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Love that chooses to stay

Posted on by Fr. Peter / 0 Comment

Isaiah 7:10–17 and Matthew 1:18–21

We have made it, well, almost. We have lit the fourth candle, the halls are decked, the meal has been prepared, the shopping is, hopefully, done, and Mary and Joseph are on their way to Bethlehem.

I do love this time of year, it is the most wonderful time of the year! I believe that Christmas is more important than Easter, and if you want to hear why, you will have to come to the 6pm service on Christmas Eve. Because we are not there yet.

In our fast-paced world, we want to skip over the boring parts and get right to the end of the story. I mean, we know how it is all going to end, right? We have heard the story thousands of times, and it always ends the same way. But if we skip over things, the things we don’t really like, we miss the really good stuff.

The Fourth Sunday of Advent brings us right to the edge of the story. Today, we name what has been quietly building all along: love. But Advent love is not sentimental. It is not soft-focus or safe. It’s not the idyllic scene we see on Hallmark cards. No, Advent love disrupts. Advent love risks. Advent love shows up in places where fear already has a strong grip.

Isaiah speaks into a moment of deep political anxiety. Judah is caught between empires. King Ahaz is afraid. Power feels fragile. The future is uncertain. God invites Ahaz to ask for a sign, some assurance that God is present, but Ahaz refuses. Not out of humility, but out of fear disguised as faith. So, God does what God does and gives the king a sign anyway. Not some roadside light display, not some cheery Christmas card picture we can hang on the wall, not some sanitized version of birth. Though the prophet God simply says, “A young woman is with child… and shall name him Immanuel.” God-with-us.

This is how love works in scripture. God does not wait for courage or clarity. God does not withdraw when leaders hedge their bets or hide behind religious language. God does not smite those God disagrees with. God does not send storms and other calamities to cause terror. God sends love, and God’s Love insists on presence.

Now, here is the part we sometimes miss. Immanuel is not a promise that everything will be fixed. It is not a promise that everything is going to be ok. It is a promise that God will not abandon people living under fear, violence, and unjust power.

That promise carries us directly into Matthew’s Gospel.

Joseph is facing his own crisis. The woman he loves is pregnant, and the story does not make sense. Think about it, I mean. Put yourself in Joseph’s place. I am a believer and all, but I think I would struggle a bit with the story he has just heard.

The law gives Joseph options, legal, public, devastating options. He has power. And Matthew tells us Joseph is righteous. But righteousness here is not rule-keeping. It is restraint. It is compassion. It is refusing to weaponize morality against someone more vulnerable than yourself.

Joseph plans to dismiss Mary quietly. Even before he understands what God is doing, he chooses mercy. Joseph wants to spare Mary and her family a lot of trouble, and his heart is hurting.

Then the angel speaks, and the same angel that came to Mary, the same angel that spoke to Zachariah, and the same one that will come to him later. This angel is busy. The angel comes to Joseph and simply says, “Do not be afraid.”

Those words appear so often in scripture because fear is not imaginary; it is real. Fear thrives when love threatens the status quo. Joseph is invited into a love that will cost him reputation, certainty, and safety. And before we rush past that moment, we need to linger with Mary.

Mary’s yes was not gentle or safe. I need you to keep in mind that, in our terms, Mary was a child. Tradition tells us she was a teenager, and on the young side of teenager. Some believe she was the ripe old age of 14 when this story took place.

Mary’s yes was spoken into a world where her body did not belong to her, where her future could and would be decided by others, where pregnancy outside of permission carried real consequences, shame, abandonment, violence, and even death. And Mary knew this.

When Mary said yes to God, she was not agreeing to a beautiful Christmas scene. She was risking her future. She was risking Joseph’s love before she ever knew whether he would stay. Her yes did not protect her; it exposed her.

Mary was not naïve. She was courageous. God did not remove the danger. God entered it. We try to dismiss the strength this young girl had with sappy songs that ask, “Mary did you know?” Patriarchy and revisionist history are fully displayed in that disgusting attempt to mansplain to Mary what was happening.

That is the kind of love Advent proclaims.

But let’s not forget about Joseph. History has all but forgotten about him. Joseph risked it all as well. He was a simple carpenter from a place no one had heard of, and he risked it all.

Joseph’s yes matters because it meets Mary’s risk with presence. He chooses relationship over reputation. Love over fear. And in that choice, Immanuel—God-with-us—takes flesh.

This is not ancient history. This kind of love is still risky.

Not long ago, I read a story about a high school teacher who found themselves in a similar moment of decision. A student came out as transgender, and almost immediately, the pressure began. Parents complained. Emails circulated about “neutrality” and “policy.” The system made it clear: staying silent would be safer.

But the teacher made a different choice. This teacher learned the student’s chosen name. They used the correct pronouns. They corrected classmates gently but consistently. They treated their student as a human being, not something to become a punchline or something we throw away and dismiss.

The actions of this teacher didn’t fix everything. In fact, it cost them. Complaints followed. Their reputation shifted. When asked why they didn’t just stay quiet, the teacher said, “Because love doesn’t mean pretending someone doesn’t exist.”

That is Advent love.

Like Joseph, the teacher could have protected themselves. They could have followed procedure, hidden behind the rules, and avoided risk. Instead, they chose presence over neutrality. Relationship over reputation.

Love is never neutral. Love takes sides. Love aligns itself with the vulnerable. Love shows up where systems of fear and shame are already at work.

Mary, Joseph, that teacher, all of them teach us the same truth: love does not guarantee safety. But love makes God visible.

As we light the candle of love today, we are reminded that love is not fragile. Love is brave. Love interrupts schedules, disrupts systems, and refuses to look away.

Immanuel—God-with-us—is not a slogan for a song, card, or t-shirt; it is a commitment. It is a commitment to stay. A commitment to risk compassion. A commitment to embody love in a world still shaped by fear.

