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 is a time to journey in preparation for meeting the risen Christ in our daily lives. And this journey through the desert – the cross – is not easy.

We humans are fixated on glory, by winning. 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, to 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 in 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 by trusting in the ever-presence of God. 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 the way 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. Yet 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 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 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/

You have a place at the table

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Online Services at Faith Lutheran Church, Ottawa (www.faithottawa.ca)

In my last sermon before the start of my practicum, I want to focus on and underscore the central action of the church to be welcoming and affirming of all people, without exception. I want to thank the congregational council for giving their blessing and support for the adventure on which we now embark over the next 8 months, which will see me take a significant step back from working in the church as I complete the practical part of my Master of Arts in Counselling Psychology program. I also want to thank the congregation, in advance, for giving Pastor Rosalie an ideal and excellent opportunity to practise her skills and development as a Lutheran pastor in the Canadian context. You are giving her this opportunity to exercise leadership as you pursue together God’s mission in this world, to invite all people to partake of God’s grace and love, without exception. Thanks be to God. ~ Pastor Martin

Do you have a place at the table? Do you feel there’s room for you around the table of the Lord? Is there a place for you, here, in the church?

On the last day of school at the end of June, every year like clockwork, we look forward to receiving an invitation to attend the annual Ida Street BBQ in Arnprior.

For years, neighbours at the end of our street host a gathering around food and drink. The street is barricaded off to vehicle traffic. And we are given the opportunity to meet each other, mix and mingle at the start of the summer holidays.

A diverse group of people from all walks of life, identities, backgrounds and life experiences gather around food.

In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus is especially preoccupied by eating (Saddler Jr., 2010). There are, in Luke, more references to eating, banquets, tables, and reclining at tables than in any of the other Gospels (Karris, 1985).

It is sitting or reclining around the table where Jesus teaches (22:24-30; 11:37-41) and encounters those who are marginalized (7:39). The table is the focal point in some of his parables (16:21; 14:15-24), as in today’s banquet feast parable (14:7-14).

That the table is the centre piece in Jesus’ teaching and fellowship should not escape our notice. There’s something important about eating together that sets the stage for healing and for restoring broken relationships. Jesus will not only meet us when we come together over food and fellowship but has something to teach us at the table of the Lord.

One of my earliest memories about church was Communion Sundays. I remember picking up on the holiness of the moment happening at the front.

But it wasn’t holy because of the kind of bread, or wafer offered or the wine. It was something about just the simple experience of going to the front with others. I would kneel or stand shoulder to shoulder on the same level as everyone else around the altar.

We were, all of us around the communion rail, in this holy action together in all our diversity. Part of God’s family.

And it wasn’t just an individual thing. There was no table of honour, for some. It wasn’t the privileged people who got to go first to receive communion, or anything like that. It was table after table of the mix of people who ever happened to be in line at the time our table was called.

That was the good memory. What I also remember that slightly annoyed me, quite frankly, were all the words. My Dad, the pastor, would read the longest Eucharistic prayer in the book! And while I appreciated the beautiful language and theological import of the words spoken before Communion, I grew astonishingly restless. “Just get on with it! Let’s go to the front!” was what my heart cried out.

Church is about doing, as much as it is about thinking and feeling.

My recent studies about what brings psychological healing made me appreciate what we do in faith, week after week, coming to the table of the Lord. What we do brings spiritual and psychological healing.

‘Talk therapy’ is popular these days. Many of the cognitive treatments rely on a whole of verbiage, to the extent that we’ve come to believe resolution only comes by coherently and accurately telling yourself and another what you think and what you feel. Religion isn’t the only place we encounter a whole lot of words. But words alone don’t save us.

We may be saved ‘by the Word’ – meaning the “Word became flesh” (John 1:14) in Jesus. But we are not saved by words alone – arguments, disputations, constitutions, belief statements. When Jesus says, “we are not saved by bread alone” (Matthew 4:4) he means we are not saved by material possessions or even spiritual materialism.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was convinced himself, and wrote, that “the church is constituted not by religious formulae, by dogma, but by the practical doing of what is commanded [by Jesus]” (Barnhill, 2005, p. 253).

What brings healing is more than just books, talk therapy or words alone. Because, to Jesus, socially constructed, mentally devised distinctions that divide people do not define a person’s value, a person’s worth.

