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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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Tips for Navigating the Holidays While Grieving

Posted on by Fr. Peter

The holiday season can be a time of joyous memories, but for many of us, it can also be a time of immense grief and sadness. Here are a few tips to help you navigate the holidays ahead and find joy even in your sad moments.

1. Permit Yourself to Feel What You Feel

You don’t have to be “festive.” It is okay to be sad after all, you have had a loss. Let go of the expectations you have about yourself and, more importantly, the expectations others have of you. Grief comes in waves, and you need to allow yourself the space for it to happen rather than resisting it.

2. Adjust Traditions Instead of Erasing Them

We all have holiday traditions, and traditions can be wonderful. Just because the person is no longer with us does not mean we have to throw out those traditions. If you find comfort in a particular tradition, keep it. If it makes you sad, pause it for a year or tweak it a little. You can always start a new tradition that honors the ones you have lost. Remember, if you do something twice, it is a tradition.

3. Set Boundaries with People and Events

Boundaries are essential in all aspects of life, but they are vital when we are grieving. You do not have to attend every gathering you have been invited to. Give yourself permission to say no and skip that party this year. If you do go, you can leave early if needed.

4. Plan for the Hard Moments

One thing is sure: there will be challenging moments, so plan for them. Identify the days or the gatherings that may be difficult. Have a backup plan, take a quiet walk, and find a supportive friend who can be with you. If prayer and meditation are your thing, find some quiet time and just be. Most of the time, the anticipation of the day is worse than the day itself, so prepare, but do not overprepare.

5. Accept Help — Practical and Emotional

Asking for and accepting help can be very difficult for people, especially if you are the one who is always helping. You do not have to do it all. If you hosted the family gathering in the past, ask someone else to do it this year. Allow others to do some of the heavy lifting for you. You do not have to be strong for everyone! Resist the desire to be alone; isolation is not a good idea, as we tend to get lost in our own thoughts. Staying connected eases the heaviness of grief.

6. Create Space to Remember

Remembering is a good thing. Keeping the memories alive helps to keep our loved ones alive in our thoughts. Share stories, look through old photos, and reminisce. But, if it is too painful, skip it. If it feels right, set a place at the table or place your loved one’s photo on it. Acknowledge the loss, acknowledge the person; they are still with us, just not in physical form.

7. Care for Your Body and Nervous System

Holidays can be difficult under the best of circumstances, and when we add the fact that we are grieving, it can be a recipe for disaster. Take care of your physical needs, stay hydrated, eat right, and get some sleep. Grief is physically exhausting. Stretch, do some yoga, take a short walk, do things that bring you peace, and listen to what your body is telling you.

8. Seek Moments of Comfort, Not Joy

Although we call this the season of joy, that might be too much to ask for, especially if the loss is recent. Rather than looking for joy, find what brings you comfort. Look for those comforting moments, a nice cup of tea, soft music, and time with a pet. Joy does not need to be forced. Finding those moments of peace is enough.

9. Name Your Needs to Someone You Trust

Let people know what you need. Ask for help when you need it. Find a trusted friend or family member and let them know if you need them to check in on you. Be honest and let people know if you are struggling. People often want to help, but they don’t know what you need. If we are sincere and share our needs, people will help.

10. Consider Ritual or Spiritual Practices

We are people of ritual, prayer, lighting candles, journaling, reading Scripture, or attending a simple service can provide grounding. It does not have to be formal or involve many people. Take some time and find a ritual that works for you. Spiritual connection can offer a sense of companionship in grief.

11. Seek Support if You Feel Overwhelmed

The critical thing to remember in all of this is you don’t have to carry this alone. Find a counselor, chaplain, or grief group that can offer tools and presence. Don’t wait until it is too much; start now, find a group, or start a group. Sharing with others going through loss can be very therapeutic.

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By your endurance you will save your souls

Posted on by Fr. Peter

“Beware that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them.”

