Tag Archives: God

Washed in the waters of love

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The Jordan River
(photo by Jean Housen, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

There is this sense of judgement in today’s Gospel (Luke 3:15-17, 21-22). Taken alongside the imagery of gathering the wheat and burning the chaff, the announcement of a baptism with Holy Spirit and fire leaves an impression of division, exclusion and judgement (Honig, 2025).

Last weekend my brother and his wife noticed that their outdoor Christmas lights, particularly the spotlight on their nativity scene set up in the flowerbed by the front of their house was mysteriously disconnected during the night.

Examining the scene the following morning they found the bulb lying on the snow a couple feet from the extension cord. Human footprints leading from the sidewalk were evident in the snow. They also noticed what looked like a dog’s footprints in the front yard.

Who did this? Why did they do this? My brother and I came up with a list of several reasons and scenarios that might lead someone to this act of aggression. And they weren’t positive reasons. Our imaginations swirled, as I’m sure you can understand, around worst-case motivations.

If it weren’t for a chance encounter in the local grocery store the next day, I wonder how long and how deep those judgements would burrow into and affect our hearts and minds.

Thankfully, in the grocery store my brother bumped into their next-door neighbour. And immediately the neighbour apologized for their dog’s erratic behaviour the previous night.

Out for their daily late evening walk, the dog had bolted and escaped its leash, and then leapt onto my brother’s yard. The dog began digging up the cords embedded in the snow and pulled apart the outdoor lights, resulting in the displacement of the nativity spotlight. The neighbour promised to replace any damaged cords or lights.

Truth be told.

The New Testament, taken as a whole, proclaims ours is not to judge (Romans 114). In this Gospel text, there is debate about who is the Messiah – John or Jesus (Luke 3: 15-17). The people wondered if it should be John. But even John makes an error in judgement when he expresses by his false humility – “I am unworthy to untie the thong of his sandals.”

Because recall that at the Last Supper, Jesus gets down on his hands and knees to untie the shoes and wash the feet of his disciples (John 13). In his confession, John’s idea of Messiahship was mixed up because being the Messiah was not about fright, might and right – the assumption of many at the time (and today).

Rather, to be the Messiah was to be servant of all, as Jesus modelled. It was God’s choice to make, not the crowds. It was God to judge who was to be the Messiah and who wasn’t. And at Jesus’ baptism (Luke 3:21-22) what was important was the voice of God making it clear on whom God’s mission would fall.

The beloved.

Baptism is a sign and promise of God to confer the blessing of love — to gather together, to end division, to bridge difference and to welcome all into a life that is beloved (Quivik, 2025).

The reason people make great mistakes in judgement and in their behaviour, I suspect, is because they never heard what Jesus heard on the day of his baptism (Rohr, 2021). They have never heard another human voice, much less a voice from heaven bless them by saying, “You are a beloved son. You are a beloved daughter. And in you I am well pleased.”

If we’ve never had anyone believe in us, take delight in us, affirm us, call us beloved, we don’t have anywhere to begin. There’s nothing exciting and wonderful to start with, so we spend our whole lives trying to say those words to ourselves: “I’m okay, I’m wonderful, I’m great.” Which can be helpful, to a point.

But we may not really believe it until that word also comes to us from someone else, someone we adore or at least respect — a partner, a friend, a parent. And when we do hear those words directed at us, we are changed. We are empowered.

Henri Nouwen wrote, “We are the Beloved. We are intimately loved long before our parents, teachers, spouses, children and friends loved or wounded us. That’s the truth of our lives. That’s the truth I want you to claim for yourself. That’s the truth spoken by the voice that says, ‘You are my Beloved’” (Nouwen, 1992, p. 30). This is our greatest need, to hear those words spoken to us. It is the greatest need of everyone.

The banner hanging right behind me is one of my favourites in our church: Christ’s light shines in us. In us. It’s not just that Christ’s light shines. But that it shines in us. And, therefore, like Jesus, because we shine in the light, we, too, are beloved.

That new year’s fright of finding the spotlight on Jesus torn from its extension cord in the front yard of my brother’s house and then finding out the truth of what actually happened, taught me something about how quick I am to judge others.

So, I invite you to consider with me a new year’s resolution that on paper may seem rather soft. But it is more difficult, I imagine, than any new year’s resolution you can make:

Rather than judging others or evaluating them for where they fit on our scales or standards, can we, near the start of the new year and in the way of Jesus, commit to compassionately understand every person we encounter, approaching everyone with humility, with empathy, no exceptions? Can we resolve to begin every encounter with everyone we meet, in our hearts and in our words, with grace and love?

Let us be renewed in the waters, in the river, of God’s never-ending love.

References:

Honig, C. (2025, January 12). Crafting the sermon; Baptism of our Lord /lectionary 1, year C. https://members.sundaysandseasons.com

Nouwen, H. J. M. (1992). Life of the beloved: Spiritual living in a secular world. Crossroad Publishing.

Rohr, R. (2021, October 28). Beginning as beloved; Original goodness. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/beginning-as-beloved-2021-10-28/

Quivik, M. A. (2025, January 12). Crafting the sermon; Baptism of our Lord /lectionary 1, year C. https://members.sundaysandseasons.com

On the road to Bethlehem

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photo by Jessica Hawley Malina (July 16, 2024 / Hwy 4 between Ucluelet & Tofino BC)

It is a dark night. The cedars drape over the narrow, rocky path, blanketing out what dim starlight shines from the sky above.

A pregnant woman travels with her husband through dangerous territory in a tyrannical age, on the road to Ephrath – a small town on the outskirts of Jerusalem otherwise known as Bethlehem.

Who is this woman with her husband travelling at night?

This story is familiar in the bible. It is Rachel, going where the Lord God commanded. But the story doesn’t end well for Rachel. She dies in labour, on that road to Bethlehem, giving birth to Benjamin. And Rachel’s husband Jacob buries her by the road. He erects a grave in her honour and memory (Genesis 35:16-26).

Generations later, the lamenting prophet Jeremiah picks up the image of Rachel’s tomb on the road to Bethlehem, when the Babylonian captives are forced to march by it into exile (Jeremiah 31:15).

Tonight, Mary and Joseph follow the same path (Luke 2). After passing Rachel’s tomb on the way, Mary would no doubt have remembered the story of Rachel’s tragic end.

When she and Joseph make their anxious way on a dangerous road in the night to be registered in Joseph’s birthplace, what goes through Mary’s mind? Would she, like the faithful Rachel before her, also die on this road in labour? Would she, despite saying yes to God’s call, fail like the captives on their way to Babylon?

