The Benedictine sister, theologian, and social activist Joan Chittister tells it like it is, or maybe even more like it needs to be. Someone put her book The Time is Now: A Call to Uncommon Courage in my hands, or rather on my widow sill during our pandemic isolation. It’s been sitting nearby, and I’m just now reading through it devotionally. It’s a great companion voice to that of James, who is engaging our worship life these days.

Her first chapter goes under the heading of Risk. Here she contemplates what it means to live a spiritual life, and finds unfortunate our distinction often made between an inward, personal spirituality and an outward socially active spirituality. Of this she says “To follow Jesus in a world on the brink of disaster — nuclearism, world hunger, egregious greed, civil breakdown, racial slavery, sexism, and planetary ruin, I began to understand– is surely about something greater than the development of regular spiritual routines or being a “Good Christian….the question “What will you do?” Is at the core of spiritual maturity, of spiritual commitment. To follow Jesus means that we, too, must do something to redeem our battered, beaten world from the greed that smothers it…in fact, we often ignore, resist, reject the idea that like Jesus, we have a role to play in righting a world whose axle is tilting in the wrong direction…Christianity requires that we each be such a prophetic presence that our corner of the world becomes a better place because we have been there…none of us has the right to quit until God’s will for the world is accomplished.” (p.23-32)

The Talmud, which is a compilation of ancient Jewish thought and contains centuries of rabbinical teachings. Of risk it teaches that “There is risk in every life. Those who risk nothing risk much more.” I’m thinking about so many of Jesus’s hard sayings, that seem to come in every gospel lesson week by week: “Find your live by losing it”, “The last will be first, and the first last”, “deny yourself, take up your cross and follow me”, and on this sunday to come, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”

In one way or another, it seems to all come down to the same thing, the same invitation, the same call, the same risky command — and that is to give up myself, to offer up my life, to put others first. In terms of the way the world works, it’s a risk not worth taking to be sure. But from the perspective of God’s Kingdom, it is in fact the very move that promises to bind up the world’s wounds. Jesus plays show and tell. His invitations bear a mighty integrity because his life bears witness. He said to his disciples one day, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and after being killed, he will rise again.” Hard to hear, but ends really well in new life after all.

Just think for a moment about what this posture of self-giving, of self-sacrifice could do to set the world right! I know, I know, it’s so utopian! Nevertheless, for us as Christians, it is to be our worldview, and call to arms, weaponizing love.

How am I, how are you, how are we together doing with the risk of all this following Jesus business?

Love From Here

Peter Hawkinson

“He (an angel) said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before the LORD, for the LORD is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.” (1 Kings 19)

Yesterday I kept vigil with you. It was September 11, and together we grieve the terror of 23 years ago. I took time in the morning to follow the events going on at ground zero, and at the pentagon building, and in a farm field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Bells were being rung at the exact moments in the morning that the events took place, and so news coverage would suddenly stop when those moments came…8:46, north tower hit, 9:03 south tower hit, 9:37 pentagon, 10:03 flight 93 crashes….

What I noticed is the silence’s power. The news reporter in the middle of some other conversation said repeatedly, “Excuse me, but let’s tune in and listen to the silence…” and then at each moment a bell, and then silence, long extended silence before the recalling of the names would begin again. Likely you saw or have seen this through the years, and we have many “Join me for a moment of silence”, especially when remembering those who’ve died. Those silences are powerful because they locate our collective grief. For a moment, we are unified, and silent, and it is as though the silence speaks, we can listen to it. It’s better than any words we can find.

It brings me back to that day when Elijah (scared to death and hiding in a wilderness cave) gets a holy messenger sent to reassure him that God is near, in fact, is passing by, and that he best get himself up mount Horeb, where wind, earthquake, and fire appear, all former links to God’s appearing. But then there is “a sound of sheer silence”. And Elijah “hears it”. What does sheer silence sound like?

Somehow in the silence the prophet is reassured. And sometimes, especially when the moment is one in which any words come up short, it’s best to just be still (Ps 46), to be silent, and to listen to what the silence has to say. Maybe now, because of our modern sound-byte saturated lives, we need sheer silence more than ever! You may have noticed that recently we have been allowing silence to be a line in our worship liturgy. It’s uncomfortable, I know!

Somehow silence is not at all the absence of sound but the presence of deeper meaning. We need to work on hearing the silence more often. God, it seems, is found there.

Love From Here

Peter Hawkinson

This blogpost is dedicated to those 2,996 human beings who died on September 11, 2001, and and their loved ones. As people of faith may we always be seeking peace and pursuing it. (Psalm 34).