What defines a person’s value, dignity and worth is God’s invitation. God’s invitation, in Christ Jesus, to sit at the same table as everyone else. Gone are the ‘places of honour’. Gone is a ranking system, a pecking order, based on meritocracy and those who ‘deserve it’, reserved only and exclusively for those who have achieved ‘great things’. God’s invitation is not only for those who have it all, those who are perfect.

You don’t have to prove yourself worthy. Communion isn’t only for those whose lives are just right. You don’t receive Communion only when you are somehow rid of all your impurities and can show the best of yourself.

Because the truth of the Gospel, the good news in Christ Jesus, is that even if you lose everything (or I should say when you lose everything because eventually, we all will) – financial security, wealth, prestige, physical strength, your reputation, your social standing, those you love – when you lose it all, you still have a place at the table.

That’s why Holy Communion is offered to those in hospital beds and care homes, to the dying, to the poor, the marginalized, the suffering.

No matter what station of life, whether you are climbing the ladder and amassing your portfolio and finding the better jobs with higher income scales, you have a place at the table. In the prime of life in great health and are living the dream, you have a place at the table.

And, when things are failing, when you are descending the ladder, you have a place at the table. Even if you are staring into the abyss, unknowing and uncertain about a scary future. Even if your health is failing, resources are dwindling, and you are alone in your struggles. You have a place at the table.

There is always a place at the Lord’s table for you. God invites you, more than once a year. How about every time the church gathers to worship? You are all welcome, without exception!

References:

Barnhill, C. (Ed.). (2005). A year with Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Daily meditations from his letters, writings, and sermons. Harper One.

Karris, R. J. (1985). Luke: Artist and theologian: Luke’s passion account as literature. Paulist Press.

Saddler Jr., R. S. (2010). Luke 14:1, 7-14: Exegetical perspective. In D. L. Bartlett & B. B. Taylor (Eds.), Feasting on the word: Preaching the revised common lectionary, year c volume 4 (pp. 21-25). Westminster John Knox Press.

Wildfires and the journey of faith

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Labyrinth at Bonnevaux Centre for Peace (photo by Martin Malina, 21 July 2023, Marçay, France)

How could such a beginning
Ringed in water
Come to such an end
Fixed in fire?
(King, 2019)

When I recently read this poetic lament written by Canadian Indigenous historian and poet, Thomas King, I couldn’t help but immediately think about all the wildfires this summer.

Others are calling on us Canadians to get used to the “new reality” (Reed, 2025, August 11) regarding summertime wildfires. 2025 has been the second worst year for wildfires after the record-setting year in 2023.

The average number of hectares that burn over a 5-year period in Canada is around 4 million. This year alone, seven-and-a-half million hectares of land have burned due to wildfires, about 78% more than the 5-year average.

The warmer it gets the more fires we see. It is a stark manifestation of the climate crisis, with temperatures this past spring already two-and-a-half degrees Celsius above average. The hotter the climate the more the atmosphere sucks moisture out of the dead vegetation and the forest floor, creating ideal conditions for fires to start. The warmer temperatures increase the frequency of lightning that sparks the fires. Lightning is a leading cause of wildfires in remote regions of Canada’s north.

Indeed,

How could such a beginning
Ringed in water
Come to such an end
Fixed in fire?
(King, 2019)

How do you interpret this poem? Likely, we can go in many different directions with it. We could, like I initially did, take his poem literally and refer it to creation and the climate crisis.

We could also read it as a metaphor for faith, describing the journey of faith beginning in the waters of baptism and ending in the fiery passion of living in the Spirit?

Whichever way you go, poetic words are meant to call out from each of us – our own hearts and minds – a unique response. Scripture is meant that way, to elicit and evoke something from us.

Like last week’s Gospel, Jesus’ words in the opening verse of today’s reading from Luke leans into this approach: “I came to cast fire to the earth and how I wish it were already ablaze!” (Luke 12:49). Poetic. But is Jesus angry? Is he vengeful?

Recall, Jesus recently rebuked James and John for wanting retribution, wanting to bring down fire from heaven on unwelcoming Samaritans (Luke 9:54-55). Jesus means a different kind of fire. This is not the fire that incinerates. It’s not the fire of judgement raining down from heaven upon the heads of God’s (read, ‘our’) enemies. Let’s be careful about taking these poetic words literally.