That dark night on the dangerous road to Bethlehem no doubt challenged her faith. Anyone who traveled on that rocky, darkened path to Bethlehem was reminded of the often-difficult realities facing God’s people throughout history.

You may be on an uncertain path, this Christmas. Thinking you are nonetheless on the right path, you still question your decision. Because there are reminders along the way from past experiences and memories, that cause you to doubt. And even though you believe you are on the right path, it is dark and hard to see the way. And you question God. Is God even there? Indeed, we travel a dangerous road tonight.

Like the prophet Isaiah, we complain God is nowhere in sight. We cry, O God, “You have hidden your face from us” (Isaiah 64:7).

When we find ourselves in the dark, what do we do?

Like Mary and Joseph making their way on the road to Bethlehem in the night, we can’t wait for sunny days. We keep moving forward in the dark, little by little. Like Mary and Joseph, we move, trusting that whatever challenges we face are already solved. The answer is out there, somewhere in the dark. We just haven’t come across it yet.

Let’s not forget, much of God’s created world relies on darkness as much as light. We need not fear the darkness. For plants and trees, seed germination takes place in the darkness of the soil below the ground. It is in darkness that the roots seek nutrients (Coman, 2024).

We require darkness for birth and growth in the human world as well, not just the seed in the ground, but the seed in the womb, the seed in our souls.

In the dark lie possibilities for intimacy, for rest, for healing. Although we may find journeying in the dark fearsome or confusing, it teaches us to rely on senses other than sight. In the process we learn that darkness bears the capacity for good, gives birth to the good.

What do we do when we find ourselves in the darkness of our own making or what the world has done?

Our work is to name the darkness for what it is and to find what it asks of us. What does the nighttime call us to do? Does the darkness ask a wrong to be made right, for justice to bring the dawn of hope to a night of terror? Does it ask for a candle to give warmth to the shadows, or for companions to hold us in our uncertainty and unknowing, or for a blanket to enfold us as we wait for the darkness to teach us what we need to know?

We need not fear the darkness of this Christmas Eve. It is a holy birth, after all, we celebrate this night.

At home this past Fall we installed LED sensor lights on the outside of the house. Our yard borders on a town pathway that leads into a back field. Sometimes people will take a short cut and walk down that path which has no lighting.

After being installed, two of the three sensor lights worked properly, coming on when sensing movement and shutting off after a minute or so. But the third one would not shut off. It remained on, even during the daytime. And no amount of fiddling with the settings could I get that light to turn off, apart from shutting down all three of them on the same breaker.

It was the light that would not turn off, the light that kept shining in the day when we didn’t notice it. The light was on, even when we didn’t see it.

“God came to us because God wanted to join us on the road, to listen to our story, and to help us realize that we are not walking in circles but moving towards the house of peace and joy.

“This is the great mystery of Christmas that continues to give us comfort and consolation: we are not alone on our journey [in the dark] … Christmas is the renewed invitation not to be afraid and let him – whose love is greater than our own hearts and minds can comprehend – be our companion” (Nouwen, 2004).

“In these … days of darkness and waiting, it may indeed seem that [at first] God’s face is hidden from our sight. But the sacred presence is there, breathing in the shadows” (Richardson, 1998, pp. 1-3).

It is a call to faith, darkness invites. A call to trust in the dawn and the sun that never stops shining. A call to trust in those who come alongside to travel with us to Bethlehem.

On that first Christmas Eve, indeed Mary was reminded of how not so well things turned out for the faithful people who went before her on that dangerous road to Bethlehem.

Yet, if anything, Mary was reminded of how God is there, in the darkness, once again, trying again. Trying again with people of faith to make a place in their lives for the coming of the Lord.

If anything, Mary was reminded that she was indeed on the right path in the dark, going in the direction God was making ready.

Mary Oliver, in her poem entitled “The Uses of Sorrow”, wrote:

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness
It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.

In the Christmas story, God’s face is revealed. The stars in the night sky over Bethlehem shine on a tiny baby’s face. In the midnight hours of that first Christmas, God came into the world in the face of a baby. The dark night gave birth to the greatest gift ever.

Thanks be to God! Merry Christmas!

References:

Coman, S. (2024, December 4). Seeds of hope. Lutherans Connect. https://lcseedsofhope.blogspot.com

Nouwen, H. (2004). Advent and Christmas wisdom from Henri J. Nouwen. Liguori Publications.

Richardson, J. (1998). Night visions: Searching the shadows of Advent and Christmas. United Church Press.

Expected yet unexpected

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The gift of Christmas is not what we first expect it to be.

Time seemed to accelerate beginning with Canadian Thanksgiving in October. Then before we knew it was Remembrance Day, then Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Giving Tuesday in November, then the planning for the Christmas holidays, decorating, making New Year’s reservations, attending the social office parties, family gatherings, choral concerts, organizing shopping days and finalizing all our lists in December. My head starts to spin just thinking about everything we associate with those markers on the calendar.

We wrap up our expectations of Christmas around these activities. Indeed, participating in all of it creates expectations about the destination, intended or not. What do you expect when Christmas Day finally arrives? What do you want Christmas to be for you?

Part of the challenge at this time of year is trying to match what we want with what we actually end up doing.

The Gospel today describes the people in first century Palestine as filled with expectation (Luke 3:15). What were they expecting? They were looking for someone to come and save them, a Messiah. They were a people who walked in darkness (John 1), in a troubled time in history. They yearned for a saviour to liberate them from oppression.

And they suspected that maybe this saviour was John the Baptist – a charismatic speaker with a magnetic personality that could captivate the crowds with shock-and-awe oration never-mind his poor taste in fashion.

The gift of Christmas is not what we first expect it to be.

When I think deeply about my favourite Christmas memories, they were moments that happened despite the planning and to-do lists. What sticks, what made the greatest impression on me from Christmas times past, they were all moments that were unexpected.

These precious memories came more as a surprise: a serendipitous encounter with a friend, an unexpected moment outside on a winter’s night under starlit skies, walking on snow-packed streets, delivering gifts, listening or singing to a certain piece of Christmas music, a smile and healing tears in the midst of sorrow and terrible loss.

The gift of Christmas is not what we first expect it to be. John the Baptist redirects the attention of his followers to the one who is the expected Messiah, but not in the way they expected. Jesus is the gift of Christmas who still surprises in the way he comes to us.

We’ve been taught to consider Jesus today not as a political leader to free people from military oppression. But we’ve also been taught that Jesus comes to us mainly as a ‘caring’ God, a God who is gentle, who cares, coddles, protects and watches over us.

