Tag Archives: bible

Closer to the light

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Card crafting by Jasmine Hawley; Image from ‘Creative Stamping Magazine’ (Issue 147, p. 16, 2025)

As the days lengthen and the sun shines higher in the sky, so much more is exposed to the light, and for longer. The journey of the seasons can reflect our own personal, spiritual journeys with God. And one truth becomes clearer at this glorious time of year:

The closer we get to the sun, to the light source, the more of our shadow we see. We get closer to God, or God gets closer to us. And one of the first experiences of this nearing, is exposure to what we’ve wanted to hide, what has embarrassed us, what we’ve kept hidden from view. Nearer my God to Thee, and more of myself I and others see.

It’s like two opposite movements in tension. On the one hand, towards the bright glorious presence of God. And, on the other, towards the revelation of our own truth good and bad.

This can discourage us, and we might rather turn away from getting closer to the light.

Another natural reaction is to blame others. At every level of human interaction – from geo-political affairs to national debates, to community groups, families and inter-personally – it’s easier to locate the source of the problem outside us. It’s much, much harder, to admit the problem at home, in us.

Russian writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn put it beautifully: “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them.

“But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of [their] own heart?” (Solzhenitsyn, 1974, p. 168). Jesus himself says that good and evil come from within us, from the heart (Mark 7:20-23; Matthew 12:34; Luke 6:43-45).

So, what does this mean? First, as Solzhenitsyn implies, it is impossible to purge that evil side of us. Jesus in the parable of the weeds, implies the same. “Don’t pull up the weeds because you might uproot the good wheat as well. Let the weeds and the wheat grow together …” (Matthew 13:24-30).

And, in truth, there is more to this than mere tolerating it, or putting up with the less-than-perfect ideal. Because, in truth, therein lies a key, working with both sides in your life, a key to growing and becoming stronger.

Holy is this tension between good and bad within us, not to be spurned. So, spiritual wisdom from the ages has taught: “Pray in the moments light and darkness touch” (Mahany, 2023, p. 125). Pray in the moments when the nearness of God’s light exposes the tender vulnerabilities in you.

The problem, really, are the untruths we believe – the ideals fuelled by perfectionist, purist expectations. When we set up those expectations, it is our vision we seek, rather than God’s. The problem starts when we dream up a vision of the church, for example, as an ideal we have to realize, rather than a reality created by God.

Because when it doesn’t go our way, when reality bursts our bubble, we think we are a failure. When our idealized image is shattered, we see the church falling to pieces. And then we blame others in the church, then we blame God, we blame culture, and finally we blame ourselves (Barnhill, 2005).

But Jesus doesn’t ask us to conform to some perfect ideal. When Jesus says, “Be perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect” (Matthew 5:48) he is not talking about someone who has magically become faultless by their own efforts. Our belonging in Christ is not a race we have to run or some competition to see who conforms to Christ faster or better. Our unity in Christ is not about uniformity based on some ideal to be striven after.

As Bonhoeffer claims, “the church doesn’t need brilliant personalities but faithful servants of Jesus and of one another. It does not lack the former, but the latter” (Barnhill, 2005, p. 140).

Instead, the Gospel is about Jesus who seeks to be formed in us (Galatians 4:19). What we have trouble believing is, what may appear weak and insignificant to us – the long shadow appearing the closer we get to the light – what may appear weak and vulnerable and shameful to us, may be useful to God. May even be great and glorious to God.

How so?

Every year towards the end of the season of Easter, we receive this prayer of Christ from John 17. This morning, we heard again the words of Jesus praying that his followers for all time “may be one” (John 17:20-26). The passage concludes with Jesus’ statement about how the world will know God. They will know God by the love in them and for each other.

When Jesus says, “Be perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect” he is talking about the Father’s love. Love others as your God loves you. What binds us together in unity, how we become one in Christ in the end, is the forgiveness of sins we all receive from God. Why what appears weak in us may be great to God, is that our perceived failures open the door to being aware we are loved despite our failure. We are forgiven.

And not just me. But everyone else I want to blame for the ills of church and society and the world we live in. Our forgiveness for what appears to be a long and scary shadow behind us as we near the light of Christ’s presence is what unites us in Christian community. And that reality, that truth, is great!

We don’t need to strive for perfection, or some ideal vision of what it ought to be like. We only need to receive one another, our leaders, our volunteers, our families in the way Christ also receives us – bathed in the light of God’s loving forgiveness, always and forever.

This forgiveness releases us to be who we are, including all our limitations and failures. God’s forgiveness releases us to take the next step, and follow where Christ leads.

Indeed, they will know we are Christians by our love.

References:

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

Mahany, B. (2023). The book of nature: The astonishing beauty of God’s first sacred text. Broadleaf Books.

Solzhenitsyn, A. I. (1974). The gulag archipelago, 1918–1956: An experiment in literary investigation (Vols. 1-2). Harper and Row.

Healing for everyone

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Each and every one of them in the crowd wanted to be healed (John 5:1-9). That’s why they were there, surrounding the pool. Jesus asks the man a rhetorical question, “Do you want to be made well?” Because based on how the man responds, what Jesus may really have been asking was, “If so, why haven’t you already been into the pool?”

Everyone seeks healing, and that’s why they are there. The question really gets at the barriers to our healing, everyone’s healing.

The story ends well, for the man. In this Gospel, Jesus leads the man to new life. How does he get there? The text reads like all Jesus did was snap his fingers and the story is over. But let’s break it down.

To set him on the path to new life, Jesus provides the necessary support that man needed but never got from anyone else, for 38 long years.

Recall, for context, many more people than usual were in Jerusalem for the festival and passed by the pool on their way to the temple to offer a sacrifice.