Some bible scholars suggest Jesus is talking about the fire he takes upon himself. This is the “baptism by fire” (Lull, 2010, p. 361) that entails his own suffering, his own passion. God’s work on earth is Jesus’ own self-giving, his own sacrifice on the cross. “How I wish it were already ablaze,” Jesus says. How he wishes his purpose on earth was already accomplished. He was passionate.

So, where does that leave us? Jesus does not let his disciples, nor we, off the hook. In this season after Pentecost we continue to be reminded of the Holy Spirit’s work in our lives, in the church on earth. The fire the Spirit of God brings burns in the hearts and minds of followers of Jesus. “Were not our hearts burning within us?” confessed the disciples after seeing the resurrected Jesus (Luke 24:32). A spiritual awakening, a growth, a movement enflamed by the Spirit’s power continues to burn in the hearts of Jesus’ followers ever since.

So, if the fire in this Gospel refers to the passion of Jesus leading through the suffering of the cross and the empty tomb, the death and resurrection of Jesus introduce us to the paradox of faith. In other words, we cannot bypass the pain on the path to new life. Death before resurrection. Whatever good for which we pray, strive and seek only comes by way of hard, personal work. The good results from the struggle.

At the orientation meeting when I started the Master of Arts in Counselling Psychology over a year and a half ago, the Dean of the program told all of us newbies that, “to learn is to churn.” To churn, like hurricane Erin now does in the eastern Caribbean.

To learn is to churn. I didn’t want to believe him at first. But I can honestly now say that this learning journey, while rewarding and affirming in many ways, has also been a churning, so to speak.

Learning is something we say we are always doing. But the growth and positive change don’t come without the pain of loss. The ‘little deaths’, as Martin Luther liked to put it. This challenge can apply to everything from family relations to politics to community engagement and church work, from caring for ourselves and others to meeting our daily challenges. Solutions don’t come without some churning along the way.

To learn is to churn. On the one hand, churning is about movement. When we confront the ambiguity and nuance and complexity of life, we don’t just give up and stay stuck in this challenging awareness. Churning is about movement. We do something. Our behaviour changes.

At the same time, churning is about a movement that is not rushed nor hastily reactive. Churning turns things over, mixing it all, going deep. We don’t rush the turns of life. We spend time in, embrace, the change as hard as it is. Teilhard de Chardin said, “Above all, trust in the slow work of God” (DotMagis, 2025). Churning.

One highlight of the summer for me happened on the first day of summer, when members of three congregations in this community went for a walk from garden to garden to garden. We ended by walking the labyrinth on the floor in the parish hall at Julian of Norwich Anglican Church.

The labyrinth has a history in the Christian tradition. During the Middle Ages, when Christian pilgrimages to Jerusalem were disrupted by conflict, particularly during the Crusades, Christians developed labyrinths as a substitute for the physical journey to the Holy Land. 

These labyrinths, often called “Chemins de Jerusalem” (Paths of Jerusalem), provided a way for Christians to symbolically journey to Jerusalem through prayer and meditation, particularly on the Passion of Christ. The most famous of these labyrinths is in the Chartres Cathedral near Paris, France.

When I walked on the labyrinth at Julian of Norwich, praying and reflecting on the journey of life and faith, these words pierced my heart with renewed appreciation: “There is no wrong turn”. On the labyrinth, there is no wrong turn.

The labyrinth, after all, is not a maze. In a maze you may be tricked or mistaken in taking a wrong turn which leads to a dead end, right? But not so in a labyrinth. There is only the one path, leading to the centre. You just need to follow it.

And be mindful of the turns. Those turns take you around 360 degrees. If you are sprinting, you might overshoot and miss the turn. But by remaining faithful to the slow work, by staying on the path, that is all. You just need to take your time at each turn. On the labyrinth, there is no wrong turn. In a life of faith, there is no wrong turn.

These turns, changes of direction, in life, are not easy. But these turns provide the best learning opportunities in your life. And yes, to learn is to churn.

As I focus on my practicum over the next eight months, I will have an excellent opportunity to learn. It will also be an excellent opportunity for you, the congregation, to learn. To learn together in a new way.

Trust the path. On the way, there is no wrong turn. No decision you make is outside the purview of God’s grace, mercy and love. Because the path you are on, even with all the turns, takes you to the center of Jesus’ heart, into the fullness of Christ’s presence and love. This is the eternal journey that begins now, and in eternity never ends.