But Jesus was also someone to reckon with. There was this no-nonsense, straight-from-the-shoulder truthfulness about the way Jesus related not just to his opponents, the Pharisees, but to his very own disciples as well.

And he was not always necessarily nice. Jesus called Peter, “Satan” in one sizzling exchange (Matthew 16:23). Jesus never said, “Blessed are the nice”. He publicly expressed his anger, causing a social ruckus on temple grounds. There he physically disrupted the unjust practices of the money changers (John 2).

The Christmas narrative is not just about coddling and comforting the privileged. John the Baptist, if no other character from the Christmas story does it better, calls us out of our comfort zone, and challenges us in our image of the Christ, the gift at Christmas. Jesus, both the expected and the unexpected one.

The true gift at Christmas makes us think twice about what we are receiving. In the One who comes to us at Christmas in ten short days, we may not expect what we actually receive. The gift may surprise us, catch us off guard. This may make us feel uncomfortable at first. That part of Christmas is unsung.

Yet, one other truth of Christmas gleaned from the biblical narrative: The gift came at the right time. God gave the people what they needed, when they needed it most.

The baby born in Bethlehem had a forerunner to get the people ready for the gift. Even though they were warned, they were still surprised and bewildered when the gift arrived: The messy stable. The crying infant. The bloody cross. The empty tomb.

Because what they got in Jesus was not a Messiah riding a chariot at the head of tens of thousands of warriors thundering up the Kidron Valley to Jerusalem. What they got was a vulnerable human who showed us the very face of God.

Today we lighted the ‘joy’ candle on the wreath. This third Sunday of Advent is traditionally called ‘Gaudete’, and it is rose coloured. ‘Gaudete’ is from Latin which means, “rejoice”, from Philippians (3:1/4:4) – “Rejoice, rejoice in the Lord always! Again I say rejoice!” Gaudete Sunday gives us permission to praise God and give God thanks for the gift, expected yet unexpected, that soon arrives.

Do you expect to be surprised? When you are, that experience brings the joy of Christmas.

Stoppage time: the waiting game

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“Prepare the way of the Lord!” shouts John the Baptist in the wilderness (Luke 3:1-6).

There was a child who was asked to read a part in a Christmas pageant at church. She had the part of John the Baptist. She was perfect for the role, a firecracker of a personality, a born leader. She had many friends who listened to her and followed her on the playground.

But she was worried that she would make a mistake or forget her lines. She told her parents that she didn’t want to go in front of so many people. It made her stomach upset and she felt scared.

Her parents told her stage fright was normal and that the best way to deal with her fear was to be prepared. Being prepared meant going over her lines 10,000 times in the weeks leading up to the play until she could fall asleep reciting her lines perfectly.

She protested. What if her mind would blank out when getting on stage? What if all that practice would mean nothing if she froze under the lights? Why should she even bother trying?

Preparation is the virtue we hail in Advent, when we are called to watch and wait – and prepare! – for the coming of the Lord at Christmas.

But what happens when we don’t have time to prepare everything just right? What happens when we are not prepared, when it comes down to it?

The notion that during Advent we are to wait, at first seems ludicrous. There is no time. How can we wait when there is so much to do (to prepare!)?

But what if the key to being prepared is learning and practising the art of waiting?

Because the truth is, no amount of preparation can prevent a tragedy from happening just as no amount of preparation can have you ready for the birth of a child when it happens. When it happens, at some profound level, we know we can never be fully prepared. When it happens, we know that we could never have anticipated and controlled for every contingency. So, what if being prepared means we know how to wait for it? Could it be, maybe we need first to learn how to wait?

From the Gospel, waiting first means we need to slow down. When shopping malls, parking lots and highways in December indicate everything but, slowing down is vital to receiving the Word of God this season. To practice, notice how you read scripture. So, in the Gospel reading today resist the temptation to skip through the first couple of verses (Luke 3:1-2) – it’s a list of names we have difficulty pronouncing.

Yet, there is purpose here. Luke, the Gospel writer, is intentional about naming all the political and religious rulers of the day and the time they presided. Luke firmly plants the message in a particular place and time in history. We can’t rush through this. Read those words intentionally as if they were a prerequisite for what comes after. And this takes practise. Read slowly.

Every valley shall be lifted and every mountain made low. Not just one valley. Not just one mountain. Not just the valleys associated with Friday night. Not just the mountains confronted Monday morning. Not just the valleys and mountains experienced during worship. In every valley of our lives. On every mountain encountered in daily living.

God’s message needs to land in time and place. We need to slow it down in order to notice it everywhere.

Luke is also quite clear, and intentional, about placing John the Baptist in the wilderness. Not in the crowded confines of a stuffy boardroom or lecture hall. Not in the opulent chancels and temple sanctuaries. Not in the public square in the middle of the city. Not even around the kitchen table or comfy living rooms of our private homes.

In the wilderness, there is lots of space, open areas yielding infinite horizons and unexplored terrain. There is this expansiveness associated with receiving God’s word. We rarely give thought to these conditions when the message is delivered. But there is always context. Waiting is preparing the ground, turning the proverbial soil of our hearts in order to receive the gift. God works from the inside out as much as God works from the outside in. Those expansive contexts of our lives, inner and outer, must be nurtured and practised.

Here is something you can do this Advent to illustrate this practice of slowing it down. For example, I know exchanging and mailing Christmas cards is not as popular today as it was a few decades ago. But maybe some of you can relate.

So, when you receive a hand-delivered Christmas card or in the mail after the postal strike is over, don’t open it right away. If you live with someone else, wait until you can sit down with them for a meal or coffee later that day to open it together, read it and give thanks for the person sending it. Or, if you live alone, wait until your next devotional time, or quiet time to open it, read it and give thanks for whomever sent it.

Advent is about slowing down, opening up time and space, and marking time.

Finally, waiting is becoming aware that the message is for you. Not for someone else. Not for the wayward children or grandchildren. Not for those who disagree with you. Not for those from other parts of the world. Not for those who behave differently from you. Not some part of the culture you do not participate in.

When John the Baptist spoke of a baptism of forgiveness, his opponents – the Pharisees – didn’t at first think this baptism referred to them. They, after all, had already participated in the mikvah, the Jewish ritual of immersing into the purity bath.

The rug was pulled from underneath the Pharisee’s feet when the message that John the Baptist brought was meant for them. And not just for the Gentiles, but for Jewish people as well – everyone who does not receive the message of repentance and forgiveness for themselves.

Waiting opens up regions of the soul to admit the call of repentance and promise of forgiveness into each and every one of us. Waiting allows us to contemplate what that changed life means for us. It’s very personal.