This is how Sue Monk Kidd describes the scene at a healing pool in her creative telling of the Gospel. This scene is told from the perspective of someone close to Jesus:

“We crossed the valley with the little lamb on Jesus’ shoulders and entered Jerusalem through the Fountain Gate near the Pool […]. We planned to cleanse ourselves there before entering the Temple, but we found the pool glutted with people. A score of cripples lay on the terraces waiting for some sympathetic soul to lower them into the water.

“’We can purify ourselves at one of the mikvahs near the Temple,’ I said, feeling repulsed by all the infirmities and foul bodies.

“Ignoring me, Jesus thrust the lamb into my arms. He lifted a paralytic boy from his litter; his legs were twisted like tree roots.

“’What are you doing?’ I said, trailing after him.

“’Only what I’d want if I were the boy,’ he replied, carrying him down into the water. I clutched the squirming lamb and watched as Jesus kept the child afloat while he splashed and bathed.

Naturally, his deed set off shouts and pleas from the other cripples, and I knew we would be here a while. [Jesus] bore every one of them into the pool” (Kidd, 2020, pp. 169-170). This is Jesus. This is the beloved character of Jesus.

During the Easter season, we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. And we see how it is in Jesus’ nature and purpose, exampled by this Gospel text, to lead us to life, beginning in this life. The one you have now, however imperfect, broken, hurting, sinful. Jesus beckons us to new life.

But the path to new life isn’t a solo journey. We understand that everyone is not the same. But that means everyone has different needs. And so, everyone needs everyone else to do their part to help. Interdependence. As the body of Christ in the world today, the church is about following together in Jesus’ way by helping each other.

Jesus models how it’s done in a simple yet vivid way: He acts to remove the barriers that keep others from their path to growth, healing, and new life. Jesus levels the playing field, so everyone at least has an opportunity, like everyone else, to grow and be renewed.

Doing this is not easy and it means taking a risk. Jesus healed the man on the Sabbath. He broke convention and the rules for the sake of the wellbeing of another. Jesus got in trouble with the law for his acts of compassion and healing.

There’s a meme that’s gone around my social media page. It’s an animated picture of the front of a church during a snowstorm. There’s a crowd of people waiting to climb the steps to get into the building. But they are waiting for the lone caretaker to shovel off the pile of snow making entrance impassable for anyone. Amid the crowd is one person in a wheelchair.

The caretaker, before attacking the snow blocking the stairs, begins his work by shovelling the long, switchback ramp leading up to the main doors.

The crowd complains – “Hey, do the stairs first. There’s more of us!”

The caretaker responds – “If I shovel the ramp first, then all of us can enter right away.”

Jesus leads us into new life by removing the barriers. It’s a new life given to us all, not just those in the majority.

Climbing the stairs at St Joseph’s Oratory in Montreal (Nov 2019, photo by Martin Malina)

Dietrich Bonhoeffer said we don’t find truth and freedom by focusing exclusively on our own needs and wants. We find God’s truth and freedom by focusing our attention on another’s needs and wants. In doing that, we free ourselves from whatever blocks us on the journey to new life.

He says it best. Bonhoeffer writes in one of his sermons: “God’s truth alone allows me to see others. It directs my attention, bent in on myself, to what is beyond and shows me the other person. And, as it does this, I experience the love and grace of God … God’s truth is God’s love, and God’s love frees us from ourselves to be free for others” (Barnhill, 2005, p. 151).

There’s a beautiful Taizé song we are chanting before meditation these Easter weeks. It announces and celebrates the living Lord who leads us all into life.

Bless the Lord my soul, and bless God’s holy name. Bless the Lord my soul, who leads me into life. (Berthier, 1981).

What are the barriers you face? What are the barriers others face? And how does God invite you to help level the playing field so that all may come to know new life?

References:

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

Berthier, J. (1981). Bless the Lord, my soul [Taizé Community]. Les Presses de Taizé, France.

Kidd, S. M. (2020). The book of longings. Penguin.

Gifts from above

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I often joke that I’ll let God wash my car. After a long winter when the salt-infused grime cakes on the outside panels, I wait until the pure rains in Spring give the car a good rinse.

Indeed, the rains fall from heaven, often unbidden, to cleanse the earth, to cleanse us. Notice the direction of God’s grace, God’s new thing, God’s vision of our future in the text from Revelation today. The holy city, the new Jerusalem, comes down from heaven to earth (Revelation 21:2). Direction, downward.

Just as in the Inuit language there are about 50 different words to describe various forms of snow (The Canadian Encyclopedia, 2015), the British boast several words and phrases to describe rain’s multiple personalities:

There’s a basking – which is a drenching in a heavy shower; a drisk – which is a misty drizzle; a fox’s wedding – sudden drops out of a clear blue sky; a hurly-burly – thunder and lightning; a slotting – which is rain so hard it bounces up off the ground; and a thunner-pash – which is a heavy shower with thunder (Mahany, 2023). Have you heard of these terms? Most of these, I haven’t. There are different ways the rain comes down.

No matter the form it takes, rain has a way of catching my attention. “One minute it’s barely pebbling the windows, the next it’s making a joke of the downspouts” (Mahany, 2023, p. 90). On the one hand, we pray for it. On the other hand, we roll out tarps to stop it.

No matter the form rain takes, we feel the water-drop touch our skin. It is invasive and so often our first instinct is to get out of it, to find shelter or cover. Rain seeks to grab our attention not just by touch alone, but by smell as well.

There is that unforgettable, indescribable just-after-the-rain earthy smell. There’s a name for that scent – petrichor. It’s caused when rainwater mixes with certain plant oils in dry soil – compounds to which the human nose is highly sensitive. Add to this cocktail of smell ozone which is released if lightning is in the mix. All of this wafts into the air, and we “smell rain” (Mahany, 2023, p. 91).

