about God’s wrath toward any people who do not welcome and care for strangers and sojourners. 

Salvation is not only about life after death but about this world, about our time and place in this world, and God is often waiting for Spirit-empowered humans to bring the kind of salvation he intends for the world by living the gospel.

So while I do not speak out about most things that concern me—I would never stop speaking right now if I did that—I do speak out loudly when I feel compelled before God to do so (as in this week’s meme about Breonna Taylor and our society’s collective responsibility for her). 

It is a high wire act and something like a personal siege to be the leader of a spiritual community in this moment. 

I don’t know any pastor who’s not disheartened, burned out, and ready to quit. They won’t tell you about it, but I will.

I preached Jesus Christ to the folks at Holy Redeemer for 15 years but like every other church in this town (and around the country), our congregations are divided between those who want everyone to wear masks at church all the time or they won’t attend and those who don’t want to wear a mask at all so they won’t attend, some who think the pandemic is a hoax and others who think it’s real, along with so many other silly binaries that divide us, driven by a media and a political class that thrives on our separation.

It rips me up. Day and night. I/we won’t be one of them by the grace of God but a tidal wave of pastoral resignations and church closings is coming.

I *thought* we were all centered in Jesus Christ. I thought we were different at HR. It’s a MAJOR gut punch. I don’t even hear from families we served for more than a decade. Not a phone call, not a text, not a peep, even though we reach out consistently.

Then I read something from Eugene Peterson, in his “Eat This Book,” about 1982 and economic and racial tensions that were present and how disappointed he was, after 20 years of preaching, to see his congregation as divided as the world. 

He started reading Galatians and the Corinthian letters and realized that Paul had the same troubles with his congregations in the first century, divided over truly dumb stuff.

It’s a human problem.

Eugene realized he was not a failure.

And he decided to double down on Jesus Christ.

And that’s how The Message was born.

I decided months ago to double down on Jesus, too. And my joy in preaching and leading has returned, even though far fewer people hear my sermons. They feel like some of the best of my life and some folks are hearing them. And that’s OK with me. It really is.

When I do address matters of public concern I address them not as a person with political interests but as one called to witness to the gospel of Jesus Christ. That means that sometimes I sound like a “liberal” and sometimes I sound like a “conservative.”

And therefore a lot of times I am misunderstood by most everyone for all of the reasons I just laid out. And that’s OK with me, too. It really is.U

Only Room for One God - Katie Skurja

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.
~ Isaiah 55:8 

“Can you bring your dad into the Light and give him to God?” I asked. 

“Yes, that is easy.”

“Can you bring your mom into the Light and give her to God?” 

Nine-year-old Justin cocked his head to one side, scrunched up his face, and said, “Now that is a bit harder.” 

Justin’s mom was in the process of filing for divorce when she came to see me. She wanted help for her kids as they walked through the difficult stages of grief over the death of the marriage. Though their father’s multiple affairs had prompted the divorce, he had convinced the children, especially Justin, that it was Mom’s fault for tearing up the family. Thus, it was no surprise to me that young Justin could not bring his mother into the Light. Even though it was clear that he loved her very much, it was my guess he was judging her as the “bad” one. 

I checked out my hypothesis. 

“Justin, when you think about your parents getting a divorce, how do you feel about your Mom and Dad?” 

“I am angry at Mom. She is hurting Dad and tearing apart our family.” 

“Does it feel like it is Mom’s fault? Like she is ‘more bad’ than Dad?” 

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head. 

“When you think about Mom and Dad this way, is your heart more open to one than the other?” 

With a surprised look on his face, he said, “It is more open to my dad.” 

Knowing that he was a precocious and intelligent young man, I explained to Justin that we cannot bring someone or something into the Light when we are playing god in that situation. When we judge what or who is good and bad, that is a way of playing god.

The Gospel, Breonna Taylor & Vicarious Responsibility - Chris Green

Earlier today, in light of the breaking news, Fr Kenneth Tanner lamented the fact that our laws and law enforcers failed to bring about justice for Breonna Taylor and her family, a failure which he rightly identified as “an indictment of our society.” He concluded his brief post with these words, which I think strike to the heart of the matter: “We are all guilty. And our guilt remains until we insist this state of affairs is unacceptable.” Unsurprisingly, not everyone agreed with Fr Kenneth’s comments. Also, unsurprisingly, some responses to his post were astonishingly rude, even vile. But what actually captured my attention was a particular challenge to the very notion of “vicarious responsibility.”