But what if we are like the little girl preparing for the Christmas pageant? What if we can’t or don’t prepare? What if we insist, “It’s not for me.”

When we are not ready for what happens in life, when there is no amount of work that can adequately prepare us for whatever comes our way, God still puts extra time on the clock. Just like at the end of a 90-minute soccer match, there’s always stoppage time to account for injuries that delayed the play of the game during the first 90 minutes. There’s extra time added. Always.

God’s patience is infinite. God waits for us. Even when we get injured, are delayed, or for whatever reason can’t seem to get our ducks in a row. God’s pacing and timing operate on a different level which we cannot fully understand, except that God makes time and space for us. And God’s message is to each one of us, personally. That message is conveyed in love and mercy.

“I am confident of this,” writes Saint Paul to the Philippians, “that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ” (1:6).

The second candle we light today is called the Peace Candle. When we wait for the Lord by slowing down, creating space, and we receive the message for us personally, we prepare in a way that brings peace into our lives. Because of God’s grace and love, peace reigns.

Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, sings God’s praise in the temple at the news of John’s birth:

78 In the tender compassion of our God
  the dawn from on high shall break upon us,
 79 to shine on those who dwell in darkness and in the shadow of death,
  and to guide our feet into the way of peace. (Luke 1)

Having peace is about living daily with ourselves and others in the mercy, forgiveness and love modelled by the one for whom we wait, Jesus Christ the Lord.

God waits, for us

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Towards the sun, through the flame (photo by Martin Malina, October 2024)

Despite condemnation of these acts by public leaders (Alhmidi, 2024), temples, synagogues, mosques and churches in Canada are burning.

A House of Commons report published in September catalogued a chart of statistics showing, by a breakdown of provinces and territories, how between 2010 and 2022 the number of police-reported cases of arson causing significant damage to religious institutions steadily increased from 13 incidents annually to 74.

These stats reflect not only damage to material property but acts of violence against people on site (Government of Canada, 2024 September 16).

Religion has become a target for people’s pain. A church near Eganville (Ottawa Valley) covered their building with tin late last century to protect it in the wake of suspicious fires that destroyed the Lutheran and Catholic church buildings in town at the time. They call it “the tin church”.

Visions of burning churches capture our imaginations. These visions stir up fear and despair. And one of the first things we want to do is to circle the wagons. What is the world coming to?

The Gospel for today (Mark 13:1-8) was first heard in the Jewish-Roman war of 66-70 C.E. Ultimately, in this war the temple in Jerusalem was demolished never to be rebuilt. It didn’t look good for the people of faith in the day, as the outward signs of their religion were torn down and burned.

It feels like ‘the end’ whenever the beloved symbols, forms, and outward appearances of our lives at best change, at worst are destroyed, especially in dramatic fashion and/or through violent conflict.

We feel like we are in the midnight hours of a life when we suddenly lose what we have cherished and become attached to over time. It is a trauma from which many do not recover. Some people struggle under the weighty pain of regret regarding past behaviours. Many today face incredible and what can often feel like and may actually be insurmountable obstacles.

We shake our heads in disbelief. How can the goodness of God prevail in the midst of this harsh reality? Is faith just a pipe dream? Is the kingdom of God merely some illusion to distract ourselves in one of many ways we amuse ourselves to escape from this reality? We look to the Black Friday deals.

There is word, a phrase and an image of Jesus the writer to the Hebrews uses that caught my attention. In verse 12 (Hebrews 10), “When Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, he sat down at the right hand of God, and since then he has been waiting …”

The writer of Hebrews bears witness to God’s great acts in Jesus of overcoming death and the grave and rising to new life. And then the writer of Hebrews pictures Jesus as sitting down and waiting. You can almost hear a pin drop. There is Jesus dusting off his hands with an attitude of mission-accomplished and slumping into an easy chair with a satisfied grin (Wallace, 2009).

Is this a picture of Christ the first hearers of scripture needed to hear as their temple burned? Isn’t Jesus supposed to rescue people in trouble? Swoop down and pull us out of the hellfire? Doesn’t he care? We get a rather passive image of Jesus sitting, waiting, and doing nothing. We don’t want this Jesus – a God who waits!

Facing the craziness of this world today, trying to cope with all our losses, we want a strong man who will make things right and make us great again!

Hebrews (chapter 10) cites a beloved passage from Jeremiah (31:33-34) where the prophet announces God’s vision of writing God’s covenant, God’s promise, on our hearts and minds (Hebrews 10:16).

What is implied is that the life of faith is not a matter of living under external measures. Our minds, our hearts – that’s where God goes. The life of faith is not validated by blind compliance to the outside demands of the law. The life of faith, rather, is Spirit-driven and a Spirit-given ability to live into the new covenant (Fahey, 2009). In other words, people of faith are called to live a new life, a changed life, from the inside out.

The early church had to hear again the gracious word of God. That is the purpose of this letter to the Hebrews. In facing their losses, they needed to hear again the Gospel promise that God will be faithful (Hebrews 5:12). God has faith in us. God believes in us, trusts us to do our part, to make our move. To be loving. To see in the hearts of everyone we meet the face of God, to be gracious and compassionate, and generous.

This is not a cockeyed optimism. It is not a life based on emotional reactions to outward circumstances. Rather, it is a life practised in hope and trust.

Jesus waits for us to take responsibility for our actions – past and present. Jesus waits for us to forgive ourselves, show compassion to ourselves, as God has already forgiven us and first loved us. We cannot have outward renewal unless and until we experience for ourselves inner renewal and change.

We may not see the victory of God in Christ with the naked eye. But we can hear it again with the naked ear (Long, 2009). The message here is that if you want to know the truth, pay attention not to the evil you see out there, but to the Gospel you hear and receive in here.

We do not rely on external circumstances or outward legalities or protocols to validate our faith nor to justify our actions. Instead, we find, in and through God’s grace, a pathway through devastation and suffering to freedom and salvation.

The time of loss and change signifies an ending to be sure. It is also a new beginning for people of deep faith. To have new life, all things must grow and change. It is no accident that the final words of today’s Gospel are: “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs” (Mark 13:8).

The midnight hour feels heavy buried deep in the shadows. The nighttime of our lives hides all things true from view. But dawn is just a few hours away. In the concluding words of Hebrews 10 (25): “Encourage one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

We need to make the move, towards the light. Because the sun will rise. The son is coming. And that is the surest promise of faith.

