It was my privilege and pleasure last week to lead Chapel Time for our church’s preschoolers. Our daughter is a graduate of the preschool, and the program is near and dear to my heart. I can’t forget the date of her first day: September 10, 2001. Three years later, she was among the seven children who comprised the first Pre-K class. It was the preschool, in fact, that led us to our church.
During Chapel Time, teachers bring the children into the sanctuary to hear a Bible story, followed by a brief discussion. The text for the day was from Genesis 18, which recounts a visit by three strangers to Abraham and his wife Sarah. They bring the message that God will keep the promise he made to them years earlier: the couple will have a child, despite their advanced age, and one day, their descendants will be more numerous than the stars in the sky.
I doubted that the kids would find the story of much interest. How could they relate to an elderly couple longing for a baby?
Our daughter and some of her preschool buddies, March 19, 2003.
But the Spark Story Bible that we use begins by noting that Abraham was ninety-nine when the three visitors arrived. This got the children’s attention. Before I began reading, to assess my audience, I had asked the kids how old they were. They were eager to respond.
“I’m four!”
“I’m five!” “
I’m about to turn five.”
“I’ll be four tomorrow.”
“I’m three and three quarters!”
A few quiet ones held up the appropriate number of fingers. I also learned random bits of information: “When we move to our new house, we’re getting a trampoline!” “I have a loose tooth!”
A hot day on the preschool playground, June 5, 2002.
The children were amazed at someone being as old as ninety-nine. They remained attentive as I continued with the narrative.
I read that Abraham greets the three men and invites them to stay for a meal. While they eat, they tell him that Sarah will give birth within a year. The strangers are clearly intended to be messengers from God, or God himself. Various Biblical versions state that “The Lord” or “God” appeared to Abraham, before referring to three unknown men. The children’s Bible refers to God’s promise, but doesn’t identify the three strangers. The title of the story, though, was “Abraham and Sarah’s Visitors.”
When I looked for images of this subject, I found the famous early fifteenth century icon by the Russian artist Andrei Rublev. I like to show the kids a picture relating to the story, so I printed out a copy.
Icon of the Trinity, Andrei Rublev, c. 1410.
The painting shows three figures, winged and haloed, seated at a table, in the center of which is a gold cup. Neither Abraham nor Sarah are depicted, but a small structure at the top left represents their home, and a stylized tree toward the center indicates the oak grove in the shade of which Abraham was sitting when he first spotted the three unknown men approaching. The angels’ identical, mournful faces incline toward one another. Together, the outline of their bodies forms a circle. The two figures at left and right enclose a central space in the shape of a chalice, which echoes that of the gilded cup.
The icon is most often interpreted as the three persons of the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The placement of the figures around the table calls to mind Christ’s Last Supper. The graceful interaction among the three suggests spiritual communion.
October 30, 2002 at the preschool.
I didn’t discuss these fine points with the children. The essential lesson, appropriate for all ages, and always timely, is twofold. First, God calls us to welcome the stranger. Abraham met the three unknown men with hospitality. And in so doing, he unknowingly met God Himself with honor and grace. As God’s children, we’re expected to treat our brothers and sisters as we ourselves would like to be treated. When we mistreat others, we mistreat God Himself. And second, God invites each and every one of us to His table. There a space for the viewer to join in the holy communion that is generated whenever and wherever we gather in loving kindness with our neighbors near and far. It materializes, and transforms, when we reach out with thoughtful consideration, even to those with whom we disagree, rather than push away with bitterness, disdain and violence.
I know there are those who are coming to believe, with much regret, that teaching compassion and humility has become a lost cause, a quaint relic of a naive and distant era. If we want our children to be successful in this cruel world, why bother encouraging them to act with goodness? Why not teach instead the tools of the bully: arrogance, intimidation, brutality, callousness, and the reverence for self alone?
Why not?
My own answer is simple: it goes against everything I learned as a child at home and at church. It goes against everything I’ve been taught from those who love me.
As I sat in the midst of those smiling, happy preschoolers, a diverse group, representative of our community’s many ethnicities, I couldn’t imagine trying to foster meanness in them. They were curious, eager to learn, and open-hearted. They showed a genuine interest in me. They were clearly inclined toward goodness.
It gives me hope and buoys my faith to know that our preschool is only one among many in houses of worship all across our country that continue to do as they’ve always done: emphasize the blessings that come when we walk the path of mercy and kindness. They assure our little ones that God accompanies them, even when the way is uphill, rocky, and perilous. Schools that affirm the importance of good citizenship are doing their part, as well.
As the day on which we honor the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. rolls around again, I pray that we don’t give up on teaching our children that through their good works and acts of kindness, however small, they help bend the arc of the moral universe towards justice.
Our daughter on September 10, 2001, her first day of preschool.