Of course, we all know that many American Christians have a difficult time imagining—much less admitting—the possibility of collective guilt and mutual answerability before God. The question is, how can we recover the biblical and theological framework necessary for making sense of such realities?  What does the gospel teach us about “vicarious responsibility”? And what, if anything, does that mean for our response to Breonna Taylor’s tragic death and other such miscarriages of justice?

I’m convinced, first and foremost, that our understanding of “vicarious responsibility” must be rooted in what we believe about who Christ is and what he has accomplished in his mediation. As Miroslav Volf has said, Christ’s substitution is inclusive, not exclusive. And, as Fr John Behr explained in class today, this is what John’s Gospel means when it says that all things come to pass in Jesus (Jn 1: 30-4). Bonhoeffer, reflecting on Pilate’s presentation of Jesus (Jn 19:5), makes the point with characteristic sharpness and force:  

Ecco homo—behold God become human, the unfathomable mystery of the love of God for the world. Jesus is not a human being but the human being. What happens to him happens to human beings. It happens to all and therefore to us. The name of Jesus embraces in itself the whole of humanity and the whole of God... In Jesus Christ, the one who became human was crucified and is risen; humanity has become new. What happened to Christ has happened for all, for he was the human being. The new human being has been created.

This truth is at the very heart of the gospel: what happens to Christ happens to all. And the reverse is also true: he takes personally whatever happens to us. That is why what we do or fail to do to and for the least of these, we do or fail to do to and for him. This is the truth that knocks Paul to the ground on the road to Damascus.

The good news is that in assuming vicarious responsibility for others, we not only acknowledge what Christ has done for us and who he is to us, we also participate in him and his work. And we do this in order to free others to be themselves, loving them just as we have been loved. In other words, we do not act in their place but on their behalf. Thus, taking responsibility for others does not mean we take away their personal responsibility before God to others. Just the opposite, in fact: it means we recognize and accept our calling to help them fulfill their calling, supporting them as they learn how to rise up into the full flourishing of their freedom as persons made in the image of God revealed in the face of Jesus Christ. As St Paul teaches the Galatians, we can bear our own loads only if we help others bear their burdens (Gal. 6:2, 5). Or, as he instructs the Corinthians, “We are convinced that one has died for all; therefore all have died" (2 Cor. 5:14). Knowing this, we find ourselves borne along by his love, pressed by his Spirit, so that we cannot not give our lives for others in the same way he gave and gives his life for us. Again, in the apostle’s words, “Christ died for all, so that those who live might live no longer for themselves, but for him who died and was raised for them” (2 Cor. 5:15).

Given that what I have just said is true, then “vicarious responsibility” names the only way in which it is possible for us to do justice while loving mercy and walking humbly before our God. As John Zizioulas warns us, if and when we forget that in Christ we are answerable to and for everyone, then we inevitably fall into acting like “individuals” instead of living as “persons.” The prophets call Israel back, again and again, to the vicarious responsibilities imposed on them by the terms of the covenant. And it is this covenantal reciprocity, this intercessory and cooperative form of life, that the apostles call “love.” Pilate, the individual, washes his hands of responsibility for others. Jesus, the truly human person, the one in whom we find ourselves, washes the feet of those who betray him.

Breonna Taylor, 26, was killed in her home by Louisville police officers in the early morning hours of March 13, 2020. In the same city, almost exactly 62 years before, the middle-aged Thomas Merton had his life-altering epiphany:

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness…

“They were mine and I theirs…” We all have to have this same awakening. We have to die to what Merton called “the heresy of individualism.” We have to come alive to our bound-together-ness, which was accomplished for us in Christ and realized in us as we are immersed in him and commune with him. To put it bluntly, the gospel insists we acknowledge that what happened to Breonna happened to Jesus. Her death is taken up in his; therefore, we cannot hope to share his life if we do not care about her death and care for all those affected by it—in the same way that he does. After all, the only love we have to give is the love we have received.

In his New Seeds of Contemplation, written only a few years after his experience in downtown Louisville, Merton concludes: “in order to find myself I must go out of myself, and in order to live I have to die.” Tonight, the going out required of us is an identification with Breonna in her death, an entry into the righteous grief and anger of those who loved her, a readiness to accept that we do in fact answer for what has happened to her and what will happen in the wake of this tragedy. As Fr Kenneth said, our guilt remains until we refuse to accept this state of affairs. And the good news is we do not have to accept it, because, in spite of everything, nothing is impossible for our God.  

