Funeral sermon for someone born on St Patrick’s Day

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Every year around her birthday on St Patrick’s Day (March 17) Brenda joked with me that she is the leprechaun, which is probably height related. But she was also someone who was mischievous and playful. Looking at her picture posted here, you can see that playfulness if not a bit of mischief lurking behind her infectious smile.

When you joke about leprechauns and a pot of gold waiting at the end of the rainbow, you not only smile but you look heavenward towards a possibility, a hope, and a dream.

The scriptures in this funeral service for Brenda are about vision. They describe a vision for how things should be, and how they will be, one day. They speak of reality we cannot yet fully grasp in the present but for which we pray and dream. Where the weak find strength (Isaiah 40:28-31), where a banquet feast of rich foods is provided for everyone (Isaiah 25:6-10a), and the presence of God resides in each one of us (John 14:20-23).

Truly, a visionary palette.

Brenda had vision. A tiny person, she nevertheless proposed big ideas. She was a force here at Faith for re-starting fellowship time after COVID. Amid the fear and uncertainty of that time, she envisioned people of faith gathering around food and drink. And with the help of others, she brought that vision to light.

Speaking of food, her Facebook page was often filled with recipes that she ‘liked’ – and these were hearty fares! Of course, underlying her love for food was motivating people to come together. There is little else that does it better to bring people together than food and drink.

She worked at Bentleys for a time, the store in the Merivale Mall and then at Carlingwood. But what motivated her in this retail job, she told me, was connecting with people and serving them. Caring for them.

Her love for the elderly and sick led her to volunteering at the Queensway Carleton Hospital. First, she took the pastoral care course for lay people, and then in the last few years volunteered in the gift shop there. She was happiest when around people, to care for them.

Brené Brown wrote that, “People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care” (Brown, 2018). For Brenda, what was most important was making sure you knew in any encounter that you were cared for.

I think it was in the hospital setting where she connected deeply with a vision for God’s people. Struggling with health issues her whole life, Brenda envisioned a place where the best in people could be brought out – in their loving care and healing acts for others. Saint Augustine said, “the church is a hospital for sinners not a museum for saints”.

It was serving in the hospital where I think Brenda felt safe to be her vulnerable self. It wasn’t just a social place. It was a place of affirmation. I like to think, too, that Brenda felt safe in the church, to be herself and loved. What a vision for all God’s people!

You’ve described Brenda as a social butterfly. The butterfly is a beautiful image for Easter. The birds will often remind us of the hope of Christ’s resurrection. When I visited Brenda in her apartment, she would inevitably point out her window to the tree just there where a cardinal made frequent and regular visits.

The birds indeed lift our sights outward and upward towards the heavens. Mounting up on wings like eagles, our souls look even beyond the end of the leprechaun’s rainbow and pot of gold. Looking upwards to the vastness of the skies above, beyond the boundaries of our limitations and self-imposed dramas. This is having vision. I believe Brenda got that.

Heavenward is the biblical concept of everywhere. Heaven is not a specific, geographical place up in the sky. When Jesus rose heavenward, it means Jesus was no longer bound by any specific time and place on earth. Jesus is alive! means: Jesus is everywhere.

To each of us the baptismal promise is given. With Jesus, we rise to eternal, unrestricted life. Resurrection means the life of one is in all. Jesus says to his disciples, “On that day you will know that I am in my Father and you in me and I in you” (John 14:20). In the Gospel, Jesus promises that those who love and care for one another show their love for God – and to those Jesus will come and make “home with them” (John 14:23).

Our relationship with Brenda is not over. The relationship has just changed now. She makes a home in our hearts, in our memories. Whenever we encounter a vision of God through a bird sighting or experience anything that moves us, we are reminded of where we all are headed. And we can be assured that the presence of Jesus lives in us through it all. It’s not over for Brenda. And it’s not over for us. It never is.

Born on St, Patrick’s Day, Brenda conveys another image associated with who she is. Brenda said her parents always called her their “wild Irish rose”, emphasis on “wild” perhaps? 🙂 On her gravestone I am told this epitaph will be inscribed: Brenda … – Wild Irish Rose.

Thanks be to God, for wildly loving Brenda, and for the wild grace of God which knows no bounds.

Amen.

Reference:

Brown, B. (2018). Dare to lead: Brave work, tough conversations, whole hearts. Random House.

The ‘F’-word

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Stephen forgives his enemies just before he dies (Acts 7:55-60). His last words may sound familiar, because they echo the words Jesus spoke from the cross when he prayed to God “to forgive” those who crucified him (Luke 23:34).  

Forgiveness is a theme that runs at the heart of the New Testament text from Acts for this 5th Sunday of Easter, indeed throughout the Gospels. Two-thirds of the teaching of Jesus in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, is directly or indirectly about this “mystery” of forgiveness (Rohr, 2022).

These days forgiveness is a bad word, mysterious at best. Are we surprised?

Our world more often operates on principles opposed to forgiveness. Vengeance, revenge, eye-for-an-eye, quid-pro-quo beliefs all fuel the economic and war machines of our culture. Our economy is governed by meritocracy – earning and deserving. Forgiveness rubs up against a culture that demands retribution, fuels competition and comparison and rewards only those who have achieved some measure of success.

Forgiveness just doesn’t fit.

And so, we have developed such a massive resistance to the word forgive that we cannot even use it (James & Friedman, 2009). It is now the prominent ‘F’-word because we no longer associate forgiveness with the qualities of strength, integrity, maturity, faithfulness and health.

If we will dare to go there, however, it is important to clarify what forgiveness is NOT.

First, forgiveness is not forgetting nor condoning actions by others, actions that have hurt people. We cannot forget abusive and offensive behaviour from anyone. When we forgive, we are not pretending that the bad behaviour never happened. We are not being silent in the face of injustice. We are not saying it’s ok that someone’s actions hurt others. Forgiveness is not forgetting nor condoning.

Second, forgiveness is not a one-time thing you do. Like setting and maintaining healthy boundaries with people, you cannot just say or do it once and expect things to change immediately. It’s not a one-off-and-done. I’ll say more about this later.

Finally – and this is the toughest one for those of you like me who are prone to manage and control – forgiving someone else has nothing to do with changing the offending person. Some psychologists who promote forgiveness argue that you should never say, “I forgive you …” directly to or in the presence of the person who hurt you. Because doing so is almost always perceived as an attack (James & Friedman, 2009, p. 140). It’s not helpful. And it’s not about them, anyway.

The act of forgiveness has everything to do with changing yourself. We do it to help ourselves.

You notice, Stephen in his final moments does not speak to his persecutors. He is praying to God. And even Saul – later, Saint Paul – who witnesses the stoning of Stephen and presumably hears Stephen’s prayer about forgiveness, is not converted at that moment by Stephen’s forgiving act. In fact, he approves of Stephen’s murder right after it happened (Acts 8:1). Saul’s conversion happens later, on the road to Damascus (Acts 9).

Again, Stephen’s word of forgiveness has nothing to do with changing Saul, and everything to do with Stephen’s soul, finding his own inner peace, before he dies. He wasn’t doing his persecutors a favour by forgiving them. He was freeing himself.

Forgiveness is letting go of resentment. It is a choice to free oneself from resentment over what could have, should have, been. Forgiveness is to let go of our hope that things could have been different. When we forgive, we hand it over to history (Rohr, 2022). We see the hurt and the woundedness in us, and we hand it over – we let it go – to God. We are freed.

There is one exception – a biblical one – to saying the words “I forgive you” directly to the other person. Because forgiveness is still a decision to do something concrete. For Stephen and Jesus, it was a voiced prayer to God. But the two-thirds of Jesus’ teaching about forgiveness is mostly about economics, about the nature of monetary transactions between people.

Originally, the word for ‘sins’ in the Lord’s Prayer was translated ‘debts’: “Forgive us our debts as we forgive those indebted to us.” The word ‘debts’ is closer to the original Semitic language meaning (Woodley, 2026). The word in the original text is clearly an economic word.