This Advent, may we choose that kind of love. The kind that trusts God more than respectability. The kind that risks everything. The kind that stands where God stands.

Because that is how God comes into the world. And that is how God is still coming now. Thanks be to God.

Amen

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Yes, Mary Did Know

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Luke 1:46–55

I appreciate all forms of music.  Well, that’s not really true. I appreciate most forms of music. What I appreciate most is the story that music tells through its lyrics and melody. Church music, even contemporary Church music, can help to shape one’s understanding of difficult theological topics and paint a picture through words and music.

However, for that music to paint that picture, the theology needs to be accurate. Just because the song has a nice tune and catchy lyrics does not make it theologically correct.  Just because your favorite artist sings a particular song does not mean that the theological position of the writer of the words is orthodox in their theological understanding.

Every Advent, a familiar song finds its way into our Churches, our playlists, and our psyche. “Mary, Did You Know?” is a tender, reverent song full of wonder and bad theology. And it attempts to minimize Mary’s role and her understanding not only of what she is being asked to do, but also of who Jesus is and will become. The lyrics ask questions that many of us have heard so often that it almost feels like part of the biblical story itself.

Mary, did you know your baby boy would one day walk on water?
Did you know he would save our sons and daughters?
Did you know he would calm the storm, give sight to the blind, and conquer the grave?

These certainly are interesting questions, but when we listen carefully to today’s Gospel and hear Mary’s response, the answer becomes clear.

Yes. Mary did know.

She may not have known every detail. She did not have a timeline, a theological treatise, or a clear roadmap of what lies ahead. But Mary knew something far deeper and far more dangerous than the song allows.

She knew this child would change the world. She knew her yes would change the world.

Luke tells us that Mary’s response to God’s astonishing invitation is not confusion, not silence, not even fear, but a song. And this song, the Magnificat, is not soft or sentimental. It is bold. It is defiant. It is revolutionary. Coming from the lips of a young woman who, in her day, was told to sit down and shut up.

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

This is the joy of the Third Sunday of Advent, not shallow happiness, but courageous joy. The kind of joy that speaks out loud about what God is doing, even when the world has not yet caught up.

Mary knows exactly what kind of God she is dealing with.

“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly.”

Mary did know.

She knew that empires tremble when God enters the world as a child. She knew that power does not get the final word. She knew that God’s justice does not favor the comfortable but reaches for the forgotten.

This is not the song of a naïve girl unaware of the consequences. This is the song of a woman who understands the cost of her yes and sings anyway.

Mary knew that her yes would put her at risk. She knew her reputation would be questioned. She did know that Rome would not welcome this child. She did know that power never surrenders quietly.

And still she sings.

The song asks, “Did you know your baby boy would give sight to the blind?”
Mary answers, “He has filled the hungry with good things.”

The song asks, “Did you know your baby boy would calm the storm?”
Mary answers, “He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.”

The song asks, “Did you know your baby boy is Lord of all creation?”
Mary answers, “Holy is his name… from generation to generation.”

Mary’s joy is rooted not in ignorance, but in trust. She knows that God is faithful to promises made long before her, promises to Abraham, to Sarah, to a people who had waited centuries for liberation. She knows this child is the embodiment of God’s mercy breaking into history.

And this is where Advent speaks to us.

We often ask Mary’s question of ourselves:

Do we know what it means to welcome Jesus? Do we know what it costs to say yes to God’s future? Do we know that following Jesus is not simply comforting, but disruptive?

Because if Mary knew, and she did, then her song is not just her testimony. It is our calling.

Advent joy does not come from pretending everything is fine. It comes from trusting that God is at work even when the world feels upside down. It comes from believing that the lowly will be lifted, the hungry filled, the proud humbled, not someday in the abstract, but in the real world we inhabit.

Mary’s song reminds us that God does not enter the world quietly, leaving it unchanged. God enters boldly, vulnerably, and decisively, to reorder our priorities, challenge our systems, and call us to live differently.

Friends, this Third Sunday of Advent, as we light the candle of joy, let us retire the question and embrace the truth:

Mary did know.

She knew enough to sing. She knew enough to trust. She knew enough to risk everything on God’s promise.

And the deeper question becomes this:

Do we know? Do we know that joy is found not in safety, but in faithfulness? Do we know that God’s mercy still overturns unjust thrones? Do we know that saying yes to Christ still has consequences and still brings life?

May we, like Mary, know enough to sing God’s future into being.

May our souls magnify the Lord. May our spirits rejoice in God our Savior. And may our lives, like hers, proclaim that God is already at work, turning the world upside down with love.

Amen.

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St. Lucy of Syracuse: Bearing Light in a World That Hungers for It

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Every year, as we draw close to the winter solstice, when the nights feel impossibly long, and daylight seems reluctant to return, the Church gives us a figure whose very name speaks to what we long for. St. Lucy of Syracuse, Santa Lucia, “light,” stands as a witness that even in the darkest moments of human history, God’s radiance cannot be extinguished. Her story is as ancient as the early centuries of the Christian movement, yet it continues to speak with surprising clarity to our own world, where despair, violence, and cynicism often threaten to crowd out hope.

Lucy was born at the end of the 3rd century in Syracuse, a bustling city on the island of Sicily. It was a time when being a Christian was neither safe nor wise. The Diocletian persecutions, among the most brutal in Roman history, targeted Christians with a kind of ferocity meant to stamp out the faith entirely. Yet as has so often been the case, persecution did not silence the Gospel; it revealed the depth of conviction in those who embraced it.

Lucy’s family was wealthy, and her future seemed secure by the standards of the world. Her mother, Eutychia, arranged a marriage for her with a young man of influence. But Lucy had already determined that her life belonged to Christ alone. She had made a private vow of consecration, a promise to live her life as an offering to God and to serve the most vulnerable in her community. To us today, perhaps accustomed to more individual autonomy, this decision might not seem so radical. But in the Roman world, where social order depended heavily on marriage alliances, household wealth, and expectations of women’s obedience, Lucy’s refusal was an act of tremendous spiritual courage.

