Our family has adopted the ancient practice of “Chalking the door” on the Feast of Epiphany (January 6th in the Western Church). It is a way to orient our lives towards hospitality at the beginning of the year, as well as to ask God’s blessing on our home.

If you’d like to try the practice, here’s a link to a liturgy for a 4-person household like ours. You can obviously adapt it to the size of your own:

CHALKING THE DOOR LITURGY

(The document is designed to be printed double sided, then cut in two so it is read front and back.)

As a group, stand near the main entrance to your home with a piece of chalk, and then read the liturgy together. May this practice become as meaningful for your household as it has for ours.

For the past six years, part of the rhythm of the Christmas season for me has been the privilege of preaching on the last Sunday of the year for the churches my brother-in-law pastors. This year I turned to the Lectionary for inspiration, which for Year A offers one of the most challenging passages in the Gospels. I think the sermon I preached on Sunday may prove helpful for more than those two congregations, so I offer it here as a meditation for the coming year. (As an aside, I always struggle to come up with titles for my sermons, but if you’re a fan of the Mad Max franchise – or of Tina Turner – you’ll understand why this one practically chose itself.)

If all we had was Matthew’s account of the Christmas story, then all our Christmas carols, and pageants and nativity scenes would be pretty thin on material. I mean, Mary and Jesus basically get cameo appearances in Matthew:

1.18: “When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child by the Holy Spirit”.

Followed by:

1.25: “She bore Joseph a son, and he named him Jesus.”

Then we’re straight on to the story of the Wise Men. Thank goodness for Luke!

The text we’re given in the Lectionary for this week drops us into the middle of the story of the visit of the Magi, so let’s get up to speed on what’s been happening. Jesus has been born in Bethlehem. ‘Wise men from the East’ – probably from modern day Iraq – saw a star that they interpreted as the sign of a momentous event and have traveled to Jerusalem. They have walked the streets of the city asking this question: “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? We have come to pay him homage.” Matthew tells us, ‘when King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him.’ This is Herod the Great – the one who rebuilt the Temple. We can certainly understand why he might have been alarmed by the arrival of the Wise Men asking such a question! But why was the entire population of Jerusalem also frightened?

Because of Herod. And the way he had risen to power.

King Herod had not been born into a royal family. He was only half-Jewish. But he was a man with lofty ambitions, and the willingness to do whatever it took to achieve them. He began his political career as Governor of Galilee, where he successfully collected taxes for Rome. This endeared him to Marc Anthony, who appointed him Tetrarch of Galilee. But his brutality was condemned by the Sanhedrin, and the current king of Judea – Antigonus – learned to kept a wary eye on Herod. When the Parthians invaded in 40 BCE, Herod fled to Rome. Three years later, the Senate in Rome unexpectedly nominated Herod as King of Judaea, and gave him an army to make good his claim. Jerusalem became ground zero for the ensuing civil war – and its people suffered.

Once Herod had secured the throne for himself, he began to systematically assassinate his rivals for the throne. Cleopatra also had her eye on Judea, backing a rival, which led to more bloodshed. By the time we get to the events of Matthew chapter 2, Herod has been in power for over 30 years. He has taken 10 wives from prominent families, all of whom gave him sons who they hoped would succeed him. Some of these sons have tried to poison their father. Herod has changed his will 5 times, keeping everyone off balance, and now he is an old man, in poor health. He has spent three decades holding onto power, trying to establish his own dynasty. In his latest will he has named his son Antipas as his successor. And Jerusalem has heaved a sigh of relief as it looks like the prospect of more bloodshed is finally over. But then these Magi from the East arrive, asking where the King of the Jews has been born. It’s no wonder all Jerusalem is frightened – is another civil war about to explode?

Well, Herod calls together the chief priests and bible scholars and inquires of them where the Messiah – the King of the line of David – is to be born. They answer Bethlehem, according to the word given through the prophet Micah. Herod then secretly sends for the wise men, and sends them to Bethlehem with instructions to identify the child for him and then return and tell him where the baby is, so that he too can ‘pay him homage.’ They travel to Bethlehem, find the infant Jesus with Mary and offer him their strange gifts. Then they all share a dream warning them not to return to Herod, and so return home instead. This leaves Herod in Jerusalem, waiting anxiously for their news, so he can send his soldiers to find the child who threatens his plans to establish his dynasty – and kill him. But they never return, and thus, we finally get to our text for the first Sunday of Christmas, Matthew 2.13-23:

When they had gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. “Get up,” he said, “take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him.” So he got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt, where he stayed until the death of Herod. And so was fulfilled what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Out of Egypt I called my son.”

When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi.  Then what was said through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled:

“A voice is heard in Ramah,
    weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children
    and refusing to be comforted,
    because they are no more.”

After Herod died, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother and go to the land of Israel, for those who were trying to take the child’s life are dead.” So he got up, took the child and his mother and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that Archelaus was reigning in Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. Having been warned in a dream, he withdrew to the district of Galilee, and he went and lived in a town called Nazareth. So was fulfilled what was said through the prophets, that he would be called a Nazarene.

If I were to ask you to picture a scene from the Bethlehem of the Christmas story, my guess is it would be a stable, with the Holy Family, shepherds, some sheep, maybe the wise men with their camels. It would probably not be this one:

This is the painting, ‘Scène du massacre des innocents,’ painted by the French artist Léon Cogniet in 1824. It captures the horror of what happened in Bethlehem that day. When we think of a mother and child at Christmas, we of course picture Mary and Jesus. But this painting depicts another mother and child in Bethlehem. A mother who no doubt rejoiced in the birth of her son just as Mary did. A mother who had nursed and nurtured her child, perhaps begun to dream of that child’s future. But now she is a mother covering her son’s mouth to stifle his cries as Herod’s troops ransack their little village. Once more Herod’s troops are spilling blood, but this time not in Jerusalem or one of the larger cities of Judea, but here, in a sleepy little rural community.

There were countless villages like this dotting the landscape of Israel. Country folk, quietly going about their ordinary, hard-scrabble lives. Unaware for the most part of the political scheming going on in Jerusalem. Largely left to their own devices, uncared for by the powerful. They certainly never saw the king, or high priests, or members of the High Council in their village. They only heard from them when it was time to raise taxes again, or supply animals or grain for the tables of the powerful in Jerusalem. The luxurious robes of the wealthy elite were never seen on the dusty streets of Bethlehem.

Well, there had been that one time – just a few weeks ago. When those strangers had shown up at a home in Bethlehem. Rumours had quickly spread of gifts of gold, and expensive spices. Things rarely seen in their little community. But then the strangers had left – as had the little family they had visited, and life returned to normal. Until the sound of the iron shod sandals of Herod’s troops were heard on their streets, and the political machinations of Jerusalem found their way to Bethlehem. And the cries of mothers were heard, as infants were torn from their grasp, and killed. A generation of a community’s children snuffed out by a fearful old man, seated on a throne in a distant city, huddled in furs to warm his old bones.

And a mother asks us a question with haunted eyes – “Why?”

This is a truly disturbing story. One that if it were not for the Lectionary, I imagine many preachers would avoid, for many reasons. I mean, it’s hard to talk about the slaughter of children with the wonder of Christmas still in the air, with all the decorations still hung, and the scent of Christmas-spiced candles lingering in our homes.