The Sabbath day, the day of rest, as well as the biblical concept of Jubilee was the awaited day of the week or every seventh year, for marginalized and disadvantaged people to be offered a new beginning. It was the time of forgiveness of debt so that disadvantaged people had an opportunity to reset and start over.

Forgiveness is thus a repeated and concrete gift of grace.

That is why forgiveness is not about a singular, one-time event to make everything right. It takes time and practice. It’s a lifestyle, an attitude by which to live. It is an attitude reinforced by ongoing work, because it is not easy. We often don’t get it right.

When Jesus says, as he does in our Gospel reading today, that he “is the way, truth and the life” (John 14:6) the gist of it is not some program of exclusion that we normally interpret from it – us versus them. It is rather an affirmation of the way of Jesus, a way characterized by inclusion, grace, by empathy, by forgiveness and compassion for all people. We affirm in this passage a way of forgiveness, where folks are regularly granted days of rest, a year of Jubilee — freedom, restitution, second chances and new beginnings.

No wonder these texts are chosen for the season of Easter. Because Easter is about rising again, being given a second chance, a new beginning, time and time again. Because life in Christ is renewed, life is given, to those who practice repeatedly in the way of Christ, the way of forgiveness.

Infant baptism is the liturgical expression of this way of grace. An infant cannot prove that they are worthy. They cannot merit their way to deserving God’s grace. Infants cannot provide a resumé of good deeds to justify their righteousness before the Lord.

They are helpless, totally dependent, completely vulnerable. They are in dire need for constant protection and care. And that vulnerability is the place and inner state for receiving God’s love and forgiveness. Today, little [….] receives the fullness of a lifelong grace in the way of forgiveness.

Today she is marked with the cross of Christ which in God’s own suffering and human weakness validates her own being human in all its fullness and folly. God doesn’t demand perfection from us. God doesn’t expect us to make everything right by our own power and on our own strength. But rather by trusting in and practising God’s forgiveness, grace and mercy within us and with others.

Forgiveness is not the ‘F’-word. It is THE Word.

(photo by Martin Malina, 20 April 2026, Ottawa River at Arnprior)

References

James, J. W., & Friedman, R. (2009). The grief recovery handbook: The action program for moving beyond death, divorce, and other losses, including health, career, and faith. HarperCollins.

Rohr, R. (2022, August 5). Letting go of our innocence. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/letting-go-of-our-innocence-2022-08-05/

Rohr, R. (2022, September 16). The power of forgiveness. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/the-power-of-forgiveness-2022-09-16/

Rohr, R. (2023, August 22). Truth and reconciliation: God’s restoring justice. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/truth-and-reconciliation-2023-08-22/

Woodley, R. (2026, February 3). Communal shalom: Sabbath and jubilee economics. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/communal-shalom/

Journey of joy

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The two disciples, after recognizing Jesus is alive on the road to Emmaus, go and tell their friends right away. They are filled with joy. They didn’t even wait an hour (Luke 24:33) before rushing back to Jerusalem to tell the others the good news. They are filled with joy.

The Gospel story today involves two disciples remembering, conversing, encountering and experiencing the risen Christ. They have this amazing experience all because they went for a walk. Talking about their grief, externalizing their feelings, thoughts while moving their bodies helped in working out their faith story.

When my identical twin brother and I tell the stories of our childhood, I often now find a remarkable pattern. We may be speaking about the same event – a lakeside holiday, a kitchen table discussion, a school yard game. This sharing of memories often begins by one of us asking the other: “Do you remember, when …?”

Recently we reminisced about a family vacation to Florida over forty years ago when we were teenagers. Late one afternoon, we decided to walk all the way from Pompano Beach to Fort Lauderdale barefoot along the pristine beach on the Atlantic Ocean. We both remembered going on that walk together.

There are aspects of that memory we share. We both recall, at the outset of our hike, seeing the long pier jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean which marked our destination south of us. We both remembered how late we started that walk in the afternoon, not giving us enough time to return before darkness settled in. We had underestimated the time we needed.

But when we reminisce about this experience, there are parts of that story one of us does not recall. For example, I mention the fact that we had to dodge the many jellyfish that came up on the shore when the sun was setting and we had to be careful on our return hike where we stepped.

My brother has no recollection of those jellyfish. But he will mention the people we bumped into on the walk that we apparently knew from the area. I have no memory of seeing those people whatsoever. That aspect, that truth, does not stick. And just because I don’t remember that part doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Each of us have gaps in the story we tell, even though we both experienced and were talking about the same event we shared in our lives on that same day some forty years ago.

This story from my life tells me two things about how we live our Christian faith.

First, telling the story of faith is not something left to our own individual devices. Because there are gaps in our individual telling. Being a Christian is not a solitary enterprise. Being a believer is not justified within our own mindset. Otherwise, we are just emphasizing what we want to hear, like talking in an echo chamber. Alone we will miss important perspectives.

That’s why we journey together. Telling the story of faith is a shared enterprise. That’s why it’s important, in living out our faith in Christ, to proverbially walk with another and within a community of faith.

Jesus joined the disciples on the road to Emmaus to get them out of their heads and out of talking only about their individual perspectives from what happened in the past days. Jesus joined them to give them an experience of the living Lord in their time and place. We need to hold space in this time and place with others on the journey.

When Jesus is present with us, we are drawn out of our self-centred, individual and past-fixated mindsets to pay attention to what is happening now.

That is why, I believe, the writer Luke does not specify the name of the other disciple walking with Cleopas. That’s because the intent of the Gospel writer is to encourage readers and listeners to put themselves in the story, to make it relevant for each of us.

Which is the second take-away from my walk to Fort Lauderdale by the sea story. When my brother and I talk about that story from the past, it becomes real to us in the present. The conversations bring us a meaning and joy for today.

We remember Christ’s story not only to tell his story alone, but also our story, and the story of every human being. The story of Jesus’ suffering, death and resurrection tells not just of the deliverance, transformation and renewed life that happened back then to Jesus, but of the deliverance, transformation and renewed life we experience now and expect in our own future with the living Christ Jesus.

That’s why we engage these resurrection stories from the bible. The resurrection of Jesus didn’t happen just in that first-century community. In remembering, in re-telling, we know, and we trust that it is happening now and that it will happen again and again (Beaumont, 2019, p. 97).

When we travel with others on the journey of faith, sharing our stories and filling in the gaps of the narrative of faith; and, when we appreciate that new life happens every day, this brings us great joy.

Unlike happiness, joy can live alongside sadness, boredom, fear, or despair. Joy expands our capacity to hold contradictions at the same time. And because we know joy we recover this strange yet steady confidence that life is still worth loving, even when it hurts.

So, resurrection happens every time we love someone even though they were not loving to us. Every time we decide to trust and begin again, even after repeated failures, we are resurrected. Every time we try to stop those negative thoughts that fuel our cynicism, we experience the Risen Christ. Resurrection is always possible now, because of the joy we have in the Risen Christ. Joy is one of the most powerful experiences we can have because it an emotion that can co-exist with our actual lives.

It is not joy instead of grief. It is joy with grief. It is truer than plain happiness. It is the deep assurance that the story is not finished, even when our lives feel painfully incomplete. Easter joy is the grace of being able to say: “This is hard, I am still waiting, and God is still good.” Not because everything has changed but because one day God promises everything will (Bowler, 2026, April 7).

We don’t have wait for death to experience resurrection (Rohr, 2026, April 10). We can begin resurrection today by living connected to God with one another, filling in the gaps of our own understanding, loving courageously, trusting boldly and living joyfully.

We are so fortunate to live in this part of the world when Easter coincides with springtime. I hope you are all getting outside more these days to see the earth begin to live again after months of winter and a very late Spring this year.

Waking up, getting up, and watching the sunrise during this season of Easter can be inspiring. Because, sure enough, the sun will rise tomorrow as it always does. It peaks over the horizon, when I watch it from our back deck, between two large white pine trees in the distance.