References:

Alhmidi, M. (2024, October 15). Video of Trudeau remarks edited to remove his condemnation of church fires. The Canadian Press. https://www.thecanadianpressnews.ca/fact_checking/video-of-trudeau-remarks-edited-to-remove-his-condemnation-of-church-fires/article_d82061e0-4cf5-55c7-83f0-f586a1016a1a.html

Fahey, J. E. (2009). Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18), 19-25; Theological perspective. In D. Bartlett & B. Brown Taylor (Eds.), Preaching the revised common lectionary; Feasting on the word; Year B, volume 4 (pp. 302-307). WJK Press.

Government of Canada. (2024, September 16). Inquiry of ministry Q-2825. House of Commons. Retrieved on 14 November 2024 from https://smartcdn.gprod.postmedia.digital/nationalpost/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Q-2825-Order.pdf

Long, T. G. (2009). Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18), 19-25; Exegetical perspective. In D. Bartlett & B. Brown Taylor (Eds.), Preaching the revised common lectionary; Feasting on the word; Year B, volume 4 (pp. 302-307). WJK Press.

Wallace, P. M. (2009). Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18), 19-25; Homiletical perspective. In D. Bartlett & B. Brown Taylor (Eds.), Preaching the revised common lectionary; Feasting on the word; Year B, volume 4 (pp. 302-307). WJK Press.

Jesus’ eye is on the sparrow

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photo by Martin Malina (Aug 26, 2024)

Many of us who love to read fiction, or watch movies, do so not only to find out whodunnit. We continue reading because we expect that a happy or at least satisfyingly good and appropriate ending awaits.

What is more, some hardened book lovers will toil through a dry and thick middle part of a book just to get to the ending trusting it will be well worth the work. Some people in this room today whom I know – not mentioning any names – will even have the audacity to cheat. They will peak ahead to the last page to determine whether or not it is worth their time and energy to plow through those sometimes-boring middle sections of the book.

The lectionary readings for this Sunday deserve a careful reading and re-reading. And you will note that the story of the widow at Zarephath feeding Elijah ends in abundance and promise fulfilled (1 Kings 17:8-16). The lecture in Hebrews about Jesus’ sacrifice for our sins ends in the promise of salvation for those who wait for God. That text ends by explicitly stating that when Jesus comes again it’s not to deal with sin, but to save people (Hebrews 9:24-28).

Judgement and sin are not the end of the story. Mercy, grace, salvation and promise-fulfilled are.

When we read this sacred text thousands of years after it was first written, what do we hear? What do we say? What do we believe about what’s important in our faith?

Last month, the father of liberation theology, Gustavo Gutiérrez, died at age 96. Once considered a revolutionary, his notion of God’s preferential option for the poor, his idea of empathy and advocacy for the poor, have influenced the social teaching of the church over the last century (Friskics-Warren, 2024 October 24).

According to Lutheran theology God is revealed most clearly in the suffering and death of Jesus. The cross therefore becomes the central metaphor for how God comes to us, and in what circumstances of life. God is revealed most profoundly not in glory, not in victory, not in riches, not in greatness, nor in prosperity.

But, rather, in conditions that are the exact opposite. Hence, the missional stance that suggests the voices of the poor, those on the margins, those who don’t have it all, in fact guide the church.

The cross shows us the way of Christ in the world and in the church. It is a humble way, a way of honesty. A way of being vulnerable. A way of asking for and receiving help and love from others. In receiving love we know who we truly are. At very least, we say God is revealed in all things, even in the tragic and sad.

In grief work, we say that sad is not bad (Morris, 2018). Sad may clue us, in fact, to the way forward in faith. What we initially ignore, dismiss, discard, pity, even despise in others and in ourselves may clue us, invite us into the truth of faith.

I think the woman gave her two cents worth, literally, because she trusted God. Hers was the faith in trusting that ultimately what awaited her at the end of her life was not judgement and sin. At the end, for her, was the embrace of a loving God for eternity. What has she to lose?

From his great sermon on the mount, we learn something important about Jesus verified in this Gospel today. Jesus’ eye is on the sparrow, on the littlest bird (Matthew 10:29). Therefore, we know that he watches, not to judge, not to put pressure on us to perform righteously, not to goad us to make a good example for others, not to make us great. No.

Jesus watches to protect us. To love us. To hold us through thick and thin.

The end of our story, your story, is good. Trust that life which God gives, reigns! Trust that love, which is still expressed from time to time in the world, reigns, in the end. Trust that God will not forsake you, that God will not forsake the little ones, that God will give voice in our weakness, that God will rise in the voices of the poor, in their example to us.

Will we listen? Will we watch where Christ looks?

Reference:

Friskics-Warren, B. (2024, October 24). Gustavo Gutiérrez, father of liberation theology, dies at 96. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2024/10/23/world/americas/gustavo-gutierrez-dead.html?unlocked_article_code=1.W04.MM2s.LBybnrYFAjNp&smid=em-share

Morris, S. (2018). Overcoming grief (2nd ed.). Robinson.

Candleholders

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We ran into a crisis that, in the end, wasn’t a crisis. In fact, it could not have conveyed the meaning of today more appropriately.

It was the crisis of the candles. Every year, weeks before All Saints Sunday, we do an inventory of the candles that we light in memory and in celebration of the saints we name today. Of course, every year there is a different number of people we remember, and therefore a corresponding number of candles. And sometimes, depending on our stock, we might need to order more.

So, there is a bit of stress, especially if we need to order more and time becomes a factor. This year, our dedicated altar care group assured me that we had enough candles.

But, there was a catch. We had used them before, probably during All Saints Sunday worship last year. Though these candles were all uniform and about the same length, they were not new out of the box. Pause.

When we discussed the situation, I wondered out loud about this belief we have when it comes to celebrations – that every individual deserves their own, unburned candle. It’s like the fact that many people, like myself, share a birthday with someone else in the family. Don’t we deserve our own day? “It must be tough,” some have commiserated with me, “sharing the limelight with someone else!”

Indeed, we tend to centre meaning on the individual. That’s a whole lot of pressure we put on ourselves – to make it or break it! We therefore value self-reliance and seek reward for our individual achievements and successes.

When our faith is dependent on ourselves, individually, we at the same time create a culture in which people have a hard time asking for help. We resist relying on and learning from others. We see that as weakness.

This is one of the lingering legacies of the Reformation. While Martin Luther brought the bible to the people and encouraged a personal engagement with scripture and sacrament, his legacy also individualized faith. The lasting consequence was to leave us believing everything important hangs on the balance of individual decisions.

Consequently our sense of community erodes and our connection weakens not only with each other on earth but with the “mystical union” (Prayer of the day, n.d.) we have with all the saints in heaven, in Christ.