The story goes that her mother suffered from a long illness, and Lucy urged her to pray for healing at the tomb of St. Agatha, another Sicilian martyr. When Eutychia was cured, she granted Lucy’s request to give her dowry to the poor. In doing so, Lucy placed herself squarely in the path of danger. Her rejected fiancé, furious at the loss of wealth and insulted by her devotion to Christ, denounced her as a Christian. What followed was another familiar pattern in the early Church: the machinery of the empire turning against a young woman whose only crime was fidelity to Christ and compassion for the poor.

Tradition tells us that numerous attempts were made to break her will, attempts that today read like a chilling catalogue of human cruelty. Flames did not consume her. Violence did not silence her. Even the act of gouging out her eyes, a detail that later made her the patron saint of those with vision problems, could not extinguish the inner light she bore. And therein lies the theological heart of her story. Lucy is not remembered for her suffering, but for embodying the truth that the light of Christ cannot be overshadowed by fear or force.

Her martyrdom in 304 CE was not the end of her witness; if anything, it was the beginning of her legacy. Devotion to Lucy spread quickly throughout the Mediterranean. By the Middle Ages, her feast day on December 13 became a celebration of light in many parts of Europe. In Scandinavia, where winter darkness is especially profound, processions of girls wearing white robes and wreaths of candles became a beloved custom. These traditions may be culturally specific, but the symbolism is universal: in the darkest time of the year, we cling to the promise that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

So, what does St. Lucy have to say to us today? What relevance does a 3rd-century martyr hold in a 21st-century world where our struggles look so different—and yet, at their core, not so different at all?

First, Lucy invites us to examine what it means to live with integrity. She did not wait for a safer moment to be faithful. She did not negotiate with her conscience or seek a path of compromise. Instead, she aligned her life with her deepest convictions, regardless of the cost. That kind of clarity, a clarity rooted not in stubbornness but in spiritual trust, has a way of unsettling those who benefit from the status quo. Lucy reminds us that there will always be pressure to conform, to accept the world as it is, even when it contradicts God’s vision for justice, mercy, and compassion. Yet discipleship calls us to something more courageous.

Second, Lucy challenges our assumptions about power. The world of the Roman Empire valued wealth, status, family alliances, and male authority. Lucy, a teenage girl, possessed none of these. And yet her witness outlasted emperors, outlived the institutions that sought to destroy her, and continues to shine across centuries. The Gospel flips the script: the ones dismissed as powerless become the bearers of God’s transforming light.

Finally, Lucy’s story calls us to become light-bearers ourselves. We don’t have to face imperial persecution to understand what it feels like when darkness presses in, whether it be the darkness of grief, injustice, violence, or uncertainty about the future. Lucy’s life suggests that the light we carry is not our own. It is Christ’s light, placed within us, often shining most clearly when circumstances are bleakest. When we choose compassion over indifference, truth over convenience, generosity over self-preservation, we participate in that same light.

As we remember St. Lucy, we also remember that discipleship is not merely about admiration; it is about embodiment. In a season already filled with candles and Advent wreaths, we are invited to let her example illuminate our own path. May her courage inspire ours. May her steadfastness ground our wavering hearts. And may her radiant witness remind us that no matter how deep the night may seem, God’s light is never far off.

St. Lucy of Syracuse, bearer of holy light, pray for us.

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A Reflection on the Immaculate Conception and the Rejection of Original Sin

Posted on by Fr. Peter

December 8th is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. This feat celebrates the belief that Mary, from the moment of her conception, was preserved from the stain of original sin. It is a feast with deep theological roots, rich devotional practices, and a long history of reflection. But it is also a feast that Protestants, by and large, do not observe. There are many reasons for hesitation around the celebration of this feast, biblical, historical, and theological, but one of the central reasons lies in the Reformed understanding of sin itself, especially the rejection of the doctrine of original sin as it applies to Mary.

This difference is not simply a matter of piety or preference; it reflects deeper theological commitments that trace back to the Reformation and continue to shape a theological identity today.

To understand why this belief varies, we must understand Roman Catholic doctrine. Defined formally in 1854 but rooted in medieval theology, the Immaculate Conception teaches that “Mary was conceived without original sin so that she could serve as a fitting, uncontaminated ‘vessel’ for the Incarnation.” This sinlessness is not seen as anything Mary accomplished on her own but as a special application of Christ’s future redemption, granted to her when she was conceived.

Reformed Theology does not affirm this doctrine. But the reason is not because of a disregard for Mary, far from it. Reformed Theology holds Mary in high esteem as the mother of Jesus, the “highly favored one,” the courageous disciple who said yes to God. The disagreement is for another reason: in the Protestant understanding of sin, particularly the rejection of the Roman Catholic understanding of original sin as something passed biologically or genealogically from one generation to the next.

In Roman Catholic theology, original sin is a kind of inherited condition, something transmitted from parent to child, something that attaches to the human person at conception. Because of this understanding, the Immaculate Conception becomes necessary. If sin is transmitted like a spiritual gene, then Christ’s humanity must be protected from this inheritance. Mary, therefore, must be purified in advance.

But the Reformers did not see original sin this way. Luther, Calvin, and the generations that followed understood original sin not primarily as a biological transmission but as the universal human condition of alienation from God. Sin, in Reformed thought, is not a metaphysical stain passed down through the bloodstream. It is a relational brokenness, a condition that affects all of us because we are part of the same fallen story, not because we physically inherit guilt.

For Protestants, original sin does not require an immaculate Mary for her son to be sinless. Jesus’ sinlessness does not depend on the purity of Mary’s conception; it depends on the mystery of the Incarnation itself. Jesus is sinless because he is both fully human and fully divine, the “Word made flesh,” the one who takes on humanity without taking on its rebellion. His holiness is inherent, not dependent.