 

2x4: The Wages are from Sin, the Gift is from God - Steve Robinson

"The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 6:23

 

It's amazing how a "framework" can constrain how you understand a piece of text.

 

For example, 2x4 is either 8 or a piece of lumber depending on whether you are a mathematician or a carpenter.

 

The "juridical/accounting/transactional" framework always told me that "Jesus paid the debt to God for our sins".

 

The AHA! moment for me was that SIN pays the wage of death, not God. God doesn't kill us because we sin. Sin alienates us from God who is Life.

God offers a free gift, not "wages" and a transaction in which we earned something or owe Him something for what we "worked". Jesus accepted sin's "wage" even though He didn't earn it. God didn't kill Jesus (pay the wage of sin He exacts to His Son in our stead). God accepted the wages from sin on our behalf and nailed the W-2 to the cross (Colossians 2:14).

In all the Parables, the Master, Lord, King, Landowner forgave the debts of his crappy householders and subjects with a word. He NEVER extracted the due debt from an innocent third party. God absorbs death, the wages of sin, into Himself because God is life and not even death can prevail before God. As Solomon said, "Love is stronger than death..."

 

Wages, books to be balanced, or penalties to be paid to a God who pays Himself off via His Son to satisfy His need for a balanced ledger or justice served, or a benevolent King who just forgives and takes all the crap and debt and death we can deal out into Himself for our sake's just because He loves us are two different things.

 

I once held the former thing as "Gospel", and it made sense to me. Then I heard the latter thing. The longer I live the latter thing makes more and more sense to me.

 

As if we can make sense of the horror of the Cross.

 

As if we can make sense of human, much less, divine Love.

 

(On the Feast of the Cross, Sept. 14).

Painting by Nicholas Ge

 

 

Absolute plentitude: the definition of God’s love - Becky Parker

Absolute plentitude: the definition of God’s love

“Blessed are the gentle for they shall inherit the earth.” - Matthew 5:5

I have seen the word "gentle" in this text also translated as meek or humble. Generally, in our society gentleness, meekness, and humility are not valued traits and are often met with ridicule and even contempt. Manifesting these qualities will most likely get you labeled as weak. However, the truth is, we can only be truly and consistently gentle, meek, and humble when we are very strong. Strong in faith, hope, and love.

I once listened to a lecture on attachment and sibling rivalry. The speaker said the very nature of infinity is absolute plentitude. You cannot take away from or add to infinity. If a child believes that a parent’s love is infinite, there is nothing to fear if a sibling gets the love because he’s not losing anything. It is when a child experiences love as a finite thing there is alarm, frustration and fear. Because then the child is afraid that if someone else receives love, then they get less or there is not enough for them.

This is one of the best descriptions of the cause of the hate, violence, and pain in our world. And although the speaker did not necessarily intend this interpretation, it is conversely one of the best descriptions of God and His love I have ever heard. The I Am is absolute plentitude. We cannot take away from or add to His very nature, which is love. We can only choose to rest in it or not.

Sadly, the overwhelming majority of human beings throughout history have only experienced love as finite and we have all experienced love as conditional and uncertain at some point in life. Even by the most well-meaning of parents, caregivers, and friends. We cannot rest in this kind of love, so we must work for it and by all means, we must contend with others for our share.

True strength is to take a grand leap of faith and hope on our part. It is to say: “my experience of love, attention, and belonging has been mostly conditional with other people. I know that I have felt the pain of belonging and acceptance revoked when I don’t meet others’ needs or expectations. But I choose to hope of a love that is steadfast and sure. A love that does not change and is never exhausted. I will rest in this love and even if there are things I am denied, I will rest securely because there will be enough for me.”

A trust in this never-ending love God provides is what leads to true gentleness because you no longer have to fight for your place. You can be truly meek because you no longer must retaliate or seek vengeance when you can trust that you will be cared for. You can be truly humble and know that it is okay if someone else is celebrated and admired because you are also the apple of His eye.

There were 12 baskets of food left after Jesus fed over 5,000 people. Absolute plentitude at work and assuring us of His care and provision. If we can choose to accept this love and rest in it, this can be for us an experience that is safe, inviting, and more fulfilling than anything we have known. It can free us to be gentle, meek, and humble, and to let go of fear, anxiety, and a need for retribution.