Like I said, rain has a way of catching our attention in more ways than one. Likewise, there are different ways we experience God’s grace, and not always is it what we want nor expect. But it always catches our attention. Somehow, God’s presence and life touches us, our hearts, our intuition, our perceptions – even subtly.

I joked that I let God wash my car. We also joke, “We’re not made of sugar,” implying that we won’t melt in the rain. Earth and all that is in it is not destroyed, obliterated nor eradicated by rainfall.

When the author of Revelation speaks of “the first earth passing away, and sea was no more” (21:1), it is not the extinction of the earth at the end that we’re talking about. God’s grace, God’s promise of resurrection does not cancel earth, our humanity, our senses – what we see, hear, touch, taste and smell.

Instead, new life is embodied and transformed on earth, from the earth. The direction of grace may be downward. But the reason the promise and vision come down to earth is because God will use the stuff of earth, and embody it. The goal of resurrection is earth’s transformation (Carey, 2009).

Rain, yes, is invasive. But it renews, refreshes and generates growth and life. Out of the old emerges the new.

I was given two Hosta plants last year which I planted on the side of our house that receives a lot of sunshine. But these Hosta plants were designed to thrive in more shade than sun. They didn’t look so good by the Fall time. They were sporting large brown spots which covered their large, limping leaves. Honestly, I didn’t expect them to come back up this Spring.

But out they came a week ago, bursting through the less-than-ideal soil and location for these particular plants. The young shoots already showcased their green, lustrous leaves reaching upward to receive the gifts of rain and sun. Coming from above. Downward.

There’s a path on that side of the house, a ravine at the bottom of which the deer will follow. Deer love to munch on Hosta plants. But the Hosta plants will live, I do believe, despite the deer. Despite the hail. Despite thunner-pash, slotting, hurly-burly and basking rain falls those plants will surely endure this summer. I believe!

New life, new beginnings, the promise of resurrection, is not without its difficulties, challenges and little deaths. We may not understand yet its deepest mysteries and paradoxes, death and life, life and death.

But those raindrops will continue to descend from above. Even if we can’t understand it, or when we come up against our own limitations. Despite hearth’s and humanity’s imperfections, God’s work of reviving, renewing and enlivening the earth will not stop. Easter is a forever-promise.

Those raindrops will always be awakening us to the wonderful mystery of God. Those raindrops will remind us that even though we may suffer disruption, and painful transitions in life, the rain of God’s love will continue to nourish us and enliven us to reach forward into the unknown future with trust and assurance.

References:

Carey, G. (2009). Exegetical perspective: Revelation 21:1-6. In D. L. Bartlett & B. B. Taylor (Eds.). Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary Year C, Volume 2 (pp. 463-467). Westminster John Knox Press.

Mahany, B. (2023). The book of nature: The astonishing beauty of God’s first sacred text. Broadleaf Books.

The Canadian Encyclopedia. (2015). Inuktitut words for snow and ice. The Canadian Encyclopedia [Website]. Retrieved from https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/inuktitut-words-for-snow-and-ice

Nearer, my God

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Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice” (John 10:27). He doesn’t say, “My sheep see me.” In this Gospel, belief is equated with hearing and listening, not seeing.

At this time of year, the birds are finally returning to our feeder. And when I go for my walks around the neighbourhood I know where the cardinals live – in a stand of old growth trees near the Algonquin Trail in Arnprior. Almost every time I walk through there, I first hear the cardinal’s distinct song.

photo by Martin Malina (Aug 6, 2023)

The point is, I know the cardinal is there. I will scan the trees, fence lines and roof tops from whence the song comes. Rarely will I first observe the bird nestled deep in the foliage, despite its catchy red coat. But because I can’t see the bird doesn’t mean it’s not true, doesn’t mean it’s not there. I know it is nearby. I believe, not because I have seen it with my own eyes but because I hear it close by.

When I was in public school, at Halloween teachers handed to us students those orange UNICEF boxes. We strung those boxes around our necks and carried them with us trick-or-treating. Some of you may remember those boxes. So, when we went to each house for candy, neighbours would also have the option of dropping some coin into those iconic boxes. All the proceeds were then donated to the United Nations Children’s Fund, originally labelled the United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund (https://www.unicef.ca/en).

I value that experience of learning. I learned that what I did for myself was not enough to be a good human being. I also had to do something for other children, especially those who were suffering hunger and persecution in faraway lands. Just because I couldn’t see these children with my own eyes, just because these were not my personal friends, didn’t mean I wasn’t called by God’s voice to do something to care for them in their suffering, their hunger, their pain.

Today it’s unfortunately fashionable to openly admit that if some situation that others suffer doesn’t impact me directly, I don’t care and I don’t want anything to do with it. We shy away from taking on the responsibility, collectively, to teach by example younger generations the vital importance of working together to care for those who are not our own, so to speak. If the problem is far away, far removed from my or our reality, then forget it.

My wife Jessica talks about a cherished memory of family friends whose parents created a home environment in Ottawa where neighbourhood kids felt comfortable dropping by at any time of day or night. Not only did those parents care for their own children with fierce love, but their home also became grand central for all the kids in the neighbourhood to hang out and even eat meals together.

Jessica has often remarked how influential that early childhood experience was in forming the desires of her own heart in wanting to be open to others and engage those outside the family with caring acts of compassion, generosity and respect. In response to a need.

God’s voice, God’s call – the root of the word vocation – doesn’t come from far away. God doesn’t come to us from some celestial, otherworldly heaven removed from our day to day. God’s presence is near to us, in fact born in the nitty-gritty of our lives. The call is to live out from our Christian values of compassion and love.