(Photo by Martin Malina, December 2019)

But it doesn’t appear so much like a sunrise but as a groundswell. It appears like the light comes from the earth. It comes from the world we live in. It comes not from the top, but from the bottom. It seems to say, that even all the world which looks muddy and material, even all of this, which looks so ordinary and dying, will be reborn.

Easter is the feast of joyful hope. This is the time of year we hear that God will have the last word and that this last word is resurrection. God will turn all that we mess up and hurt and punish into life and beauty (Rohr, 2026, April 5). Easter is the longest day of the year because it happens every day!

What joy!

References:

Beaumont, S. (2019). How to lead when you don’t know where you are going: Leading in a liminal season. Rowman & Littlefield.

Bowler, K. (2026, April 7). A different kind of joy. In R. Rohr’s Daily Meditations [Website]. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/a-different-kind-of-joy/

Rohr, R. (2026, April 10). Resurrection is possible now. Daily Meditations [Website]. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/resurrection-is-possible-now/

Rohr, R. (2026, April 5). The hope of resurrection. Daily Meditations [Website]. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/the-hope-of-resurrection/

The body of Jesus

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Palm Sunday is about processions. And participating in a procession involves the whole body.

In my annual report presented at the AGM last week, I highlighted two memories from 2025 that stick. These two memories stuck, I believe, because my whole body was involved in an expression of faith.

First, I recall the procession with our Anglican and United Church friends in the City View neighbourhood on the summer solstice in June. We walked, exchanged gifts of plants and flowers, and prayed by walking the labyrinth – giving thanks for the gifts of creation and committing to its care.

Second, at the end of the summer, I recall processing with other Ottawa Lutherans – I see some of you in the room today! – at the Ottawa Pride event downtown when we walked in peaceful solidarity and support of the Two-Spirit LGBTQIA+ community, who have been historically and to the present day marginalized and persecuted. These were processions.

Biblical scholars describe Palm Sunday as a tale of two cities or a tale of two processions (Borg & Crossan, 2007): Jesus entered from the east on a donkey representing peace, while the Roman governor, Pilate, entered from the west with military power. This picture provides a direct, symbolic contrast.

Palm Sunday is not a parade but a protest. It is to protest the dominant, oppressive power. Protests don’t always translate into angry, violence. In fact, from my experience, whenever I’ve been involved in a peaceful protest, there is a euphoria and joy among those processing together. We give thanks for our bodies involved in an expression of joy and gratitude for all of God’s gifts in creation as we bear witness to God’s love for all people.

Like the hosannas we sang as we processed into the sanctuary this morning, we praise Jesus for the love his life meant for all people.

In Isaiah 50, the prophet draws our attention, specifically, to the servant’s tongue, ear, beard, the cheeks – all parts of the head. But the face – the head – is not the only part of the body emphasized in the Bible.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus borrows another image from Isaiah’s journey in the desert (58). Jesus says, “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water” (John 7:38). Notice, not out of the believer’s thoughts. Not out of a believer’s power of thinking centred in the head. But out of the believer’s emotional centre, out of the body’s capacity to feel and have compassion. The whole body is important when considering our faith.

The word in Greek for “heart” is literally “belly” (Coman, 2026). The belly is even lower than the heart! Our focus shifts deeper into the centre of our bodies.

Some scholars suggest this verse from John (“Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water”) is the origin of the image of water flowing from Jesus’ pierced side in the crucifixion story. The focus here is on the abuse and torture wreaked upon Jesus’ body before he died.

Polish artist Laura Makabresku (2021) painted this depiction of Christ, entitled, “Shelter”. …..

Perhaps the most striking feature in this painting is that it completely omits Jesus’ head and only shows his body with a focus on his torso. What a change in emphasis! Not just the head – like we see in all those familiar Sunday School paintings of Jesus with a halo around his golden, flowing, wavy hair and sparkling blue eyes. Here, we are invited to focus on his body.

Can we move beyond our discomfort, to see only Jesus’ broken body?

The ancient church believed that Jesus took everything upon himself when he healed, made whole, and cared for all who suffered. Jesus makes all human experiences holy (Coman & Jorgenson, 2026).

Our bodies communicate the meaning of the Gospel in Christ Jesus, the incarnated God among us, with us and for us even as we grow older. When the aged Simeon sang his thanksgiving in the temple, he held the infant Jesus in his arms (Luke 2:35). Simply holding Christ gave him life.

Can we, like Simeon, remember that each wrinkle, each limitation, each new dependence is a place where Christ is quietly present? Our wrinkles, our pains, our limitations and dependencies all hold Jesus who is right there in us because he himself lived inside the limits of the human body (Coman & Jorgenson, 2026).

To grow older in the body is to follow the same path that Jesus walked: from independence to surrender. The ageing body teaches us that God delights in what God has come to dwell within. Our aging bodies have something, therefore, to tell us. “Our sacred, ageing bodies preach to us” (Coman & Jorgenson, 2026).

Our sacred, ageing bodies preach to us. What do they say? They tell us, ultimately, that human death approaches. Yes. Until that time, they counsel us to ask for help, to slow down, to change our expectations, to respect our limitations, to breathe each breath with gratitude. They remind us that even in death there is hope.

We have nothing to lose! So, rather than stand on the sidelines of a parade, waving at Jesus as he goes by, we join in the procession and with our whole bodies, we follow in the way of Christ.

Maybe what sits uncomfortably for us has something important to offer us, something we need to hear, to bring healthy balance and healing ways into our lives.

Usually we listen from our head, which often results in more separation between people as we argue over our differences. But it is a profound experience to listen from the heart, to involve the whole body. The heart is the window to the soul. We can connect through our hearts. Listening from the heart leads to kinder and more caring attitudes, greater trust and a greater ability to collaborate. When we listen from the heart, we are present and see the whole world from the other person’s window on reality. This is a good start. Because when we operate from the heart, people will notice a gentle power, a power that endures through the millennia (Lippitt, 1998).

Maybe if we skip any service in the coming week, it ought not to be Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, those holy days that draw our attention to Christ’s suffering body and invite us to listen from the heart.

Holy Week invites us to listen and pay attention to our feelings, our emotions, and our bodies. In this journey to surrender ourselves, we discover a healing path together, not divided by our humanity but made whole, through the cross of Christ.

References:

Borg, M., & Crossan, D. (2007). The last week: What the gospels really teach about Jesus’s final days in Jerusalem. HarperOne.

Coman, S. (2026, March 10). Day 18; From dust still holy: A daily devotional for lent and holy week. Lutherans Connect. https://fromduststillholy.blogspot.com/2026/03/day-18.html.

Coman, S., & Jorgenson, A. (2026, March 19). The ageing body, day 26; From dust still holy: A daily devotional for lent and holy week. Lutherans Connect. https://fromduststillholy.blogspot.com/2026/03/day-26.html.

Lippitt, L. L. (1998). Preferred futuring: Envision the future you want and unleash the energy to get there. Barrett-Koehler Publishers.

Makabresku, L. (2021). Shelter. In Coman, S. (2026, March 2). Day 11; From dust still holy: A daily devotional for lent and holy week. Lutherans Connect. https://fromduststillholy.blogspot.com/2026/03/day-11.html.

Peregrenatio

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(photo by Martin Malina)

After receiving God’s blessing and vision at his baptism, Jesus is led into the desert. He is led into the wilderness by the Spirit of God where he spends the better part of a month and a half (Matthew 4:1). That’s a long time.

Who would go there? And for what purpose? Why would anybody, especially right after receiving a holy calling and divine blessing, wander into wastelands full of danger and unpredictability?

You would think Jesus would immediately go to launch his mission of healing and proclamation. You would think Jesus would go directly from the Jordan river where he was baptized to the highways and byways, the street corners and the seats of power around Jerusalem. Which, he eventually does.

But instead, the first thing he does is go alone into the desert. For a long time.