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it! (Hebrews 13: 2)
I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me! (Matthew 25: 40)
The post that follows is based on an art talk I gave in our church in December. My theme was Advent-inspired: welcoming the light of Christ into the world, and into our hearts. I chose to focus on three paintings from the Italian Renaissance. While the subjects depicted were particularly appropriate for the Christmas season, the message they convey is relevant all year long. The loving God they evoke is drawn directly from the first four books of the Christian New Testament. As I wrote about these paintings, I found them speaking to me in a way I hadn’t expected. I saw in them a timely challenge to Christians today, a warning that when we allow ourselves to become the voice of empire rather than defenders of the marginalized, we stray from our course. History has shown the very real dangers of this all too clearly. If we pause to shut out the world’s loud cacophany and listen for God’s guidance, much as we turn to a GPS device when lost on an unfamiliar road, might we not hear a quiet urging to “recalculate”?
When Pastor Chan asked me to speak about images of Advent and Christmas, he provided a great starting point. On the first Sunday of Advent, he spoke about the meaning of that word. He noted that it’s derived from the Latin word adventus, which means an arrival or a coming. Before the Christian era, the word applied specifically to the Roman emperor. An adventus was the formal ceremony to glorify the emperor, often after a military victory. Preceding him was a massive entourage that included mounted soldiers, chariots, and the Praetorian guard. The ruler’s approach was heralded with great fanfare.
The emperor was considered an iron-willed god who inspired awe and fear. Great triumphal arches to commemorate such rulers are still found throughout the former Roman empire.
The God whom we Christians worship, though, chose to come to earth not as a fierce conquering hero, but as a vulnerable infant. As a child born not to royalty, but to a humble young woman living in a backwater village.
Thus, the images that pertain to the advent of Christ couldn’t be more different from those showing the adventus of the Emperor. There are no war horses. No chariots and soldiers. No earthly ruler boasting of his power.
Fra Angelico, Annunciation, Convent of San Marco, Florence, 1440-45
We’ll start with an annunciation by the painter known as Fra Angelico, which means “Angelic Friar. ” Born Guido di Pietro, he was known for his kindness and humility. We see the angel Gabriel bringing to the Virgin Mary the news that she will bear a child conceived by the Holy Spirit.
This is a large fresco, over ten feet wide, in a series of frescoes the artist painted around 1440 for his own friary, San Marco, which had been newly built in the city of Florence.
It’s set atop a flight of stairs to the corridor that leads to the monks’ cells. Each small cell has its own fresco, as well. The artist created a more or less believable sense of space. The perspective is slightly off when we look at the painting straight on. But for monks walking up the stairs, the effect is striking: it gives the illusion that they’re moving into the space of Mary and the angel.
Fra Angelico made no attempt to mimic the early first-century home of Mary. Instead, the architecture in the painting, classical and austere, is a continuation of that of the actual monastery, where we see the same round arches, columns with Corinthian capitals, and even the iron tie rods.
The bareness of the open loggia is notable. It’s spartan and basic, just like the cells for the individual monks. The scene is remarkable in its stillness, its sense of silent reverence.
The angel, adorned with glowing, multi-colored wings that sparkle in the light (through the incorporation of a mica-like substance into the paint), bows before the young Mary, acknowledging her role as the Holy Mother of God. Mary sits on a plain wooden bench. Her simple robe is nearly the same shade as the plastered walls around her. She’s not adorned with rich fabrics or jewels. Her response is muted, her expression serious, suggesting quiet awe. She understands the gravity of her situation. Gabriel, as well, seems to realize that the news he brings is hard to receive.
On the left side of the painting is an enclosed garden and lush trees behind, reminding us not only of Mary’s virginity, but also of the Garden of Eden. Christ comes as the new Adam to bring us salvation.
There’s a notable absence of extraneous objects. No prayer book for Mary, no lily, which has become her symbol. Perhaps the artist didn’t include these, because the monks knew the story so well.
And, perhaps, Fra Angelico wanted to pare the scene down to its essentials. All that is needed is that still, charged, sacred interchange between Gabriel and Mary, the ordinary young woman chosen by God to bear his son, our savior.
Absent here, also, are any overt rays of golden light, as we see in some annunciations. Fra Angelico knew that wasn’t necessary. God’s light, rendered naturally, is alive in this space. His light, and his presence suffuse the bareness of this colonnaded terrace, just as God was present in every monk’s cell. Just as he is present today in our surrounding spaces, if we declutter our lives enough to let him in.
Domenico Ghirlandaio, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1485, Uffizi Gallery, Florence
Now we turn to a painting of the Adoration of the Shepherds, by Domenico Ghirlandaio, the most popular painter in Florence at the time. It dates from 1485 and was commissioned by a wealthy Florentine banker, Francesco Sassetti, for a chapel in the Church of Santa Trinita.
The holy family, an ox, donkey, and three shepherds are in the foreground. The heart of the composition is a pyramid of the kneeling Mary, Joseph, and infant Jesus. The young Mary looks down tenderly on her new baby. Joseph turns back to look up in sky to see an angel proclaiming the news to the shepherds on a darkened hillside, on which the first rays of dawn, and of Christ’s new light, are breaking.
In the left background, we also see a large procession of grandly dressed people passing through a triumphal arch. These are the approaching Magi and their retinue, who must wait their turn behind the lowly shepherds.