Jesus assures his disciples of two things in the Gospel text for today. First, that he and God “are one” (John 10:30). So, if Jesus will never allow anything or anyone to snatch us away from his care and protection for eternity, neither does God. For Jesus and God are one. In other words, we are never, ever out of the scope, the field of belonging to God’s loving care and attention. Ever.

The second assurance flows from the first. God and Jesus are not only faithful and loyal to us – as a shepherd is to their flock of sheep, using a biblical metaphor. God’s loyalty and faithfulness means that God perseveres. God does not give up. Even if for just one out of the hundred in the flock (Luke 15:1-7). No matter how awful and terrible the human circumstances can get for anyone. No matter how lost one can get. God keeps at it, keeps loving us, finding us, embracing us, forgiving us, protecting us.

That ‘snatch’ verb repeats twice in the conclusion of this Gospel’s short eight verses (in verses 27 and 28). That should draw our attention to the persevering God we worship. Nothing will snatch us away from God’s perseverance.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer translated the word perseverance to mean, literally: “remaining underneath, not throwing off the load, but bearing it” (Barnhill, 2005, p. 72). Bearing it.

How do we recognize God’s voice, today? God’s voice emerges from human suffering and loss.

Bearing the load. God bears the human load. The cross of Jesus indicates the kind of God we worship. We worship a suffering God who knows our pain, our hunger. We worship a God who is revealed to us most poignantly in the lives of those who persevere in their suffering. Bearing the load.

From the UNICEF website (https://www.unicef.ca/en/blog/seven-inspirational-stories-about-mothers-around-world), I read about a brave Mom, named Neveen Barakat, who kept her family strong in the midst of war. Neveen’s husband died in a blast that hit a UN-run school in Gaza. The blast wounded three of her children and left Neveen with a permanent disability. A photo from the webpage cited above shows Neveen comforting her six-year-old daughter, Rosol.

The mothering love of Neveen is bearing a huge load. And that is why we must care with the mothering love God reveals to us in Jesus. Because while God’s revelation comes to us daily in our human suffering and pain, God’s grace calls us to care for others in the way of Christ who bears their suffering, too.

We can care for others close and far because God is never far away. God doesn’t care from a distance. God will hear our voice when we call out, just as we know and listen to the voice of our loving God who will never give up on us. Even if it’s just a whisper under our breath, God is near and hears us. God is close and will help us persevere.

References:

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

UNICEF. (2025). Seven inspirational stories about mothers around the world [website]. https://www.unicef.ca/en/blog/seven-inspirational-stories-about-mothers-around-world.

Live in the light of the resurrection

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Dietrich Bonhoeffer defined Easter this way: “To live in the light of the resurrection – that is what Easter means” (Barnhill, 2005, p. 114). Live in the light of the resurrection.

In one of those contemporary movies about the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, one scene sticks in my mind. It is when the women who discover the empty tomb early that first Easter encounter there the “two men in dazzling clothes” (Luke 24:4).

But instead of actually meeting two men standing there, all we see over the empty shroud in the tomb is an eye-shielding brilliant light from which the divine voice speaks, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen” (Luke 24:5). Surprise!

We are so fortunate in Canada to celebrate Easter each year during the Springtime in the Northern Hemisphere. Early 20th century New England writer, Henry Beston, called Spring, the “trumpet call of the return of light” (cited in Mahany, 2023, p. 62). In Spring the days grow longer, we get our first basking in the sunlight’s warmth, and new life starts emerging from the sleepy, cold earth.  We know, at least in Spring, that truly we live in the light. We need the light, to live.

Sometimes, as on that first Easter morning, the light actually changes people. Listen to the testimony of Rosemarie Feeney Harding (cited in Rohr, 2025, March 27) who describes her experience of how the Light impacted her life:

“I can’t say exactly where the Light entered,” she writes, “where it started from. Suddenly, it was just there with me. A white light, bright enough that it should have hurt to look. But it didn’t hurt. In fact, as the Light grew and enveloped everything in the room, I felt the most astonishing sense of protection, of peace. It surrounded me and I was in it, so joyfully…. 

“The Light became a kind of touchstone in my life. It was so much love. Like an infinite compassion. At the same time it was something very precious and intimate. It awed me, really. And when I walked out of the room, everything looked different. Clear. Even later, outside the house, in my classes and at my job, everything looked sharper. It was like a heightened sense of presence. Almost a shine.  

“I do believe that whole experience put me on a path. And the Light stayed with me a long time. It gave me a sense of security and deep internal connectedness to God, I would say …

“As I moved away from my family and struggled for years … I needed the grounding and shelter and strength of that Light. There is something in there, in that profoundly embracing energy, that allows you to come out with a kind of forgiveness, an absence of animosity … Help. Encouragement. A deep, deep encouragement in this life …” (Harding & Harding, 2015, pp. 1-3).

Living in the light. I wonder what it would be like to always live in that light. What would change in your life? What good things you already have and are would come to the surface? What would you see in others?

One icebreaker question I’ve always enjoyed answering is: “If you could be one animal, what would it be and why?”


Image by Airwolfhound

If I were answering that question today, I think I’d like to be an Arctic Tern. You see, these terns “spend the summer in the Arctic when the sun is available for almost 24 hours. Then they fly south during the Northern Hemisphere winter to join the summer season of the Antarctic regions, where the sun is also visible almost 24 hours a day.

“Scientists believe they follow the sun because the sun illuminates the water allowing them to find fish during their travel. As a result, Arctic Terns are believed to experience more daylight in their lifetime than any other creature. Right now is the time of the Arctic Tern’s return migration to the Arctic” (Coman, 2025, March 27).

Birders at Point Pelee and other bird sanctuaries on the migration routes over Ontario are actively lifting their heads to the heavens these days! And they are excited for what they might see. Surprise!