When you grieve the loss of someone special in your life, for example, what do you believe about your connection with that loved one right now? To what degree is the relationship over? And, if you believe it isn’t over, how has that relationship changed?

On All Saints Sunday we counter the tendency to individualize everything, and affirm instead that we stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before us. We light candles that have already burned before! In our baptism we unite with all the saints on earth and heaven. As Luther famously said, we belong to the priesthood of all believers, in every time and every place. Each of us belongs to and is part of something much bigger than ourselves.

The foundation of our faith is not our individual decision to follow Christ but rather our confession of being held in the communion of all the saints whose foundation is Jesus Christ. Our faith is not alighted on the merit of our own individual efforts. Our faith is lighted up because the flame has always been shining and showing us the way, going before us all.

My brother tells of a recent mystical experience of connecting with our dad who died five years ago. His telling of the story is published in the recent edition of “Eternity for Today” (Malina, 2024):

“I was going through a rough week,” he writes, “questioning a lot of things. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I had been tossing and turning in bed for hours. Just as I was finally drifting off, there he suddenly appeared before me, unquestionably my dad. I jolted in surprise. His smiling and jovial face had never seemed so vivid and warmly familiar.

“And he told me something I so needed to hear, words which not only encouraged me, but also affirmed my faith in an inter-connected universe where the eternal and material dimensions weave together in undetermined ways, where God’s love in Jesus binds us all in heaven and on earth: ‘Be at peace. Don’t be afraid. Just keep going. One step at a time. I am with you. God is with you’” (p. 30).

Even and especially when we grieve our losses, we discover other ways we are connected. We may even be able to affirm that the relationship is not over, it has only changed. And maybe then we discover new roles and new ways of being in relationship.

In their book, “Beyond Saints and Superheroes”, authors Allen Jorgenson and Laura MacGregor challenge readers to re-envision our identity in community to be like candleholders rather than trying to be the light ourselves (MacGregor & Jorgenson, 2023).

So, we hold others, especially those unlike us with needs different from our own. And we empathize with them. But true empathy is “not about imagining how you would think or feel in the given situation. Rather, it is about imagining how someone else feels in the situation they are in” (Morris, 2018, p. 171).

This shift in thinking moves us out of our individual self-preoccupation to an other-centred way of thinking. To do this, we first practice simply—but perhaps not easily—just being with another rather than compulsively doing for another. When we can simply hold space with others, the tiny flame has oxygen to breathe, so the light of Christ can shine brightly for the world to notice.

When we practice just being with someone else, we love them by meeting them where they are at. When they have that sense of being seen, that they matter. In that space of grace, then, we recognize the light of Christ which, although it may appear fragile and small, actually gives enough light in the night for all to see.

Listen to the words of Professor Jorgenson who wrote this poem called “Candleholders” :

“Yesterday was All Saints’ Sunday at church and candles lumined the nave to honor the departed, the beloved, the beleaguered.

“We were invited to light one for a soul deep in our heart, and I walked to the altar and lit a candle in honor of you… sadly missed…

“The candles were variously held by brass, by glass holders. Some votives sat free. I took one of these and tipped it toward the Christ light. As it flamed, I breathed a prayer of thanks. I set you – on fire – into a bed of sand, imagining holding your hand once again, but no, you were grasped by grains of sand without number.

“I pondered you then, with all the saints: each one different, each one the same, each one broken, each one whole – together a circle of support.

“As I made my way back to the pew, I thought I heard you say:

“Today is All Saints Sunday, but each day is holy, as are we, as we hold each other and so the Christ” (MacGregor & Jorgenson, 2023, pp. 110-111).

References:

MacGregor, L., & Jorgenson, A. G. (2023). Beyond saints and superheroes: Supporting parents raising children with disabilities: A practical guide for faith communities. Mad and Crip Theology Press.

Malina, D. (2024, October 22). My dad in my dreams. Eternity for Today: Daily Scripture Reading for Reflection and Prayer, 60(4), 30. Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada.

Morris, S. (2018). Overcoming grief (2nd ed.). Robinson.

Wahrnehmen: What do you do when the past visits you?

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You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free (John 8:32).

In an online forum, fans of Leonard Cohen debate the title of his song, “One of us cannot be wrong” (leonardcohenforum.com). The song seems to be about a failing romantic relationship.

The term has also been used as a joke between two people who disagree on something. Any argument, it seems, presumes that someone must always be right. And, therefore, someone else must also always be wrong.

Saint Paul in his letter to the Romans throws a wrench into this kind of dualism. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). Therefore, no one is right. And no one is wrong. No one, ultimately, can claim higher moral ground.

In today’s Gospel reading for Reformation Sunday, Jesus says, “Everyone who sins is a slave to sin” (John 8:34). In other words, human beings – we are all in the same boat. And, therefore, we need to learn to co-exist, peaceably, even with our enemies.

But only the truth will “set you free” (John 8:32).

Ok. So, what is truth? Pilate asked Jesus this question (John 18:38). It’s normal to go into our heads to figure that one out. In today’s Gospel, those who believed in Jesus misinterpreted his teaching by thinking they didn’t need to be made free because they were not slaves, literally.

We can, and have to this day two thousand years later, argued and debated what this truth is. Martin Luther in the 16th century, who launched the Reformation, offered his interpretation by focusing theological truth on the unconditional grace of God, which implies accepting, loving, and caring for everyone unconditionally.

But not every Christian feels comfortable with that message. We’d rather slip back into that comfortable dualism of believing “one of us cannot be wrong.”

Maybe the way to knowing the truth starts by examining how we receive the truth. Perhaps we first need to set the context for that truth giving and receiving. How is it given? Who is there? What’s going on?

In Martin Luther’s mother tongue, the German language, the word truth is “Wahrheit”. But German offers a helpful nuance by introducing a verb, an action word, for the word truth: “Wahrnehmen” loosely means perceiving, or as I’ve already mentioned, truth-receiving.

Truth is about how we receive it. It is not just a thought, or doctrine floating up here somewhere. It is contextual. It’s on the ground, in our lives. It is integral to what we do as much as what we think.

I can hear the wheels turning in your heads. You might argue with me here, saying the main theological point of Martin Luther’s Reformation is that we are made right with God not by doing good works. We are made right, or justified, with God by God’s grace alone. We can’t earn God’s favour because even the good we try to do has a downside. Nothing we do is a perfect thing with 0-negative consequence. We are truly dependent on God’s grace.