The adventus of the Roman emperor is here turned on its head. Those arriving are not fearsome conquerors. They include the rich and powerful, but they’re here to bow down before a new-born baby. This is wealth, not for its own sake, but in service to the true King of Kings.
The three shepherds are individualized, not idealized. The nearest shepherd is a portrait of the artist, and the other two may be local townspeople. They gaze down on the baby with reverence. The one on the right has removed his sheepskin hat, and he holds his hands in prayer. They’ve brought their humble gifts: a basket of bread and a lamb.
The shelter for the holy family has been built on the ruins of a Roman temple: Christ ushers in a new era as the old pagan times come to a close.
Jesus is a roly-poly baby, unclothed and vulnerable, his thumb by his lips. He rests on the hem of Mary’s robe, with a sheaf of wheat as a pillow. It’s significant that a Roman sarcophagus appears as a trough for the animals. The trough serves double duty as Christ’s crib. It’s another indication of the end of the pagan era, but more importantly, it tells us that Christ will conquer death to bring everlasting life. He comes to nourish us with the Bread of Life.
A bright light shines on Mary’s face and on the body of Christ. The wheat beneath him glows like divine, golden rays. And at the top of the painting, behind the shadowed thatched roof of the shelter, a brilliant burst of light shines out of a dramatically dark cloud. The distant, sun-lit landscape is ordered and serene. God’s light is here among us now.
Who first receives the angels’ glorious news? Not royalty and world leaders. No. Shepherds who were out in the fields with their flocks. Shepherds, who, according to Jewish purity laws, would have been considered unclean during their working lives. We might remember that Jesus’s ancestor David was a young shepherd boy when he killed the giant Goliath. Jesus is here to shake up the old order of rich and poor, strong and weak, and also, to be our Good Shepherd. And we, as his disciples, are to remember his call to shepherd and care for one another, especially those whom polite society prefers to ignore.
Gentile da Fabriano, Adoration of the Magi, 1423, Uffizi Gallery, Florence
For our last painting, we turn to a work by another Florentine artist, Gentile da Fabriano. This, the Adoration of the Magi, is the earliest of the paintings we’re seeing today. Dating from 1423, it’s on the cusp between Gothic and Renaissance. It was commissioned by the wealthiest man in Florence at the time, Palla Strozzi, another banker, for his family chapel, also in the Church of Santa Trinita.
With its elaborate triple arched gilded frame, the painting is a study in opulence. It’s a show of great wealth, but it’s wealth (and power) that yields to the infant Christ. The three Magi remove their crowns and lay them before the feet of Jesus to show that he is King of Kings.
Mary, in her robe of midnight blue, holds her baby gently, and Joseph looks on lovingly. The ox behind him pays careful attention. The first of the Magi kneels low on the ground, about to kiss the feet of the baby Jesus, a robust little guy, who reaches out playfully to pat the elderly man’s bald head. The Magi are dressed in fabulous, ornately gilded, bejeweled and brocaded attire. The costumes are meant to give a sense of the exotic: they come from far, far away, in the East. They travel with an extensive group of attendants, as well as unexpected animals: monkeys and leopards, several falcons. The horses’ bridles are gilded and highly ornamental. Even the big white hunting dog in the foreground has a gold buckle on his collar.
Within this elaborate frame, a comprehensive narrative unfolds: the story of these rich wise men who made a long journey to seek out a child born to parents living in a small shelter adjoining a cave for animals.
Within the frame itself at the top, in the central roundel, we see Christ, making a blessing gesture, flanked by two prophets. In the left and right roundels, we see an annunciation. The angel appears in the left circle, and Mary in the right.
Directly under the three arches of the central panel, we see the Magi’s back story. At the left, the three men, all in gold, stand atop a rocky hill looking for the star. Under the central arch, they and their retinue approach Jerusalem. On the right, they enter Bethlehem, where the scene in the foreground takes place.
The Magi’s appearance before the infant Christ reminds us that Jesus brings salvation not only to the Jews, but to all the nations of the world, to every single person who believes.
Scenes from the early life of Christ appear in the predella panels below: a nativity, the flight into Egypt, and the presentation of Jesus in the temple.
I’ll end with the rare night nativity in the lower left panel. It contains none of the opulence of the main panel. A blue sky is dotted with stars, but the hilly, barren landscape is mostly in darkness. Divine light though, is dramatically present. At the top right, an angel in a glowing cloud announces the news to two shepherds.
In the central foreground, the infant Christ lies on the bare ground, and rays of light emanate from his little body. The light from the baby illuminates the face of Mary, the donkey and ox, the entrance to the cave, the façade of the shelter, and the exhausted and sleeping Joseph, who rests his head against a little tree.
The message is clear: the light of Christ breaks decisively into the darkness of our world. His transforming light institutes a new covenant that emphasizes grace over judgment. We’re freed from the exacting letter of Mosaic law, but called toward a greater goal; to love our neighbors, even our enemies.