The season of Lent is upon us. The long weeks leading to Easter have been described as a pilgrimage, a journey (Pope Francis, 2025). Martin Luther opposed the concept of pilgrimage in the medieval sense because he deemed going on pilgrimage as “works righteousness”. But Luther kept Lent. He saw the season of Lent as an opportunity to reflect on the Passion and suffering of Christ.

Today Lutherans will frame the 40 days of Lent as a “journey to the cross” or a “spiritual journey,” a concept that aligns with Luther’s theology of the cross.

It is on the cross where God is revealed most clearly in Jesus’ suffering. The heart of the Gospel is the mercy and grace for humanity that God experienced in Christ crucified. The intention of Lent is to focus on the path Jesus took through the cross to the empty tomb. Lent acknowledges that the only way to a good, new beginning is by embracing and working through the losses in our lives. This journey through the desert – the cross – is not easy. It’s work, moving forward.

Another way of describing it is that it’s always three steps forward and two steps back, between the cross and the empty tomb, never a straight line. But it’s the backward that creates the knowledge and the energy for the forward. We have to allow it. The desert is necessary for our growth.

We have an aversion to the cost of this journey. And that’s why we avoid it. We distract ourselves with efforts to win and achieve glory. We are inclined to skip Good Friday and go straight from singing the hosannas of Palm Sunday to the alleluias of Easter Sunday. We would rather avoid the desert experience.

What’s this business of God dying on the cross, anyway, suffering defeat at the hand of Jesus’ enemies? Who would go into the desert, anyway? Who wants to associate with losers?

Jesus does. And many did and still do, follow him there. Who were these first desert mystics and contemplatives, as we’ve called them?

I think we have this notion that the early desert mothers and fathers were some sort of super saints or perfected hermits. We falsely presume these desert Christians were pious followers of strict religious rules who had purged themselves of all fleshly desire and pleasure. That is incorrect (Colón Delay, 2026).

In the year 313 of the Common Era and the Edict of Milan, Christianity became the official religion of the empire. While the edict granted religious freedom and presumably ended the persecution of Christians, many Christians at the time were concerned with how becoming yoked with political power would affect the message and meaning of Jesus Christ. Beginning in the 4th century, many Christians who wanted to genuinely live out the promises of Christ and deepen their walk with God left the empire, so to speak.

And so, they went out into the deserts of Egypt, Palestine, Syria and Arabia. These were women and men, rich and poor. Some of them had been working in royal courts, and some had been murderers. Some were people of high esteem in society while others were viewed by society as scoundrels, persons of ill repute, outsiders, misfits (Acevedo Butcher, 2026, February 15).

By shedding their securities, and courageously moving into the unknown and potentially dangerous desert they knew they would be transformed by the experience of trusting in the ever-presence of God alone. On the journey itself, without necessarily knowing the destination, they knew they would be changed for the better.

From the desert into the open sea.

Some of the first monastic missionaries, from the Celtic tradition, would put themselves out in a boat – without oars. These boats were built to be sturdy enough to sustain a long voyage, but they were still small and could not be called ships.

Trusting the currents and the winds, the voyagers would simply drift until they landed where God had called them to be. For them, trusting God required a complete surrender to God’s will in the present moment. While a ’pilgrimage’ has a clear end in sight, a ‘peregrenatio’ does not. It is a wandering or drifting without a known destination (Valters Paintner, 2018).

Who would go into the desert or out onto the open sea? A people following Jesus. A people wanting and preparing for meeting the risen Christ who travelled there himself, who had experienced the challenges and temptations of going on this kind of journey.

I’ve been on a journey during my practicum. But this journey really started when I began the master’s degree program in counselling / psychology over two years ago.

Early on it felt to me like a pilgrimage with all the attending ups and down and unexpected twists and turns along the way. Early on it felt like as long as I stayed on the path I would eventually arrive at the destination – which was the end of the course work and this practicum. And then, it would be back to being the same it was before I started the program.

As the journey continued, however, the experience caused a shift from that of pilgrimage to peregrenatio. I knew and trusted it was God’s leading because every step of the way was validated, and I was finding traction in moving forward.

But I was growing more and more unsure about exactly where this was leading me. I was asking more questions about the purpose of the journey.

At the same time I was beginning to sense how I was growing through the experience itself. The end wasn’t as important as the becoming.

The congregation, too, has been on a journey these past several months. You didn’t know what this experience would be like when we started on this journey last Fall. What have you learned about your relationship to this congregation? With God? What events, developments and experiences during this time stand out in your memory? And which of these events or experiences align closest to what you value?

The journey itself changes us – our minds, our perceptions, our awareness of who we are becoming. We are like the monk in the boat on the peregrenatio, drifting out on the sea, surrendering to the will of God, not knowing exactly the destination but hanging on, nonetheless. How different are you by the end of this journey than you were at the beginning?

So much on this journey calls us to pay attention to the present moment, not ruminating about the past nor worrying about the future. When you don’t have control over the outcome, you will need to learn to let go and surrender to the present moment and what it invites us to notice. The desert and the open sea call us to ‘stay awake’.

The monk in the boat, not knowing what tomorrow might bring, would be fully alive in the present moment. The monk would be scanning the horizon, paying attention to conditions, aware of what his body needed in the moment, ready to respond without judgement just acceptance to whatever came his way.

Although Martin Luther frowned upon the medieval pilgrimage, he was all about being in the present moment. He is known to have said that if he knew the world would end tomorrow, he would still go out today to plant an apple tree in the ground.

So, too, when we stand at the threshold of an unknown future, we may not know the outcome nor the precise destination of our travels.

But will we notice, as we continue doing what we do, the sprig of new life budding in the ground upon which we stand? Will we see and appreciate the signs of hope and life around us? And they are there! From this hope we are nourished and strengthened for the journey ahead.

Who goes into the desert? Who would go there anyway?

Jesus does, to enrich his own life, to embolden him in his mission and purpose. And we go to follow, this Lent, to prepare ourselves for meeting the new life springing up all around us (Isaiah 43).

Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

References:

Acevedo Butcher, C. in Richard Rohr (2026, February 15). Wisdom from the outside: Desert and transformation. Daily Meditations. Center for Action and Contemplation. www.cac.org/daily-meditations/wisdom-from-the-outside.

Colón Delay, L. (2026). The way of the desert elders: How the wisdom of ancient Christians sustains us today. Broadleaf Books.

Valters Paintner, C. (2018). The soul’s slow ripening: 12 Celtic practices for seeking the sacred. Sorin Books.

Vatican News. (2025). Pope Francis: Lent calls us to journey together in hope [Website]. https://www.vaticannews.va/en/pope/news/2025-02/pope-francis-lent-calls-us-to-journey-together-in-hope.html#:~:text=This%20journey%20is%20not%20merely,are%20pilgrims%20in%20this%20life.%E2%80%9D

Come, and see!

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Jesus said, “Come, and see!” (John 1:39)

The French Impressionist painter, Claude Monet, captured my attention when Jessica and I visited the National Art Gallery over the Christmas holidays. It was in the special exhibit about snow and winter. The winter exhibit runs until the end of March at the National Gallery.

I lingered a little bit longer before Monet’s “Floes at Bennecourt” which captures the remarkable scene after extreme weather in January 1893 caused the Seine River in France to freeze and then thaw, “producing dramatic ice floes” (National Gallery of Canada, 2025, p. 271).

Claude Monet, “Floes at Bennecourt” (National Gallery of Canada, ‘Winter Count: Embracing the Cold’, 2025, p. 272)

What struck me was the way in which Monet so brilliantly used muted purples and browns to paint such a clear picture of what was there despite the frosty haze clouding that vision. The cloudiness, so prevalent in his art, stands in between the observer and that otherwise clear, indisputably real scene behind it.

I’m right away reminded of Saint Paul’s famous words from 1st Corinthians 13:12 – “Now we see in a mirror dimly.”

Now, it’s January, but not 1893! We find ourselves in this season after Epiphany in 2026. The word, ‘epiphany’, means revelation, uncovering. We read biblical stories of Jesus being revealed to the first disciples as the Son of God.