However, we can also continue working and striving for the fleeting glimpses of love we receive from others. It is understandable because we rightly desire the feeling of joy and contentment that comes when we are accepted and loved. We must understand though that if love or belonging demands us to strive and contend, it is not the love of Abba.

I pray we all may take the step, walk out in faith, and choose to hope for this freeing love. Only when we feel unconditionally loved, valued, and cared for will we truly be able to love, value, and care for our families, neighbors, and enemies. We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:19)

Limitless Love: A Reading of the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant - Homily by Fr. Martin Little

Text - Matthew 18:21-35

Forgiveness

²¹ Then Peter came and said to him, ‘Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?’ ²² Jesus said to him, ‘Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.

The Parable of the Unforgiving Servant

²³ ‘For this reason the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves. ²⁴ When he began the reckoning, one who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him; ²⁵ and, as he could not pay, his lord ordered him to be sold, together with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment to be made. ²⁶ So the slave fell on his knees before him, saying, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.” ²⁷ And out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt. ²⁸ But that same slave, as he went out, came upon one of his fellow-slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and seizing him by the throat, he said, “Pay what you owe.” ²⁹ Then his fellow-slave fell down and pleaded with him, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you.” ³⁰ But he refused; then he went and threw him into prison until he should pay the debt. ³¹ When his fellow-slaves saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed, and they went and reported to their lord all that had taken place. ³² Then his lord summoned him and said to him, “You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. ³³ Should you not have had mercy on your fellow-slave, as I had mercy on you?” ³⁴ And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he should pay his entire debt. ³⁵ So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.’

Of all the things demanded of us in this life, perhaps the toughest ask is that we forgive.  When we have been wronged by someone, it really, really hurts - perhaps especially if it’s someone close to us.  If left to fester, a state of ‘unforgiveness’ can destroy relationships, communities, and even people.  And that’s why forgiveness is such a pillar of the Christian faith - because people, relationships, and communities really matter to God.

We’d probably all like to get out of having to forgive if we could possibly do so.  And so at the opening to today’s gospel reading, St Peter wants to know, is there kind of statute of limitations on forgiveness?  He wants to know if there’s a ‘reasonable’ number of times that he must forgive.  He tentatively suggests… perhaps 7 times?  That seems pretty generous!

But Jesus says, ‘no, you’ve got it all wrong!’ You must forgive seventy-seven times - or it could also mean seventy times seven.  Now, a multiple of seven, in Jewish symbolism, stands for a sort of ‘perfectly enormous number.’  So Jesus is saying there’s no use counting:  we must forgive an infinite number of times.  It’s not just generous, but constant forgiveness, a grace so ingrained as to become incalculable.  

In relationships, you can’t really quantify forgiveness.  Imagine how odd it would be if we portioned it out in limited chunks. “I’ll forgive you on the third Thursday of every month, unless it’s a five-week month, in which case the previous weeks’ forgiveness will roll over…” It’s just absurd!  Love - of whatever kind - is like a river, always about to burst its banks. So, we are not just to forgive when we feel like it, or when it’s most obviously required.  But we are to go on, and on, and on, forgiving in countless little ways.

Forgiveness, in other words, catapults us into limitless realms.  It stretches us.  To offer it is to say to the one who has wronged us:  I know you can’t make this right, I know you can’t repay me, I know you can’t undo the hurt and pain you’ve caused.  But I will begin to heal that wound myself by offering you forgiveness.  I will release you from your wrong, and in so doing release myself from bitterness and resentment.  It’s an enormously powerful thing, and yet it’s almost never talked about in our public life.  When was the last time you heard a politician speak about forgiveness?  When was the last time you heard someone ask for it?  It’s rare.

The Pastor: My Gift to Little Bradley (vulnerability triggers) - Brad Jersak

I was seven-years-old and in love. To my shame, I've forgotten her name, but my second-grade teacher left a deep impression on me. Nothing sexual at that point, but certainly a longing for her affection. She was young and beautiful and a child of the sixties, complete with rock star boyfriend, brightly patterned mini-skirts and all things "Age of Aquarius." She "punished" disruptive male students by making them sit on her knee but somehow my strategies to that end ever only landed me in the corner. 

I chose to channel my unrequited love into my first work of fiction. My beloved handed out two sheets of fullscap along with a sticker. The assignment was to write a short story on the subject of the sticker--mine was a tiger. I dove deeply into the process, my first effort at creative story-telling and a true labour of love. I remember the room and the desk where I wrote the tale of "Tiger the tiger" and I recall my parents peaking through the doorway, proudly witnessing the artist at work.