This difference is subtle but profound. For the Reformers, to protect Jesus’ sinlessness through Mary’s sinlessness is to take a theological journey Scripture never lays out. It shifts the focus from the Incarnation as God’s decisive act to a chain of biological purity that must be protected. Reformed theology trusts the Incarnation itself, God becoming flesh, as sufficient. Jesus is holy because God is holy, not because Mary was specially exempted from the human condition.

A second Reformed concern arises from Scripture. Nowhere is Mary’s sinlessness taught, much less her immaculate conception. In fact, Mary herself sings, “My spirit rejoices in God my Savior,” a line Protestants have long taken as evidence that Mary understood herself to need God’s grace like everyone else. She is blessed, chosen, and filled with grace, but not differently from the rest of us.

The Reformed rejection of the Immaculate Conception is ultimately a reaffirmation of a basic understanding that all humans, Mary included, stand equally in need of God’s grace. The beauty of Mary’s story lies not in her exemption from the fallen nature of humanity but in her participation in it. She is one of us, ordinary, vulnerable, historically conditioned, and yet God chooses her to bear Christ into the world. This is the very heart of the gospel: God works through ordinary people, not because we are perfect, but because grace finds us.

There is also a pastoral dimension to this perspective. If Mary must be sinless for Christ to be born, what does that say about the rest of us? If God only works through the immaculate, what hope is there for ordinary people who carry the burdens and complexities of authentic human life? The Reformed understanding holds up Mary not as an exception but as a model, a person who experienced God’s call in the midst of her humanity, not apart from it.

The rejection of the Immaculate Conception is not a rejection of Mary. The Reformed understanding portrays Mary as someone whose faithfulness was worked out amid her human frailty. Her courage becomes more, not less, remarkable when we see her as an ordinary young woman graced by God.

Although Protestants will not celebrate the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the day still invites a reflection on sin not as an inherited stain but as a universal human story; on grace not as exception but as gift; and on Mary, not because she was set apart from the human condition, but because she shows us how God enters into our human condition with love, humility, and transforming presence.

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Peace and Joy

Posted on by Fr. Peter

“The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.”

Let us Pray:
Your word, Holy God, is written for our instruction. By your Holy Spirit open our ears and fill us with the mysteries of your ancient love; through Jesus Christ we pray. Amen.

This morning, we light the second candle on the Advent wreath, the candle of peace. We stand in that holy tension between Isaiah’s sweeping vision of the world as God intends it to be and John the Baptist’s uncompromising cry from the wilderness.

Isaiah shows us a world where “the wolf shall live with the lamb,” where children play safely at the den of what once threatened them, and where a shoot grows from the stump of Jesse, small, fragile, unexpected, yet filled with the Spirit of God. This is not a naïve picture nor a sentimental one. Isaiah does not describe a world that accidentally drifts toward peace but one transformed from the roots up, one reordered by the Spirit of wisdom, understanding, counsel, might, knowledge, and awe of the Lord.

Then Matthew takes us out into the wilderness, where John the Baptist stands with sharp words and sharper clarity. His message to the crowds, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near,” is not soft, and it is certainly not comfortable. But John never pretends that peace comes without change, without reorientation, without truth-telling. Peace is not the absence of conflict; it is the presence of justice and mercy, the peace that comes when our lives are aligned with God’s vision.

And so, Advent places these two voices side by side:

Isaiah, offering hope that God will make creation whole again, and John, urging us to become participants in that promise.

When we talk about peace, we often talk about what we want for ourselves: quiet days, calm hearts, a world without violence or fear. But Scripture pushes us further. The peace Isaiah imagines is not just emotional tranquility; it is a peace in which predators and prey learn new patterns, in which natural enemies see each other as kin, and in which knowledge of the Lord fills the earth, where all of creation is transformed and returned to the point of creation.

John the Baptist reminds us that God’s peace does not come when we ignore what is broken, but when we face it. His axe-and-fire imagery can be jarring, but it is meant to wake us, to shake us from the illusion that peace can come without transformation.

John refers to the Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism as a “brood of vipers!” Not exactly what you’d call people coming for baptism, but John was calling out the religious leaders, just as Jesus would. John and Jesus knew that these religious leaders were telling people one thing while living very different lives, requiring sacrifice from others while getting the choicest cuts.

I am a theologian trained in Reformation theology. I was taught to believe that the Church and her theological understanding need constant reform, constant updates. Not a reformation because the wind has changed direction or because it is politically motivated, but a reformation that transforms lives.

I also believe that not everything from the past should be discarded; there is much that history can teach us, and although I don’t think the past should anchor us, we should honor the tradition of what came before.

Sometimes I think the 16th-century reformation went too far and threw out too much tradition, and part of that is the commemoration of the lives of the holy men and women who came before us. There is much we can learn from the lives of our ancestors in faith, and one of those is St. Nicholas.

For me, and for many, St. Nicholas, whose feast day we celebrate this week, remains such a captivating figure during Advent and from whom we get the tradition of Santa Claus.

And perhaps this is why St. Nicholas—whose feast day we celebrate this week—remains such a compelling figure during Advent.

We often picture him in soft reds and warm smiles, sliding coins into the shoes of the poor. But the stories of Nicholas show us a saint with both gentleness and courage, a man who understood peace not as passivity, but as a way of living that restores dignity and defends truth.

One of the most cherished stories tells of a father in Nicholas’ town who had fallen into desperate poverty. The man had three daughters, and without a dowry, the girls faced a future of insecurity and even danger. Their situation was so dire that the father feared he would have to sell them into servitude just for them to survive.

Nicholas could have offered “thoughts and prayers,” wished them well, and walked on. But instead, under the cover of night, he went to their home and tossed a bag of gold coins through the window, enough for the eldest daughter’s dowry.

Then he did it again for the second daughter.