Epiphany asks us to grapple with the question, “How do we know Jesus, God, is revealed to us, talking to us today?” Indeed, today we see in a mirror dimly. Today, when we might not know what to do given a particular challenge in our life, we seek answers. In a time when truth seems to be covered up, clouded, we want direction. When we are not sure about who we are, what our purpose is, we may easily be attracted to voices that shout the loudest telling us what to do. Ok.

But how do we know if that’s what God wants us to do? It seems to me we need to do some work to clear the frosty haze and uncover what’s really there behind the cloudy vision. We need to practice looking beyond what is immediately apparent.

Some of my favourite biblical characters are the Magi, the wise ones, the sages from the East, who visit the Christ child by following the star to Jesus’ place of birth (Matthew 2). I aspire to the courage and confidence they demonstrate by faithfully trusting in and following that star all the way to their destination.

But perhaps the most telling part of their story is what they do after meeting with Herod on their way to visit the holy family. After their visit, they decide it is too risky to go back by the same road which would expose them to Herod’s unpredictability and violence. They have a dream that convinces them of this decision. God speaks in their dreaming.

But that’s where the biblical narrative stops. After we read that they decide to go home by a different road, we hear nothing more of the Magi. We can only imagine:

It must have been hard, perhaps frightening, journeying under threat of Herod’s wiles. We may wonder who they met along the way, what they learned, and how they told the tale of meeting Herod and seeing the Christ child (Butler Bass, 2026). Whichever way they went, they no longer had that external guide – that star – to guide them. They only had their dream.

The biblical story is nevertheless unfinished. Perhaps intentionally so, to be worked out and continued in our own lives.

Claude Monet’s “Floes at Bennecourt” was hanging in the part of the exhibition that showcased how painters use light – daytime and nighttime – to create their art.

In Epiphany, the central image is light. In the New Testament, the expression “the light of the world” is used to describe Christ Jesus (John 8:12). But then Jesus applies the same phrase to us. In Matthew 5:14, he says to the disciples, “You are the light of the world.”

Light is less something we see directly, and more something by which we see all other things (Rohr, 2025, December 28). Looking at the light directly is tough, even impossible for us humans. Just try to look at the sun for more than a few seconds! It can damage our eyes. We can’t really, directly, and always be looking at the sun, the source of the light. That is not the point of faith. The purpose of the light being given is so that we can look at what that light source illuminates, on the earth.

It’s like God is telling us to wake up! And look! And see! Maybe, see again, with renewed vision what is before us!

We have faith in Christ so we can have the faith of Christ. Practising the faith of Christ is the goal of our lives. We look at Jesus only so far as we can look out at the world with the eyes of Jesus. You are the light of the world!

So, what are we to see? What does God see, so that we can see with the eyes of Jesus? Historian, writer and theologian Diana Butler Bass, whose book (Freeing Jesus) is the subject of the Ottawa Lutherans online book club tomorrow, comments in a recent blog on what God sees when God looks at the world, at our reality.

“Certainly”, she writes, reflecting on the creation story from Genesis, “God sees sin, sorrow, the shame, the pity, the terror, and the sheer horror of it all …

“God sees beyond, through, and past the covering of the fig leaves. God sees creation ‘without deceit.’ God beholds the world as it really is, a beloved community, a feast of abundance, sparkling in the light and glory of love.

She concludes: “And God invites us to see that goodness also – with our own eyes. To see differently, looking beyond, under, through, and past the shadows … But seeing isn’t only for visionaries. Every person called to follow is called, first and foremost, to come and see. The Light dwells with all of us, opening our eyes. The Light widens the circle of welcome … The Light beckons: Come and see” (Butler Bass, 2025, pp. 89-90).

How do we tell if God is speaking to us? By looking at the world with the faith – the eyes – of Christ and focusing on where that Light shines. Come, and see!

In my practicum, a client will sometimes come to therapy expecting the counsellor to be the expert. They show up assuming the therapist will have the answers to their confounding questions about what is going on in their life and find the perfect solution for them.

They expect the proverbial star to suddenly ‘poof’ appear through the counsellor’s expertise and show them the way to go. It seems a similar dynamic exists across many professions of care, whether we are talking about mental health care, medical care or spiritual care.

During the first “Conversations Across the Church” webinar on November 30, 2025, ELCIC national bishop, Larry Kochendorfer, noted at least a couple of shifts the church needs to make in a season of anxiety and uncertainty, when our vision is clouded. He stressed that Lutherans today need to shift away from envisioning ministry – service in Christ’s name, discipleship, mission work – as clergy-led and lay-supported, to ministry that is lay-led and clergy-supported.

“The priesthood of all believers” – Martin Luther’s term.

In psychotherapy, solutions are found not in the expertise of the counsellor, but in the resources and sometimes hidden strengths in the life of the person seeking help in therapy. The job of the counsellor is to help the client realize, accept and act out of their strengths and resources.

We call it client-centred psychotherapy. The counsellor does not have all the answers and cannot know more about the client’s problem and experience of life than the client themselves. They are the expert.

“You are the light of the world.”

The other shift Bishop Larry indicated for the church today was away from a mentality of “fixing” problems to the practice of “listening”.

Sharon Brous writes, “sometimes the holiest work is not to pray them into the light, but instead to join them in the dark” (Brous, 2024, p. 144).

If we want to follow Jesus and do his work, we don’t need to drag people we care for into the light and fix their problems. We just need to listen to them. And that is accomplished by sitting with them in the dark. And see what happens. “Come, and see!” (John 1:39).

Do you see the dysfunction, the problem, and do you expect the other to adopt your solution? Or, do you look for the good, maybe hidden deep inside the other? Trust, that in your faithfulness to listen, the path forward and the way home will be illuminated.

“The Light shines in the darkness.” See with the eyes of Jesus where that light shines. And go there. Amen.

References:

Brous, S. (2024). The amen effect: Ancient wisdom to mend our broken hearts and world. Avery Books.

Butler Bass, D. (2026, January 3). Sunday musings: Another way home. The Cottage [Blog]. https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/sunday-musings-another-road-home

Butler Bass, D. (2025). A beautiful year: 52 meditations on faith, wisdom, and perseverance. St. Martin’s Essentials. Rohr, R. (2025, December 28). That by which we see. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/that-by-which-we-see

Rohr, R. (2025, December 28). That by which we see. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/that-by-which-we-see/

The power of the pause

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photo by Martin Malina, October 10, 2025 (Ottawa River at Arnprior)

It’s my job to change the calendars hanging in various locations on the walls of our house. There are a few. And I’ve notice that when I flip the calendar to the next month, I feel this grumpy eagerness to get on with it, to the next month, with a kind of dismissive good-riddance attitude towards the passing month. Like I’m on a treadmill that’s hard work and I’m glad that the month is over and we can just move on.

When I catch myself changing the calendar and feeling this ‘let’s-just-get-on-with-the-next-month’, I know there is something off within me.

So, I decided to try changing my approach. I promised myself that when I turn the calendars next time, rather than happily/grumpily dismiss the previous month I would pause and bring more of a thankful, reflectiveness to that ritual. I will intentionally bring to mind, if not anything specific that happened, a general attitude of thanksgiving for having made it despite everything that’s happened good and bad, through another month in 2025.

What this exercise — this intention — does for me, I think, is slow me down a bit to stay in that changing moment, that ritual of transition, with more positiveness and a restful, gracious heart. This change-over becomes, in short, a prayer.

Advent underscores this pivotal place for me. To stay in the pause before getting on to the next thing. This journey of change – from one thing to the next – is worthwhile because it is a better way to live.

But it’s not easy to be ok in the in-between time of waiting. It’s not easy to practise the virtues of patience, of watching, of observing, of trusting what is promised.

This hustle culture we live in puts a whole lot of pressure on us to perform perfectly, and to ramp up our activity and consumption. How can we journey on without losing our minds, our faith, our well-being? How can we experience the power of the pause which Advent invites us to experience?