An emergency-room nurse was working in the hospital during the worst months of the pandemic. Every day she walked into a place filled with uncertainty, short-staffed shifts, overwhelmed patients, grieving families, and a constant sense that the normal world had fallen apart.

One night, after a grueling 14-hour shift, she stood in the parking lot with a coworker who said, “I don’t know how you keep doing this. Aren’t you terrified?”

The other nurse paused for a long moment before answering:

“I am scared. Every shift. But fear isn’t the only voice. There’s another voice that says: You’re here for a reason. Someone needs you today. Show up one more time.”

This nurse wasn’t heroic in a Hollywood sense. She didn’t feel brave. But she showed up, one day at a time, one patient at a time, steady, faithful, enduring.

Later, she said something deeply spiritual without ever intending to preach:

“Not every day was a miracle. Most days were just… endurance. But I learned that if you keep showing up, grace keeps showing up too.”

Today’s gospel passage from Luke is about endurance. This story is about the long haul and that our spiritual journey is not a sprint but rather a marathon. Each day, we must pick up our cross, whatever that may be, and keep moving forward.

As the disciples walk with Jesus near the Temple, they cannot help but be impressed. The building glowed with white marble, gilded with gold, surrounded by enormous stones, some weighing more than 100 tons. It was the center of religious life, national identity, and spiritual pride. It was, in the eyes of the people, one thing that could not fall. It defined their stability.

A modern equivalent would be the Washington National Cathedral in Washington, DC. DC is filled with significant, large buildings made of marble and stone, but towering above them is the Washington National Cathedral. It is the second-largest church building in the United States; the largest is St. John the Divine in New York City, and it is the third-tallest building in DC. The sanctuary of the Church is so large that you could lay the Washington Monument on its side in the center aisle and still not touch the ends.

A few years ago, I had the privilege of participating in a service at the cathedral. I was awestruck by the size of the place. President Theodore Roosevelt was present at the laying of the cornerstone in 1907, and George H.W. Bush was present, 83 years later, when the final stone was laid in 1990. And I thought our 10-month home renovation took forever!

When I hear descriptions of the Temple in Jerusalem, this is the Church I think about.

Standing there with his disciples, looking at the Temple, the place they believe God lives, Jesus says, “Not one stone will be left upon another,” He is not just talking about architecture. He is talking about everything we assume will last forever. Everything that seems immovable. Everything we use to keep fear at bay.

The disciples ask, “When will this be?” They want certainty. A timeline. A sense of control. And Jesus does not give it; instead, Jesus teaches them how to live when the world feels like it is coming apart.

His words are sobering wars and insurrections. Nation rising against nation. Earthquakes, famines, plagues. Even betrayal and persecution. Fear, uncertainty, chaos

Jesus names the truth: this world is not as stable as we imagine. The stones fall. The institutions collapse. The norm we cling to does not stay normal forever.

But Jesus does not leave His disciples, nor us, in fear. In fact, He does something remarkable. He reframes these crises not as signs of God’s absence, but as opportunities for God’s faithful witness.

Jesus is not telling His people to deny reality. He is not saying “don’t worry, nothing bad will happen.” In fact, He promises that hard things will come. But He also promises this: God’s presence is not dependent on worldly stability.

When the disciples feel fear rising, Jesus says, “Do not be terrified.” Not because we are strong, but because God is.

Fear shrinks our vision. Fear makes us cling to old stones. Fear turns us against one another. Fear causes us to act irrationally. Fear causes retreat into our own little world. Fear tries to convince us that the world’s chaos is more potent than God’s promise. But Jesus says, ‘Lift your eyes.’ The world may tremble, but God does not.

Then Jesus says, “This will give you an opportunity to testify.”

What an extraordinary thing for Jesus to say. When the world falters, the Church is not called to panic. The Church is not called to retreat into our sanctuaries. The Church is not called to hate others. When chaos surrounds us, the Church is called to bear a bold witness.