Our duty as disciples, during every season of the year, is to let that light work in our hearts, so we may carry it out into the world, offering mercy, kindness and grace to all our brothers and sisters. Jesus, through his actions and words, urges us toward humility, patience and generosity, rather than the self-serving grandeur of a Roman emperor. Christ conquers through love, not force. He calls us to share God’s light so His Kingdom will come, on earth, as it is in heaven. We’re human, and easily led astray. The right path forward requires near-constant recalculating.
We can find assurance and comfort in this: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not, and will not, overcome it.
During the early part of this summer, an afternoon deluge, fueled by intense heat and humidity, became a near-daily event here in Northern Virginia, as in much of the country. The cascade of events leading to the loss of our second-to-last silver maple began with one such violent thunderstorm in mid-July. An ear-splitting boom told us that lightning had struck perilously close to our house. My husband saw puffs of smoke dissipating as he stepped outside. A tall pine in my bird-feeding area bore telltale signs of the strike: pale vertical gouges where the bark had been blown away.
The storm raged on, and the power soon went out. We were expecting six guests for dinner in about an hour. Salmon was in the oven, half cooked. Earlier in the week, we’d almost canceled the get-together, when it seemed unlikely that our new HVAC system would be installed in time. We’d been largely without AC for over two weeks. But the work had been completed that very morning. The entire house had just begun to cool down when the electricity shut off. Should we forge ahead? We considered our options. This was a welcome meal for our new minister. After all the prep, I didn’t want to postpone. I could finish the cooking on my mother’s gas-powered stovetop. So we pressed on. H began a search for battery-powered candles.
In the rush to prepare for the evening, it escaped our notice for a while that an enormous, tree-sized portion of a tall white pine lay stretched across the front yard. The noise of the wind and rain had masked any sounds of its fall. The top-most part of the tree had come to rest in the crook of the divided trunk of one of the two remaining old maples.
When our friends arrived, we gathered on the screened porch for drinks (much-needed) and watched as torrential rain poured down around us. Happily, before long, the power was back on. Our new HVAC system was running again, thankfully.
The next morning we began to realize the extent of the lightning damage. Several outlets at our house and next door at my mother’s were visibly scorched, and numerous lights, interior and exterior, were no longer working. WIFI and internet were out, as was a ceiling fan that H had replaced twice before. My new computer seemed to have been affected. As we continued to discover still more ways in which the lightning strike had wreaked havoc, we decided to stop lamenting the losses, and instead to be grateful that we had escaped both fire and death.
It took a while to get the fallen pine completely cleared away. The final remaining portion resembled a long-legged creature crying out for a head. I added a plaster mask left over from a school art project, surrounded by a fall wreath.
Two weeks later, we had just begun our Cape Cod vacation. During dinner at the home of friends in Wellfleet, a neighbor called to tell us that one of our trees was down, blocking the side street. It was, of course, the maple that had been struck by the falling pine. Half of the huge tree had collapsed, crushing our mailbox as it went down. We’re very fortunate in our neighbors. Without our asking, and before we even knew what had happened, these kind and thoughtful people were out with chainsaws, working together to clear the impassable road. They sent photos to keep us informed.
Friends who assessed the condition of the remaining part of the tree were in agreement: it was dangerously unstable. An expert echoed the diagnosis, and said it would likely fall toward the house and could well hit the roof. We had little choice but to have the rest of the maple taken down as soon as possible. We hated the thought that our old tree would disappear from us while we were away. We wouldn’t get to say goodbye.
Later, as our long drive back from Massachusetts neared its end, we braced for the first glimpse of home after the removal of the tree. We still weren’t prepared, and the sight hit us like a punch. The house appeared uncomfortably exposed, like someone caught unexpectedly undressed. It looked vulnerable and a little embarrassed.
And that flat, sheared-off stump! It became the first thing I saw every morning as I looked out my bedroom window. It would soon be reduced to a pile of mulch, and will eventually be planted over with grass seed. My husband and I both mused regretfully over whether we should have left the base of the tree, as we did with the slowly decaying and battered maple nearest the road. Would that be a less painful sight? We examined the photos sent soon after half the tree had fallen. It might not have even been possible to leave a snag, a stump, because there had been a hollow space near the bottom of the maple ever since we moved in. A big, low branch must have broken off many years ago. The bark had grown back around the opening as the tree healed itself.
In this photo, the evergreen boughs from the fallen pine suggest that the maple is decorating itself for Christmas in July.
From certain viewpoints, the opening resembled a heart.
With the maple, we also lost a robust, sizable holly that grew close beside it, in the sheltering embrace of the larger tree.
I realize that in the grand scheme of things, the loss of a tree, and an old tree, at that, is no big deal. Certainly not in the face of ongoing wars in which helpless children escape battle strikes only to die of starvation. Certainly not when the killing of neighbors going peacefully about mundane activities has become a routine, even expected, everyday occurrence.