A large part of why Easter joy surprises us is that it is unexpected. The joy comes as a surprise because of the tough road that preceded Easter joy. Living in the light is so special because this joy grew out from the ashes of loss, of death. What seemed certain and final. It’s the contrast. It’s the surprising, unexpected answer to what was an impossible possibility.

The Christian narrative is essentially a rising-from-the-dead story that plays out in the wake of history’s darkest hours. Therefore, Easter brings a message of hope.

One of the most famous of these stories of emerging from history’s darkest hours is the miracle of the seed birthed in the inferno. It is the story of the seeds of Hiroshima, “when in the aftermath of the atomic fireball in August of 1945, the city staggered through never-before-witnessed devastation.

“As survivors scrounged for unburned rubble to try to patch together homes, word came from a prominent physician that nothing would grow there for seventy years, with all flora and fauna incinerated across a [near 10-kilometre] swath.

“[But] barely a month after the bombing, though, rising from the charred bits [about a kilometre] from the explosion’s radioactive center, red canna lilies and delicate wildflowers began to sprout and bloom amid the wasteland …

“What had happened, in part, was that the bricks of Hiroshima had been formed of clay from the mountains, where wildflowers grew. Walls throughout the city secretly had been harbouring long dormant seeds. And in the cataclysm of the bomb, the explosive power split open the seeds, and the mountain flowers sprouted [under the sun’s light].

“Out of horror, erupted beauty. [Out of darkness, blossomed new life exposed finally to the light.] Ever since, the survivor seeds of Hiroshima have been revered in Japan as ‘the faith that grew out of the ashes’” (Mahany, 2023, p. 39).

This message of new life is for us. Because now that Jesus is alive, every message about Jesus is a message about all of us (Rohr, 2025, April 20). All creatures on earth – including the birds and the seeds and the animals and us – all of creation – shout for joy when out of the tomb of suffering and death we can sprout, we can grow, we can fly.

Spread your wings. Follow the Sun. Live in the light.

For Christ is risen! Alleluia! Christ is risen indeed!

References:

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

Coman, S. (2025, March 27). Streams of Living Justice [Blog]. Lutherans Connect. https://streamsoflivingjustice.blogspot.com/2025/03/day-20.html

Harding, R. F. & Harding R. E. (2015). Remnants: A memoir of spirit, activism, and mothering. Duke University Press.

Mahany, B. (2023). The book of nature: The astonishing beauty of God’s first sacred text. Broadleaf Books.

Rohr, R. (2025, April 20). A universal message: Celebrating resurrection. [Website]. Daily Meditations, Center for Action and Contemplation. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/a-universal-message/

Rohr, R. (2025, March 27). A light that sustains: Centering, silence, and stillness [Website]. Daily Meditations, Center for Action and Contemplation. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/a-light-that-sustains/

A gateway at the edge

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Photo by Martin Malina (Kalaloch Beach, WA, August 16, 2022)

Today, we stand with the women and disciples at the foot of the cross. We have arrived at the end of our Lenten pilgrimage. Or so we may feel.

We have come now to the base of the hilltop of Golgotha. We have come to the edge. We’ve made it.

We may have been carrying a heavy burden—our own cross. What do you bring? What have you carried? Maybe at this point you realize you can carry it no longer? Because the weight of it is just too much. Because, while at the start of this journey you thought perhaps you could carry it all, you now realize your own limits, your own complicity, your own misguided perceptions, your own sin.

“We come to the edge, when what we hold cannot be contained” (Mahany, 2023, p. 52), when we have to finally lay it down.

Golgotha stood at the edge of the city of Jerusalem. In order to leave the city, or enter it, you had to pass through the place crucifixion, of death. There is no bypass where truth is concerned. Pilate sought refuge in argument and exercising power — that was his bypass. “What is truth?” (John 18:38) he quipped, retreating into abstraction and perceived safety of his privilege and power.

“What is truth?” Jesus’ answer to Pilate? Watch me. Watch what I do. Watch the power of God’s love in the actions of Simon who will carry my cross (Luke 23:26), in the centurion’s cross-side confession (Matthew 27:54). Watch the power of God’s love in those who wait at the edge of the hilltop and witness the day turn to night (Mark 15:33), the curtain in the temple being torn in two (Luke 23:45). Watch the power of God’s love in the grace shown by Joseph to provide a tomb for my body (Luke 23:50-53). Watch what God does, then …

Jesus knew his path. Jesus’ path led through the challenge, the suffering, the cost – not around it. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the famous Lutheran pastor who was executed by the Nazis 80 years ago this year for opposing Hitler, noted in one of his books, how Jesus fulfilled his call on earth.

But in this short reading, Bonhoeffer extended the example of Jesus into our own lives, as his followers, should we seek peace for our souls at edge of our journeys.

He writes, “Our hearts make sure that we only keep the company of friends, of the righteous and the respectable. But Jesus was to be found right in the midst of his enemies. That is precisely where he wanted to be. We should be there too. It is that which distinguishes us from all other … religions. In them, the pious want to be with one another. But Christ wants us to be in the midst of our enemies, as he was; it was in the midst of his enemies that he dies the death of God’s love and prayed: Father, forgive them for they know not what they do. Christ wants to win his victory among his enemies. Therefore, do not withdraw, do not seclude yourselves; rather seek to do good unto all. Make peace, as far as it depends on you, with all” (Bonhoeffer cited in Barnhill, 2005, p. 31).

This was Jesus’ path, to be in the middle of the tension, the conflict among his enemies. This had always been his way.

For example, Jesus could have avoided Samaria on his way to Galilee. Samarians were in tension and at odds with Jews. Jesus could have gone around. But instead, he travelled through the region, some 150 kilometres on foot. No wonder the Gospel writer reports Jesus as “weary” (John 4:6) when he stops at the well to talk with the Samarian woman. Many others would have gone around. But for Jesus, it is always important to go through even though it cost him. The path is hard.