The promised glory at the end of the road requires us to take that road, and fully embrace ourselves on the path ahead, one step at a time.

Trust in the slow work of God. And be amazed.

References:

DotMagis (Ed.). (2025). Prayer of Teilhard de Chardin: Patient trust [Website]. Loyola Press. https://www.ignatianspirituality.com/prayer-of-theilhard-de-chardin/

King, T. (2019). 77 fragments of a familiar ruin: Poems. Harper Collins.

Lull, P. J. (2010). Luke 12:49-56: Pastoral perspective. In D. L. Bartlett & B. B. Taylor (Eds.), Feasting on the word: Preaching the revised common lectionary, year c volume 3 (pp. 359-362). Westminster John Knox Press.

Reed, B. (2025, August 11). Canada wildfire season already second worst on record as experts warn of ‘new reality’ [website]. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2025/aug/11/canada-wildfire-season

On the lookout

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The Sentry (photo by Martin Malina)

In the Star Wars movies, occasionally we come across the sentry in the tower. You know, the guy wearing the long helmet standing in a narrow pod high up in the trees?

The sentries in Star Wars play a vital role in the Rebel Alliance’s defense strategy, acting as a first line of warning against the evil Imperial forces. They use hand-held scanners to check transponder codes and get eyes-on weapons status of incoming ships.

But I have a problem with that image.

With all the high tech involved in Star Wars, including hyper-speed travelling spaceships, light sabres and tractor beams, you’d think that the radar and other digital visual systems should be enough to identify incoming threats from afar. Why do you need someone standing atop the trees outside? It seems a bit odd, given the science fiction genre of the story. After all, wouldn’t it be too late if enemy fighters came zooming in from outer space at high speed when the sentry first identifies them?

The argument is that the sentry’s position is hard to spot nestled among the trees, presuming the location of the Rebel Alliance’s base remains a secret. Good point.

I realized I needed to go beyond what was an initial, critical reaction or response. I needed to engage in a dialogue with someone else, which I did on a discussion website.

There is also something odd I find in this Gospel text for today (Luke 12:32-40). The general theme of the parable is about what we value, and about being alert. The logic fails a bit in this last part. For me, the parable ends by floating a bit off the ground of reality, like one of those hovercrafts in Star Wars.

It’s like captain obvious. Everyone needs sleep. Therefore, it’s impossible to prevent theft. Obviously if the house owner knew when the thieves would arrive, he would stay up and wait for them. Is Jesus setting us up for failure? Surely he’s not saying we need to stop sleeping or never rest.

The friction in my mind made me move. I dug a little bit into the way Jesus taught. Maybe Jesus set up the story in this way in order to evoke a reaction, a response, so that the reader or listener participates in the meaning-making exercise?

We have to remember Jesus’ role as a teacher in his Jewish lineage. To understand Jesus as a teacher is to remember that even those with great authority teach within a long line of communal interpretation (Bass, 2021).

When Jesus preached, he didn’t give sermons from behind lecterns and pulpits. He engaged his listeners so that together, in their dialogue, they would create the message (Nabhan, 2021). He would evoke from the listener the relevant meaning for them.

So, if you are like me, maybe we have to start with our initial reactions or responses to the parable, then engage each other and God in prayer to uncover, discover and appreciate God’s message to us today. In this way we encounter a living text, reflecting that we are the living body of Christ today in this world.

So, with this understanding of our union in Christ, let’s start with the themes of being prepared, of staying alert, of paying attention; and, of where our treasure is, what are our values.

Let’s contrast the world’s values with the way of Christ – the kingdom of God. We live in that tension all the time.

Are “being on high alert” and being “asleep at the switch” our only alternatives? Like I said, I don’t know anyone in the history of humanity who never slept or rested. So, maybe it isn’t either/or. A better question to ask, then, is how we pay attention.

Imagine a dial whose needle leans one way or another.

So, what would being alert look like according to the ways of the world? Being on high alert may push the needle towards the ‘control and certainty’ side of the dial. Being on high alert means being fixated on something clearly and unequivocally defined. As the sentry in the tower does, we look for a specific threat and what that clearly, unquestionably looks like: An Imperial ship – the bad guys, or an X-wing – the good guys. We are on the lookout, especially for the bad guys.

Over time, we develop a way of looking – a perception – that imposes our deliberate will, and projects our unconscious fears, on whatever we encounter. We begin to believe that the world is a dangerous place, and we proceed to view anything we meet as threatening and dangerous.