But the loss of a tree can be seen as the loss of an agent of peace. We need our silent friends in the plant realm to counter the pervasive meanness and brutality of the world we humans have managed, somehow, to build. In times of distress (and when is there not a reason for distress?) nature stands by to offer comfort and solace. In the assuring company of a familiar tree friend, we may yet experience a soul-filling escape. We may find a fleeting illusion of harmony amidst this twenty-first century disharmony.
Charlie Kirk was the most recent public figure whose life was cut short by gun violence in America. His death, on September 10, at 31, was a tragedy. In no way can his murder be justified.
Below are some names that represent a tiny fraction of those killed by guns in America. Every single one of these deaths is a tragedy. In no way can any of these murders be justified.
Melissa Hortman, 55.
Mark Hortman, 58.
Melissa and Mark, along with their dog, Gilbert, were shot in their Minneapolis home in June of this year. The couple was targeted by a gunman who disagreed with their political beliefs.
Jacklyn Cazares, 9.
Makenna Lee Elrod, 10.
Xavier Lopez, 10.
Jacklyn, Makenna and Xavier are three children among twenty-one adults and children killed during the Robb Elementary School shooting in Uvalde, Texas in 2022.
Roberta Drury, 32.
Aaron Salter, Jr., 55.
Ruth Whitfield, 86.
Roberta, Aaron and Ruth are three of the ten individuals killed at the Tops Market shooting in Buffalo, NY in 2022.
Javier Rodriguez, 15.
Maria Flores, 77.
Raul Flores, 83.
Javier, Maria and Raul are among the twenty-three killed in the Walmart shooting in El Paso, Texas in 2019.
Melvin Wax, 87.
Irving Younger, 69.
Richard Gottfried, 65.
Melvin, Irving and Richard are among the eleven killed in the Tree of Life Synagogue shooting in Pittsburgh, PA in 2018.
Scott Beigel, 35.
Alyssa Alhadeff, 14.
Nicholas Dworet, 17.
Scott, Alyssa and Nicholas are among the seventeen adults and teens killed in the Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School shooting in Parkland, FL, in 2018.
Charlotte Bacon, 6.
Dylan Hockley, 6.
Catherine Hubbard, 6 .
Charlotte, Dylan and Catherine are three children among the twenty-six children and adults killed in the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Newtown, Connecticut in 2012.
(In every shooting cited above, gunmen also wounded as many, or more individuals as they killed.)
And then there are these public figures shot down in the past:
Robert Kennedy, 43, in 1968.
Martin Luther King, Jr., 39, in 1968.
Malcolm X, 39, in 1965.
Medgar Evers, 37, in 1963.
John F. Kennedy, 46, in 1963.
Abraham Lincoln, 56, in 1865.
46, 728 people in our country died from guns in 2023, the last year for which we have complete statistics.
Gun violence has replaced car crashes as the leading cause of death for children and teens in America.
Shooting incidents have shown us that no place is truly safe: not our schools, (not even those for our youngest children), not our places of worship, not the local grocery store, no public event, and not even our homes.
Some questions regarding firearm deaths:
When it comes to gun violence, are some lives more important than others?
Is an “assassination” more of a loss than the indiscriminate killing of strangers?
Must we be personally acquainted with those targeted to be impacted by their deaths?
When it comes to free speech, should protection apply only to those with whom we agree? Are all others fair game?
Can we at least pause to learn the facts before jumping to demonize our fellow brothers and sisters?
Can we refrain from blaming the actions of a single person on a big group of people with whom we disagree?
If we are outraged by abortion, shouldn’t we also be outraged by the shooting deaths of young children?
For those who believe that every person is a child of God, shouldn’t we want to do all we can to reduce the numbers of God’s children shot down every day?
Aren’t there things on which we all agree that might diminish these horrific numbers?
Can’t we acknowledge our shared humanity and work together to stop killing each other?
Can’t we use those “thoughts and prayers” as a catalyst toward meaningful action?
Around this time two years ago, I wrote about the sunflowers that were unexpectedly appearing throughout our back yard. They were planted not by me, but by squirrels. We shouldn’t have been surprised at the flowers’ emergence. We’d been watching our squirrel friends as they chose a single a sunflower seed from below the bird feeders, carefully placed it in the ground (usually on the lawn, to my husband’s dismay) and covered it with soil. They’d pat down the earth thoroughly with their delicate hands, hop back for another seed and repeat the process.
Evidently squirrels can be as forgetful as humans, because we have a sunflower garden now.
This summer, the squirrel-farmed yield is particularly plentiful.
Some lowers are larger than ever. They stare at me, eye to eye, high atop perches on thick, prickly robust stalks.
As I observed in my earlier post, the sunflower is among nature’s artful miracles of geometry. A sunflower head is, in fact, a compact colony of tiny flowers. What appear to be petals are individual flowers known as ray florets. Their bright yellow color attracts pollinators to the numerous minuscule disc florets of the center. Our sunflower garden teems with bees and butterflies. The disc florets begin opening around the flower’s outer rim, so that the amazing inner spiral is eventually surrounded by a shaggy, deep golden fringe. Each one of these florets is a perfect, five-lobed tubular bloom, rather like a lily, sized for a fairy. They will, in time, grow into seeds.