But this has been the human story from the very beginning. When we feel threatened, we respond with violence, and when we do, it is usually children who suffer the most. There are clearly echoes of an earlier story in this one, where a pharaoh in Egypt felt threatened by an immigrant community and ordered the death of their newborn boys. And that story echoes down through the millennia. Because those who sit in the seats of power continue to respond to perceived threats with violence, which they often justify in terms of “national security.” So, children killed when a drone strike targets their father are “collateral damage.” Or when parents are detained at a border, children are put in for-profit detention centers and denied basic care to try and deter other families from migrating. Or if they’re already here, their parents may be dragged from chicken processing plants and deported, leaving their children behind. When civil wars erupt, children are forced to flee and then spend years in refugee camps as other countries debate whether to welcome them or not.

Yes, when those in power feel threatened, violence is never far behind. How many mothers around the world today would look at us just like the one in the painting does?

But there is something perhaps even more disturbing about this story than sheer violence, something my wife Rebecca raised as we discussed this story a couple of weeks ago. The child that was the true target of Herod’s fear escaped, “because an angel of the Lord warned his parents in a dream”, and they fled before the soldiers came. Leaving all the other children his age in Bethlehem to be slaughtered, because their parents – apparently – didn’t get that warning.

The beginning of the Gospel of Matthew – the “good news” – is the birth of the long-awaited Messiah. The One of whom we sing during Advent, “Come, Thou long-expected Jesus, born to set thy people free.” Not just free from the power of Rome, but free from the power of sin, and violence and death. We celebrate the birth of that child every year at Christmas. But there was nothing to celebrate for the mothers and fathers of Bethlehem that first Christmas. No, instead, “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation. Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

Because no angel of the Lord warned them to flee.

And even if it had, they didn’t have gifts of gold and expensive spices to finance their migration. The birth of the Son of God – the long-awaited Messiah – was hardly good news for his playmates in Bethlehem, who became collateral damage of the actions of a threatened tyrant.

What are we to do with this story? Because the pain and questions it raises echo down through the ages till today. For how many of us have asked the same question as this woman?

“Why is this happening to me? To my family? To my community?”

“Why were they spared this, and we weren’t?”

“Why were their prayers answered, and ours weren’t?”

Why was Mary’s son spared, and that woman’s killed? Yes, I know Mary’s son is Jesus, and the salvation of the whole world rests on his shoulders. But that boy may have been the whole world to his mother – and he wasn’t spared. Whenever we pray for people wrestling with cancer, or heart disease, or for people who’ve been in car wrecks or who face some other life-threatening situation, we celebrate when people are healed, or delivered. And rightfully so. But it always raises the question – at least it does for me – why were they healed, when so many others that we’ve prayed for haven’t been? Yes, divine intervention spared the infant Jesus’ life. But it did not prevent the death of an entire generation of a village’s children.

What are we to do with this story, and these questions? One thing I know, glib or trite answers don’t help. In fact, I’m not sure that any kind of ‘answer’ really helps in the face of such grief. Perhaps all we can do is grieve alongside those who grieve, mourn with those who mourn. Rage with those who rage against the unfairness of life. Lament that the world we have made is not the world that God intended for us. AND we can also confront those in power who resort to violence when they feel threatened – especially when they do it in our name.

I imagine that when word spread of what had happened in Bethlehem, there were mothers in Jerusalem who held their children a little tighter when they hugged them goodnight. Mothers who were glad that the fear that they had felt would now pass. Sure, they may have felt guilty for feeling that way, “and wasn’t it sad about Bethlehem?” But at least their kids are safe now. Perhaps some of us respond in a similar way when we see images of children suffering elsewhere. “It’s so sad, but I guess it’s just what happens…”

Well, is there any kind of good news to be had from this story in Matthew’s Gospel? Perhaps it’s enough just to lament the brokenness of our world and the suffering that people experience. And continue to learn to sit with the tension of our questions as people of faith. But I want to revisit the words of the prophet Jeremiah that Matthew draws upon in this story. At first glance, it seems he chose this verse simply because it describes the horror of what’s happening in Bethlehem. But I wonder if Matthew has something more in mind with his choice than a prophecy being fulfilled.

This verse appears in the middle of chapter 31 of Jeremiah. He was writing to the people in exile in Babylon – the lowest point of Israel’s history. A national catastrophe of the highest order, a catastrophe captured by the words Matthew quotes:

“A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

Why does Jeremiah single out Ramah from all the towns in Israel? He does so because Ramah was the staging ground for the exile. Everyone had to gather there, and from there they were taken to Babylon. It was ground zero for the national catastrophe of exile. And yet, the entirety of the rest of chapter 31 is God’s promise that one day they would return from exile. Words you may be familiar with:

“I have loved you with an everlasting love;
    I have drawn you with unfailing kindness…
I will turn your mourning into gladness;
    I will give you comfort and joy instead of sorrow…
The days are coming,” declares the Lord,
    “when I will make a new covenant
     with the people of Israel and with the people of Judah.
This is the covenant I will make with the people of Israel
    after that time,” declares the Lord.
“I will put my law in their minds and write it on their hearts.
I will be their God, and they will be my people.”

Even in the midst of the worst moment in Israel’s story, God promises that one day all will be made right. And it is that promise which lies at the heart of the Gospel. Because every year at Christmas we remember that a new King has been born. Not a Herod, or a Nebuchadnezzar, or a Caesar, or a Supreme Leader or a President, or any other ruler whose reign is based in violence and the continual threat of violence. But the Prince of Peace. And he shall reign forever and ever. And one day parents will never have to grieve the loss of their children again.

I imagine that as time passed, the people of Bethlehem came together, and adapted to life without that missing generation of workers. Figuring it out together, as rural communities often have to when the actions – or inaction – of government creates hardship. And while we live in this era of endless election cycles, putting our hope in whichever candidate we think will make our lives better, let’s remember this: we don’t need another Herod. Our hope lies elsewhere.

We live in between the first and the second advents, in the already – but not yet – Kingdom of God, which has come and is still coming. And so, while we wait for the return of the King who was born in Bethlehem two thousand years ago, we sit together with our questions, and our pain. We learn to adapt to the impact powerful people in far off cities have on our lives. And we lean on each other – figuring it out together. And when some of us struggle to hold on to our faith because of the things that happen to us or around us, let us live in such a way that we can have faith in each other. The Body of Christ – where Jesus continues to become flesh today, in each other.

May it be so.

My best friend, Matt Russell, is the person from whom I learned the fundamental importance of this posture towards others. I am convinced that this practice could do much to reverse our movement away from those we disagree with, and instead to nurture the kinds of relationships that we desperately need.

We have become quick to dismiss people because they are on the “other side” from us. “Republican or Democrat?” “Pro-choice or Pro-life?” “Affirming or rejecting?” “Capitalist or socialist?” As if that one description of a person provides enough information for us to accept or dismiss them: “If you’re that, then you must be all of this too.” There also seems to be a dramatic increase in the freedom we feel to use pejoratives about people we disagree with.

Most of us tend to believe the best about ourselves when ascribing motivations for the things we do and say. But we are in the midst of a cultural moment where the things we say about others – especially online – reveal we are quick to believe the worst about them, and unfairly ascribe the worst motivations to those who disagree with us.

This tendency is causing painful rifts in families, in long-standing friendships, in faith communities and our other social institutions. Casually mention that you voted for a certain politician and suddenly you’re a “deplorable”. Talk about universal healthcare and suddenly you’re a “naïve socialist”. Add #blacklivesmatter to a post and suddenly you’re a “self-hating SJW”.