And not witness through strength, through legislation and nationalism, but through hope. Not through certainty, but through trust. Not through easy answers, but through steadfast love.

Christians across history have found that moments of instability often reveal the most profound truths: When everything else is stripped away, what remains? When the familiar foundations crack, what truly holds us up? When fear rises, what voice do we follow?

Jesus promises His disciples that when they face trials, He Himself will give them “words and wisdom.” The presence of Christ is not a doctrine; it is a lived reality. At the moment they feel most alone, Christ will speak through them.

A few years ago, I fell and broke my ankle and needed surgery. I had never had surgery, and I had only broken one bone before this. In fact, up to that time, I had only had stitches once in my life. Needless to say, I was a bit nervous about what was going to happen.

I trusted the surgical team that they knew what they were doing, but when the nurse came and wheeled me in, I panicked. I was short of breath and could not control myself. I was in unfamiliar territory and was no longer in control.

As I lay there in the bed, I was trying to calm myself when one of the nurses noticed I was a bit agitated. He came over and asked if I was okay, then he put his hand on my foot, looked me in the eye, and told me to close my eyes and take some deep breaths.

Before I knew it, I was calm. When I opened my eyes, he was gone, and I never saw him again. I was able to pray, not that God would heal my ankle so I could avoid surgery, although that would have been nice, I prayed for the surgical team and for me.

That nurse, that prayer, and the wonderful dose of Haldol I received helped me get through my ordeal. But I felt God’s presence with me at that moment, when I was most fearful; God was there.

Then Jesus says, “By your endurance you will gain your souls.”

Endurance, in Scripture, is not passive. It is not gritting our teeth or waiting for the storm to pass. Faith is not passive. Faith requires us to do something.

Endurance means faithfulness over time. It means holding onto Christ, even when the world around us is shifting. It means refusing to let fear rewrite the story of our lives.

The endurance Jesus speaks of is the slow, steady trust that God is still God, even now. That love is still stronger than hate. That mercy still has power. That hope still matters.

This is not the endurance of heroes; it is the endurance of people who know they are held and loved by God.

Like the disciples, the ER nurse I spoke about lived in a time when the “stones” of normal life had fallen. She didn’t get certainty, control, or a clear timeline.

But she discovered the very thing Jesus promises: Fear is real, but we don’t have to be ruled by it. Difficult times are opportunities to bear witness through compassion. Endurance, faithful showing up, often reveals God’s presence most clearly.

Her story reminds us that endurance isn’t glamorous; it’s faithful presence. And as Jesus says, “By your endurance you will gain your souls.”

I know I don’t have to tell you this, but we live in a world that feels unstable. I cannot remember a time when I daily felt the sands under my feet shifting.

The news can feel like an echo of Luke 21. Conflict. Division. Uncertainty. Anxiety. Cultural shifts that shake our assumptions. Personal losses that feel like the falling of stones we thought would always stand.

Jesus’ message is not, “These things will never happen,” but rather: “You are not alone when they do.”

When our world shakes, Christ remains the solid ground. When fear rises, Christ speaks peace. When persecution, betrayal, or hardship come, Christ gives us wisdom. When the future is uncertain, Christ anchors our souls.

The Gospel is not that God prevents all trials. The Gospel is that God transforms them. The Gospel is not that the stones will always stand. The Gospel is that even when they fall, Christ remains. The Gospel is not that our lives will be free from struggle. The Gospel is that nothing, not even struggle, can separate us from the love of God.

Paul, writing to the Church in Rome, says, “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Can separate us from God’s love!

Jesus does not promise an easy path. But He promises a faithful one. He does not promise the world will stand firm. He promises He will. He does not promise we will avoid difficulty. He promises we will not face it alone.

One of my favorite church songs is “Be not afraid.”

If you pass through raging waters in the sea, you shall not drown.

If you walk amid the burning flames, you shall not be harmed.

If you stand before the pow’r of hell and death is at your side, know that I am with you through it all.

Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest. Amen.

