Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice

Andromeda's Vulnerable Creator - Kenneth Tanner

Our closest galactic neighbor, Andromeda, is 2.5 million light-years away. She dwarfs our galaxy and contains a trillion stars.

 

The energy that fuels all of those stars and has kept them in a spiral for 13 billion years is measurable, but who has the instruments or the time? The best we can do is make estimates.

 

Our witness and wisdom says that a first-century baby born to a peasant Jewish teenager, a baby whose stepfather was a carpenter, is the One who spoke this galaxy into fiery substance and perpetual motion from nothing.

 

And our tradition claims that this human is the One who spoke another hundred billion galaxies into existence from no substance that existed before...*ex nihilo* in the ancient tongue.

 

One of the stories about this human tells us that on the night before he suffered for the cosmos he created, that he loves from eternity before his own life, he took a towel and a basin of water and washed the feet of his friends.

 

You cannot wash someone’s feet without getting low to the ground, on your knees.

 

In the world of his time, the host of a meal would not be the one to wash the feet of his guests. This was the task of a servant.

 

What does it mean that the One who creates all stars and fuels their fires, is on his knees, serving humans?

 

Let me suggest that it means that most human projection of what it means to be a god or the God in the history of humans—and most human imagination of what it means to be powerful—is deeply mistaken.

 

One makes oneself vulnerable to wash feet in a world without proper sanitation and waste removal but this detail about humbly kneeling and scrubbing who knows what from smelly feet is not nearly the lowest place this human goes or will go to love the cosmos.

 

This human who is God descends further still, down into death, entering by his own terrible death into the death of every human, for every time the one human nature we all share dies we die again, and he dies again with us, and further still: he descends into all our hells.

 

Athanasius says that he keeps falling further than our hells and his descent is not slowed until he is beneath the deepest falling human, down to the edges of non-existence, to rescue us from the non-being from which we came and to give the one human nature we all share permanence.

 

He is not stingy with his kind of existence. He wants his fellow humans to participate in his never-ending divine life.

 

He gives humans not the permanence of Andromeda but his own permanence, and with all humans somehow gives the cosmos the gift of his eternity.

 

The name of this human who is God is Jesus Christ.

No Analogies, Please. Encounter! - Kenneth Tanner

Forget about explanations and analogies for the Trinity. Please instead take them hand-in-hand, then walk his students or disciples down a dusty path to the Jordan.

 

There, among the tall reeds on the bank stands Jesus, who has also just walked there from Nazareth, his feet tired, sore, and dirty.

 

Jesus wades in ankle-deep. The cool, flowing water is soothing. From here he watches his human brothers and sisters descend one by one, waist-deep, faces drawing near to John the Baptist.

They are entering the water to be cleansed, to repent. Jesus has no need for the cleansing, or the change of heart and mind, and yet here he is, his human face set toward suffering encounter.

 

Bonhoeffer says that Jesus does not ponder his perfection or feel his superiority but rather expresses solidarity with everyone gathered to be made well, to amend their ways, by—what wondrous love is this?—presenting himself for baptism, too.

 

As he approaches John, the Baptist recognizes not only the body of his cousin, with whom he played as a child, but Isaiah’s lamb, the One who takes away the sin of the world.

 

John is reluctant. He does not see why Jesus needs this ritual because he does not see the cross in this watery moment, does not understand that Jesus is already, here In the murky waters of the Jordan, descending into chaos, darkness, and death, taking on himself the sin of the whole world.

For every moment in this story is a story about the cross, and as a story about the cross is also a story about resurrection but only after it is a story about torture.

 

This is not a God who remains on the banks of the river, uninvolved and aloof from the pain of existence, but who joins us in our predicament, participates without sin in the deaths we each of us bear about in our bodies, especially in the moment of our deaths—all the preparatory ones and the last and final one—is baptized for us and with us.

 

Unlike the other gods we project and handcraft and make wishes for, this God is a baptized God. He identifies with us so that he might identify us with him.

He also rises out of the waters. He does not stay in the grave. And as he comes up out of the chaos and the darkness, he is in prayer. Perhaps he prays among other things, “Father forgive them.”

 

And here I want to loudly encourage the catechists, pastors, Sunday School teachers, and theologians of the church: forget your distorting analogies and torturous explanations and help your students and disciples have an *encounter* with the Living God!