In the end, perhaps the house owner is asleep at the switch when the thief arrives precisely because he has been looking for that thief for so long and so hard (Schlafer, 2010).

On the other hand, what does staying alert and awake look like according to the values of the kingdom of God? Rather than ‘certainty and control’, the needle leans towards the other side of the dial, towards ‘anticipation’. Our watchful waiting cultivates a kind of peripheral vision.

We’re not so much on the lookout for something specific. Leaning towards ‘anticipation’ means we develop a sixth sense, an awareness of what is good.

And so, we can sit loose with what we are naturally disposed or conditioned to see as the enemy. Because thieves come in all manner of shapes, sizes, forms and means. Saint Paul wrote, “the devil comes disguised as an angel of light” (2 Corinthians 11:14). On the other hand, the good will sometimes come to us not in ways we expect. In short, we cannot predict the future no matter how prepared we are.

This kind of vision translates into a different way of growing in faith. We may consider counter-intuitive ways of dealing with problems and challenges in our life. We curate a more creative approach. For example, in taking a break, we encounter a breakthrough. Fresh insight comes not when we are looking (for something specific), but rather when we are not looking (for something specific). Counter-intuitive.

I think it starts when we are honest with our sacred stories, the sacred scriptures. It starts when we pay attention to the reaction we have when we read something that doesn’t initially make sense. We honour that. But then we need to stick with it so we can go deeper and discover sources of wisdom we never expected. It’s best not to do this alone, but with one another.

Perhaps we too will be surprised by the answers God gives us when we can let go of our preconditioned responses, can loosen our grip of control, and can practice trust in the midst of the world’s uncertainty. Just because we live in uncertain times does not mean we are far from God’s graces.

We can notice the beauty in moments that would otherwise rush us by. We can see the good where in haste we would dismiss. Our developing sense of awareness notices the glimmers of love and goodwill from strangers, neighbours and everyone in between.

Perhaps this Gospel today reminds us that it’s ok to stop. It’s not just ok, it’s vitally important that we do take breaks, that we rest, that we slow down and loosen our grip on things. It can be scary to let go.

But on the other side is a newfound joy, purpose and a life that is worth living because God’s grace, love and mercy are bigger than anything we can ever ask for or imagine.

Let’s be the lookout. Because there is always something good to find out there.

References:

Bass, D. B. (2021). Freeing Jesus: Rediscovering Jesus as friend, teacher, savior, lord, way, and presence. HarperOne.

Nabhan, G. P. (2021). Jesus for farmers and fishers: Justice for all those marginalized by our food system. Broadleaf.

Schlafer, D. J. (2010). Luke 12:32-40 Homiletical perspective. In D. L. Bartlett & B. B. Taylor, Feasting on the word: Preaching the revised common lectionary, year c volume 3 (pp. 335-339). Westminster John Knox Press.

A fish story: Because we don’t know

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photo by Martin Malina (July 21, 2025, Big Rideau Lake)

The picture here is a photo taken last month on the Big Rideau Lake. This carp weighed in about 45 pounds. Paul Francis has been fishing on that lake for the last 70 years and he says it’s the biggest fish that he’s ever seen come out of the Big Rideau.

Thanks to his 17-year-old nephew Jack who heroically pulled this injured fish out of the lake.

There is much about this fish’s story we don’t know. How was it injured? What happened? Assuming it got into the lock at the south end of the lake, from where did it come? We will never know its complete history, its story.

The fish symbol is a prominent symbol in Christianity with roots in the early church. The symbol comes from a Greek word (Ichthys) that translates to “fish,” but also functions as an acronym for “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior” in Greek (Ἰησοῦς Χριστός, Θεοῦ Υἱός, Σωτήρ). 

The symbol’s use is believed to have originated in the 2nd century, becoming popular by the late 2nd and 3rd centuries, especially during a time of Roman persecution of Christians.

Why the fish as a symbol for Jesus? Perhaps because he called fishermen to be his first disciples? Perhaps because he multiplied the loaves and fish in the feeding of the five thousand? Perhaps because in one post-resurrection account, Jesus fed fish to his disciples for breakfast on the beach?

The important thing here is to understand the symbol of the fish was associated with the name of Jesus.