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The Blessing of Being God’s People

Posted on by Fr. Peter

“But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry. Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep. Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.”

Today, we gather to remember the saints, not only the great and shining examples whose names like Peter and Paul, but also those whose names are carved into our hearts. We remember parents and grandparents, teachers and mentors, friends and fellow church members, ordinary people through whom we caught a glimpse of God’s love.

All Saints’ Day is not just a day for remembering those who have gone before us; it’s a day to remember who we are, the saints of God, here and now.

When Jesus speaks in Luke 6, he’s not describing some far-off heavenly ideal. He’s describing the life of the kingdom, the life of the saints, living right here on earth. This passage also appears in Matthew’s Gospel and is called the Sermon on the Mount or the Beatitudes.

Jesus begins, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”

That’s not how most of us would define “blessed.” We usually associate blessings with comfort, security, and success. But Jesus turns the world upside down, or maybe right side up. He blesses those the world overlooks: the poor, the hungry, the weeping, the hated.

Why? Because these are the people who are open to God’s grace. They have learned to depend on something beyond themselves. They know that true blessing isn’t about wealth or power, but about being known and loved by God.

The saints we remember today lived in that kind of trust. Some faced suffering, poverty, or loss. Some gave themselves away in service. Some simply lived quiet, faithful lives of love and compassion. In their weakness, God’s strength was made visible.

To be a saint is not to be perfect; it is to be blessed in dependence on God and to be of service to others.

Then Jesus gives a warning: “Woe to you who are rich… full… laughing… when all speak well of you.”

Jesus isn’t condemning joy or prosperity; he’s warning us against the illusion that those things can satisfy the deepest hunger of the soul.

The saints teach us that the values of God’s kingdom often stand in sharp contrast to the values of the world. While the world says, “Look out for yourself,” Jesus says, “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you.” While the world says, “Get even,” Jesus says, “Turn the other cheek.”

In the kingdom of God, greatness is found in service, wealth is measured in generosity, and joy comes through compassion.

As you may be aware, SNAP benefits ended yesterday. Unless something changes, 41 million Americans will be left without food assistance. Forty-one million of our neighbors will go hungry. I am not pointing a finger of blame, but rather, I am asking: how did we let this happen?

Before we rise to judgment about one side or the other, those 41 million are the least of these: elderly, veterans, active-duty military, single parents, and children. Most of the 41 million work or receive other income, but not enough to make ends meet.

Wal-Mart is the largest employer of people who receive SNAP benefits. It has been estimated that 25% of Walmart’s workforce receives SNAP benefits. By the way, Wal-Mart is also the top retailer that benefits from those very same SNAP benefits.

Let’s take a quick look at some numbers. The average Walmart employee in Massachusetts makes between $15 and $17 an hour, which works out to $31,200 on the low end and $ 35,360 on the high end, before taxes and any other deductions. According to Data from the MIT Living Wage Calculator, a household in Massachusetts with one working adult and two children needs an hourly rate of $51.04 just to cover basic needs, food, clothing, housing, and medical expenses.

There is a lot wrong with the system, but the 41 million Americans worrying about how they will feed their families is not one of them.

For more perspective, the Walton family, which owns Walmart, is the wealthiest family in the world. Combined, their wealth equals $432.4 billion, that’s billion with a “B,” and they amassed that fortune in part because they pay their workers below the poverty level, while at the same time reaping benefits from tax breaks and 25% of SNAP shoppers.

This is precisely what Jesus was talking about! The problem is not the single mother or the elderly lady down the street who receives SNAP; the problem is the inequity of the system that created the gulf that now requires 41 million of its citizens to rely on benefits just to buy food. Why is there not more outrage about that?

Someone recently asked me why I take all this so personally. I take it personally because it is a personal matter. I know many, many hard-working people who are just trying to survive, and they are vilified by some politicians and used as props by others. I take it personally because my Lord and Savior fed people; he did not vilify them and use them as props. He did not check their papers to see if they were worthy; he just rolled up his sleeves and fed people because they were hungry.