Before I went on my camino in northern Spain years ago, other pilgrims who had completed the 800-kilometre hike advised me to be scrupulous about how much weight I would haul on my back. They suggested I rip out and discard the pages of the novel or guidebook I was carrying with me after I was done reading them. Just to get the weight down with each passing step on the way.

At first, I thought this was crazy. I would just make sure I didn’t pack too much from the start. The thought of needing to shed backpack weight as I went along seemed absurd to me.

Needless to say, once I started the hike, I soon learned the wisdom of this advice, to make my journey a whole lot more manageable and easier. It’s during the journey, not arriving at the destination, where the most important lessons of life are learned.

And what are we to learn during this Advent journey, this year, as we pause together between what was and what is to come?

When the ancient Israelites took their circuitous route through the desert wilderness en route to the Promised Land, they navigated hunger and thirst, desert heat, and attacking armies. And while they met up with all these challenges on the way, they carried the holy ark containing the tablets — the ten commandments — Moses had received on the mountain inscribed by the hand of God.

“But those tablets were actually the second set that Moses received.” I read recently that “right beside them in the ark sat the broken shards of the first set, which Moses had smashed in his rage when he witnessed the people dancing mindlessly around the golden calf” (Brous, 2024, pp. 98-99). Both sets. The tablets and the broken tablets – both holy – rested together in the ark.

That’s a significant amount of extra weight, wouldn’t you say, to carry on a long journey?! Not very efficient packing for the long, desert journey! Why wouldn’t they have just taken the new, second set and discarded the broken pieces from the first set? Why would they have intentionally doubled their load to carry? You may think this is mere biblical trivia. But there’s nothing trivial about this.

The desert figures prominently in the readings for Advent. It’s in the desert where the prophets of God do their work. Isaiah preaches a future vision free of suffering (Isaiah 35:1-10). John the Baptist foretells the coming of the Messiah (Matthew 11:2-11). These proclamations all come from within the desert.

Biblically, the desert is the place of transition and transformation. The desert, for the ancient people of faith, was the way home – first the way out of slavery in Egypt to the Promised Land, then, centuries later, the way out of Babylonian exile back home to Jerusalem. In the Christmas story, the Holy Family also travelled through the desert from Egypt back home to Nazareth after the threat of Herod’s reign had passed. Through the desert. Back home.

That first journey through the desert out of Egypt was, by the way, a journey that could have taken the Israelites just 11 days on foot – the direct way to the Jordan River. You wonder if they couldn’t have been more efficient in their travel plans, especially because of all the hardship they met in the desert.

But instead, it took them 40 years. A journey that, at the time, could have taken just 11 days, took them 40 years. So, two conclusions we cannot ignore: First, the theme of journeying is vitally important to a life of faith.  And second, what we carry on that journey includes even the broken pieces of our lives!

Seasons of transition, these difficult times of change and challenge, from one place or situation to the next, these in between times need our attention. They give us permission and call us to explore the power of the pause in our lives individually and as a church. These times and places have something to tell us and call us to change our direction.

Maybe, to start, one lesson here is that in times of change, the broken pieces we carry have just as much value to us and our faith as do the more polished, perfected, certain and secure aspects of our lives.

In the Gospel today from Matthew 11, Jesus rebukes those who expected the word of God to come by means of “soft, plush robes in royal palaces” (v.8). The word of God comes by means of the desert, the wilderness, by the raw, rough and even harsh words of a less-than-polished, trouble-making John the Baptist.

Author Cole Arthur Riley writes, “There is no greater exhaustion than a charade of spirituality” (Riley, 2022, p. 186). The charade is maintained when celebrating Christmas ignores the wisdom of Advent preceding it.

Advent does not permit us to rush headlong into soft lights and mistletoe, cheery or sentimental Christmas music. Advent calls us into that pivotal space where we slow things down to find the “sacred fusion of sorrow and celebration” (Brous, 2024, p. 99). In so doing, we discover a way home to what God is preparing for us.

The pain cannot be hidden away, even at this time of year. The sorrowing world, the grief we bear, these changing times with all the suffering we encounter. Advent calls us not to dismiss and discard these realities. Rather to hold them all in the light. Even as we sing, Joy to the World.

The Gospel brings good news, yes. But it never minimizes the realness of our pain. “Rejoice with trembling” (Psalm 2:11, English Standard Version) the Psalmist instructs. Even when we’re rejoicing, we should tremble a little. In other words, be careful “not to … disconnect from [our] humanity that lives and dies, loves and loses, suffers and sometimes finds solace” (Brous, 2024, p. 102).

So maybe Advent is the simple invitation to try. Try to stay in the moment of in-between a little longer. In that in-between, try to embrace both the joy and the suffering. And maybe, in the desert, you too will witness the power of the pause as you discover God’s promise delivered, in and around you.

In a webinar a couple of weeks ago called “Conversations Across the Church” hosted by newly elected national ELCIC bishop, Larry Kochendorfer, he concluded by praying his favourite prayer from the ELW. It’s on page 76, the last one on that page, for those who would like to look it up later. Let us pray:

O God, where hearts are fearful and constricted, grant courage and hope. Where anxiety is infectious and widening, grant peace and reassurance. Where impossibilities close every door and window, grant imagination and resistance. Where distrust twists our thinking, grant healing and illumination. Where spirits are daunted and weakened, grant soaring wings and strengthened dreams. All these things we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. Amen. (ELCA, 2006).

References:

Brous, S. (2024). The amen effect: Ancient wisdom to mend our broken hearts and world. Avery.

Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. (2006). Evangelical lutheran worship: Pew edition. Augsburg Fortress.

Riley, C. A. (2022). This here flesh: Spirituality, liberation, and the stories that make us. Convergent Books.

Even if

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See, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings (Malachi 4:1-2a).

Jesus says, “When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified, for these things must take place first, but the end will not follow immediately” (Luke 21:9).

These scriptures can make us feel afraid. We can come away from our bible reading today fearful, scared. Our already heightened sense of foreboding for all the bad things that are happening in the world today is not calmed down by these readings. In fact, these scriptures may serve only to fuel and fan the flames of our terror.

I read recently an interesting fact about our brains. When facing a threat, our brain registers three levels of response in succession. The first response – the first brain mechanism that fires when we are confronted by any threat – is not fight or flight. Whenever we feel threatened, the first level activated by the nervous system, is also not freeze and dissociation. Fight or flight, freeze and numbing, are respectively the second and third responses of the nervous system.

No, the very first brain mechanism that fires when we are threatened, the very first level activated by the brain to the nervous system, is social engagement (Van der Kolk, 2014, p. 82). It is reaching out to others. When we don’t get that, when we miss that first level of reaching out to get the help we need from another person, then the brain trips the second and third activations.

When we read the apocalyptic texts – the end-of-times, doom-and-gloom ones like for today – it makes sense to view these scriptures as messages to a traumatized community of faith that must remain together through their trials.

The follow up question for us, is how can we as people of faith meet the many increasing challenges in our lives in an increasingly hostile and divisive world. What do we do first?

I came across a picture of Jesus sitting in a tiny rowboat with a child. The boat is in the ocean. And coming straight toward them is a towering wave at least ten stories high and just about to crash over them. Jesus and the child are facing each other with a caring, trusting and loving disposition. They’re holding hands.

The caption reads: Fear is: “What if …” Faith is, “Even if ….”  “What if” thinking only stokes the catastrophic thinking and anxiety plaguing so many of us today. What if I get sick? What if I make a mistake? What if I miss my opportunity? What if I lose a relationship I cherish? What if I lose my job? What if, What if, What if? “What if” thinking is based in fear and usually creates unhealthy stress and reinforces unhelpful behaviour.

On the other hand, people of faith will practice saying, “Even if”. After all, Jesus says these terrible things “must take place first” (Luke 21:9). It’s not even a question of whether or not, really. Eventually all of us must confront our greatest fears.