The kind of harsh judgment we increasingly experience from others – including people we love – only encourages us to withdraw from conversations about important matters, to shrink our social networks, or to lash out in return. None of which are serving us well, nor contribute to the kind of shared life that nurtures our mutual flourishing.

So, curiosity.

I wonder if you’ve ever been talking about someone and said something like this: “I just don’t understand how they could say something like that.” Or, “I don’t understand why they can’t see why that is so wrong.” Or, “How could they possibly support something like that?” And the person we’re talking to shakes their head, as bemused as we are. Or says, “It’s because they’re such a <pejorative>.” And we both pat ourselves on the back for our rationality and moral superiority. The question such a conversation ought to raise is, “Have I actually made any effort to understand why the other person holds the opinion I find so confusing or offensive?” Have I exhibited any curiosity about them? If I know them to be otherwise intelligent, thoughtful, or kind – or even if I don’t – can I do more than just wonder why they said something I find problematic, and perhaps ask them why they said it? And not just so I can eventually lay out my reasons for why they are, in fact, entirely wrong about whatever it is, but in order to listen – truly listen – in order to understand. We may still disagree after the conversation – probably will, in fact – but my guess is we will have learned something about the other person that we didn’t know before. And – more importantly – we will have moved towards each other, rather than away from each other.

The apostle Paul, in a letter to the Jesus community in Galatia, wrote,

“There is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor is there male or female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

Clearly there were Jews and Greeks, enslaved and free persons, males and females in the church in Galatia. But Paul is saying that those binary, culturally primary descriptors are secondary to the reality of the unity that exists in Christ – whether we acknowledge that or not, or whether we structure our lives accordingly or not. And I think Paul was trying to stir their imaginations to pursue that unity as an embodied reality, a unity that surpasses cultural divisions.

Matt taught me much about the importance of curiosity, and perhaps it is nowhere more important than in marriage and other covenanted relationships. Regardless of how long a couple has been together, there is still much to be learned about the other, but we will only learn it if we continue to cultivate curiosity about them. And that curiosity will continue to draw a couple together, even as careers and children and hobbies and other interests might cause them to drift apart. A partner’s curiosity also has the added benefit of helping us grow in our understanding of ourselves, encouraging us to explore our own depths as well as theirs.

It’s no different in our other relationships. Curiosity about another person draws us towards them, even as other forces are working to push us apart. And it seems that there is a multiplicity of such forces at work among us.

I canvassed for a friend running for a seat on the City Council. Many of her constituents’ only question when I stood on their doorstep was, “Is she a Republican or a Democrat?” When I explained that it was a non-partisan race, most were insistent I tell them her party-affiliation, “because I’m not voting for a Republican/Democrat”. No curiosity about what she hoped to do for her district, or who she was as a person. They just needed to know that one (irrelevant) fact about her. This is problematic for both our democracy and our society.

So, the next time you’re tempted to dismiss someone on the basis of a single piece of information about them, or because they’re on “the other side,” try pausing for a moment to be curious about the reasons behind that (both theirs, and yours). And then try asking them a genuine question, listening to understand rather than to refute. Try this practice for a month, and see what you notice.

O God,

You who are called by many names, in many languages in our city;
Worshiped in many ways, in many places within our community;
You who are the Author of life, love and justice:

We give You thanks that we have eaten today.
We remember our neighbors who are food insecure,
and pray that we would work to increase access to the food
that is necessary for healthy bodies and minds.

We give You thanks for this air-conditioned building, and our use of it.
We remember our neighbors who are unhoused, or housing insecure,
and pray that we would work to increase access to safe, affordable and comfortable housing.

We give You thanks that we are healthy enough to be here today.
We remember our neighbors who struggle with chronic illnesses,
with addictions, with the burden of medical debt,
and pray that we would work to increase access to dignified, adequate and affordable healthcare.

We give You thanks for the education that has prepared us for the responsibility of leadership.
We remember our neighbors who are struggling in school, or are in struggling schools,
and pray that we would work to increase access to an education
that will prepare all our children to succeed in life.

We give You thanks for the range of resources at our disposal.
We remember our neighbors who live with debilitating poverty,
and pray that we would work to increase the pathways out of generational financial struggle.

We give You thanks for the welcome we received this afternoon from colleagues and friends
who value our contribution to the life of our city.
We remember our neighbors who also contribute much,
but who do not feel welcomed in our community,
and pray that we would work to increase their sense of safety, of worth and of belonging.

O God, Author of life, love and justice.
We pray that you will use us to cultivate the kind of city and world of which You dream.
A city and a world where everyone flourishes,
and where we no longer know anything but peace.

Amen.

(With gratitude to my friend Hugh Hollowell.)

Christine Aroney-Sine is a friend and a valued guide to the contemplative life and is a welcome guest on my blog this Earth Day.

Christine is the founder and facilitator for God Space, an online community that grew out of her passion for creative spirituality, gardening, and sustainability. Today’s post is adapted from her new book, The Gift of Wonder in which she explores characteristics like play, curiosity and imagination that shape us into the people God intends us to be. Her other books include To Garden With God, Rest in the Moment, Return to Our Senses, GodSpace, and Tales of a Seasick Doctor.

Living out the Easter Story in Our Gardens

God bless this garden

Through which your glory shines,

May we see in its beauty the wonder of your love.

God bless the soil

Rich and teeming with life,

May we see in its fertility the promise of new creation.

God bless our toil

As we dig deep to turn the soil,

May we see in our labour your call to be good stewards.

God bless each seed

That takes root and grows,

May we see in their flourishing the hope of transformation.

God bless the rains

That water our efforts to bring forth life,

May we see in their constancy God’s faithful care.

God bless the harvest

Abundant and bountiful in season,

May we see in God’s generosity our need to share.

God bless this garden

As you bless all creation with your love,

May we see in its glory your awesome majesty.

Here in Seattle, spring is erupting in all its glory. Daffodils and tulips smile at me as I walk along. Cherry blossoms take my breath away as drive down tree lined streets and lush green grass is emerging in the barren spots in our backyard. I love watching the kids climb trees to smell the fragrance of the cherry blossoms and giggle with delight while running barefoot through the grass. It is a time to get our hands in the garden dirt, exalt in the beauty of God’s creation and the wonder of the world in which we live.

It is not by accident that this season of garden resurrection and new life coincides with Easter and the wonder of the resurrection story.  This year, Earth day, April 22nd, which commemorates the founding of the modern environmental movement follows hard on its heels. Earth day is increasingly seen by churches and creation care organizations as an opportunity to reconnect their congregations to God’s love for creation. This year it falls on the day after Easter and our celebrations of the death and resurrection of Christ.  Jesus final journey from Gethsemane to resurrection can be seen as a reversal of the journey out of the garden of Eden in Genesis. From Gethsemane to Golgotha and Jesus garden tomb, we journey back into the garden of God.

Jesus suffering begins in the garden of Gethsemane, the day before his crucifixion. In this garden his agony is poured out in drops of blood like sweat, that seep into the earth. His pain is symbolic of the pain and suffering that became a part of Adam and Eve’s lives when they were expelled from the garden of Eden.

On Good Friday there is another garden. Jesus, the second Adam, dies at Golgotha and John notes: in the place where he had been crucified there was a garden. (John 19:41) Here Jesus’ body is placed. His death is like the planting of a seed reminding us that: Unless a seed is planted in the soil and dies it remains alone, but its death will produce many new seeds, a plentiful harvest of new lives (Jn 12:24). 