And when he returned for the third time, the father, who had been waiting to learn who this secret benefactor was, caught him in the act. Falling to his knees in gratitude, he thanked Nicholas for saving his family. But Nicholas hurried away, insisting the glory belonged only to God.

This is peace in action; not merely wishing someone well, but intervening quietly, humbly, restoring the dignity and future of a struggling family.

But Nicholas’ compassion didn’t end there. He became known throughout the region as a protector of families. When famine hit, he persuaded ship captains, reluctant to give up their grain, to part with enough to feed the hungry. He promised they would not be punished for arriving with less cargo. And, as the story goes, when they reached their destination, their holds were still full. Meanwhile, the grain they left behind sustained families through the winter.

This is the peace Nicholas practiced, peace that shows up at the doorsteps of the struggling, peace that puts food in empty kitchens, peace that rebuilds hope where despair has taken root.

But Nicholas was not only gentle. He was also bold.

At the Council of Nicaea in 325, bishops gathered to settle urgent disputes about the nature of Christ. Among them was Nicholas. The 1700th anniversary of this Council was just celebrated this past week when the leaders of the five original churches, Rome, Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch, and Jerusalem, gathered at the site of this Council and pledged greater cooperation among themselves. This was the first time in history that these leaders had gathered; their representatives were present in 325, not themselves, and it was all but passed over by the media. I am sure they were off covering another salacious scandal, but that does not diminish the importance of this Council, for it gave us much of what we profess to believe today.

According to tradition, the debates began to turn heated as they usually do at these things. One bishop, a man called Arius, argued that Jesus was not divine in the full sense, not divine from birth as we believe now. Nicholas became so distressed at the distortion of the faith that he stood up, crossed the room, and struck Arius across the face.

Now, as Christians, we should not resort to violence and only use violence as a last resort, and Nicholas himself was censured for it. But the story persisted because it showed something significant:

Nicholas valued peace enough to defend the truth that made peace possible.

He believed that if Christ were not truly God-with-us, then Isaiah’s vision of a reconciled world would collapse. Without a Savior who is fully divine and fully human, the world cannot be healed from the inside out.

Even though Nicholas lost his temper, the heart beneath the act was this:

Peace is not passivity. Peace takes courage, moral courage, theological courage, and relational courage. This is the kind of peace that requires us to stand up while everyone else is sitting down. This is the kind of peace that requires us to advocate for those on the margins. This is the kind of peace that brought so many martyrs to their death, including Jesus!

The same saint who quietly slipped coins into the shoes of the poor also stood fiercely for the truth of God’s reconciling love.

Advent is the time when John the Baptist calls us to make straight the paths, to remove what blocks peace, to repent of the ways we’ve cozied up to comfort instead of transformation, the times we have remained silent rather than spoken out, to turn our lives toward the vision Isaiah sets before us.

And St. Nicholas invites us to live that repentance with both tenderness and boldness. Tenderness that sees the needs of our neighbors and responds in hidden, holy generosity, and boldness that refuses to accept false peace built on silence, injustice, or avoidance.

The peace Christ brings is not fragile. It is robust. It is transformative.

It is the kind of peace where wolves and lambs dine together, where the poor are remembered, where the mighty repent, where the oppressed are lifted up, and where all creation bends toward God’s healing, not out of violence, legislation, or coercion, but out of love.

And it arrives, miraculously, through a child born to the poorest of the poor in an all but forgotten corner of the empire in borrowed accommodations.

A shoot from a stump. A Savior born into the world not with spectacle, but with vulnerability.

So, in this second week of Advent, as the candle of peace burns, may it burn in us as well. May it unsettle us where we have grown too comfortable. May it strengthen us where we are discouraged. May it teach us to practice peace with the gentle generosity of St. Nicholas, and the fierce honesty of John the Baptist.

And may we prepare our hearts to welcome the One who comes to make all things new.

Amen.

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The Real St. Nicholas: A Story of Generosity and Courage

Posted on by Fr. Peter

On December 6th, the Church commemorates St. Nicholas. When we think about St. Nick, we think about the gift-giver, the secret benefactor, the friend of people experiencing poverty, and a man in the red suit with the white beard. And that part of his story matters deeply.

As tradition tells us, Nicholas once learned of a father in his community who had lost everything. With no dowries for his three daughters, the man feared they would be forced into lives of desperation. Nicholas, then a young bishop with a tender heart, acted quietly. Under the cover of night, he slipped bags of gold through the family’s window, one for each daughter, hoping to restore their dignity without drawing attention to himself. When the father finally caught him in the act, Nicholas begged him to keep it secret. His generosity wasn’t about praise; it was about peace. He wanted to steady trembling lives, to give hope room to grow, to mend what fear had broken.

But there is another story about Nicholas, a story that reveals a different kind of peacemaking, one that’s less gentle, but no less holy.

In the year 325, bishops from across the Christian world gathered at the Council of Nicaea to clarify what the Church believed about Jesus. One debate grew heated, especially over the teachings of a man named Arius, who argued that Jesus was a created being rather than fully divine.

According to ancient tradition, Nicholas grew so distressed at the way Arius’s teaching diminished Jesus’ role and so upset at how the argument threatened to fracture the Church that he crossed the room and slapped Arius across the face. It wasn’t his finest pastoral moment. He was disciplined for it. But in that moment, you see a man who cared so deeply for the truth of Christ and so passionately about protecting the peace of the Church that he couldn’t remain silent.

Two stories. Two very different actions. One heart shaped by Christ.

In one story, Nicholas embodies quiet, humble peace, slipping hope into a window at night.

In the other, he embodies courageous, protective peace, standing up for the truth when unity was on the line.

And together, these stories remind us that peace is not one-dimensional.

Sometimes peace looks like gentle generosity. Sometimes it seems like holy courage. Sometimes it means giving what we have. Sometimes it means standing for what we believe. Sometimes it means staying quiet; sometimes, speaking up.