I remember the day I strode to Voyageur Elementary School to deliver my handiwork. I remember how cold that Winnipeg winter morning was. I remember my excitement and how proud I felt of the finished product. So proud, in fact, that before entering the school, I attempted a preliminary act of daring. I would tight rope walk along the top rail of the iron boot-scraper. I recall mounting, catching my balance, extending my arms and stepping forward. Alas, the ice! I slipped badly, stradling the bar and landing full-force on my young testicles! Oh, the excruciating pain! The traumatic embarrassment! The waves of nausea!

I gathered the remaining crumbs of my dignity, my shattered pride and my scattered notebooks. Gratefully, few seemed to have noticed the bruised fruit of my arrogance. I limped feebly into the school and down the hall to Ms.____'s homeroom. I reached into my parka pocket to retrieve my Tiger story--and found it was empty. Panicked, I returned to the scene of my accident and scoured the snow for the lost parchment. Nada. Gonzo. And an emotional hole opened in the pit of my stomach. All was lost. 

I had neither the time, energy or heart for a rewrite. My parents and teacher conferred, confirming completion and forgiving the missing assignment. But that didn't heal the wound. I made a vow to myself that day--my promise to Little Bradley. One day, I will complete the work. It won't be about the Tiger and it won't be for my teacher. It will be a gift to that broken-hearted child with the bruised nuts.

I am now 56-years-old. After nearly five decades, through the guidance and generosity of my dear friend and co-author, Paul Young, I have kept my promise. I've finally delivered my first work of fictional truth-telling, miscarried on the icy iron rail in February 1972. The Pastor: A Crisis is my gift to Little Bradley. Even the novel's dedication ("For Jacki") is to one of Little Bradley's very best friends.

Paul and I pray that by reading The Pastor: A Crisis, others like me would experience the healing of bruised and wounded child parts that we recount in its pages. "Trust the ripples," Paul says. I do. I really do.                 

Imbach's Wager - Brad Jersak with Stephen Imbach

PASCAL’S WAGER

Pascal was a genius mathematician and a brilliant philosopher/theologian. He is known in popular apologetics for what we call “Pascal’s Wager.” For a very precise discussion, I would refer readers to this article in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. A simplistic summary of the wager might say:   

It is in our best interest to believe in God because if God does exist, the benefits are infinite—and even if God does not exist, our mistaken belief does no harm. But if any possibility exists that not believing leads to eternal punishment, the risk of unbelief far outweighs any of its advantages. I.e. Pascal’s Wager is that your best bet (most rational and most pragmatic) is on faith God, even if we cannot prove his existence.

Since the time of Pascal conceived of his wager in his classic tome, Pensées, numerous counter-arguments have developed. While I could present my own critical analysis, that’s not my point. I only mention it to present an alternative wager that goes “all in” on faith in the goodness of God and represents the real-life leap of my spiritual director, Stephen Imbach.

IMBACH’S WAGER   

Stephen Imbach was raised by God-fearing parents in a fundamentalist Christian environment where he internalized a shame-based conservative gospel. He eventually bottomed out in the presence of his spiritual director, who saw the torment Stephen endured by clinging to that old system of fear, condemnation and moralism. The spiritual director suggested a risky proposition: denounce God as you have come to conceive God.

Denounce is a strong word. It means to formally declare that we are abandoning something—in this case, every conception Steve ever assumed or adopted concerning the “faith of his fathers.” Stephen tells me that after pondering this challenge, he embarked on what I’m calling “Imbach’s Wager.” He said to God,

I am letting go of everything I have ever learned about God. God, if you want, you now have a chance to work and you can come to me however you want to.

That was it. He was not calculating the odds of reward or punishment based in rationalist or pragmatic faith. He had already found transactional, performance-based religiosity bankrupt. There was nothing left to lose. He would simply pin all his hopes on the possibility that God is good.

That’s Imbach’s Wager: with nothing left to lose, what if we let go and found out that God is good—good enough to come find us.     

GENUINE PEACE

I asked Stephen how God came to him. It isn’t the same for everyone. Even though the Christian community might have judged him as a backslider and equated restoration with returning to the fold, God had his own path for Stephen. How did God come to him? In Stephen’s words,

A genuine peace came over me. Peace that everything is going to be okay. That God was saying, “I am not letting you go” and peace because, “Finally, you are being honest with me.”