In 1511, the German artist Albrecht Dürer fashioned a woodcut of Mary Magdalene’s encounter with the resurrected Jesus as depicted in John 20:15. She came to the garden tomb looking for Christ’s body, instead she found a very much alive Jesus and she thought he was the gardener. This is not a throw away phrase. It is of cosmic significance! Jesus is indeed a gardener. He is the gardener of the new creation. Here in this garden that begins in death, new life emerges and the glory of God is revealed.

Whereas the Genesis story begins in a garden paradise and ends in our present garden world of pain and suffering, the Easter story begins in the garden of pain and suffering and ends in a garden of wholeness and flourishing, a new paradise in which we once more walk close to our God abundantly provided for. In this new garden Jesus, the head gardener, once more invites us to be who God created us to be – stewards of all creation, tending this new paradise so that it once more flourishes for all the creatures of the earth to enjoy.

In Isaiah 65 and again in Revelation 21 we see beautiful pictures of this new garden of God. Life and freedom, wholeness and abundance flourish and we look forward in hope to its completion.

Our challenge is cooperating with Jesus the gardener in his work. In many ways God’s new garden is still in its infancy, and needs care in order to flourish. Soil must be fertilized, seeds planted, watered and nurtured, fruit harvested. To see it completed we must willingly journey with Jesus from the garden of Gethsemane with its struggle and suffering, through the garden of death to the new life that begins in the garden of the resurrection.

The old Adam and Eve were excluded from Eden by a barrier of angels with flaming swords. Jesus the new Adam, ripped apart the barrier with his death and stands ready to welcome us into the new paradise garden. The barrier that separated us from the holy place of intimacy with God and God’s world has been removed. Now together with all God’s people and indeed with all God’s creation we can enter into the intimacy of relationship with God in a restored world of wholeness and abundance. We must continue to till and fertilize the soil, plant seeds of freedom and generosity and wholeness until the full glory of God’s resurrection created world is revealed.

One beautiful practice some of my friends and their kids love to create at Easter is a resurrection garden. All you need is a terra cotta tray, a small terra cotta pot for the tomb, some potting soil and small pebbles to create the garden. Plant grass seed on top of the tomb, place a large rock in front and craft twigs into crosses. Water daily and watch it flourish. This is an easy project, even if you don’t have a green thumb. Simple instructions can be found here. It is a wonderful expression of the connections between the Easter story and God’s good creation.

Resurrection gardens inspired me to create meditation gardens for all the seasons of the liturgical calendar. Planning, creating and then using gardens for Advent, Lent and Easter in particular has strengthened my faith and revealed new depths of the joy in God’s heart. I often say, I read about the story of God in the bible but in nature I experience it. All gardens are living parables. Life, death and resurrection lived out daily. Reading the story reflected in God’s garden reaffirms our faith and enriches us with new perspectives on the God we love.

In our own small intentional community, the Mustard Seed House in Seattle, we grow about 40% of our fruit and vegetables. We invite neighbors and friends who have no gardens to join our monthly garden days and once a year hold an apple party, inviting friends and strangers to join us in processing our 200 pounds of apples. Not only do we share garden techniques, we also learn about God, faith and what it means to be followers of Christ.

This garden enthusiasm has become one of my richest spiritual prompts, inspiring me to write my own prayers and liturgies of glory to God like the prayer above. It has empowered me to see my garden chores as the work of God’s new creation and inspired new delight in gardening and in the beauty of God’s creation for me.

This year, as you celebrate Easter and the delights of spring time I invite you to enter into God’s garden world in fresh ways too. Plant a resurrection garden. Watch the new seeds emerge and reflect on the resurrection story.  Be inspired by the One who is indeed creating a new world through the resurrection of Christ.

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You can connect to Christine on twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, and Youtube.

JESUS of Nazareth passed from this life on Nisan 14th in Jerusalem.

He is preceded in death by Joseph bar Jacob, who raised him as his own son. He is survived by his mother, Mary; brothers James, Joses and Judas; and his sisters.

Jesus of Nazareth was born in Bethlehem of Judea. His family migrated to Egypt when he was two, seeking political asylum from state violence.

They returned to Nazareth in Galilee after the death of Herod the Great. Jesus was apprenticed as a carpenter to Joseph, and worked in the family business until his thirties.

He was baptized in the Jordan River by his cousin, the prophet John bar Zechariah. He spent the next 3 years living as an itinerant rabbi, with a small school of 12 disciples. He received the patronage of Joanna, the wife of Chuza (Herod’s steward), Susanna and many other women in Jerusalem.

He devoted his life to serving the least, the last and the lost, wherever he found them. He proclaimed that the kingdom of God has drawn near, and bore witness to it through liberating people from the demonic, from disease and from the slow death of social exclusion. Despite his family’s concern and repeated warnings, his teaching, his work and especially those whom he chose to call friend inevitably drew the attention of the authorities.

The family wishes to make it clear that his arrest and immediate trial took place without due process. The charges of blasphemy and of being a threat to national security were not corroborated by a single witness. He was humiliated and brutalized in custody before his execution by the State.

He died as he lived: extending forgiveness to those responsible for his death.

He will be greatly missed by his family, his friends – the “sinners” – and by the poor.

The family wish to extend their gratitude to Joseph of Arimathea for covering the funeral expenses.

For more of Jesus’ story, take a look at my first book, “The Story of God, the Story of Us”.

Image by forensic anthropologist, Richard Neave. Read more here.

 Each day is much like the last, except for the sabbath of course. But a few times a year there are the Holy Days, with special meals and music and dancing! You especially look forward to Passover, when great crowds pass your village, singing the psalms of ascent on their way up to Jerusalem. And Passover is this week, although you can’t join your father and your older brothers who will soon join the pilgrims traveling to Jerusalem for the Festival. Not until you come of age – something you very much look forward to!

 While you’re enjoying the midday meal of roasted grain and dried figs, you watch as two strangers approach the village. They pause, look around and when their gaze settles on your house, they immediately stride towards you. You call out nervously to your father, who is inside. The strangers smile at you, and then begin to untie your colt from the wooden rail! Your father walks out, sees them and says, “Why are you untying the colt?” One of the strangers says, “The Lord has need of it.” Your father holds their gaze for a long moment, then nods. The men walk off with your colt, much to your amazement. You turn to your father, who says, “Go with them, and bring the colt back when the Lord is finished with it.” You hesitate, but he shoos you off, and so you follow the men, confusion writ large on your face.

 The men bring the colt to a group of people standing just off the main road up to Jerusalem. Some of the group shrug off their outer garments and place them over the back of the colt. As they assist a man onto the colt’s back, you wait for the animal to buck, as no one has ever ridden it before. But it stands there meekly as the man settles himself. One of the men who came to get the colt takes its halter and leads it onto the road to join the crowd of pilgrims.

 As you follow behind, you tug the robe of the other man and gesture towards the colt. “Who is that?” He smiles. “It’s the Lord. Jesus of Nazareth.” You turn back to look at Jesus. Your parents have spoken of him, usually with a smile on their face. Not like the scribe in the synagogue, who spits on the ground whenever anyone says Jesus’ name. So that’s who all the fuss is about, you think to yourself. He’s not much to look at, that’s for sure. What’s so special about him? But as the crowd around him notice the colt and its rider, they begin to part before him. Some take off their garments and throw them onto the road before him. How strange! Then they fall in behind the colt and raise their voices in joyful song.

 As they begin to draw close to Jerusalem, someone begins to sing aloud,

 “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord;

  peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”

 The crowd begins to join in, and soon everyone is singing the refrain over and over again. There is a joyful spirit about them, and everyone is smiling. Well, not everyone you realize, as you glance at some men wearing the distinctive garb of the pharisees. One calls out to Jesus.