The individual florets that make up the center are visible in the two photos above.
I love the way the petal-like ray florets unfold in sections to reveal the sunflower’s round center, as in the photos below. I’m reminded of a winking eye, or a child playfully peeking through her hands.
As the flowers age, the disc florets are transformed into seeds, and the ray florets wither. Once they pass their prime, they attract seed-loving birds, especially similarly colored goldfinches. The elderly flowers below may lack their youthful loveliness, but they continue to fulfill their purpose.
If I pause for a moment to survey our squirrel-planted sunflower garden, with flowers at varying points in their life cycles, I can sense that elusive but perpetual presence of the sacred. It’s evident as the big flowers turn their heads to follow the sun. I’m reminded that God’s creation is ongoing. It’s happening all around us, despite the toxic fog of human meanness that we allow to cloud our world. I can hear the sunflower offering valuable advice: Follow the light, be a beacon to those who need you, and live abundantly, at every stage along the journey!
My mother with my daughter, at age 2 1/2, in Atlanta.
To all the women who do the loving work of mothering, whether to your own child or children, and/or to other family members and friends, human and non, thank you! Our troubled world needs your care, courage and kindness. May you feel cherished and appreciated on this day and every day!
St. Peter’s Basilica on Good Friday, April 8, 1985, taken during my first, and perhaps only trip to Rome.
With the passing of Pope Francis last month, the world lost a rare spiritual leader, one who managed to remain uncorrupted by the power his prestigious earthly office afforded him. He embodied humility. He didn’t just preach about the need to care for the poor, the sick, and those on the margins. He lived that calling, daily. When he washed the feet of prisoners or shared a table with the street people of Rome, he wasn’t performing. By all accounts, his goal was authentic connection with real people, not publicity stunts or photo ops. Before becoming Pope, he’d been Jorge Mario Bergoglio, a pastor and good shepherd who led his flock with compassion. As Pope, pastoral care remained a priority. Like Jesus, he was concerned for lost sheep, for those who went astray. Like Jesus, he interacted frequently with ordinary people. Like Jesus, he lived a life of virtue; he didn’t merely signal it. He gave the glory to God.
I had feared, and rather expected, that a new Pope would mean a shift away from Francis’s emphasis on humility and concern for the downtrodden. I was afraid that Francis’s successor might be one who put more emphasis on the imperial majesty of the Papacy and strict adherence to the finer points of Church doctrine rather than on living out the message of Jesus.
And so I was surprised and relieved when Robert Francis Prevost from Chicago was announced as the 267th Pope. An American who spent much of his life in Peru, he began his first message to the world with the words “Peace be with you.” He connected that greeting, the first words of the resurrected Jesus to his assembled disciples, with Pope Francis’s final Easter blessing. He spoke in Italian, Spanish and Latin, but not in English. He spoke of the need to build bridges through “dialogue and encounter.” He spoke of a universal Church that opens her loving arms wide to all, as welcoming as the long, curved colonnade of St. Peter’s Basilica. He quoted St. Augustine in saying, “With you, I’m a Christian, but for you, I’m a Bishop.” He spoke of a Church that works together in service for justice and the common good. And he said, with firm resolution: “God loves you all, and evil will not prevail.”
Cardinal Robert Prevost, or Bob to his friends, chose the Papal name of Leo XIV. The last Leo, who held the office from 1878 – 1903, was a champion of the working poor and an advocate for social justice. The new Pope’s name choice signals his like-mindedness. His initial message yesterday as Pope, as well as the impressions of those acquainted with him, suggest that he will not veer substantially from the path set forth by Pope Francis.
I’m a lifelong United Methodist, not a Catholic, but the Pope is considered by many to be a prominent representative of Christ here on earth, so his words and actions matter to me. I happened to see Pope John Paul II heading towards St. Peter’s on Good Friday, 1985. I was in Rome with my boyfriend at the time, an avowed agnostic, disdainful of organized religion, yet possessed of a strong moral compass. When all those around us burst into cheers at the sight of the Pope waving benevolently to us from behind the glass shield of the Popemobile, Jonathan joined me and the crowd in exuberant applause. The Pope is a significant figure in the world, even to those who may think they see him as irrelevant.
I hope the leadership of this new Pope will serve as a reminder to all Christians, but especially to Americans, Roman Catholic and Protestant alike, that Jesus beckons us to a faith surpassing all boundaries made by human hands. The resurrected Christ called his followers to make disciples not just of their fellow Israelites, but “of all nations” (Matthew 28: 19). The concept of “Christian nationalism” goes against the very principles of love and inclusion preached and modeled by Jesus.
Habemus Papam. We have a Pope.
May Pope Leo XIV be an ethical inspiration for people the world over, no matter their faith, or lack of it, to work together, with patience and kindness, toward peace.
“It is finished!” And he bowed his head and released his spirit.