 

Like this:

 

Jesus comes up out of the cool, flowing, murky waters, and as he prayers, we are told in Matthew, Mark, and Luke that there’s the sound of avionic movement, there are wings, feathers, and mystery as the Holy Spirit “alights” or “rests” on the Son in the body of a dove. Perhaps she rests on his shoulder?

 

Do you see and hear the rustle of divine wings on the air?

And this is not nearly all.

 

We are told that the sky is torn, a rip occurs in space-time. And through the tear in existence, there is suddenly a Voice: “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.”

 

The majestic voice proceeds from the invisible Father who dwells in light so bright no one can approach him. And yet here is his Son with whom he is One God with their Spirit, who does not wait for us to approach him but who has approached us, who touches his human brothers and sisters and heals us, who looks upon us with compassion, who embraces us in suffering, who dies with us, that we might ever live.

 

The Father and the Spirit *reveal* themselves in this moment that the Son draws near to every human who has ever lived or ever will live, just as they reveal themselves in the transfiguration and at the cross.

 

The baptism of the human God does not separate Jesus from any other humans, nor any humans from any other humans, but draws every human into Love’s triune fellowship. And this why I trust that the Father is pleased with the Son, as he always is.

 

Why on earth would you use a symbol when you can *enter* the story of God with humans, the story of God as a human, a human with a Spirit that rests on him, a human with a Father who loves the world so much that he sent him, not to condemn the world but that the world through him might live.

 

Why make an analogy or explanation when you can live this revelation of the triune Love?

 

*thanks to Taylor, Drew, Jason, David, Ryan, Josh, and Todd for prompting this from somewhere deep in the Covid-jaded heart of this mere human that sometimes still feels like he has something pressing to say to anyone that might still be listening

Participating makes the relationship—not the pancakes—better - Jonathan Parker

 

The little hands flutter with excitement. Each child gets a chance to whisk the flour. The kids laugh as a tiny patch escapes the bowl, dusting the countertop like snow. It’s not the most efficient process for making pancakes, but it is the most meaningful.

 

The children smile as their mother kisses each forehand and voices her approval and gratefulness for the help. I’m convinced they’ll remember this feeling of acceptance for eternity. She looks just like Jesus.

 

When Christ looks out among the hungry multitude, He proposes the same arrangement to the disciples—would you like to participate in what I am doing? Why else would He suggest the impossible task of feeding so many? Jesus—taking the cues of His Father—is always playing the long game of relationship.

 

Relationships grow in a myriad of ways, but the fastest and most effective way is side by side. Jesus could have fed all those men, women and children completely on His own, but He and His friends would have missed out on a moment to grow their relationship through actively participating in the work together.

 

Those richest in relationships understand this fully—the sweetest part of life is inviting or accepting invitation. It takes patience, gentleness and the ability to ignore the clock to reach down to another’s level and allow them to join you, but it’s a gift of grace, time and unity.

 

Paul Young said, “any healthy family moves at the speed of its slowest member.” This is a stark contrast to our society’s addiction to efficiency porn and win-at-all-costs striving. A few years in that rat race leaves you empty in countless ways, but chiefly in relationships.

 

So Jesus calls us out of this endless striving for approval and place. What is the Incarnation if not the greatest declaration of eternal acceptance to all of humanity?

 

When Christ makes His home with us, it’s not to coerce or give orders. It’s to invite participation, not because it makes the process more effective, but because it makes the relationship stronger.

 

This call to participate is a call to engage deeply. Spouses, children and friends call us to this level of engagement throughout the day. Drs. John and Julie Gottman, couple specialists, call these little nudges “bids to connect.”

 

Adults often need these nudges towards real, lasting and nurturing relationships—a fresh break from performative ones. And what a gift to receive those bids for connection. When I am healthy and stable enough to accept that invitation from my children to rest in their play, I can feel the Spirit affirming my participation. Where does the bid to sit and rest and play originate? Again, I feel her answer.

 

As the Spirit—through her own voice or another’s—bids for deeper connection, embrace the rest, freedom and relationship.

 

In the heart of the Father, Son and Spirit, our participation brings the same kiss and affirmation of acceptance as a parent preparing pancakes with her children.

 

The mother—modeling her Heavenly Father—knows the pancakes don’t really matter; the relationship with her children does. Always the long the game.

 

Participating makes the relationship—not the pancakes—better - Jonathan Parker

 

The little hands flutter with excitement. Each child gets a chance to whisk the flour. The kids laugh as a tiny patch escapes the bowl, dusting the countertop like snow. It’s not the most efficient process for making pancakes, but it is the most meaningful.