 “Rabbi, rebuke your disciples!”

 Jesus turns to the man and responds,

 “I tell you, if they become silent, the stones by the roadside will cry out!”

 The pharisees scowl, then scurry on ahead of the crowd as the people make their way leisurely into the city, continuing to sing the psalm. As you lift your voice in song with everyone else, one of the pharisees cuffs you on the ear as he passes. Tears of pain and shock stream from your eyes. Later that evening, as you walk home with the colt, you wonder what the pharisees were so upset about…

 + + +

Perhaps you’re reading this before you join your church in worship this Palm Sunday. If so, it’s quite possible you’ll hear a sermon about Jesus’s ‘triumphal entry’ into Jerusalem. Perhaps you’ll sing one of the rousing hymns we often sing today – “Hosanna, loud Hosanna,” or, “All glory, laud and honor.” There may well be a parade down the center aisle involving children – and a few reluctant adults – waving palm branches. Palm Sunday often brings with it a festive atmosphere, and rightly so.

In Luke’s Gospel we’ve been waiting for this moment for ten chapters, from verse 9.51, where Luke declares that “Jesus resolutely set his face to go to Jerusalem.” And now, here is Jesus, about to enter the great city, the site of the Temple, which even now is preparing for the arrival of the pilgrim crowds which will swell the city’s population to overflowing. Jerusalem was a tinderbox at Passover. The people gathered to celebrate their ancestors’ deliverance from the tyranny of pharaoh, to re-live the events of the exodus, all under the watchful gaze of the Roman soldiers drafted in to ‘keep the peace.’ You can almost taste the resentment in the air, but resentment blended with hope, the hope that God will finally act to deliver you from your enemies. Would this be the year when Messiah came to the Temple? Would this be the year when the long-awaited king of the line of David would overthrow the tyranny of your oppressors?

That appears to be what the crowds on the road up to Jerusalem believed was happening. Matthew, in his telling of the story, makes the case explicitly, by quoting the prophet Zechariah:

 “Behold your king is coming, gentle and mounted on a donkey, even on a colt.”

And that is what appears to have infuriated the pharisees, who tell Jesus to silence his followers. Certainly, they don’t believe that Jesus is the long-awaited Messiah. And it’s one thing for these peasants to make claims about Jesus in the villages of Galilee: it is another thing entirely for them to do so in Jerusalem. It’s one thing for them to speak against the Romans in their homes in the hills: it’s another thing entirely to do so in the shadow of the Eagle standards raised in Jerusalem. No, “tell your people to be quiet, Jesus.” This kind of behavior is unacceptable.

 And dangerous.

 + + +

 One of the primary ways people are marginalized is by denying them their voice. By telling them to be quiet.

 To know their place.

 And so, whenever the marginalized and oppressed dare to raise their voices in protest of their lived experience, in hope of change, there are always those who want them to be quiet. People who – like the pharisees – instruct the leaders among the oppressed to find another way for them to express their protest, one that is more acceptable. One that doesn’t inconvenience others who may not share their views. One that respects the tight parameters permitted for protest.

 Or better yet, for them to just go home and wait patiently for change to come.

 Well, the people on the road to Jerusalem that day had waited for change to come for centuries. They had suffered under the boot of one empire after another, as well as at the hands of their own leadership, who often collaborated with the might of empire to maintain their own, privileged, position. So, when they saw the rabbi from Galilee who talked of a new Kingdom that was coming, who taught them with stories rooted in their own experience of life, a rabbi who stood in solidarity with them – the poor, the diseased, the outcasts, the despised – how could they keep quiet as they accompanied him to the city where they would celebrate God’s deliverance of their oppressed ancestors? But even if they were to stop singing, Jesus responds to the critique of the pharisees:

 “If these do become silent, I tell you the stones will cry out!”

 + + +

 As we begin Holy Week, the invitation before us is to move to the margins, to see Jesus from a different perspective, as well as to look around us from that de-centered place. Most of us picture ourselves in that crowd, waving palm branches, throwing our jackets into the road ahead of Jesus, celebrating the King who rides on the back of that young boy’s colt. Personally, I’m always up for the parade down the center aisle on Palm Sunday.

 But am I also up for joining the crowds protesting systemic injustice today? To stand in solidarity with those who speak out against their plight? Especially when those crowds engage in behavior with which I may not be comfortable? As the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. observed in a speech he gave just three weeks before he was assassinated,

 “A riot is the language of the unheard.”

 The authorities in Jerusalem always feared riots during Passover. They knew any unrest would bring down the wrath of Rome upon their heads, as well as threaten the stability of the societal order, which – after all – worked very well for them. “No,” say those with power, “if people feel they are treated unjustly there are appropriate channels for them to go through to express their concerns.” Channels often created by – and overseen by – the very people with whom those suffering injustice have concerns.

 Dr. King was jailed in 1963 following a non-violent protest against segregation in Birmingham, Alabama. Eight white clergymen made a public statement against him, describing the protest as “unwise, untimely and extreme.” Dr. King wrote the now famous ‘Letter from Birmingham Jail’ in response, in which he decries those who are “more devoted to order than to justice; who prefer a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice.”

 “Teacher, tell your disciples to be quiet.”

 “I tell you, if they become silent, the stones by the roadside will cry out!”

(Taken from A View from the Margins, my collection of stories for Holy Week. Available in the Kindle store.

Image: “Entry into the City”, John August Swanson.

That scene has always stuck with me, as I believe it’s great advice. Our tendency when we’re asked awkward questions is often to become defensive. When people point out problematic behavior we’ve engaged in, or statements we’ve made, or positions we hold, or even – heaven forbid! – our hypocrisy, our first response is often to try to justify ourselves. But what if we took Jack Ryan’s advice and chose not to deny those things, but, instead, to own them? Would assuming a posture of humility rather than defensiveness lead to conversations that are more kind, more honest and more productive than much of what passes for civil discourse both in the church and in the wider culture? I both believe and know this to be true. It is a practice I adopted following a conversation I had several years ago, and which I call “acknowledged hypocrisy.”

 Most likely you share my profound concern about our increasingly polarized society, which is sadly all too often mirrored within the church. Allowing ourselves to be divided into opposing camps where "we" are right, and "they" are wrong ("about everything!"), is to succumb to the cynicism of popular news media and to yell ever-louder into the echo chamber of social media. I understand the temptation to believe that it is only people like ourselves who have the clear-eyed view afforded by occupying the moral high ground on any given issue (having fallen prey to it myself on more than one occasion). But for the sake of our common welfare, we must learn to resist that temptation. One way to do so, I believe, is to practice “acknowledged hypocrisy.”

 A few years ago, I was invited to speak at a private, liberal arts Christian college. I was staying in the B&B on campus, and while enjoying breakfast I was joined by two senior members of the school's administration and another guest speaker. I had sat in on the class the other speaker had taught the night before and chatted with him for a while afterwards. I liked him. Over breakfast he introduced me to his companions, and then they began talking about the recent departure of a gay student from the school that had brought a great deal of negative press both locally and on social media. They seemed genuinely pained by the entire experience – both for the student and the school – as they discussed the Community Covenant’s prohibition against homosexual relationships, which was the main reason for the student's departure. They asked the guest speaker if his church had anything similar in their own membership covenant. He said that while persons who identified as LGBTQ were welcome in his church, they could not serve in leadership roles. I knew his church's affiliation was one of the historic 'peace churches,' and asked him if they had a similar prohibition against members of the armed forces serving in leadership. Without hesitation he responded, "No. That's our acknowledged hypocrisy."