The Gospel of John (19: 30) records these final dying words of Jesus, spoken from the cross. A quick reading might prompt one to hear this utterance as the sad lament of defeated man. Not so fast, though. The Gospel writers Matthew (27:50) and Mark (15:37) don’t report Jesus’s last words. They tell us only that he “shouted out again” or “cried out again in a loud voice” before breathing his last. If we use all three accounts as evidence, what the Son of God likely said was a single word evoking not loss, but satisfactory completion. He spoke in Aramaic, but the original Greek of John’s gospel translates it as “tetelestai.”
This word would have been familiar in several contexts to the people of first-century Palestine. Having completed the last task of the day, a worker might tell his boss, “Tetelestai.” An artist, putting the final touch on a painting, might use the same word. A debt paid in full would be stamped “Tetelestai.” For Jews, the word would have been the Greek equivalent of a familiar Hebrew phrase announced by the High Priest each year on the Day of Atonement. After offering the proper sacrificial animals at the altar of the Holy of Holies at the Temple in Jerusalem, the priest emerged to tell the assembled crowd that God had accepted the sacrifice of the people.*
Jesus’s final cry before dying was therefore no whimper of pained surrender. Instead it was an exclamation of triumph.** The various frames of reference for “tetelestai” mentioned above are all helpful in understanding Jesus’s use of the word and what his death means for us. His earthly work is done, the masterpiece completed, the debt paid, the perfect sacrifice offered and accepted. In other words, “Mission Accomplished!”
Three of the Gospels include an often overlooked, but immensely significant detail that stands as proof of the change ushered in by Christ’s death. According to Mark 15: 38: “And the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” This was the curtain in the Temple of Jerusalem which separated the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place. This sacred space housed the Ark of the Covenant, considered by the Jewish people to be the very throne of God. Only priests could enter the Holy place. The High Priest alone entered into that sanctified inner realm, the Holy of Holies, and then, only once a year, on that holiest of all days, The Day of Atonement, or Yom Kippur.
Although sometimes referred to as a veil, the Temple curtain was no delicate, gauzy thing that might have ripped easily in a gusty wind. It was a heavy, brocaded cloth, woven with images of protective angels. Only an intentional act of great force could have caused the Temple curtain to be torn fully asunder. Both Matthew and Mark tell us that it was divided from top to bottom, as though from on high. Human hands had no part in this. This was God’s work.
Having destroyed the barrier to the Holy of Holies, God invites his people to approach him directly. Middlemen are no longer needed. The ultimate gift of atonement invites us to be “at one” with God. Having willingly offered his own life for our sins, Jesus and his father tell us that animal sacrifices are a thing of the past. The perfect Lamb of God has paid our debt in full. We are redeemed. Tetelestai!
This is what Jesus referred to earlier at the Last Supper, when he took the cup and told his disciples, “This is my blood of the new covenant, poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. “(Matthew 26:28) We, and all generations before and after us, are among the many. It was on this same night that Jesus reduced the entirety of his message to this one essential commandment: “Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.” (John 13: 34) See yesterday’s Maundy Thursday post.
So, what then is required of us in these days of the New Covenant? It’s not a matter of mastering complicated theological concepts and demanding the same of others. Instead, we’re invited to accept the gift given to us in love by our brother and savior Jesus. To admit our shortcomings and try to do better. To focus less on ourselves and more on others. To get back to basics: “Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8) Think about that. We have a God who truly desires to walk with us. He wants to walk the road with us, to share in our sufferings as well as in our joys. And if we’re willing to walk with God day by day, in good times and in bad, loving him, loving our neighbors, we usher in his kingdom here on earth, as it is in heaven.
The Temple curtain has been torn. No barrier remains between us and our loving, faithful God. Tetelestai!
For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8: 38-39)
Today is Maundy Thursday, the day in the Christian calendar that commemorates Jesus’s Last Supper. The unusual word “maundy” (not Maunday) comes from mandatum, the Latin for command, because we remember the new commandment that Jesus gave his disciples on his final night with them. I wrote a version of this post four years ago, but it’s perhaps even more relevant today, when it appears that meanness, it all its many extravagant forms, is glorified. If those of us who call ourselves Christians were to take the message of Jesus to heart and actively try to follow his example, rather than that of the religious leaders who condemned him, wouldn’t the world be a far better place?
On the night of his betrayal and arrest, Jesus gathered with his disciples for one last Passover meal together. He knew his life on earth was drawing to a close. He had tried to explain to his dearest friends that he would soon be facing death, and doing so willingly. But the disciples, understandably, didn’t understand. Probably some of them were expecting to witness a magnificent earthly triumph. Judas, the betrayer, may have been counting on such a victory. None of the disciples, it seems, were expecting their friend, teacher and Messiah to die an ordinary criminal’s death on the cross.
The group must have been fearful and confused. They were back in crowded, dangerous Jerusalem, where Jesus’s life had been threatened multiple times during clashes with the Jewish religious leaders. And so, on that fateful final night, Jesus had the full and rapt attention of his disciples. He chose his words, and his actions, with care.