What matters, what Nicholas teaches us, is that everything we do as Christians must be rooted in love: love for our neighbor, love for the truth, love for Christ.

As we move through Advent, Nicholas invites us to ask: Where am I called to be quietly generous for the sake of peace? Where am I called to be courageously truthful for the sake of peace? And how might Christ be preparing me to bring hope into the world in ways both gentle and bold?

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Spirituality of the Cold Moon

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Tonight, the Cold Moon will rise, its bright, unwavering light stretching across the dark December landscape. This will be the last supermoon of the year, and if the clouds show mercy, its brilliance will be unmatched. The Cold Moon invites us to pause, to breathe, and to explore what lies just beneath the surface of our lives, and tucked away in the quieter, shadowed corners of our spirituality.

There is a spiritual connection between humanity and the phases of the moon. Each full moon heightens a different dimension of our interior life. The Cold Moon, arriving at the threshold of winter, draws us inward, into our homes, yes, but also into our hearts. As the outer world grows colder, it becomes a fertile time for introspection.

When the air sharpens and temperatures fall, the visible world begins to retreat. Creatures burrow deep into the earth. Seeds sink into the soil and start their slow, unseen transformation. The landscape may appear barren under the Cold Moon’s glow, but beneath the hardened surface, life is still taking root. So it is with us. Nature’s descent into rest is an invitation for us to discover or reclaim the rituals, habits, and spiritual practices that bring us calm, peace, and restoration.

The Cold Moon carries the themes of rest, renewal, and shadow, themes that can serve as wise companions during this hectic season, when every calendar square seems filled with obligations. Do not forget to carve out pockets of stillness for yourself. Even a few minutes of silence each day can become a sanctuary.

We live in a world swirling with upheaval, noise, and unending streams of information. There is a pull always to stay informed, but there is also a spiritual cost when we do not set healthy boundaries. Be intentional about what you let through the gate of your attention. Turn down the volume on the distractions, not out of denial, but out of care for your own well-being. Doing so will make space for you to listen to your own body, your own soul, and to hear what they have been trying to tell you.

As the days shorten and the nights lengthen, allow this season to help you examine the shadows of your life, those tender or difficult places we often avoid. Grief, fear, guilt, sadness, questions about identity, uncertainty about the future, unmet longings, all the emotional clutter we tend to shove into the “junk drawer” of our souls. This is not an invitation to wallow but rather to gently, bravely acknowledge what is there.

And remember, you do not have to do this work alone. If exploring the shadows feels too heavy, consider turning to a trusted friend or a therapist. There is strength in asking for company on the path.

Just as the earth resets itself in these winter months, we, too, are offered a chance for a spiritual reset. Let the stillness of nature wrap around you like a blanket. Let the glow of the Cold Moon illuminate both the quiet beauty and the hidden depths of your life. And may this season bring you restfulness, clarity, and the kind of peace that begins deep within and slowly makes its way outward.

If you are a person of ritual, check out “Ritual for the Cold Moon”

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Hope in the Dark: An Advent Reflection

Posted on by Fr. Peter

We begin Advent, as we always do, in the dark. Before a single candle is lit, before a single carol is sung, the Church hands us the first word of the season: hope. Not the glossy, sentimental hope that fills store windows this time of year, but the deep, stubborn hope Isaiah speaks of, a hope forged in a world that knows conflict, uncertainty, and fear. For many, that world is not theoretical. It is the world we live in now.

Almost every day, someone reaches out to me, overwhelmed by the state of things. And truly, there is much that weighs on the human spirit. Families wonder where their next meal will come from. Neighbors fear they will lose health insurance. Working people struggle while CEOs receive pay packages of staggering proportions. Fear is thick in the air, fear about the future, fear about security, fear about whether anyone is listening. We are people called to live with hope yet sometimes hope feels like a distant dream.

It is into this world that Isaiah speaks his bold vision: nations streaming toward the mountain of the Lord, weapons of war hammered into instruments that cultivate life, peace learned instead of violence practiced. This is not poetic escapism. It is a prophetic conviction: This is not the world’s final story.

Yesterday, I stood in a cemetery preparing to preside at the funeral of a man I had never met. As I waited for the hearse to arrive, I wandered among the gravestones. Each marker held a story of mothers and fathers, long lives and short lives, joys and sorrows now known entirely only to God. One tall, weathered monument caught my eye: the grave of Rev. Samuel Tobey, the first minister of our Church here in Berkley. After the burial, I visited his stone, paused to pray, left a small token of remembrance, and continued.

Near the cemetery’s entrance, another significant marker drew me off the path: the grave of Rev. Thomas Andros, the Church’s second minister. As I did at Rev. Tobey’s grave, I offered a prayer and left a token. I had read about Thomas earlier this year but had not dug deeply into his life. One story now seems especially fitting for Advent.

As a teenager during the Revolutionary War, Andros was captured and imprisoned on the notorious British ship Old Jersey off Long Island. At just seventeen, he escaped. Years later, he wrote about his dangerous journey home, during which he battled yellow fever, slept in barns and haystacks, and traveled mostly at night to avoid capture. What is striking in his recollection is not the peril but the thread that runs through it: hope. Andros believed that God had preserved him for a purpose: that he would make it home, that a future awaited him beyond the darkness he endured.

What is even more remarkable is what occupied his mind during his escape. Andros regretted the trouble he caused the officer who had allowed him to go ashore for water, the moment he used to slip away. Years later, after the war, he tracked down that officer and wrote to apologize. Even in fear and illness, he carried compassion. His was a stubborn hope, one that moves, acts, and remains mindful of others even in hardship.

This is the kind of hope Scripture calls us to. Hope that insists God’s future can interrupt the present. Hope that says what is now is not what shall be. Hope that walks in the light even while the world remains dim.

Isaiah ends with an invitation: “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.” Not “wait until the world improves,” but walk now. Hope is not passive. It moves. It chooses. It acts.