 

The children smile as their mother kisses each forehand and voices her approval and gratefulness for the help. I’m convinced they’ll remember this feeling of acceptance for eternity. She looks just like Jesus.

 

When Christ looks out among the hungry multitude, He proposes the same arrangement to the disciples—would you like to participate in what I am doing? Why else would He suggest the impossible task of feeding so many? Jesus—taking the cues of His Father—is always playing the long game of relationship.

 

Relationships grow in a myriad of ways, but the fastest and most effective way is side by side. Jesus could have fed all those men, women and children completely on His own, but He and His friends would have missed out on a moment to grow their relationship through actively participating in the work together.

 

Those richest in relationships understand this fully—the sweetest part of life is inviting or accepting invitation. It takes patience, gentleness and the ability to ignore the clock to reach down to another’s level and allow them to join you, but it’s a gift of grace, time and unity.

 

Paul Young said, “any healthy family moves at the speed of its slowest member.” This is a stark contrast to our society’s addiction to efficiency porn and win-at-all-costs striving. A few years in that rat race leaves you empty in countless ways, but chiefly in relationships.

 

So Jesus calls us out of this endless striving for approval and place. What is the Incarnation if not the greatest declaration of eternal acceptance to all of humanity?

 

When Christ makes His home with us, it’s not to coerce or give orders. It’s to invite participation, not because it makes the process more effective, but because it makes the relationship stronger.

 

This call to participate is a call to engage deeply. Spouses, children and friends call us to this level of engagement throughout the day. Drs. John and Julie Gottman, couple specialists, call these little nudges “bids to connect.”

 

Adults often need these nudges towards real, lasting and nurturing relationships—a fresh break from performative ones. And what a gift to receive those bids for connection. When I am healthy and stable enough to accept that invitation from my children to rest in their play, I can feel the Spirit affirming my participation. Where does the bid to sit and rest and play originate? Again, I feel her answer.

 

As the Spirit—through her own voice or another’s—bids for deeper connection, embrace the rest, freedom and relationship.

 

In the heart of the Father, Son and Spirit, our participation brings the same kiss and affirmation of acceptance as a parent preparing pancakes with her children.

 

The mother—modeling her Heavenly Father—knows the pancakes don’t really matter; the relationship with her children does. Always the long the game.

 

"'God is With the Cast Away Woman': A Message to the East Jerusalem International Church" — By Rev. Lauren Whitfield

 

The following is the transcript of a sermon that was delivered via Zoom for the East Jerusalem International Church on Saturday, June 20, 2020 by Rev. Lauren Whitfield.

—————————————

Greeting and Gratitude

Well, good evening, or good morning, depending on where you are; good afternoon. I am so thankful to be here. Honestly, I’m deeply humbled just to even have this opportunity to share with you and be in your presence. Thank you to my family and friends who have joined.

Introduction: Recognizing Our Bias as We Read Scripture

Today’s text is the lectionary text for this week: Genesis 21:8–21 (NRSV). In our brief time together today, I would like to propose this focus from the reading of our text: God is with the castaway woman. Again, God is with the castaway woman. Let us pray:

Most gracious God, we thank You for Your presence, we thank You for Your word. I ask that You would speak to us this morning, this evening; Lord, that You would anoint our ears to hear and my lips to speak Your word. It’s in Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

Walter Lippman, in his classic work, “Public Opinion,” published in 1921, wrote the famous header, “The World Outside and the Pictures in Our Heads.” In this work, he went on to coin a term that most of us, we’re probably familiar with, which is the term “stereotype.” Well, we all come to the text with a “picture in our heads.” I know I did. I was very surprised this week when in prayer, and reading the text, that there are so many parts of the story I had missed! Nuances I didn’t remember, words I hadn’t caught. And that’s my prayer for all of us today. That God would take things old and new from this story, and share them with us, God’s treasures.

Biblical Foundation

So here in this particular pericope, we find a young Ishmael “playing” or “laughing” w/Isaac, whose very name means laughter. The Hebrew word here for playing is tsä·khak' (sa-hack), playing/laughing or possibly mocking. This text had started so warmly: right before this story is the birth of Isaac; Isaac is here laughing. Sarah also is happy. “Who would have ever thought that a baby would nurse from Sarah.” Then the passage portrays a celebration. The child has just been weaned, and there’s going to be a great feast!