We have a famous path in Canada. And it isn’t easy to follow. The Path of the Paddle is a series of portages between lakes and rivers from the western edge of Lake Superior into the bush of Northwestern Ontario. The path is part of the Trans Canada Trail. In one of its hardest sections, where in order to travel when the water is not frozen, the trail must be negotiated at the height of bug season, soon upon us. Portaging is not for the faint of heart: each portage means traveling twice – once to carry the canoe, and the other time to carry the gear from one lake’s edge to the next.

This path was first charted by Indigenous people as the Anishinaabe Trail, before it became a major route for Europeans interested in the fur trade. Today, this path is being restored in the hope of re-establishing the original route as it once was.

The 1200-kilometre journey was made by Carrie and John Nolan ten years ago. It involved 120 portages, and it took them 58 days. It was certainly a test of their fitness, endurance and physical and mental stamina (Coman, 2025, April 11).

When we come to the edge, when what we hold can no longer be contained, tears will often fall. Is it any wonder that God turned to water when making our tears? We can go to the water’s edge, when what we hold can no longer be contained. The water’s edge, like at the foot of the cross, is the place to let it all out, to lay it all down, to let it go. The baptismal waters, our place of identity forming in Christ, is sacred, this holy edge. Where we can be honest, vulnerable, and let the tears roll.

I walked only a small portion of the Camino de Santiago in Spain – some 800 kilometres long. It is one of the oldest trails on the planet, dating back over a thousand years to the 9th century. Last year, in 2024, the Camino attracted almost half a million pilgrims.

If you are walking, it could take months to cross the Iberian Peninsula in northern Spain towards the destination. The destination? Pilgrims will say, it is the city of Santiago de Compostella, in the shrine of Saint James.

But increasingly over the years, more and more pilgrims go through Santiago and travel an extra 100 kilometres to a town called Fisterra, whose name literally means, “the end of the world.” This town lies on the coast along the Atlantic Ocean which at one point in history was deemed to be situated literally at the edge of the known world.

Santiago becomes a way point on a journey to a more significant edge where the horizon is limitless and points our vision upward. This extended journey does not end at the Cross but continues beyond the original destination to a more expansive vision beyond the hardship of the trail.

The Cross is not really the end point. That is why Good Friday is good. Because the Cross, while necessary to go through, is merely a gateway to the edge of a new world coming.

References:

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

Coman, S. (2025, April 11). Streams of living justice [Blog]. Lutherans Connect. https://streamsoflivingjustice.blogspot.com/2025/04/day-33.html

Mahany, B. (2023). The book of nature: The astonishing beauty of God’s first sacred text. Broadleaf Books.

Stripping away

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Photo by Martin Malina (Kalaloch Beach, WA, August 15, 2022)

At the end of the service tonight, we engage a ritual that has become a tradition in many churches on Maundy Thursday. We strip the altar.

We take away all the symbols, the candles, the silverware, the embroidery and fabric that are associated with our faith.

We do this in Holy Week – in the context of Jesus’ suffering and dying when everything he had was stripped away, not only his clothing, but his dignity as a human being. Maundy Thursday sets the stage in the grand narrative of Jesus’ Passion for Good Friday when he was nailed to the tree.

Theologian and American writer Brian McLaren writes about how one tree survives the hurricanes that seasonally batter his home state of Florida. “Many of our trees in Florida survive hurricanes by being flexible. They’re able to bend an amazing amount and spring back into shape. [But] One of my favourite trees,” he writes, “has a slightly different strategy.

“It’s called a ‘gumbo-limbo’ tree, and the way it survives a hurricane is that when the wind starts to blow, it just lets branches break off. It knows that if you can keep the trunk solid and stable, and you don’t get overturned by the wind, you can bounce back after the storm. And that’s what the gumbo-limbo tree does. It travels light through the storm. It lets go of everything that’s not essential to focus on for life” (McLaren, 2023).

If you keep the trunk solid and stable, you will find new life after the storm. What is that proverbial trunk in our lives? What was it, in Jesus’ life? What was that power that allowed him to let go of everything and be stripped of all his humanity?

The mandate to love sets the stage for this proverbial stripping. The mandate to love is the command of Jesus we hear on Maundy Thursday – the night he washed the feet of his disciples, shared the meal with them and led them to the garden to pray. This mandate to “love one another just as I have loved you” (John 13:34-35) is the fuel. It is the trunk of the tree: God’s eternal, unconditional, loving presence for all people. But it comes at a cost.

A quote I came across this past week has stuck, the wise saying of a desert mother from early Christianity. She said, “the hardest world you have leave behind is the one you carry right inside your heart” (Lane, 2024). What you carry inside your heart, it would seem to me, is precious. Whatever you hold in your heart is integral to what you perceive to be an important part of your identity. It defines who you are in the world.

This is important stuff. And it struck me that on Maundy Thursday as we strip away the paraments and silverware from the altar, we’re not talking about the knick-knacks, dusty boxes in basements and stuff we keep in storage rental units.

We’re talking about what we would consider the important, life-altering, life-defining stuff. But these are still the branches, not the trunk. You might say what the gumbo-limbo tree does in a hurricane is counter-intuitive, even unreasonable, impossible for us to do. Why would we let go of what we feel most attached to?

It’s significant that the Garden of Gethsemane was the last place to which Jesus led his disciples before he was arrested, before the dominos began to fall in the Passion narrative, a story that then escalates towards Jesus’ arrest, prosecution, persecution and execution.

Jesus led his disciples to the garden to pray. There is a form of prayer whose aim is finding inner peace and contentment in the storm.

Yet this peace cannot be experienced without a painful letting go. It’s a practice, you could say, of stripping away the non-essentials. Prayer is becoming aware of God’s grace and life of Christ with us and for us. And this prayer needs no words from us.