When you let God come to you, it will be in a way that is most significant to you. I needed God to come in peace because my life is generally inner turmoil.

The peace that came I could not find for myself. It was peace with my own sense of self and peace that I’m really okay with and before God. And so eventually, I let him find me.  

I wonder: for those who have undergone some measure of deconstruction, rather than clinging by a final fingernail to a faith that requires clinging to, what if we took the huge risk of letting go (so different than walking away) and said, “I will not manufacture pseudo-belief for even one more step. But I will consent to watching for and welcoming Divine Love’s approach, wherever and however She chooses." I wonder. No, I might even bet on that.  

RJWorld eConference Farewell - with Wayne Northey et al

For those interested in the RJWorld eConference noted in two pages on my website, here, and here (one I did with Robbie Robidoux, another I did with David Milgaard) there is some other great material updated on each page. There is also an inspiring 19-minute farewell video from 11 of us presenters that you may view immediately below.

In all, there were:

• over 100 presenters from about 25 countries
• over 700 registrants (and access to the above presentations available to countless others)
• over 50 countries represented.

This was the first ever (COVID-induced) RJWorld eConference. It will not be the last. It was in a word, outstanding!

There is a website that now is up for the next six months containing all the video presentations. It is passphrase-protected. If you would like access, please let me know. I cannot promise access, but I can inquire into about how to gain it.

Take heart from the video!

Wayne Northey

The Swords and the Snake - a tale - Ron Dart

The Swords and the Snake

 

A tale was once told of a boy who wandered far from home, and as the boy slept under an ancient tree (which some say had no beginning) a snake coiled itself 'round his body.

 

The boy awoke as his breath was near the end and his head and body were about to be drawn into the ravenous body of the snake. The initial passivity of the boy and what seemed his inevitable end gave way to a burst of determined energy and life. He managed to draw out the small Swiss knife he carried about for years and as he did so, the knife became a sword, and after many swings of the sword, the head of the snake was cut off.

 

But the snake, like the hydra of old, had many heads and with the cutting off of each head, two more grew. The weariness of the battle wore the boy down and defeat seemed nearer each tragic moment. A horn was sounded in the distance and many valkyrie-like women arrived who knew the mere cutting off of the serpent's head was not enough. Many ancient swords were used and driven deep into the snake-hydra's body and heart. The boy was gathered and enfolded into the arms of the time tried warriors and brought to their home high in the mountains for months of healing. 

Dear Heartbroken: My Heart Is Broken, Too - Kenneth Tanner

Dear ones:

I have encountered you in coffee shops, on park benches, in the pews at Holy Redeemer, on social media platforms, in private messages, and on late night walks. 

I love your questions, your sincerity, your energy, your conviction, your charity, and your passion.

I am sorry that the gatherings we grew up in made Christian faith about pursuing purity, power, and certainty. 

Walking with Christ is about trust not certitude, about humility not power, about sobriety not purity.

Your doubts are evidence that you are human not faithless. Your immunity to coercion is evidence that you value conscience. Your rejection of purity culture is evidence you prefer integrity over masks, substance over surface.

I am sorry that the churches in which we grew up prostituted themselves to American culture and power, trading gospel suffering for political control. 

You don’t seek an excuse to behave as you want, or opt out of church just because you see hypocrisy, or reject the gospel’s demands for fear of hardship. 

Your hearts are broken because the church looks and sounds nothing like Jesus. 

My heart is broken because of what you’ve seen and heard.

These churches *do not* represent the genuine, beautiful faith of the first Christians, and what they teach about God, humanity, and the world would not be recognized by them.

My heart is torn because I love you.

Sometimes your wounds are so deep that even when you see and hear that there’s an authentic faith, a good way of practicing life in Jesus Christ, it’s not enough to overcome your hurt. You suspect that the manipulative and puritanical sects we came from must be what the Christian faith has always been.

There are moments in *every day* when my heart is rent with your heart, praying you have a vibrant encounter with the Living God that defeats all of the false teachers and all of the bad experiences.

I stand ready in every moment to trust your story, listen to your pain, and offer glimpses of the reality of the crucified God, whose love astonishes me, whose humility compels me, who enters into our poverty and suffering, who makes our frail existence his own.

We can trust this God with ourselves. He makes every end a new beginning. He makes all things new. He will make us and all things well.