The Gospel of Matthew offers a complementary message. Jesus speaks of ordinary life, eating, drinking, working, continuing even as God is quietly drawing near. “Keep awake,” he says. Not out of fear, but attentiveness. God’s coming often looks ordinary before it looks miraculous. We do not get to control when or how grace breaks in. Christ comes when God is ready.

Together, these readings teach us that hope is not wishful thinking. Hope is a way of living while we watch for God’s promise.

That is Advent: sitting in the not-yet, trusting that light is coming even before it appears. Hope often begins as the smallest shift, a breath, a moment, a spark.

We live in a world still learning to turn swords into plowshares. The night can feel long. But Advent does not ask us to pretend the darkness isn’t there. It asks us to stay awake to the possibility of God at work within it.

Hope is the caregiver at the bedside. The parent who keeps going without answers. The community that chooses compassion over cynicism. The person who prays even when belief feels fragile. The Church lighting one small candle and declaring, “The light is coming.”

Today, we light the first candle of Advent, a single flame against the dark. Sailors say the glow of one cigarette can be seen for miles across open water. May this flame, in our sanctuary and in our hearts, be seen for miles as a sign of hope.

“Come,” Isaiah urges, “let us walk in the light of the Lord.”

Even now. Especially now.

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Jesus Remember Me

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Luke 23:33-43

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

This is an interesting time of year. Thursday is Thanksgiving, the day we give thanks for all we have, and the next day, we go into debt to show those we love just how much we love them. But today is not only the last Sunday of the liturgical year, it is also “stir up Sunday.”

What, have you never heard of Stir-up Sunday? This feast goes way back to the times when folx made a special pudding for Christmas, and this Sunday, the Sunday before Advent, was the day you started stirring your Christmas pudding. So, there is that.

It is also the last Sunday we will hear from the Gospel of Luke in any meaningful way for the next two years. Sure, there will be some signs of Luke; we hear from Luke on Christmas, for example, because his is the only Gospel that mentions Jesus’ birth. But, for the next two years, we will hear from Luke’s other friends, Matthew, Mark, and my favorite, John.

Today is also Christ the King or the Reign of Christ Sunday. This feast or commemoration is, apart from Christmas and Easter, the only feast universally celebrated on this Sunday by the entirety of the Christian world. Think about that, for one Sunday, all of Christendom comes together to commemorate the Kingship of Jesus Christ.

But this is not an ancient feast, and it is one of the feast days on the liturgical calendar created in response to a secular event. In 1925, Pope Pius XI instituted the feast of Christ the King in response to growing secularism and secular ultra-nationalism. So important was this idea, so necessary was this idea that the Church stand up in the face of what was happening in the world that Protestant and Catholic came together. The Churches laid aside their differences in the face of the evil rising in the world and declared that Christ is King!

But we can find the origins of this idea of the Kingship of Christ in the writings of 5th-century bishop Cyril of Alexandria. Cyril said of Jesus that he “has dominion over all creatures, a dominion not seized by violence nor usurped, but by his essence and by nature.”

If you were to ask most people what a king looks like, they’d probably describe someone robbed in splendor, someone important, influential, surrounded by all the signs we associate with command and authority. Kings, after all, stand above the crowd. They decide, they decree, they rule. A king is supposed to project strength.

I am a big fan of monarchy. I love the majesty, splendor, and mystery of it all. I love rituals, and what is more splendid than the ritual of crowning a king? But what must also be remembered is that, although the King is sitting on an earthly throne, that throne is in a cathedral, not a palace or other government building. And when the crown is placed on the King’s head, it is an Archbishop and not a government functionary that does it. And we say, “God save the King,” and not “government save the King.”

And then we come to the Gospel passage from Luke we just heard.

Luke, in his telling of the story in all its contrary wisdom, gives us not Jesus enthroned in glory, not Jesus walking on water, not Jesus preaching with authority. Still, Jesus was nailed to a cross, between two criminals, mocked by soldiers, and abandoned by his friends. His “crown” is made of thorns. His “throne” is a rough piece of wood. His “royal proclamation” is a sign hammered above his head: “This is the King of the Jews.”

If this is what kingship looks like, it is no wonder the world often misses him.

Luke goes on to tell us that one of the criminals hanging beside him joins in the mocking. He wants a king who will fix everything with a snap of the fingers: Save yourself, and us! That’s the King he imagines, one who exercises power on command.

I use the word criminals because that is what they are. Many translations call the two men crucified with Jesus thieves, but that is not true. Crucifixion was not an easy sentence to carry out. Crucifixion required a lot of manpower. It required a cross, nails, a hammer, ropes, ladders, and soldiers to guard those being crucified, since a lot of the time, others would rescue them. This was an involved method of putting someone to death, and in 1st-century Palestine, it was reserved for the worst criminals.

Crucifixion was reserved for the crime of sedition, for those accused of trying to usurp and overthrow the power of the government. We do not know what the other two had done, but we know Jesus’ crime was love. Jesus’ radical, inclusive love so enraged the government of his day that they killed him for it.

But the other criminal sees something different. Maybe in that moment, stripped of everything else, he sees more clearly than any of the religious leaders or the soldiers. He doesn’t ask Jesus to prove anything. He doesn’t ask for escape. He simply says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

We do not even know the man’s name, but so much of our theology stems from this encounter at the moment of his death. It is the simplest and most honest prayer in all of scripture: Remember me.

Notice what he’s saying. He’s acknowledging that Jesus truly does have a kingdom, even if it doesn’t look like one. He’s admitting that Jesus is, in fact, a king, even if his crown is pressed into his skin. He’s acknowledging that salvation is not about spectacle but about a relationship with others and with God. Remember me. Know me. See me. Hold me in your heart.

Jesus answers him, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Not tomorrow. Not after conditions are met. Not when he gets his life in order. Today. Grace is immediate, unearned, freely given. This is the King we follow.