So, even if that proverbial wave crashes down over the tiny boat submerging its occupants in the turmoil and crushing weight of water, Jesus goes down with us. Jesus is not afraid to encounter with us our worst fears. Jesus is not afraid to be with us through it all, even dying, because he’s gone through it himself. Our worst-case scenario, he’s been there done that.

So even when the worst thing happens, you will not be alone. Even if you lose everything, you will not be abandoned. Even if your limitations grow and you can no longer function the way you used to, you still have purpose, and you still are loved.

The cross of Christ can enable us to live despite all that challenges us, all the difficulties we face. We gaze on the cross because the story is not over at the foot of the cross.

Our hope is sustained because we are not alone. Being in community creates a larger context for our lives, a meaning beyond our individual fate. We face the proverbial music together.

And I think that’s the point of these scriptures. They are addressed not to individuals, but to communities whose suffering is held together. Recall, that the early followers of Jesus in those first centuries were persecuted and run underground, literally. To survive, those groups of individuals needed to stick together. Given the harsh reality facing people of faith at the time, these texts served as propaganda for their time – a kind of pep talk, motivational piece – aiming to provide solidarity for communities under duress.

I read recently that when the traditional creeds – the Apostles and Nicene – were developed and composed between the 2nd and 4th centuries, that the phrase – “communion of saints” – was the last phrase added to the Creed. The last phrase, why is that? Is it because it took a while for those early Christians to realize how important it was to be in community when facing a personal and collective crisis – of faith, of health, of personal safety? (Rohr, 2025).

In one another’s care, when we make space and hold space for each other’s suffering, that’s where we encounter the living presence of Jesus in our midst. That’s where Christ is present.

I came across a beautiful description of an ancient pilgrimage ritual, “when hundreds of thousands of people would ascent to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the focal point of Jewish religious and political life in the ancient world.

“The crowd would enter the Courtyard in a mass of humanity, turning to the right and circling – counterclockwise – around the enormous complex, exiting close to where they had entered.

“But someone suffering … the grieving, the lonely, the sick – someone to whom something awful had happened – that person would walk through the same entrance and circle in the opposite direction. Just as we do when we’re hurting: every step, against the current. And every person who passed the brokenhearted would stop and ask: “What happened to you?” “I lost my mother,” the bereaved would answer. “I miss her so much.” Or perhaps, “My husband left.” Or, “I found a lump.” “Our son is sick.” “I just feel so lost.”

“Two thousand years ago, the Rabbis constructed a system of ritual engagement built on a profound psychological insight: when you’re suffering … you show up. You root your suffering in the context of care … You don’t pretend that you’re okay. You’re not okay … the whole world moves seamlessly in one direction and you in another. And even still, you trust that you won’t be marginalized, mocked, misunderstood. In this place, you will be held, even at the ragged edge of life.

“And those who walked from right to left – each one of them – would look into the eyes of the ill, the bereft, and the bereaved. “May God comfort you,” they would say, one by one. “May you be wrapped in the embrace of this community.” “What’s your story? Why does your heart ache?” And after the grief-stricken person answers, you would respond, “I see you, you are not alone.” (Brous, 2024, pp. 3-5).

Our instinct, in facing a threat or some kind of suffering, is to fight, or to retreat, to avoid, to isolate, to hide from others and give up. The tradition of faith, the good parts, are all about resisting those urges and activating what our brain structures are already, naturally wired for.

So, when you meet tough times, if anything, show up. What does showing-up look like for you? It may be faithfully watching the online, weekly services of worship. It may be coming in person to church services every week, once a month, seasonally, or whenever you are able. It may mean asking a friend to drive you to church. However it looks like for you, enter into the spaces and places where people of faith gather. Enter into those places and spaces even if it means swimming against the current.

And if you are not suffering when you go to worship, open your hearts and ears to receive and to validate the stories of those who are. And you will be giving them a great gift.

The gift of Christ’s presence.

References:

Brous, S. (2024). The amen effect: Ancient wisdom to mend our broken hearts and world. Avery.

Rohr, R. (2025). The tears of things: Prophetic wisdom for an age of outrage. Convergent.

Van der Kolk, B. A. (2014). The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma. Penguin.

Reception and release

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“Increase our faith!” the disciples ask Jesus (Luke 17:5). Perhaps they in so doing expose their underlying belief that they are not good enough at practising their faith. “Increase our faith!” is their prayer.

And perhaps yours, too.

What does it mean, to have more faith? What does that look like?

When my beef tomato plant yielded hundreds of blooms early in the summer my hopes soared. But as the blooms turned into tiny green golf-balls, then turned yellow and grew finally into the large, red ripened tomatoes, the vast majority of them had a problem.

Even in the premature, un-ripened stage all of them with very few exceptions showed signs of rot, starting from the bottom up. Many of these rotten tomatoes didn’t even have a bottom. It looked like someone had sliced off the bottom half which was flat and blackened.

At a critical stage early in the plant’s development, the tomato plant did not get what it needed. When I looked up this problem, the experts suggested this plant did not receive the requisite amount of calcium. The soil, in other words, did not provide this plant with the needed nutrients mediated by regular watering.

But it was not just about what was missing, but when. As soon as I noticed the first tiny green tomato with the rot back in July, and did my research, I started watering the plant, even soaking the ground, every evening. But it was too late. I’d missed that critical stage in its development. Early on in its growth, that is when the watering and soil treatment should have happened.

“Increase our faith!” The disciples asked Jesus to strengthen what they probably perceived to be their weak faith. They had just heard Jesus’ difficult teaching on the need to forgive others who have hurt them (Luke 17:1-4). They likely felt unable to do this and concluded that they didn’t have enough faith. They may even have gotten down on themselves. Not having enough faith translated into being a bad person.

Jesus responds with a parable to temper their expectations. To sum it up, I can hear Jesus ask them a rhetorical question: “Who do you think you are, God?”

As far as gardening goes, I felt like a failure.

A couple of things I need to remember regarding my disappointing tomato plant experience: First, we did get a few, really good, juicy-sweet tomatoes from it. It wasn’t a total loss.

Second, I might do well to recall my part in its growth. And this ties in with the act of blessing, which we have engaged in this morning. Because when we give a blessing, how are the blessing’s gifts realized? After all, the blessing’s benefits must be received in order for the blessing to be fulfilled. It’s not just the giving but the receiving as well.

The action of blessing our pets is a good exercise of faith for us today, because, of course, we have little way of verifying scientifically that our blessing confers anything of value on our pet. They can’t even say, “Thank you, I feel better already.” But we still do it, faithfully if imperfectly. And that is the important piece.

Is it not the same relating with human beings? In our stuffed-up pride, we may like to believe that our caring and our words and our blessing actions must have a positive effect on those whom we bless when we can see and verify it by their changed behaviour, or whatever. The value of our prayers, our service, our words become contingent on a verifiable result. And when we don’t have that result immediately, we may lose faith in ourselves and in God.

My gardening failure, taken as a metaphor to failing at all my righteous attempts to do good, doesn’t mean I’m weak in my faith or not praying hard enough. When you experience failure, it doesn’t mean your faith is deficient.

The paradox is that for anything great to happen, for any wondrous change to occur for the better, we first must accept ourselves as we are, with all our limits and weaknesses. Whenever we avoid, mask, pretend and think more and expect more from us than what is, we often run into trouble and bring about the opposite of what we seek.

After the first week of training and orientation at my practicum site last month, I felt I had a tentative and yet untested grip on all the policies, procedures and digital charting protocols. I was just beginning to understand how things operated in the office, receiving referrals from the doctors and using the proper charting process, never mind the actual practice of counselling clients.

There are, including me, four psychotherapists in our department. On one day in the second week, it so happened that the other three were not in the office. For the whole day, I was it, the only therapist on site.

I wondered, at first, why I had been left all by myself. There were still things I wasn’t sure about. But I managed through all the hiccups and logistics that challenged me that day. I figured out solutions, if only temporary. As the day wore on, I found more confidence in myself and found an unexpected pride in occupying that space and role for the day.