A few weeks ago, I used the illustration of pulling people out of the water. We pull people out of the water because that is the easy part. Asking why they are falling in the first place is hard.

Archbishop Hélder Câmara served as an Archbishop in Brazil during the brutal Military Dictatorship from 1964 to 1985. He was called the Archbishop of the Slums. One of his most famous quotes is, “When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist.” Archbishop Câmara has been declared a “Servant of God” by the Roman Catholic Church, a significant step in the formal process of his canonization as a saint.

That’s what holiness looks like, not otherworldly perfection, but everyday acts of mercy and love that reveal God’s presence in the world.

The problem is we are so divided that we cannot even agree that feeding hungry people is the right thing to do.

A pastor shared an experience that occurred in her congregation shortly after a particularly tense election season.

Like many churches, some members had voted very differently, and people weren’t just disagreeing; they were avoiding one another. Families who used to sit side by side in the pews were seated on opposite sides of the sanctuary.

So, one Sunday, during the passing of the peace, the pastor paused and said:

“Today, I invite you to do something brave. When you share the peace of Christ, cross the aisle. Go to someone you know you disagree with, politically, socially, whatever it may be, and remind them that Christ’s peace is bigger than your differences.”

At first, there was silence. Then, slowly, people began to move. One man, wearing a veteran’s hat, walked toward a young activist who had marched in protests he didn’t support. They hesitated, then hugged. Across the sanctuary, two women who hadn’t spoken in months smiled through tears.

That day, something holy happened, not because anyone changed their opinion, but because they remembered who they were.

They remembered that before they were Republican or Democrat, conservative or progressive, they were children of God.

That’s what Jesus is talking about in Luke 6. “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you.” He’s not telling us to agree on everything; he’s calling us to a higher loyalty, the loyalty of love.

The saints we remember today weren’t people who escaped the divisions of their time; they were people who lived differently within them. They loved across boundaries. They built peace amidst conflict. They refused to let fear or anger define their faith.

In a world that rewards outrage, the saints practice compassion.

In a culture of revenge, the saints practice mercy.

In a political climate where winning seems more important than loving, the saints remember that Christ’s kingdom doesn’t fly any flag but the cross.

So maybe being a saint today means crossing the aisle of the heart, to see the image of God in someone we’ve been told to despise. And maybe, just maybe, it means giving a sandwich to someone who is hungry.

That’s the kind of holiness that changes the world.

In a few moments, we will read the names of those who have died. As we do, remember that the line between the living and the dead is thinner than we think. The ancients believed that the veil separating our world from theirs was very thin this time of year.

We are surrounded by “a great cloud of witnesses.” Their faith strengthens ours. Their prayers mingle with ours. And together, they and we, form one communion of saints, one body in Christ.

When we live as Jesus calls us to live in Luke 6, we join that communion not only in memory, but in mission. We become part of God’s living blessing in the world.

All Saints’ Day is not a museum of spiritual heroes. It’s a roll call; it is a reminder that our names belong on that list, too.

You may never have a feast day or a statue dedicated to you. But when you forgive someone who’s wronged you, when you feed someone who’s hungry, when you speak kindness into a cruel world, you are living as a saint.

The saints of old changed the world not by wielding power, but by embodying love.

The saints of today, maybe the ones sitting right here, will do the same when we take Jesus’ words seriously: “Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

That’s the true power of the saints: turning blessings into justice and faith into love.

So, as we remember those who have gone before, may we also hear Jesus’ words to us:

“Blessed are you…”
“Love your enemies…”
“Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

These are not commands for the few; they are the path for us all.

May we walk it together, surrounded by the saints who cheer us on, until we join them in that great company of love that never ends.

Amen.