For the desert mothers and fathers, prayer was understood as practising a way of taming the ego’s desires for being front-row-and-centre in all things, including our conversation with God.

So, instead of doing all the talking in this relationship of prayer, we practice doing all the listening. Instead of trying to change God’s mind, prayer is about allowing God to transform the mind and heart of the one doing the praying. In this practice of letting go we allow God to change our mind about what is truly going on around us. We let God change our mind about the reality right in front of us, a reality which we usually dismiss, avoid or even distort.

In our prayer tonight and throughout these coming three holy days, may we practice letting go. In the way of Jesus, may we learn to be like the gumbo-limbo tree, especially during the storms of our lives. Because as long as the trunk remains stable and firmly planted in the ground, new life will surely find a way again.

“And now, faith, hope, and love remain … and the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13).

References:

Lane, B. (2024). “The Desert Tradition,” The Living School: Essentials of Engaged Contemplation. Center for Action and Contemplation. www.cac.org.

McLaren, B. (2024). 2024 Daily meditations: Radical resilience [Video]. Center for Action and Contemplation.  https://cac.org/daily-meditations/2024-daily-meditations-theme-radical-resilience/

Wagamese, R. (2021). Richard Wagamese selected: What comes from spirit.

The cost of energy

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photo by Martin Malina (July 15, 2024) in Tofino, British Columbia

This year is the 80th anniversary of the death of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. After spending two years in prison, he was executed on April 9, 1945, just days before the end of the 2nd World War, for playing a key role in opposing the Nazis under Hitler.

Bonhoeffer’s life and death bear witness to the Cross. During this coming Holy Week we focus on the passion of Christ. And Bonhoeffer, like few other Lutherans in the last century, bears witness to the truth that we must first endure the cost of following Jesus to the Cross before celebrating the resurrection joy.

Bonhoeffer writes in A Testament to Freedom: “… if we would have a share in [the] glory and radiance [of Christ’s resurrection], we must first be conformed to the image of the Suffering Servant who was obedient to the death of the cross. If we would bear the image of his glory, we must first bear the image of his shame” (Barnhill, 2005, p. 107).

In other words, it costs something to be Christian in Canada. What is that cost? Perhaps the cost is our privilege, for the sake of one who is marginalized. Or maybe our pride, for the sake of respecting and dignifying another. Or our energy, for the sake of doing the right thing in the right moment. Our comfort, for the sake of exposing a harsh truth. It costs, to follow Christ.

One take away from our Sunday reflections throughout Lent about spiritual gifts and growth in faith, is that in order to develop our gifts so they can be a blessing for others, we need to cross to the other side – literally and symbolically. It’s easy to slip sideways on the pretense of growth. But for real growth to happen, we need to get out of our comfort zone and try something we’d sooner not.

The message of faith, nevertheless, is that the cost is worth it. Whatever it takes. Because the resurrection promise motivates us, inspires us, encourages us, and supports us. Because there is always grace, love, forgiveness. We believe in a God of second chances. We believe in a God who will never forsake us even in our moment of greatest need. Bonhoeffer hung on to that truth. It empowered him.

During Holy Week, we celebrate the persistence of God’s mercy despite stubborn obstacles. A major source of those obstacles resides in ourselves. Despite the self-incrimination of the convicted criminal hanging beside Jesus, Jesus’ final words to him, and the last words Jesus speaks to another human before he dies, is a word of mercy and promise (Luke 23:43): “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

God’s grace and mercy is our fuel for living. We need it. Because we will never get it right. We will miss the mark. We will stumble. But God does not give up on us. Despite all our mistakes, missteps, failures and self-doubt, God continues to nudge us forward through all the discomfort, risk-taking and vulnerability that we experience in being faithful servants of Christ. God’s grace and mercy is our energy source.

And that is why the Eucharist, the Holy Communion, is central to our Holy Week pilgrimage. It is at the table, the holy meal which we celebrate today and later this week on Maundy Thursday, when we affirm our deep and enduring connection with the living Lord Jesus.

And this connection is not just figurative or symbolic. But real, as well. This real connection gives us strength to carry on.

In 2019 a study published in Smithsonian revealed that some seeds discovered in Eastern France dated to Roman times, including the time not long after Jesus lived, in the 2nd century. It was discovered that these seeds had the same DNA as some types of contemporary wine grapes (Coman, 2024 December 10). 

In other words, some wines we drink today contain grapes with the same DNA as grapes in Jesus’ day when “on the night before he died” he took a cup and blessed it for his disciples to drink. This connection is real.

The cross, which now becomes our focal point in the days ahead, was made of wood and therefore is often referred to as ‘the tree’. In these last days we make our final leg of the Lenten pilgrimage where we will stop at the foot of the tree on Good Friday.

There is a Roman era tradition, in which to honour a special tree, wine was poured on their roots. It is no wonder then that in some legends the tree of crucifixion was a rowan tree whose berries look like droplets of blood (Mahany, 2023, pp. 45-47). The very fuel, energy source, is Christ’s blood shed for us.

We are connected, in a real sense, to Christ’s life source. We are connected through earthly elements that nourish, sustain and empower us to live and follow Jesus right to the very end. In following Christ’s mission on earth, we have what it takes.

Thanks be to God.

References:

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

Coman, S. (2024, December 10). Seeds of hope. Lutherans Connect. https://lcseedsofhope.blogspot.com/2024/12/day-9.html

Mahany, B. (2023). The book of nature: The astonishing beauty of God’s first sacred text. Broadleaf Books.

‘Patron’s Corner’: Multifaith Housing Initiative Ottawa

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As a patron of the Multifaith Housing Initiative (MHI) in Ottawa, I was asked to respond to the following question, published in their April 2025 newsletter in the ‘Patron’s Corner’ (https://mailchi.mp/multifaithhousing/april-newsletter).