This warm story doesn’t last long; when Sarah sees Ishmael laughing with her son, something about it just doesn’t sit right with her. She goes to Abraham and demands, “Cast out this slave woman, with her son, for he won’t inherit with my son.”

John: Contemplative Theologian: John 11 - Lazarus, Mary, Martha & Caiaphas: Who are We?: Literalism and Allegory - Ron Dart

Rereading the Elijah story through the lens of Jesus, “Go Back the Way You Came” - Marlin Hendricks

Rereading the Elijah story through the lens of Jesus, “Go Back the Way You Came”

 

As a recovering Calvinist indoctrinated into a wrathful god who creates most humans for eternal punishment it is a very difficult learning curve to read the old testament through the self-giving, non-violent lens of Jesus. Recently I read the story of Elijah from 1 King 17 through 2 Kings 2 looking at the flow of the whole story and ended up with a lot of questions.

 

Elijah starts his career inclusive and life-giving with the widow of Zarephath(non-Jew) but seems to get worn down by the constant threat and pressure from Ahab and Jezebel and from a large number of false prophets. After the drought/famine episode this "calling down fire" (whatever that is all about) capability shows up (why doesn't he call down fire on Jezebel instead of running?) He seems to buy into the temptation to use POWER to further God's agenda, and when that results in a bounty on his head he goes into a real funk/burnout/depression and wishes to die. God seeks him out and calls him to Horeb (as in the burning bush, water from the rock) .

 

He ends up in a cave at Horeb and encounters God. God calls him out to stand on the mountain, but apparently he stays inside. God sends him a sample of power (earth, wind & fire) but what is effective in calling him out is a whisper because God was not in the wind, earthquake or fire. 

 

God's method is quite interesting; he seemingly quite gently asks him, “Elijah, why are you here?” Elijah pours out his heart. God's remedy to Elijah is “Go back the way you came”. Is this simply God's Garmin? A 'turn by turn' physical route-finder? Or is it possible that it refers to Elijah's attitude? Go back as humble and powerless as you came here to Horeb? 

 

 

God then commissions him to 3 anointings of which he (apparently) did none. When he found Elisha he did not anoint him but threw his cloak over him and when Elisha ran after him he in effect (it seems to me) blew it off and says 'what do I care?'. Elisha ends up anointing Jehu in 2 Kings 9:6. In 2 Kings 8, Elisha commissions Hazael.

 

Elijah still seems to be in a really bad mood when he next shows up and calls down fire on the 2 groups of 50.

 

The next and last, thing that happens is the trip to the Jordan to be taken up. He repeatedly tries to talk Elisha out of succeeding him. Also of interest is that the role of the chariot and horses is to separate Elijah and Elisha and then Elijah is taken up in the whirlwind – not the chariot.

 

It strikes me that Elijah is very disillusioned, belligerent and burnt out end to his career.

While God is often associated with fire, it is a protecting, enlightening, cleansing fire. Elijah seems to have combined his gift of calling down fire with a misguided zealousness for God. When God points this out to him he, at best, finds it extremely difficult to give up.

 

My take-away is that I MUST trust that the quiet whisper of love really is more powerful than the fire of zealotry. It is sobering to think that this was so difficult even for a spiritual giant like Elijah.

 

What might this mean in today's unholy alliance between evangelicalism and politics?

Restorative Justice: Peacemaking, NOT War-making - Wayne Northey (interview host: Brad Jersak)

IRPJ.org (Institute for Religion, Peace & Justice) presents an interview with Wayne Northey (host: Brad Jersak) highlighting the contrast between Western criminal justice as retributive pain-delivery and the inclusive, restorative, community justice that more effectively serves offenders, those they've harmed and the communities in which they live.

Transcript: Download IRPJ Q&A with Wayne Northey

Syriac Christianity: More to the Mountain - Ron Dart

There has been a tendency, in the west, when focusing on Christianity, to ponder the Roman Catholic Tradition, the break from the Roman Catholic ethos in the 16^th century, then the emergence of the multiple strands and schisms within Protestant Christianity. Such as been the western indulgence and reality. We discuss, live and reflect on what we know, the part of the mountain we see and have trekked in, built cornered plots of ground on and call home. Needless to say, our understanding of the faith journey is shaped and formed from what we can see from our vantage point on the mountain (regardless of how high or low we are on the part of the mountain we are on).