 Two things struck me about his response: its speed, and its complete lack of defensiveness. I had expected the kind of response I often get when highlighting the blatant double-standards we are capable of in the church when it comes to questions of leadership:  a strong denial of any hypocrisy, followed by a lengthy rehearsal of why our position (whatever it is) is in fact “biblical.” I was not prepared for "That's our acknowledged hypocrisy." And I must say, it was a welcome breath of fresh air. On the flight home a few days later, I found myself reflecting on those four words, and began to be convinced of their potential importance in re-shaping the way we talk about contentious and often painful issues (painful because, whenever we’re talking about "issues," we’re actually talking about people).

 The challenge before us, of course, is that much of our hypocrisy goes unacknowledged because we don't question ourselves overly much. Which makes sense, given the degree of homogeneity we tend to maintain in our friendships and voluntary associations. When most of the people I know hold the same beliefs as I do, it's unlikely that someone is going to call me out on my hypocrisy, because they probably share it, and are probably as equally unaware of it as I often am.

 My formal pastoral ministry in the U.S. has been within the United Methodist church, and many of my dearest friends are lifelong Methodists. You’re probably aware of the recent Special Session of the General Conference of that denomination that both affirmed the church’s prohibition of gay marriage for clergy as well as creating strong sanctions for any clergy who perform weddings for gay couples. I grieve for the pain that this issue has caused for years (because, again, it’s not an abstract “issue”, it’s people), and I grieve for the pain that is to come as faithful Christians on every side of this question stand to lose friendships, congregations, pastors and jobs that they love because of the decision that was made in St Louis, and all the decisions that will be made following that one. (I also understand that sexuality is only the ‘presenting problem’ revealing the deeper problems the UMC is wrestling with.)

 It is not uncommon for those who supported the ‘Traditional Plan’ to point to Jesus’ statement in Mark chapter 10 as the “biblical standard” for marriage:

“But from the beginning of creation, ‘God made them male and female.’ ‘For this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’ So, they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one separate.” (Mark 10.6-9, NRSV)

There it is, in black and white, from Jesus himself. Now, I have a shelf full of books about human sexuality and marriage from all kinds of perspectives, so I know that no one arrives at their understanding of what “biblical marriage” is from a couple of verses. But this text in Mark is often the ‘mic drop’ text for those who defend the church’s traditional and historical understanding of marriage as being reserved for a man and a woman.

 The problem is Mark chapter 10 does not end at verse 9. The context for Jesus’ comments on marriage is a discussion about divorce, and this is how the chapter continues:

Then in the house the disciples asked him again about this matter. He said to them, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if she divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.” (Mark 10.10-12, NRSV)

So again, there it is, in black and white, from Jesus himself: divorced people cannot re-marry, because to do so is to commit adultery. Yet I imagine that there are people in just about every United Methodist church in the U.S. whose re-marriage ceremony was blessed and celebrated in their church.

 When I raise the apparent hypocrisy of this practice with some of my friends who hold to the traditional view of marriage, the response is invariably to embark on a lengthy discourse as to why such marriages are, in fact, not inherently sinful, as would appear from the Marcan text. They engage in thoughtful exegesis of other relevant texts, offer theological reflection on the nature of covenant, of sin, repentance and restoration and conclude that re-marriage is a legitimate form of marriage and not, in fact, adultery. To which my response is, “Is it possible to extend the same kind of generous and wider interpretation of ‘biblical marriage’ to people who read the earlier part of Mark 10 and arrive at a different conclusion than you do?”

 What if my friends who would deny marriage to gay couples in the church, while affirming re-marriage following divorce, instead of defending this position when questioned about it, offered the immediate response, “You’re right. That’s our acknowledged hypocrisy.” How far would that admission go to reducing the defensiveness that tends to push us away from one another rather than draw us towards each other? What if I forego my well-rehearsed justifications for rejecting the “plain meaning” of some text (while asking others to accept the plain meaning of another text) and just say, “Yes. That’s my acknowledged hypocrisy.” What if, for instance, when people say to me, “Sean, you’re always going on about climate change and our need to care for the planet God has given us as a home, but then you get on airplanes to travel to speak about that,” what if instead of offering a defense for my behavior (which I’m strongly inclined to do), I simply said, “You’re absolutely right. That’s my acknowledged hypocrisy.”

That’s what I started to do following that conversation over breakfast several years ago. And that practice has helped prolong and deepen conversations about important aspects of our shared life, in contrast to the defensiveness that often brings such conversations to a grinding halt, and which tends to just leave us retreating into our respective ideological corners in self-congratulation or to lick our wounds.

 “Acknowledged hypocrisy” is my first suggestion for practices we can adopt in order to resist the kinds of polarizing discourse that is dividing us as the church and as a society, and which keeps us from the kind of shared life we long for, even if we disagree on how to get there. The next post will discuss a second pathway to healing: curiosity.

 (PLEASE NOTE: I do not say any of the above to pass judgment on divorce and re-marriage. I have gladly performed such weddings. I gave this example simply to point out our tendency to make absolutes for some things, and find exceptions for others.)

Without doubt, the book that provoked most thought and which continues to do so months later was The Patient Ferment of the Early Church by Alan Kreider. For those of us who spend a lot of time thinking about the church’s future, some time thinking about its origins in the company of an outstanding scholar is well worth the investment. Kreider explores some often-overlooked writings from the first three centuries to paint a vivid picture of the daily life of the early Christians and the lengthy process by which they were formed into counter-cultural communities within the Roman empire. I found his account both inspiring and disheartening, knowing the cultural pressure of busyness, individualism and materialism that must be overcome in order to experience the kind of shared life of which he paints such a compelling portrait. Highly recommended.

I just finished reading fellow Red Letter Christian and Parish Collective member Jonathan Brook’s first book, Church Forsaken. Part memoir, part call to action, Jonathan invites us to take a stroll through his neighborhood in the company of the prophet Jeremiah, and discover the kinds of commitments necessary if we are to experience the Beloved Community in which everyone has a chance to flourish. Honest and hopeful, another invitation to take the importance of place seriously.

Widening the lens a little, Healing Our Broken Humanity by Grace Ji-Sun Kim and Graham Hill is an introduction to many of the practices necessary if the church is to be a reconciled and reconciling presence in the world. Refusing to deny the presence within the church of the many -isms that haunt our world, Kim and Hill provide tangible and challenging practices that small groups and congregations can adopt to address our own failings to be a healing presence in the world. Not a book to be read and shelved: a timely and necessary manual for embodied repentance.

Moving to the memoir section of the library, the most delightful autobiography I read this year – or, rather, listened to the author read – was As You Wish by Cary Elwes. If you love the movie The Princess Bride as much as our family does, this behind-the-scenes account of its filming will have you laughing out loud, tearing up at times, and pulling out the movie one more time to look for all the great stories he tells about certain scenes. Delightful!

God’s Biker is the autobiography of an old friend from my days riding in the U.K. thirty years ago. Sean Stillman is a compelling storyteller whose writing you feel in your chest as if you were riding pillion on his Harley and feeling the rumble of the V-Twin. His life is a tale of the oil of grace to be found amidst the grit and grime of the outlaw bike scene and of his friends who live outside. The community he founded – Zac’s place – has become a refuge for many who struggle to find a home anywhere else. As I said in my endorsement, Sean is the kind of Christian and human being I aspire to be.