MHI: “How does your faith community emphasize the value of community and belonging?”

RASPBERRYMAN: The Canadian Lutheran Church happened because of immigration. All Lutherans are immigrants. It’s just a question of what time in history the boats and planes from Europe and beyond arrived in Canada. Because we are an immigrant church, now by and large privileged in the established sense, our call is to embrace diversity in community.

The 16th century reformer Martin Luther’s a-ha moment happened when the words of Paul struck his heart. Scriptures, for example, from Ephesians: “For by grace we have been saved” (2:8) and from Romans: “Grace to you …” (1:7) emboldened Lutherans the world over to emphasize the role of God’s grace in all our relationships. Therefore, human divisions and merit do not define our relationships. Our unity in Christ, who is gracious, does. 

20th century Lutheran pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, while imprisoned by Nazis at the end of the 2nd World War, wrote a book entitled “The Cost of Discipleship”. In it he emphasizes the communal aspect of following Jesus. He criticized what he called ‘cheap grace’ which happens when individuals fail to confess their sins against one another and God’s purposes, when God’s grace is reduced to an individual transaction rather than providing a path to transformation.

What Lutherans value in community is what makes grace transformative in our relationships – forgiveness, mercy, compassion and inclusion. It’s not an easy grace; it’s costly – to change and grow. Beginning in the 16th century and lasting to this day, Lutherans therefore embraced the reforming principle which became a motto for the Reformation church – in Latin, Ecclesia reformata semper reformanda – the reformed church always reforming.

Our immigrant identity in Canada, from a grace-centred approach, means that as we once came to this land centuries ago, so now, too, we are called to welcome and affirm newcomers to Canada in building communities of grace.

Surprised by new life: a funeral sermon

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Earla’s commitment to the altar guild attuned her to the seasons of the church year. The paraments and colours around the altar had to be changed when the seasons changed – from Christmas white to Epiphany green to Lenten purple to Easter white to Pentecost red, etc.

So, Earla would know we are now in Lent, and what that implied as far as the communion ware, flowers and colours that did or did not appear around the altar. She followed those rules, and advocated for them, faithfully.

And I broke a big one. Not intentionally. During a worship service I spilled half a bottle of communion wine on the new carpet in the chancel right after the renovations were completed 8 years ago. Earla, despite being a stickler for doing things right, showed me much compassion and grace. There wasn’t a hint of anger or frustration as she helped me clean up the mess behind the altar.

What strikes me in this season of Lent in which she spent her last days, are what the scriptures assigned to the church at this time reveal about God. Consistently the texts depict the disciples of Jesus and others gathered around a feast, a meal, at table. God’s message of love and grace in these texts are conveyed in, around and through eating and being at table for a meal:

The story of the fig tree (Luke 13:1-9) came to us the day after Earla died: Figs are mentioned a few times in the New Testament because figs were a staple food item in the Mediterranean – like potatoes are for us today. Then, last Sunday, the story of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:1-3,11b-32) ends with the Father throwing a great feast with the fatted calf for the son that was lost but now was found.

And tomorrow in the Gospel (John 12:1-8) Jesus is anointed by Mary but not after we find the disciples gathered with Jesus’ friends Lazarus, Mary and Martha around a meal in their Bethany home. I hope you hear the reference to a meal in each of the first two verses from the Gospel:

1 Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 2 There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. 

Here these friends are gathered to eat together. But surprise! The Gospel emphasizes that Lazarus was there too. This is the Lazarus who died but whom Jesus raised from the dead (John 11). To show the reality of this new life, he is described as “one of those [eating] at the table.”

Lazarus is no ghost, no figment of whimsical imagination, no other-worldly vision flicking in and out of our line of sight. No. This is real flesh and blood, consuming and digesting the food everyone else is eating. God’s promise of new life comes by way of mealtime with friends and family.

Earla loved food. She loved her fish filets from McDonalds and hot fudge sundaes. She indulged in her bacon and processed foods. She was 95 years old! Eating was not only a personal pleasure but a reason to gather with others in the church. When she was able, I don’t think she missed a church potluck.

Like the Gospel which takes pains to convey the truth, the reality, of the resurrection – in this case, Lazarus – the promise of new life for us, new life in Christ, can encourage us on our life’s journey.

Because it isn’t over. Not for Earla. Not for us. Some things have certainly changed. Your grief bears witness to the fact that you will no longer relate to Earla in the ways that gave you much joy, that created wonderful memories and supported you in many different ways.

But while the relationship has now changed, it isn’t over. And there are abundant signs of this! Both the poinsettia given to Earla in hospital a year and a half ago, and the orchid plant that lay dormant for two years in Earla’s keep are reminders of the hope and promise of being surprised by the gift of new life.

After that first Christmas the poinsettia was all but destined for the compost pile. But it refused to wither and die. Contrary to anyone’s expectations, the leaves to this day have produced red leaves and remained healthy. It was one plant in Earla’s hospital room, on the windowsill, that drew our attention in amazement each time I visited.

And after two years of producing nothing, it was just this month that her tiny orchid plant decided to bring forth its majestic blooms. Who would have anticipated this?!

Their centre remains a violet/purply reminder of the journey of life on earth that will often include suffering and pain. But their frame dominates in Easter white – conveying the hopeful message of resurrection. And as you can see there are more buds to come! More surprises on the way!

Earla’s liturgical sensitivities are on display to this day as these plants from her continue to shout out that your beloved Earla sits today around the table. But now she sits at the banquet feast of heaven.

To welcome Earla at that heavenly feast, I am sure the heavenly hosts are serving it up in abundance: fish filets, bacon and hot fudge sundaes for everyone!