But because our actions – all of them – yield at least some negative consequence, doesn’t mean we remain passive or don’t try. Recognizing our sinful nature doesn’t translate to inactivity based in fear of making a mistake – because we will anyway no matter what we do! Proclaiming the primacy of God’s grace in everyone’s life doesn’t mean we don’t reach out, take risks, and express our faith in loving deeds.

It takes practice. Luther did say, “Sin boldly! But trust in God’s grace even more!” Wahrnehmen.

Mother Theresa said, “Love cannot remain by itself – it has no meaning. Love must be put into action, and that action is service” (Dyer, 2010, p. 99). In other words, love, compassion, mercy and forgiveness – all these grace-words mean absolutely nothing if we let them remain only in our individual lives, or only in our heads. Wahrnehmen.

What Jesus did for us on the cross and empty tomb was that he led the way for us, showed us the way and modelled for us the pattern, the way to follow. What Jesus did for us is not just for our intellectual benefit, not just for disputation in order to arrive at some level of doctrinal purity.

We are created and called for a purpose: To follow faithfully despite the mistakes we are bound to make on the way. It takes practice and exercising our spiritual muscles. Early in any exercise regime, it feels awkward.

In her book on overcoming grief, Sue Morris (2018) suggests writing with your other hand (pp. 26-27). Try writing your name and address with your non-dominant hand. Write as neatly as you can.

How does it feel? How does your writing compare to when you write with your dominant hand? Did you have to concentrate more? Did it feel strange?

“Being able to write effectively with your other hand would require a lot of practice … Even after many years of experience, writing with your non-dominant hand may never feel as effortless as writing with your dominant hand” (pp. 27-28).

A similar thing happens in grief, after a loved one has died. Even though you know how to live just like you know how to write, your life now feels awkward and unfamiliar. It takes more concentration, effort and energy. Any transition in life, even positive ones, involve loss and change. Transitions involve new learning and a period of adjustment.

As we practice, nevertheless, we can experience God’s loving presence. In the receiving of grace, we discover a deep source of strength flowing through us. We discover that in giving we begin to receive even more.

In practising faith, the truth frees us from the prisons of our own compulsive self-centredness. In practising faith, we learn again that, though the results are never perfect and even though our actions are always flawed, the truth of God’s grace is realized in deeds of love, serving others unconditionally, and courage to try something new.

And when we arrive one day at heaven’s gates, one thing we can be certain of: God will never fault us for loving too much, caring too much, showing mercy and compassion too much.

Thanks be to God, for the truth in Christ, who indeed sets us free.

Martin Luther, in his words, offers a blessing to us: “May God, who has led and called you to a knowledge of the truth, strengthen and preserve you to his praise and glory. To him and to his grace I commend you. Amen” (Owen, 1993).

Blast from the past: Ottawa Lutherans celebrate 500 years of Reformation in 2017

References:

Iazariuk. (2007, December 25). I think the title gives the interpretation, but I may be wrong [Comment on the online forum post One of us can’t be wrong – interpretations please.]. leonardcohenforum.com. https://www.leonardcohenforum.com/viewtopic.php?t=9931

Dyer, W. W. (2010). The shift: Taking your life from ambition to meaning. Hay House, Inc.

Morris, S. (2018). Overcoming grief (2nd ed.). Robinson.

Owen, B. (Ed.). (1993). Daily readings from Luther’s writings. Augsburg Fortress.

Ordinary Time

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We understandably seek an extraordinary experience of the divine. The stories we like to tell each other over coffee, for example, are those strange, inexplicable even miraculous moments of life. It’s as if we can know God only through these extreme, irregular events: How by some fluke we avoided an accident waiting to happen, or how we were so fortunate to win a prize, or how we happened to be in the right place at the right time to witness something incredible. 

These expectations of experiencing something spectacular of the divine translate into our religious observance. We will come to church at Christmas and Easter – when all the stops are pulled to put on a good show – in order to fulfill our longing for God, for something better than the norm, something more entertaining and stimulating. Aren’t epiphanies supposed to catch our attention after all?

It is so tempting to set religion apart from the ordinary, making of it a sort of “fairyland amusement park.” This leads to an ancient heresy of the church – the split between God and human, the ordinary and the holy, the sacred and profane.[1]And when this split entrenches in our minds, how is it, we wonder, that we would deserve such a God? A God who is made known only to an elite few who will have these extraordinary, divine epiphanies more than we ever can.

But today we find ourselves in ‘ordinary’ time of the church year. According to the church calendar, these times are marked by the colour green. The largest chunk of ordinary time follows the numerous Sundays after Pentecost, running through the whole summer and into late Fall.

But, ordinary time also has a place early in the year, a shorter chunk of time between Christmas and Easter. Combined with the season after Pentecost, ‘ordinary’ time makes up mostof our time – thirty-three or thirty-four weeks of every year.[2]It is not, therefore, the time during which the church is engaged in preparations for, or celebrations of, the birth, death and resurrection of Jesus.

It is the time during which we are called, like Simon and Andrew in the Gospel for today, to follow Jesus. Not because of the star that announced his birth. Neither because of the excitement conjured by the promise of a trip to Jerusalem. But simply because Jesus said, “Follow me.”[3]

It’s ironic that in church history and doctrine we have minimized Jesus’ life and ministry in comparison to his birth and death. Some of the ancient creeds jump directly from Jesus’ birth to his death. But the reason for which Jesus lived on earth cannot be minimized. “Though it is not untrue to say that Jesus came to earth to die, it is more true to the Gospels to say that he came first to live.”[4]

In fact, Jesus’ death is truly significant only in connection with that which he lived for and proclaimed – God’s kingdom. We pray every week, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” On earth. While we go about living, here.

In these weeks between Christmas and Easter we are reminded that, for all their wonders, neither of these great celebrations is sufficient to sustain us in the hard work of following Jesus in our ordinary lives. How can we do that?

In addressing this question let’s be aware again not to be always so taken by the WOW factor —the exceptional even unbelievable nature of the disciples’ response:

“Immediately they left their nets and followed him.”[5]

Again, we may tend to focus only on the extraordinary act of obedience on the part of the disciples. All we see and read here is this immediate response by Simon and Andrew to follow Jesus. They don’t think about it, they don’t talk to anyone before agreeing. They just drop everything and go. Wow!

But what has been going on leading up to this moment, this encounter between Jesus and the disciples he calls? You get the feeling that there has been something brewing beneath the surface, even of their consciousness, which then presents in this radical behaviour. What has been going on in their lives preceding this moment? And, over the long haul of their ordinary living?