I find myself picking up an alcoholic’s memoirs every other year or so, and this go around it was Blackout by Sarah Hepola. Another well-told account of the kind of story you might hear in an open meeting of A.A., distinct from other, similar autobiographies by focusing on the experience that gives the book its title. I would have liked to hear more about her journey into sobriety, but maybe she’s saving that for a sequel.

Finally, Have Dog Will Travel by Steven Kuusisto is the fascinating account of a man who grew up learning to pretend not to be (legally) blind, managed to become a university professor, surviving by memorizing routes and classroom layouts, whose life was then thrown into chaos when he was unexpectedly laid off. Now needing help to get around and look for work, he meets Corky, the Labrador who will guide him into his new life. A beautiful and moving account of their relationship, as well as providing insight into both the challenges and gifts of those living with visual disability.

I continue to learn how to grow food, in our backyard and in the various community gardens and orchards in our neighborhood. To that end, I found these two books helpful this year. The Vegetable Gardener’s Guide to Permaculture is an excellent and delightfully illustrated introduction to the ethos that will be increasingly necessary if we are to reclaim our food system. Packed with practical advice, I already have plans for introducing some of these practices this spring. I know very little about growing fruit and nut trees, even though we’ve planted many over the years. The Fruitful City by Helena Moncrieff is an inspiring yet clear-eyed account of urban orchards in Toronto, as well as several non-profits across Canada who are seeking to educate people about the food growing all around them. She introduced me to the importance of equity as well as access: many people living in the city do not have the ability to visit rural orchards and experience the delight of eating a ripe apple or pear right off the tree. She also taught me that before planting a tree, it’s important to have a plan for who is going to care for it in ten years’ time.

Finally, as I spend so much time writing about the Bible, here are two books I found very helpful this year. Inspired by Rachel Held Evans is a whimsical, literate and often challenging re-engagement with the sacred text offered by an author continuing to come to terms with some of the unhelpful if not wounding ways she encountered the bible in her evangelical upbringing. Surprisingly moving in places.

Last, but not least is The Magnificent Story by James Bryan Smith. His thesis is that any story we allow to shape our life must be beautiful, good and true if we are to live a life filled with joy and meaning. He provides an engaging walk through the metanarrative of the bible with these three elements as our guide. Very good.

Well, that’s it for another year. I’d love to hear what books you found helpful in 2018, so please do share a title or two in the comments!

(I link to Amazon as a convenience and as a participant in their Associates Program. I encourage you to buy books where you want to see them sold. Or check them out of your local library, which is what we typically do.)

Fredrik Backman makes it three years in a row for best novel, with Us Against You. He takes us back to the remote hockey town of Beartown, which is reeling from the news that the club will likely be disbanded. Most of the junior team are now playing for arch-rivals, Hed, and tensions between the two towns threaten to boil over. By the end of the novel, a resident of Beartown will be dead, and the lives of several others turned upside-down. As always, the characters are beautifully drawn, profoundly flawed and loyal to a fault. A triumph.

An outstanding thriller was Desolation Mountain, by William Kent Krueger. The seventeenth in his Cork O’Connor series, this was my first. Cork’s son has a recurring and disturbing vision of a great bird shot from the sky, and so when a plane carrying one of the state’s senators crashes close by, O’Connor and the other Anishinaabeg residents sense something other than the reported mechanical failure lies behind the tragedy. The crash site is quickly closed off by numerous government agencies, and when the witnesses to the crash begin to disappear, O’Connor tries to get to the bottom of things while also protecting his family.

If you enjoy taut psychological thrillers with genuine plot twists, then you’ll love The Woman in the Window, by A. J. Finn. Anna Fox has not set foot outside her 4-storey brownstone in almost a year, but keeps up with her neighbors through the powerful lens of her camera. When she sees a new neighbor get stabbed in the chest in her home by an unseen assailant, she calls the police. But when the husband of the supposed victim shows up with the police and his wife (who is not the woman Anna has met), she is dismissed as a reclusive drunkard. A slow start, but the plot picks up pace midway, and then never relents. Good stuff!

In ‘clever whodunnits,’ look no further than Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz. A famous author dies, apparently taking his own life. His editor has his final novel, but discovers the final chapters are missing. As she tries to track down the missing chapters she begins to suspect that her author may not have taken his own life. Several suspects present themselves – but are the clues to the murderer’s identity ultimately hidden in the novel? We read the novel alongside the real-life action which is an engaging device. Very enjoyable.

I’m always happy to find new detective series, and Martin Walker’s Bruno, Chief of Police is delightful. The classic village mystery – this time St Denis in France – his stories are an exquisite blend of simmering tensions, romance and food. I read several others in the series, and along with his insight into France’s culinary culture, Walker also takes on the current racial tension the country faces.

In fantasy/science fiction, Tom Miller’s The Philosopher’s Flightwas the standout. Set during the Great War in an alternative version of our world, Robert Weekes, the 18 year old protagonist, is a practitioner of the female-dominated branch of science called empirical philosophy, which harnesses the power to heal, summon wind – even fly. He wins a scholarship to the leading all-women’s school to study, where he struggles against prejudice as he tries to win the respect of his peers. Plenty of action, intrigue, a little romance and very clever. I look forward to the rest of the trilogy.

The Fifth Season by N. K. Jemison is the first in another trilogy I intend to complete. Every few centuries, the Evil Earth tries to rid itself of its human inhabitants, and only the feared and despised ‘Roggas’ are able to control the volcanic upheavals that threaten humanity. But most are killed in childhood before they have the chance to learn to control their power. Three (seemingly) separate storylines unfold as another ‘Fifth Season’ dawns. Excellent storytelling.

Given that we are apparently living in a ‘post-facts’ era, I thought it was time to finally read George Orwell’s classic of dystopian fiction, 1984. It’s portrayal of totalitarian control is utterly haunting, and some paragraphs seemed to have been lifted directly from our contemporary situation. Disturbing and therefore doing what science fiction is supposed to do.

In historical fiction, my favourite this year also has the serendipity of being written by a friend. Jim Wrenn by William Guerrant was inspired by a century-old clipping from his local newspaper. Spanning decades, we follow the fortunes of two children found by a farmer after their mother dies, and who raises them as the children he and his wife could never have. A beautiful story of the love of land and place, with tragedy, sacrifice and integrity at the core, a remarkable first novel by an author who is a farmer himself.

I usually find myself reading at least one novel set in the Second World War, and this year was no exception. The Baker’s Secret by Stephen P. Kiernan is the story of Emma and her village in coastal France, struggling under Nazi occupation. Every day she makes 14 loaves of bread from the flour the Germans provide, mixing it with ground straw to stretch it so she can keep 2 loaves to share with neighbors. She begins to network with others – an egg stolen here, fuel siphoned from an army motorcycle for the fishing boat there – as they struggle to survive. The subterfuge comes to light on the eve of the D Day landings, which are described in detail. Powerful storytelling.

Finally, as our culture appears to be becoming more understanding and compassionate of people living with mental illness, here are a couple of novels to further that journey. Everything Here Is Beautifulby Mira T. Lee, is the story of two sisters, the older of whom tries to protect her younger sister as her illness slowly asserts itself. First person narratives by the main characters lend an immediacy to this painful story of our powerlessness over illness in the lives of those we love.