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Becoming a Holy Disruption

Posted on by Fr. Peter

“And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

Let us pray:
May the words of my mouth, and the meditations and thoughts in all our hearts be acceptable to you O Lord our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Jesus tells this parable “to show them that they should always pray and not give up.” That’s how Luke introduces the story, right up front, we’re told the purpose. Persistence in prayer. Faith that endures. A heart that refuses to let go of hope.

It’s a simple story: a widow, powerless and overlooked, keeps coming to a judge who “neither feared God nor respected people.” Day after day, she shows up. She doesn’t have wealth, connections, or status, only determination. And finally, the judge gives in: “Because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice so that she won’t wear me out by her continual coming.”

Then Jesus turns the story back to us:

If even an unjust judge can be moved by persistence, how much more will our loving God respond to the cries of His people?

In the first century, widows were among the most vulnerable people in society. Without a husband or adult sons advocating for them, they had few legal rights and little protection. So, when Jesus tells this story, His listeners immediately understand that this woman has no one on her side.

But she refuses to be silent. She demands to be heard. Her persistence isn’t just stubbornness; it’s faith in action. She believes that justice is possible, even in an unjust world. She believes that her voice matters, even when society tells her it doesn’t.

That’s where faith begins, not in having all the answers, but in trusting that God still hears, still sees, still acts.

Paul writes to Timothy at the end of his life. He is in prison, isolated, and facing execution. The energy of his missionary journeys was behind him, but his faith burned as fiercely as ever.

And so, he writes to his young friend and co-worker in the faith, Timothy, a kind of last letter. A mentor passing the torch to a student. A pastor giving his final charge to the next generation of leaders.

And what does he say?

“Continue in what you have learned and firmly believed.”
“Proclaim the message.”
“Be persistent.”
“Keep your head.”
“Endure hardship.”
“Do the work.”
“Carry out your ministry fully.”

Paul reminds Timothy that his faith didn’t appear out of nowhere. It was passed down from his grandmother Lois, his mother Eunice, and the Scriptures he had known since childhood.

Faith doesn’t begin in isolation; it’s nurtured in community. Someone taught us to pray. Someone opened a Bible and read us stories of hope. Someone showed us by example what love looks like in practice.

Paul is saying: Don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget who shaped your faith.

In a world that constantly changes, faithfulness often means staying grounded, remembering the roots that keep us anchored when everything else feels uncertain.

One of the most complicated decisions of my life was to leave the Church that had ordained me. I had served for 12 years in one place, and it felt like home. I loved the people and the work we did.

We had started a meal program where we offered a meal three times a month in our parish hall for free. We fed an average of 80 people three times a month. We were meeting a need not only to feed people but to give people a sense of community. A place where they felt welcomed and loved. A simple meal around a table where people could come and find rest.

But there was something more, something pulling me away, a restlessness in my soul.

The Orthodox Christian Church is not very progressive in its theology or practice. I guess you don’t get to call yourself Orthodox if you change, but a little movement would have been nice.

I struggled with my sense of mission. I struggled with the exclusiveness of Orthodoxy with this idea that you had to belong to the club. Sure, you could watch, but you could not fully participate unless you joined up. The more Scripture I read, and the more I prayed, the more I was led away from the comfort that had become my life.

When I joined the United Church of Christ, I promised myself that I would never compromise my beliefs again, I would preach what God placed on my heart, and it was not always easy. I know I have lost out on several positions because of my positions, but something else, something better has always come along. The UCC helped me to find my voice, and I cannot let that go.

There are going to be times when what I say shakes your beliefs to the very core, and there will be times when you find comfort. I think what is lacking in the Church today is the courage to say what needs to be said, regardless of the consequences. Jesus preached a consistent message of love, and that message cost him his life.

There are way too many of my colleagues who play it safe. Stay away from the difficult conversations. Sure, they might be loved by their congregations, but are they preaching God’s Word, or are they watering it down so it is palatable? I am not called to be Chaplain to the empire; I am called to be a holy disruption. God’s Word is meant to soothe, but it is also meant to flip over tables of injustice.