When I read again Paul’s Epistle to the Colossians this past week, I found it odd that in the entire letter, the name of Jesus is mentioned seven times (1:1; 1:3; 1:4; 2:6; 3:17; 4:11; 4:12) but in five of those seven times the name Jesus is paired with “Christ”. Only twice in this Epistle does the name of Jesus stand alone.

Contrast this with the number of times the word “Christ” appears all by itself in Colossians: Some twenty-four times. What is Paul up to here? At very least, it may explain why a few centuries after Jesus died and rose again, our religion was known as “Christian”, not “Jesu-sian” (Shaia, 2021). Scripture calls our attention to distinguish between the meaning of Jesus, and the meaning of Christ. They’re not quite the same.

We read in the first chapter of the Gospel of John: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1). John speaks of a reality existing in a time before Jesus walked on the earth. John uses the term “Word”, “Logos” in Greek, to express the same eternal reality that Paul means when he intentionally uses just the word Christ, or the Christ.

But, that “Word” also “became flesh” (John 1:14). Martin Luther, the 16th century reformer understood “the Word” to be Jesus. So, the eternal reality is Christ. And, the particular, historical reality is Jesus. The same, but not the same.

Why do New Testament writers Paul and John make this distinction? Perhaps we who identify as Christian may be encouraged in our faith to not just focus on the biographical details of a brief human history in ancient Palestine that can never be completely known.

For example, there is nothing the Gospels mentioned about Jesus’ youth, from about age 12 until he appears near the beginning of his ministry at age 30. As one scholar puts it, “there will never be enough bones or papyrus or analytical wisdom” to fill those gaps in the history, and meet our needs today (Shaia, 2021, p. 209).

So, why did Jesus come? Two thousand years ago in the Middle East, Jesus came so that we, today, might enter into the greater truth of the Christ – the truth that encompasses the reality of all things in the universe for all time. Again, using Saint Paul’s language in the Epistle today: “Christ is all and in all!” (Colossians 3:11). For all time and in every place.

God, in Christ, is just as much in the daily, common, ordinary, material concerns of our lives as Christ is present in our praying, singing and humble service to the world. In Christ, there is no separation between Sunday, and Monday-through-Saturday. In Christ, there is no separation between sacred and secular. All of it matters. All of it belongs. All of our reality concerns God.

That is why we read stories in the Gospel about barns, possessions, money and wealth (e.g. Luke 12:13-21). How we are with our possessions has a lot to do with how we are with our faith in Christ.

The distinction Paul makes is really pastoral. The wisdom of our Christian forebears, the writers of scripture and the truth of the Word, is that Jesus the Christ is with us today. Christ is present and has something to say to us.

Christ is with us, in us, around us, connecting it all, now and forever. If this is the presence that we come to know today, then we don’t need to fear tomorrow.

And that is why we don’t live unto ourselves alone. That is why we can’t ignore the cries of the world. That is why as Christians, today’s problems in the world matter in a life of faith. It is a truth for today. It is the hope for tomorrow.

With this perspective, we can catch ourselves when we interpret scripture with our ego in the driver’s seat, which places us at the centre of it all, which makes eternity dependent on us and what we do or don’t do.

Which is nonsense, precisely because we don’t know everything. We are not God. We don’t have the whole and complete picture.

We need to read this passage from Colossians the same way we read German. In German, before reading a whole sentence written in the past tense, or containing a subordinate clause, you need to first go to the last word in the sentence or clause, which is usually the verb. Once you get that, then you can make sense of all the rest of the words that precede it. Where you start your thinking makes all the difference in how you interpret.

It’s the last verse in this scripture from Colossians that informs our interpretation of what comes before. Notice in verse 10 of Colossians 3 the passive construction of how we are renewed in Christ. So, it’s because we are renewed that we can do all the good things implied in this passage: We can tell the truth, we can engage others with calmness, gentleness, peace and respect.

It’s because “Christ is all and in all” (v. 11) that we are generous and live with moral integrity and in unity with others who are not like us. The gift of Christ in us and through the Holy Spirit generates compassionate behaviour and a loving orientation to life and community. It all matters. Everyone belongs. God’s love is for all.

And it starts with God’s gift of Christ present with us, in us. Out of this eternal reality and perspective flows a grace-filled way of life today.

Reference:

Shaia, J. A. (2021). Heart and mind: The four-gospel journey for radical transformation (3rd ed.). Quadratos.