There has been a turn, in the last few decades, for various reasons, to the Orthodox and Oriental form of Christianity. There are those, more in a reactionary mode than anything else, who make such a turn, to idealize the Oriental and Orthodox brand of Christianity and either dismiss or subordinate Western or Occidental types of Christianity. Those committed to such an approach merely inhabit simply another part of the mountain of faith, the faith mountain, of course, much larger than either Western or Eastern Christianity can fully embody.

The tensions and clashes both within and between Western and Eastern types of Christianity in the areas of Biblical exegesis, theology,

ecclesiology, sacramentalism, liturgy, icons, cognitive-meditative ways of knowing, leadership styles, philosophy, public responsibility, monastic-lay life, creeds, councils, confessions, soteriology and anthropology collide in many places, hence faith tribes and clans live on their plots of land on different parts and places of the mountain, each thinking or assuming, their portion of the mountain is the wisest and best, truest and more comprehensive.

Is there more to the mountain, though, then the replay of West and East, Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism-Protestantism? Are there parts of the faith mountain that have been inhabited for centuries, been largely ignored but have been, in the last few decades, rediscovered? This is where, I think, the rediscovery of Syriac Christianity comes to the fore. The yeoman’s labour of Professor Sebastion Brock, more than most, has done much to restore and point to communities on the mountain that are part of the larger but often forgotten faith family. The publication of The Syriac Fathers on Prayer and the Spiritual Life (1987) opened up for many a mother lode and gold mine of faith, Brock doing both the introduction and translation. It is significant that The Syriac Fathers by published by Cistercian Publications (Roman Catholic)  Some of the publications by Brock on Syriac Christianity have been also published by the Sisters of the Love of God and Fairacres Press (Anglican publishing). The interest by Roman Catholics and Anglicans, at a higher and more irenical level, has done much to chart routes and pathways to the Syriac tradition and its oft-forgotten heritage. The growing interest and turn to the classical tradition of faith (Patristic era) is now rounding the mountain to sections on it, for centuries hidden from western and eastern forms of Christianity. Many are those more than keen to visit and learn from their fuller family.

I have been fortunate to be in contact with Sebastion Brock and, equally grateful, to be teaching four courses on Syriac Christianity in 2020-2021. Indeed, there is more to the mountain to yet see and as we hold the way-finder in our hands and hearts, minds and imaginations, this much more on the mountain cannot but help to enrich, deepen and mature our faith journeys.

amor vincit omnia

Ron Dart      

Instead of Violence: Lessons from Leipzig, Germany, October 9, 1989 - Roger J. Newell

Instead of Violence:
Lessons from Leipzig, Germany, October 9, 1989

A few years ago I wrote a book about the privilege of taking some students to Leipzig, Germany, where we spoke with one of the leaders of the peace prayers movement which helped bring down the Communist Government in the former East Germany.  The leader, a Lutheran Pastor with the unlikely name of Christian Führer, described to us in unforgettable words key moments leading up to the night of Monday, October 9, 1989, when decades of accumulated civil grievances combined improbably with years of weekly gatherings known as “prayers for peace” (Friedensgebet) in which readings from the Sermon on the Mount played a central role.

On the night of Monday, October 9, 1989, 70,000 citizens of Leipzig peacefully walked the ring road encircling the city, many holding candles, knowing full well that along the streets were hundreds of police and soldiers armed with live ammunition. The police had been sent to end the weekly protests once and for all, because from the government’s perspective, they were destabilizing the nation.  As people walked, many chanting  “We are the People” and “No violence,” something truly remarkable happened: no angry protester threw a stone; no nervous soldier fired a shot.  Instead, groups of demonstrators engaged the police and military in respectful conversations as they walked the ring road till nearly midnight when the crowd peacefully went home. There were no winners or losers. Neither side lost face. Not a window was broken. There was just a tremendous feeling of relief. That night East Germany was transformed by a peaceful revolution. A month later the Berlin Wall came down--peacefully.

All these events were in stark contrast to the tragedy only five months earlier in China’s Tiananmen Square when soldiers opened fire on a large demonstration and many were killed. Instead, on October 9 in Leipzig police and protesters collectively wove a collaborative web of non-violence, as demonstrators took the message of waging peace out of the church sanctuary and onto the streets.  After that night, even though demonstrations swept the nation, there was no violence.  In a matter of weeks, the government stood down while a caretaker government arranged for the country’s first and finally free and fair election.  On March 18, 1990, the party advocating early reunification with West Germany won a clear victory at the polls.  One of its youthful members was a young Chemistry researcher named Angela Merkel, whose father was also an East German pastor.

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.