With all my love and respect,

Father Kenneth+

Dear Heartbroken: My Heart Is Broken, Too - Kenneth Tanner

Dear ones:

I have encountered you in coffee shops, on park benches, in the pews at Holy Redeemer, on social media platforms, in private messages, and on late night walks. 

I love your questions, your sincerity, your energy, your conviction, your charity, and your passion.

I am sorry that the gatherings we grew up in made Christian faith about pursuing purity, power, and certainty. 

Walking with Christ is about trust not certitude, about humility not power, about sobriety not purity.

Your doubts are evidence that you are human not faithless. Your immunity to coercion is evidence that you value conscience. Your rejection of purity culture is evidence you prefer integrity over masks, substance over surface.

I am sorry that the churches in which we grew up prostituted themselves to American culture and power, trading gospel suffering for political control. 

You don’t seek an excuse to behave as you want, or opt out of church just because you see hypocrisy, or reject the gospel’s demands for fear of hardship. 

Your hearts are broken because the church looks and sounds nothing like Jesus. 

My heart is broken because of what you’ve seen and heard.

These churches *do not* represent the genuine, beautiful faith of the first Christians, and what they teach about God, humanity, and the world would not be recognized by them.

My heart is torn because I love you.

Sometimes your wounds are so deep that even when you see and hear that there’s an authentic faith, a good way of practicing life in Jesus Christ, it’s not enough to overcome your hurt. You suspect that the manipulative and puritanical sects we came from must be what the Christian faith has always been.

There are moments in *every day* when my heart is rent with your heart, praying you have a vibrant encounter with the Living God that defeats all of the false teachers and all of the bad experiences.

I stand ready in every moment to trust your story, listen to your pain, and offer glimpses of the reality of the crucified God, whose love astonishes me, whose humility compels me, who enters into our poverty and suffering, who makes our frail existence his own.

We can trust this God with ourselves. He makes every end a new beginning. He makes all things new. He will make us and all things well.

With all my love and respect,

Father Kenneth+

The Bruderhof - "Another Life is Possible" - Review & Reflections by Brad & Eden Jersak

Another Life is Possible – Insights from 100 years of Life Together

Another Life is Possible (Plough, 2020) arrived on our doorstep not long ago. Eden picked up the package and felt its physical weight, but we no idea how its physical size would be outweighed by the contents within the book’s covers. In this reflection, both Brad and Eden will respond. Eden first:

Another Life is Possible is possibly the most stunning book I (Eden) have ever worked through.

I (Eden) grew up in a Mennonite community (though not living “IN” community), and I feel a strong affinity to the Bruderhof. I resonate with the spirit of peace and pacifism, and the desire to work together to make change, instead of being lone agents. Having family close, eating together, working hard and sharing a purpose all tick the imaginary boxes in my heart.

All the technical components come together in this book. The pictures are breathtaking, capturing not only the form of each subject, but the very essence of them. The history and timeline of this community are laid out in a very clear and understandable way. The personal reflections allow you to enter into individual stories, their history, passions, paths to the Bruderhof and more. It is very nearly like being invited into each of their homes, or at the very least sitting across the table from them with a cuppa in hand.

Imagine if you could live your life at the intersection of your calling and vocation, and not have to feel the constant tension our culture generates to go in one direction after another to prove yourself. It is entirely possible to know your neighbours, to live your life in an environment where peace is a priority, and there are no “Jones” to keep up with.

The community has found a way to separate themselves from the “world,” while entering right back into it as agents of change, bringing practical hope, life and love to those who are vulnerable to being lost in the cracks of our society.

What is most moving to me (Eden) is the seamless way the gifts, callings, and ministries dovetail together.

This tribute to 100 years of The Bruderhof is a fantastically beautiful volume of photos, stories and glimpses into a life that this community has toiled to create. Their stories are authentic, relatable and help to demonstrate that another way is not only possible but the potential to thrive is plausible!

I Am Neither - Poem by Wes Yoder

I Am Neither

I am neither

Catholic nor Protestant

Republican or Democrat

Man nor beast

Sinner nor Saint

 

I walk and I stumble

Both on the road and in the swamp

I am who I am yet not nearly myself

A man of sorrows a man of great joy

 

I am Child of my Father

Eternally found

Lost to my fellows

Located by cries

Misunderstood in twilight

 

Even the ant knows better her way

Than I without colony or task

Still I have received good gifts from on high

And will be drawn to my home at last.

- Wes Yoder