According to the Gospel of John (13:1 – 17), after the meal, he did something completely unexpected: he got up from the table and began to wash the feet of his friends. In those days, traveling, for people of ordinary means, meant walking, in sandals, or even barefoot, along dusty, dirty roads, through fields and stretches of sandy wilderness. A servant typically washed the feet of guests as they entered a home. If there were no servants, guests usually washed their own feet from a basin near the door. John the Baptist refers to this practice when asked by Jewish leaders if he is the Messiah. According to John 1:27, he replies, “I baptize with water. Someone greater stands among you, whom you don’t recognize. He comes after me, but I’m not worthy to untie his sandal straps.” The disciples were clearly uncomfortable with their leader and teacher washing their dirty feet. Had foot washing been done upon entering the upper room that night? It’s uncertain. Maybe there had been no basin set up for the purpose until Jesus poured water into one, as mentioned in John 13:5. The Pharisees had criticized Jesus when they noticed that some of his disciples failed to wash their hands before eating (Mark 7: 1-5). Certainly, Jesus’s focus was not on Jewish rituals of purity. External, physical cleanliness was evidently not one of his primary concerns. He may not have been a stickler for foot-washing prior to that last gathering.
The disciple Peter’s reaction supports this (John 13: 6-11). Peter was fiery, passionate and impulsive. Like many of us, he was often a bit dense. He couldn’t stand the idea of Jesus abasing himself to wash his feet. Foot washing was the job of an underling, a slave. Peter jumped up and exclaimed, “You’ll never wash my feet!” When Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me,” Peter was all in. “Then wash my hands and head as well, Lord, not just my feet!”
Jesus went on to explain his puzzling behavior. “Do you understand what I was doing? You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and you are right, because that’s what I am. And since I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet. I have given you an example to follow. . .Now that you know these things, God will bless you for doing them.” (13:12-15, 17).
Jesus wanted his disciples to understand that he had in mind much more than literal foot washing. Following his example is to mean humbling oneself in order to serve and help others. To further drive home his point, he continued: “So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples” (13:34-35).
Jesus had spent three years traveling with this rag-tag group. They’d heard him teach and preach, seen him heal the sick and cast out demons. On three separate occasions, he’d even restored the dead to life. The disciples had been with him as he confronted the Jewish authorities and challenged their interpretation of the Law. Sometimes his words and actions had been difficult to comprehend. But on the night before his death, Jesus summed up the essence of his ministry in the simplest of terms: Serve others. Love others. Just as I have served and loved you, so you should love others.
Simple words, but tricky to put into practice. Why not at least give it a go? Vindictiveness offers a brief jolt of satisfaction, but doesn’t it leave a bad taste? In forgiving, we refuse to be destroyed by bitterness and anger. The wise counsel of our dear brother Jesus is food that strengthens and sustains us, for the long term. He urges us to be kind and compassionate, to all our neighbors, whether we like them or not, whether they are like us, or not. Of course, we won’t always succeed. Sometimes we’ll backslide and act in ways that are selfish and petty. But if we persevere, we can change the world, little by little, through service and love. That’s what Jesus meant when he talked about building God’s Kingdom here on earth. He wasn’t referring to a kingdom that can be built through military might or governmental power. Attempts to do so only backfire. The true kingdom is more like a community garden. When we plant seeds of love, and when we nurture seedlings that others have sown, we can rejoice in the certainty that the garden is growing. Its roots, we can be sure, are deep and wide-reaching. Let’s try to do our part, in the time that we have, to tend this beautiful garden so that it may flourish and bring forth good fruit.
Palm Sunday begs to be distinguished from just any other first day of the week. It launches the period known by Christians the world over as Holy Week. Palm Sunday sets an expectant, celebratory tone, one that contrasts, shockingly and painfully, with the shattering disappointment of the terrible day we call Good Friday. In between falls the oddness of Maundy Thursday. So much is packed into the events of these seven days, which lead up to the triumphant culmination of Easter. Indeed, without Easter, the story of new life, hope and possibility would have been one of failure, death and despair. I’ve written about the days of Holy Week several times before. Below is my Palm Sunday post from April 1, 2012.
Palm Sunday: Everyone Loves a Winner
On the day that we’ve come to think of as Palm Sunday, Jesus was hailed as a celebrity, a military and political hero-to-be. As he and his disciples entered the city of Jerusalem, cheering crowds greeted him with cries of “Hosanna,” which means “Save us.” The news was out: at long last, the King of Israel was here. He was the chosen one sent by God to restore power to the Jewish nation. He rode on a donkey to fulfill the prophecy in Zechariah 9:9: See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey.
It was a brief time of great rejoicing for the people of Israel. A new day of freedom and empowerment was dawning, thanks to the advent of the conquering Messiah. The palm branches they waved were emblems of Israeli nationalism.
In just a few days, though, the tide would turn. Jesus’s being hailed as the much-awaited Messiah would set in motion the events that would lead to his death. The admiring throngs would scatter when it became clear that he was not the kind of king they had desired and expected. Even his dearest friends would desert him. He would be betrayed by one of his own, turned over to the Roman authorities and crucified. On Good Friday, it would appear that this man was no winner.
Good Friday, however, is not the end of the story.
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