The Church of the 21st century does not need warriors armed for battle. The Church of the 21st century needs Prophets, Mystics, and people who will speak the truth regardless of the consequences. Church history is lined with people who were martyred by empire because they preached the love of Jesus and would not be silenced.

Backing down when opposition comes is cowardly and not Christian.

And where does this strength come from? From Paul writing to Timothy with one of his most powerful charges:

“Proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable.”

In other words: Don’t wait for the perfect moment. Don’t wait until people are ready to listen. Preach the truth, with grace, with humility, but with courage.

Because there will be seasons when the message is welcomed, and seasons when it’s not.

There will be times when people crave the gospel, and times when they turn to “itching ears,” preferring comfort over conviction.

But the call doesn’t change. We are to proclaim the Word in hospitals, classrooms, barracks, pulpits, nursing homes, living rooms, and anywhere hope needs to be spoken.

Faithfulness means speaking truth in love, even when it’s hard, even when it’s inconvenient, even when no one applauds, even when it costs you a position.

Paul goes on to say, “All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness.”

For Paul, Scripture isn’t a relic; it’s living, breathing, active. It shapes character, forms conscience, and guides decisions. Scripture needs to be looked at, re-examined, and used in our modern context; these are ancient stories with a contemporary, practical application, but we must look for it.

Paul does not see Scripture as a weapon or a rulebook. Paul sees Scripture as a source of transformation. The purpose isn’t to win arguments, it’s to become “equipped for every good work.”

It’s not about mastering the Bible; it’s about letting the Bible master us.

In a noisy world filled with slogans, soundbites, and endless opinions, the Word of God gives us something more profound, a steady truth that shapes how we live, how we love, and how we lead.

We do not bring about the Kingdom of God by force; we bring about the Kingdom of God by love. Jesus came into the world not to create an empire. If God wanted a Christian Nation, God would simply have created one.

When Jesus sent the disciples out to preach and teach, he was clear in his message. If they do not accept you or the Word, walk away. When the disciples asked if they should rain down fire on that town, Jesus was, once again, evident. He told them no. Just walk away.

We preach and teach and let the Word fall where it may. We do not force conversions; our ancestors in faith, the early missionaries, tried that, and they destroyed cultures. The desire to have a society rooted in God’s love where we care for each other and treat each other equally, regardless of belief, is fine. But, when our desire turns to a Christian Nation where we use the force of legislation and goons wearing masks, that is when the love of Jesus disappears and is replaced by something altogether different.

One of the lessons I learned, and one of the reasons I walked away from my first Church, was the discovery that one does not have to be a Christian, or even a believer, to be a good person. It is not the man Jesus that saves us or makes us good people; it is the Word, following the teachings, loving our neighbor, and wanting our neighbor to flourish as much as we do.

Empire tried to nail that truth to the cross, but the message of love transcends empire, and love won the day and continues to win the day.

At the end of the parable, Jesus asks a haunting question:

“When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?” Notice he said faith and not practice.

Not faith as belief in an idea, but faith as persistence, a lived, practiced, enduring trust.

Will he find people still praying for peace, even when war rages on?
Will he find people still working for justice, even when systems resist change?
Will he find people still believing in goodness, mercy, and love, even when the world grows cynical?

That’s the kind of faith Jesus is talking about, not flashy faith, not instant faith, but long faith. The faith that keeps coming back, day after day, to say, “God, I’m still here. I still believe.”

Paul’s words to Timothy are God’s words to us today:

Continue in what you’ve learned.
Stay rooted in Scripture.
Proclaim the message.
Be persistent.
Endure.
Finish the race.

The world needs people who won’t give up on truth, hope, and love, who will keep the faith, even when it’s hard.

So, brothers and sisters, whatever your calling, whether you preach, teach, serve, visit, or simply live as a witness, keep the faith.

And when your race is done, may you be able to say with Paul:

“I have fought the good fight,
I have finished the race,
I have kept the faith.”

Amen.

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