And this is the heart of today’s feast. Christ is not the King who lords power over others. Could this have gone another way? Sure. Jesus did not have to die this way; he could have summoned all the heavenly host and crushed and vanquished his foes. He could have brought fire down and destroyed those trying to destroy him. God could have let this cup pass from Jesus, but that was not the plan, because God’s strength does not come from violence, anger, or domination; no, God’s power comes from love.

Christ is the King who reigns from a cross, not because he is powerless, but because he is love. And love chooses solidarity. Love chooses presence. Love chooses forgiveness even when forgiveness is undeserved. Love remembers us.

In a world obsessed with strength, success, and winning, Christ shows us a different way: the way of self-emptying compassion. In a world quick to condemn, Christ leans toward mercy; in a world that celebrates kings who dominate, Christ rules by laying down his life.

This is the kind of King who understands the brokenhearted, who knows what it feels like to be misunderstood, rejected, or in pain. This is the King who stands with the grieving, the lonely, the fearful. This is the King whose throne is planted deep in the suffering of the world so that no one suffers alone.

And this is the King that is trying to show us how to live not with power but with love. We are to bring God’s kingdom here to earth with love and compassion, feeding, clothing, welcoming, housing, and caring for one another. We do not do this by force, we do not do this through legislation, we do not even do this through power.

Through this feast today, we are called to remember that it is not power, it is not strength, it is not nationalism that God wants but love, the self-emptying love that gave birth to Jesus in Bethlehem and brought Jesus to the Cross. Remember, God could have chosen a different path, the path of power, but God chose love.

So, on this Feast of Christ the King, we are invited to reconsider what true power looks like. It looks like forgiveness. It looks like compassion. It looks like remembering the forgotten. It seems like refusing to give up on anyone, even the one who reaches out with nothing but a desperate hope.

But this day also challenges us because if this is our King, then this is our way. Not glory without sacrifice, but love that persists even when it costs something. Faithfulness that doesn’t depend on the outcome. Hope that believes God is still at work even when all we can see is a cross standing against a darkening sky.

At the end of the day, the Feast of Christ the King is not about triumphalism. It is about truth, the truth that God’s power is revealed in vulnerability, God’s reign is established not in power and domination but in mercy, justice, and wherever love breaks through.

Today, may our prayer echo the thief’s:

Jesus, remember me. Remember us in our grief, our fears, our imperfections, our longing for belonging. Remember us when we forget who we are and whose we are.

And may we hear, whispered back from the One who reigns from the Cross: Today you will be with me. Today. Here. Now. In the kingdom that is already breaking into this world through love, mercy, and grace.

Amen.

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The Redemption of Marjorie Taylor Greene

Posted on by Fr. Peter

Edit: I wrote this before Ms. Greene announced that she was resigning from Congress however, it still holds true that the toxic political language needs to stop.

These days, there isn’t much hope to be found in politics. Not that I need politics to find hope, but it would be nice to find something to grab on to occasionally. It seems everyone is sniping at everyone else, and most politicians are just interested in holding on to their jobs, and the political rhetoric has become toxic. But when all hope seems lost, a bright light begins to emerge, and that light is the Representative from Georgia.

Truth be told, Congresswoman Greene and I probably do not agree on much. She sees the world very differently from how I do, and she wants to take America in a direction I don’t. By her own admission, her speech has been toxic in the past. She has called other people some nasty names, has stood on the floor of the House of Representatives and booed President Biden, and all the rest. But recently, she has had a change of heart.

On Sunday, November 16th, Greene appeared on CNN’s State of the Union with Dana Bash. Ms. Greene said she was worried that her opposition had now turned some people against her and that it could escalate into violence. She was asked why she had not spoken out before, and she said, “I would like to say, humbly, I’m sorry for taking part in the toxic politics; it’s very bad for our country. It’s been something I’ve thought about a lot, especially since Charlie Kirk was assassinated.”

I give her a lot of credit for saying what she said, knowing the backlash that was sure to follow. I am starting to change my mind about her, but I am approaching with cautious optimism and will continue to watch how this all plays out. Words are easy, even words of apology, but actions speak loudly.

As a member of the clergy, I am all about forgiveness and reconciliation. Jesus was all about forgiveness and often spoke about it. “Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” (Matthew 18:21-22 NIV) That’s a lot of forgiveness.

But any confession must be followed by a sincere desire to change one’s life and to start down a new road. These days, apologies seem to come easy; real change of heart and change of life come hard, but that is what counts. I am not referring to policy here but rather to how political rhetoric is used in talking about those policies.

As much as I am a sceptic, I also like to see the good in people. As a person of faith, I believe that everyone has good in them, and sometimes they need a little encouragement to bring that good forward. We all get caught up in drama, and at times we have all done things we wish we hadn’t. All that is needed for a person to move from bad to good is a little encouragement and a show of support.

Earlier this month, Ms. Greene stunned many when she appeared on The View. After watching the segment, I believe the show’s hosts were as stunned as the rest of the world. She came across as a person of contrition, seeking a way out of the abyss and looking for redemption.

We can all be skeptical of politicians and why they do what they do, but I hope that what Ms. Greene wants is a valid path of redemption and reconciliation. She has taken the first step; she has admitted there is a problem. I do not want to second-guess what brought her here; I want to celebrate that she is here.

The words of the hymn Amazing Grace fit best: “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind, but now I see.”

I desperately want to believe that her confession is true, that she is now on the road to redemption. I am sure she has calculated the fallout; she is a politician after all and has decided that she would rather be on the right side of this. I give her a lot of credit for taking this step and vow to help her any way I can to stay on this path.

We are quick to cast off those with whom we disagree, and I did that with Ms. Greene. We may never agree on policy, but I will agree with her that the toxic rhetoric must end.

Bravo, Marjorie, for taking the first step. I will be watching and cheering you on from the sidelines as you continue.

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