Later I reflected how important that experience was for me not to lean on the crutch of more experienced professionals at my beck and call to help me. I appreciated the faith my colleagues had in me to leave me alone in their office and on their computers. It was, in truth, an important part of my learning.

They had faith in me! God has faith in me, and God has faith in you!

The prayer to God, “Increase our faith” is learning to trust the faith that God already has in us especially when things are stressful, tense and not going our way – when we’re not on our game, when we are suffering, grieving, losing.

Let me repeat: Increasing our faith looks more like the practice of receiving and trusting in the faith of God in us, when we are not at our best.

This Gospel is about God validating the faith already in us, never mind how strong or weak it is. The real question is – Do we trust the incredible faithfulness God has in us? Do we trust God’s faithfulness in us,

enough faith to let us make our own mistakes,

enough faith to let us make our own decisions with the resources we already have,

enough faith to let us meet those tough days without giving up,

enough faith to let us use what we already have for good,

enough faith to meet our seemingly insurmountable challenges with courage,

enough faith to trust we are never out of the reach of God’s love, mercy, grace and forgiveness.

Our new national bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada (ELCIC), the Rev. Bishop Larry Kochendorfer, said recently: “We do not fully know the future, but we have what we need. We have bread and wine, we have the scriptures, we have each other … Jesus comes alongside. Love is at our side.”

The blessing we receive from God is God’s faith in us. The blessing is the gift of accepting that God believes in us because God loves us. And this is the blessing we give to others.

When we bless others, we have faith in them, in their abilities to meet their own challenges with the resources, and the God-given capacities they have, to grow and flourish.

“Increase our faith, Lord. Help us lean on the faith you have in your creation. Help us trust you have given us enough of what we need to live by your grace and love.”

Amen.

Heaven’s perspective

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I surprised myself by how much more reading I’m getting done. More than I had expected. I suppose I underestimated how many audio books I would be listening to while driving up to Pembroke several times a week for my counselling practicum.

But this book I read the old-fashioned way – paper copy in hand (but not while driving, let me assure you!).

In his book entitled, “The Plover” (a plover is a shorebird), the late Brian Doyle authors a fictional tale about the seafaring travels of Declan and his crew aboard the boat called, you guessed it, the Plover.

One of his crew members is a seagull – yes, a seagull – who accompanies the Plover across the Pacific Ocean. Through storm and gale, calm and quiet, the gull is a faithful companion who, unbeknownst to the crew, tries to communicate to them. Sitting on the deck, or flying 9 feet above the stern, the gull makes remarks about their idiosyncrasies, dangers ahead, islands that exist just beyond the horizon they cannot yet see (Doyle, 2014, pp. 188-190).

This communication only the reader understands. However, Declan and his mates, for the most part, only hear what we normally hear from seagulls – a whole lot of squawking.

There is another character in the story who reflects a little bit of the gull’s perspective, a visionary or prophet you might say, who is not understood. He is referred to simply as the “minister” – a political one.

Before joining the crew, he was violently kicked out of his island home, for proposing an unacceptable vision for his Pacific nation. The minister was rejected because he described a reality he believed in, but for most, unrealistic. He envisioned people actually getting along.

This political vision was largely a dream. It existed over the horizon of human experience. The minister’s vision was the way of non-violence, care and empathy. It was a way of the future just around the proverbial bend of human history. This minister spoke of making the impossible possible (Doyle, 2014, pp. 185-187).

You think it’s impossible that human beings separated by culture, politics and religion can be caring, loving, and compassionate to one another, despite all our differences? Maybe we need to think again.

In the Gospel reading today, we, the reader, observe the story of the rich man from the perspective of heaven (Luke 16:19-31). We see the big picture of rich man’s life, and his life after death.

The rich man’s life is marked by privilege and wealth. His life on earth was the gold standard. His life is what everyone aspired to, what everybody wanted.

Contrast that with his life after death. His life after death comes as a surprise to him, and perhaps to us as well. Why would someone as great and successful and privileged as the rich man end up in hell? This Gospel flies in the face of a belief which rewards the prosperous in which you must earn your worth, where the value of your personal worth is equal to how much money you have. I’m describing the world’s values.

The perspective of heaven, in contrast, announces that while the rich man may have reached the top of the ladder according to the world’s values, he had been, in the end, climbing the wrong ladder.

But the crux of this story is what lies in-between. Between these two realities that only the perspective of heaven can see lies a great chasm. In the story, Abraham tells the condemned rich man that this chasm “has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there” back (Luke 16:26). No one can breach this chasm, this divide. The realm of the afterlife, and the realm on earth are divided. And no crossing over is possible.

We can wrap us this sermon here and say that nothing is impossible with Christ. Christ makes all things possible, against all odds. By miraculous, supernatural means, even. To justify our claim, many of us Christians quote that famous verse from Paul’s letter to the Philippians: “I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me” (4:13). True.

But that verse is not a promise of guaranteed success in every personal endeavor. All things being possible is not a mission statement for doing the impossible according to what I want – my individual desires or longings, or even what the world values.

Rather, all things possible in Christ means all things are possible on earth according to the perspective of heaven, according to God’s vision, God’s future, God’s desire. All things are possible pursuing the righteousness of God, the mission of God.

We may not be in a position now to be able to believe that human beings can relate to one another with empathy, with compassion, with grace and love. You may not believe now that it is possible for people in your life to change for the better, for all wars to cease, for the lion to lie down with the lamb (Isaiah 11:6), for combatants to lay down the sword, for anger to be transformed into a desire for justice.

But maybe it doesn’t matter whether you can believe this claim. Maybe all that matters now is that the idea lies within you now, that the word of grace resides in you like a seed waiting to sprout.

Why?

Because this bible story from Luke is not over, on different levels. First, we don’t know whether the rich man’s brothers changed for the better or not. That story is yet to be written.

Same with us. The story of your life is not over. The story of my life. There is a reason the rich man remains nameless in this story. Because the rich man is us.

Furthermore, the story of Lazarus and the rich man is not over from the perspective of Christ’s resurrection. In the story, Abraham speaks “as if” someone rises from the dead (Luke 16:31). But someone later did! Jesus overcame the chasm separating this life from the next. Jesus overcame death and grave and opened to all people the way of everlasting life.

This past summer I’ve also watched more movies than I usually do. In the film, “The Gorge” (Apple Original Films, 2025), Cold War soldiers have kept watch over a mysterious and deep canyon since the end of the Second World War. The bottom of this gorge is shrouded in mist.

Decades after decades highly trained soldiers took turns alone at the watch towers on either side, but no one ever spoke nor communicated in any way with their counterpart. The two soldiers, from opposites sides of an impossible divide whom we meet in this film, finally do cross over, literally and figuratively. And what finally breached the divide was love. It’s a love story.

In a pivotal scene the deadly creatures climbed up from the bottom of the gorge and began to attack one of the outposts at the top. The soldier from the other side fired a grappling hook, so he could zip-line across to help defend the other from their common foe. He was motivated by self-giving love which put him at great, personal risk.

Jesus’ resurrection means that eternity starts now. The bridge over the chasm separating this life from the next is already built. God’s love for us breaches this deep and wide chasm that separates us from God and from one another. We who journey in the way of Christ always have a chance to grow, to change, to be transformed into the likeness of Jesus. Because the God of love is a God of second chances.

Even though we may stumble from time to time doing the right thing, even though we, like the rich man, fail to see the need of Lazarus at our gate time and time again (Malina, 2016), we don’t stop trying. Because Jesus’ resurrection lives in us.

The chasm can be breached, with Love as our guide. That is our hope.

References:

Derrickson, S. (Director). (2025). The gorge [Film]. Apple Original Films.

Doyle, B. (2014). The Plover. Picador.

Malina, M. (2016). Mirage gates [Blog]. WordPress. https://raspberryman.ca/2016/09/23/mirage-gates/