The Memory of Light by Francisco X. Stork invites us into the lives of a group of young people struggling with mental illness, the main character having been hospitalized following an attempt to end her life. While I think his first novel is better, the dialogue in this one feels authentic, and I appreciated the hopeful tone throughout. (But my heart almost stopped with the last line, until I realized he was talking about a cat and not one of the characters. Note to self: never give similar names to characters and animals.)

Well, those were my Top Ten (plus two) novels of 2018. If you’re so inclined, leave me the title of your favorite novel (or two) in the comments!

(I link to Amazon as a convenience and as a participant in their Associates Program. I encourage you to buy books where you want to see them sold. Or check them out of your local library, which is what we typically do.)

Smith and Carlos were students at San Jose State University. An invitation to South Africa to participate in the Games had prompted a call for a boycott in protest of apartheid, the threat of which caused the invitation to be withdrawn. But black athletes on the U.S. squad still discussed a possible protest against racial injustice in their own country. Earlier that year, Carlos had met with Martin Luther King Jr just a few weeks before the civil rights leader’s assassination. King suggested a nonviolent protest while all eyes were on Mexico. And so, as the American national anthem played, Smith and Carlos silently raised gloved fists.

The president of the International Olympic Committee immediately demanded the U.S. send the athletes home, or he would ban the entire U.S. team from further participation. They were stripped of their medals, and instead of the hero’s welcome medal winners might have expected, they received hate mail and death threats. They were banned for life from the Olympics, they found it hard to find employment, and their families suffered. They paid a heavy price for their peaceful protest.

But so did the silver medalist, whose name is not, perhaps, as well known.

Australian Peter Norman unexpectedly won a medal, breaking the Australian record for the 200m in doing so. But like his fellow athletes, instead of being welcomed home as a hero, he too suffered for his actions on that podium. The reason? If you look at the photo, you’ll see all three athletes wearing white badges, representing their support for the Olympic Project for Human Rights, which Norman asked if he could wear as a sign of solidarity with their protest. Refusing to decry Smith and Carlos’ actions upon his return home, he was also banned for life by the Australian Olympic Committee.

In 2008 Smith and Carlos received the Arthur Ashe Award for Courage. But ten years later, on the 50th anniversary of their iconic gesture, a new generation of black athletes find themselves the target of the same kind of vitriol and hatred as those Olympic sprinters did, for daring to non-violently protest institutional racism in the U.S. while all eyes are on their football stadiums. The insults, slurs and worse that they have endured from the highest level of public office down clearly indicate that there is still a large segment of the American populace that refuses to acknowledge the systemic racism that plagues society, 50 years after the civil rights’ movement. And so, when people protest, some continue to pay the price.

Even when the Olympics returned to Australia in 2000, Norman did not receive the customary invitation to attend as a former medalist. When the U.S Olympic Committee discovered this, they invited him to attend as a guest of Team USA.

Peter Norman died in 2006. Smith and Carlos traveled to Australia to be among his pallbearers, honoring their fellow athlete and friend. In 2012 the AOC finally issued a formal apology for the treatment he received at their hands, and earlier this year the organization awarded him the Order of Merit, their highest honor. Next year a statue honoring his legacy will be unveiled in his home city, Melbourne.

I heard Dr. Cornel West speak at an event in Cincinnati a couple of years ago. Someone raised the question of the importance of white allies in the struggle for equality. Dr West said something like, “Well, you know the trouble with allies is that they can end the alliance when the price gets too high. What we need are fellow freedom fighters, who will stay the course, and suffer alongside us.” Peter Norman’s quiet act of solidarity in 1968, and his refusal to denounce Smith and Carlos’ gesture, made him a pariah in his own country. When Victoria’s Sports Minister John Eren announced last month the plans to raise a statue in Norman’s honor, he said,

“Peter Norman stood up when others stood by – he deserves this honour and to be immortalised so his name and legacy live on forever.”

May the same be said of more of us in the fight to end systemic racism, wherever it exists.

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]]>The price of protestGuest UserFri, 24 Aug 2018 15:36:00 +0000https://www.seangladding.com/blog-repository/the-naked-man-pt-535bd1ce5ab2cf792853406e66:5bd330891905f4a5a2f57aaa:5bd33479652dea773d156edc

For the setting and a cast of characters for this series, click here.

After finishing his meal, Mark looked around the courtyard at the gathered ecclesia. He noticed Yiftach and Adina in animated conversation and smiled. As Yiftach made a sweeping gesture, he noticed Mark’s gaze. The young man nodded in greeting, then turned back to Adina, who was trying to draw her friends into the conversation. I wonder what that’s all about, thought Mark. His mother laid a hand on his forearm. He turned toward her and caught the grimace of pain etched into her wrinkled face as she sat back. “Mother…” he began. She waved his concern off. “It is nothing, my son. Just the reality of living as long as I have. It will pass. Come, continue the story.” As Mark rose to his feet, he noticed another flash of pain on Miryam’s face.

“Sisters and brothers.” The murmur of conversation died down as Mark began to speak. “When we parted last night, we left the disciples astounded by what had happened on the sea of Galilee. The wind had blown them far off course, and so, instead of finding themselves at Bethsaida, when they had crossed over they came to land at Gennesaret. They moored to the shore and when they had climbed out of the boat, those on the shore immediately recognized Jesus. Unlike his disciples the night before!” He laughed. People ran about that whole area and began to carry those who were sick, lying on their sleeping mats, and brought them to the place where they heard Jesus was. Word had spread throughout the region that divine power to heal was present in Jesus, and crowds flocked to him, desperate for healing.” He glanced involuntarily at his mother, who gestured with her chin towards the crowd in the courtyard, re-directing his attention.

“As he traveled, wherever Jesus entered villages, or cities, or the countryside, they were laying the sick in the market places, and begging him to let them just touch the fringe of his cloak. The details of the healing of that courageous woman in Capernaum had been carried by merchants and herdsmen from village to village, and wherever Jesus went, he found hands reaching up to touch his cloak. And as many as touched it were being healed.”

Mark paused, and Rachel spoke into the momentary silence. “Is that power to heal still available? I mean, you believe that Jesus was raised from the dead, but it’s not like he’s here in this courtyard with you, is it?” Her tone was skeptical, but not mocking. “There are many in this city who carry wounds and suffer with broken limbs from all the fighting. Can you help them?” “And,” continued Yiftach, “when the Romans lay siege to the city, there will be many, many more.”

It was Miryam who responded to their earnest questions. Leaning forward, a smile tinged with pain on her face, she said, “Yes, the power of G_d to heal is still present, and we pray for those in need of it. But our intercession does not always lead to the healing and relief for which we pray. Some of us have experienced healing, but clearly not all those who suffer have had their needs met.” She turned to Mark. “I confess that I sometimes wonder why the power we experienced in those early days after Jesus returned to G_d seems…not so present these years later.”

Before her son could respond she continued. “But divine healing is not always miraculous. There are some here who have been healed through the generous care of physicians.” Miryam gestured towards a couple of men seated under the olive tree. “Physicians whose care they could never have afforded but for the love we share as a fellowship. And, ultimately, it is that love that heals us. Not necessarily of our physical ills, but of our sin-sickness, our isolation, our fear, our bitterness and resentment, all that keeps us separate and divided from one another – and from G_d. That is the true healing of which we all have need.” The lines of pain in her face faded with the joy that now shone in her expression. Miryam reclined once more.

“That may be so,” responded Yiftach. “But when disease and injuries prevent you from participating in the life of our people, physical healing is a necessary step to that other kind of healing.” “Indeed,” responded Mark. “But it’s not only disease or injury that is the cause of the exclusion people experience…”

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