Saint Augustine from the fourth century opens the first book of his Confessionswith the prayer and statement that “our hearts are restless until they rest in thee.”[6]It might very well be that even those four fishers had restless hearts – so restless that when they heard Jesus’ call to them, they could do nothing else but leave everything behind and follow. 

Perhaps they were simply responding to what had already been imprinted on their souls from birth—the knowledge of the voice of God—so that when they heard the voice, all they could do was obey. Their hearts were already prepared over time, to respond to that moment of invitation.

Our hearts have been prepared through every experience of our lives, prepared to hear God’s voice when it happens. Our lives, every ordinary moment, is holy ground in which God is working in us to be prepared for when that moment of realization comes.

We may be our greatest enemy in recognizing the work of God in our ordinary routines, as we go about our lives—washing dishes, or walking to the office, or talking on the phone. We can give up the search for extraordinary experiences to validate our relationship with God and service in Jesus’ name. It is obvious. It is right here. In our ordinary lives. Salvation happens in everyday, ordinary experience.[7]

An old man was making rope. Someone came to him and asked him, “What is it necessary to be saved?” Without looking up from his work, he replied, “You are looking at it.”[8]

An episode on one of the nature documentary channels was about the elephant seals of Argentina. The show focused on a mother and her seal pup, who had just been born. Soon after birthing her baby, the mother, now famished, abandoned the pup on the shore so she could go feed in the rich waters off the coast. 

After feeding, she returned to a different part of the beach and began to call for her baby. Other mothers had done the same, and all had returned at a similar time. It was hard to believe they would find each other. 

The camera then followed the mother as she called to her pup and listened for the response. Following each other’s voices and scents, soon the mother and her pup were reunited. The host of the show explained that, from the moment of birth, the sound and scent of the pup are imprinted in the mother’s memory; and, the sound and scent of the mother are imprinted in the pup’s memory.[9]

That’s how it is between God and each of us. We are imprinted with a memory, a longing for God. And God is imprinted with a memory, a longing for us. And even if it takes a lifetime, we will find each other.

No bright stars. No earthquakes. Just a voice that strikes our ear amid the ordinariness of our lives and announces that God has found us and God is among us.

[1]Gregory Mayers, Listen to the Desert; Secrets of Spiritual Maturity from the Desert Fathers and Mothers (Chicago: ACTA Publications, 1996), p.105

[2]David Toole in David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds. Feasting on the Word; Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary Year A Volume 1 (Kentucky: WJK Press, 2010) p.284-286

[3]Matthew 4:19

[4]Troy A. Miller in David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, eds., ibid., p.287

[5]Matthew 4:20

[6]Cited in Rodger Y. Nishioka, Feasting on the Word, ibid., p.286

[7]Gregory Mayers, ibid., p.105

[8]Ibid., p.97

[9]Rodger Y. Nishioka, Feasting on the Word, ibid., p.284-286

Of trees and radical love – a wedding sermon

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From 1 Corinthians 13:4-8, 13 by Saint Paul:

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogantor rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end.

And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

From “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin”by Louis de Bernières:

Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.

Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of eternal passion. That is just being “in love” which any fool can do.

Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two.

We are here today because you, Ryan and Kristina, have invited us to be with you in this very special moment in your lives. I count myself among those who feel very much honoured to witness the celebration of your love for each other, and the blessing of God upon your marriage.

Indeed, I suspect we are doing this because you want your relationship — which began years ago — to endure long after this day. You want your relationship of marriage to be strong and long-lasting. You want your marriage to be rooted, and grounded, in the love you share, and the love given to you.

We want to mark this beautiful moment in time because we know the challenges that will come to your marriage. The storms of life will come: Disappointments. Failures. Illness. Circumstances of life often beyond our control cause us anxiety, fear and suffering. And, deep down, we know that only love – truelove – will help you persevere through those storms.  

But what is true love? Can we describe it?

True love is radical. The word radical actually means the “root” of something, the “source” of it. How is this radical love shown in our lives? The reading from “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” captures this sense of rooted love by comparing love to trees. What is it about trees that have survived countless wind storms through the years?

For one thing, healthy trees will stay connected even as they bend, yield, in adversity and in the storm. Some of the oldest trees, the Redwoods in California, I am told, intertwine their roots together; and elsewhere, even the tops of the trees offer mutual support through their branches being inter-connected. Reaching out to help, and receiving help.

True strength of character, in a relationship, comes not in remaining rigid and unmoving and stuck-in-a-rut. Otherwise, you’ll break. True strength of being is not about flexing power and muscle and bull-dozing through your point-of-view in an unyielding fashion. True love does not, in Saint Paul’s words, “insist on its own way” (1 Corinthians 13:5). 

The trees that survive the storms and endure over time are trees that are practiced in the art of give-and-take, flexibility and mutuality. They are used to bending, from time to time. And they realize they need each other. They need to meet the challenges of life together, not alone. Roots intertwined, interconnected.

Yet another characteristic of trees can teach us about love: Trees already have everything they need in the tiny seed that starts it all. The largest, tallest and oldest trees on earth started out as small seeds. And these seeds contain everything they are and will ever need. 

Often in marriage it’s easier to focus on the negative, especially when stress-levels rise, and those storms come. But that is a choice. Let’s not forget the positives. And they are many: you already have everything you need at the start of your married life in order to make this work. You already have everything you need, not only to survive, but thrive! Nurture those positive qualities you see in each other – you know what they are. Acknowledge the good in each other. Why? Because we already have “the technology” in us. As much as we are limited, broken people, we are also wired for goodness. Right from the start.

Finally, to love, is to be still. On occasion I have walked early in the morning through a forest. At dawn, a forest is normally quiet, and still. We behold the true beauty of the tree and forest in the stillness of the moment. In truth, we can admire the wonder and beauty of the trees only when they are still. 

In a storm of activity and distraction we aren’t normally admiring something or someone. Sometimes in our hectic, high-octane, busy lives, we distract ourselves to oblivion. We are moving constantly, rushing here and there, getting this and that, that we can forget to breath. We forget to be with ourselves and each other. To be still before the Lord (Psalm 46:10). 

In my marriage many of the precious, loving moments I spend with Jessica are those times in the canoe, paddling silently. Or, sitting quietly beside each other watching a sunset, or reading quietly together. To love, is to be still. Nurture the quiet and the still in each other. 

Trees that grow out of their roots, ultimately reach to the sky. People committed to each other in marriage grow out of this radical love, the love God, the glue in your marriage. Married couples ultimately reflect the love of God to the world. Like the tops of the trees reaching to the sky for light and life, our lives reflect and receive and yearn for God. As you grow in love and light, may your marriage reach for the sky.