“Jesus Wept.” (John 11:35)

It has stayed on the left edge of my desk, always in eyesight just over the top of my laptop computer. It’s a tree of copper wire and green pencil erasers rooted around a stone, created by Rev. Kari Lindholm Johnson, who seven years ago now came and shared a month with us, teaching us with love and passion about our connection to God. “We might be, we could become like that tree planted by streams of water” Kari reflected, as we read Psalm 1 together. “We might become, we could become like a fragrant fruit-bearing tree” Kari reflected, as we read the Gospel of Jesus together. Then vine and branches, and finally, as we grow old with the Spirit’s help we can grow tall, and wide like a mighty oak tree to give shade and home. It was a blessed time of dreaming together.

Well, Kari died earlier this summer after a quick and mighty struggle with cancer that cut her life short at 60 years. At least that’s what it feels like, still, when I look at that wire tree she made while she was teaching us. I’m finding my grief growing, and staying, putting down roots like those I’m looking at wrapped around the stone, seemingly choking it.

I know, I know, “we grieve but not as others do who have no hope.” (1 Thessalonians 4). I know, and I do believe that “weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” (Psalm 30). I know that Jesus weeps in John’s 11th chapter because his friend Lazarus is dead, but then calls him to come out alive, and he does. I believe that this weeping Jesus is in fact resurrection and life. I have faith. I keep faith.

But that doesn’t mean that grief goes away, or that it’s just a brief problem to be worked through and done with. No, the truth is that grief stays, and even grows, for all the sorrows that come with the years, and the nature of the human journey. And I’m trying to learn to let that grief just stay, without expecting it to be over soon, and surprisingly even see it as a continuing part of life’s most beautiful journey of loving and being loved. My heart aches because of love, and in this sense I experience love for Kari (and the sacred memory of those sabbath mornings together) still as I allow myself to miss her and grieve her life’s loss.

Is it possible to believe deeply that the best is yet to be — that Kari is in a better place and that I’ll see her again in some bright shining glory someday — and at the same time feel a growing grief for her distance and absence? Can they co-exist for now?

My point, I guess, is that whether it’s right or not, they do. Grief comes, and stays.

Peter Hawkinson

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” (Psalm 119:105, NRSV)

“By your words I see where I’m going; they throw a beam of light on my dark path.” (The Message)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ijbp74JOuT8595jEarE3NDTpfwGBMhHU0bO0GwMkr2E/edit?usp=sharing

Above these words is a link to a sign up list for reading the scripture on Sunday mornings. Though we may not often think so, this is our central moment in worship, as we gather to hear the scripture with an understanding that these words of life come connected to God’s Spirit in a special way!

If you sign up for a Sunday, I will be in touch with you, sending the readings along, and also the worship order, giving you time to read through the words and become familiar with their cadence and meaning.

It’s said of the early Covenanters that “they gathered around God’s Word as though it was a warm campfire on a cold winter’s night”. They were called “readers”, and it is said of them that “they did not come to the Bible because they had been convinced by theological and dogmatic discussions of its inerrancy or infallibility. They came, and continued to come, because they had found life and inspiration for themselves. They knew that speaking about food could not satisfy hunger and that speaking about thirst could not quench thirst.”

The invitations are two: First, to come hungry and thirsty for the Word of life, and second, to sign up to be a reader and help us hear it.

God bless us one and all

Peter Hawkinson

Quotes are from Images in Covenant Beginnings by Eric Hawkinson, p. 109.

During the month of September as we worship God we are are going to explore the New Testament letter of James together. I’m excited about it!

The little letter packs a punch and sparks controversy. The writer’s central summary statement that “faith without works is dead” seems to fly in the face of the early church’s pre-eminent theologian, St Paul, who maintains we are “saved by grace through faith apart from works” (Romans 3). This tension cause Martin Luther to call the letter of James “an epistle of straw”, because he felt it negated grace needing to stand alone.

But the letter is not a theological treatise as much as it is an ethical exhortation, about how we whose lives are now formed by the grace of God ought to be living. James gives us a vision of what the Christian life should look like in real time, in the real world. The letter challenges us to be persons of integrity, whose lives are consistent in all we say, believe, and do. From the first verse to the last, James calls us to behavior consistent with our convictions and inspires us to live our faith.

We really don’t know who the author is; James was a very common Jewish and Christian name — still is! Tradition attributes the letter to James the brother of Jesus and leader of the early Church in Jerusalem.

Here will be our texts and themes week by week:

September 1 — James 1:17-27. Doing the Good News — “But be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves….“

September 8 — James 2:1-17. No Partiality! — “Mercy triumphs over judgement”.

September 15 — James 3:1-12. Careful Words. “How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire. And the tongue is a fire!“

September 22 — James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a. Gentleness and peace. “Show by your good life that your works are done with gentleness born of wisdom.”

September 29 — James 5:13-20. Prayer. “Are any among you suffering? They should pray.”

Come to worship God with a hunger to grow! Looking forward to being with you.

Peter Hawkinson

“Then the LORD God formed man from the dust of the ground, and brethed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being.” (Genesis 2:7)

We take our breath for granted, the miracle that each one is, moment by moment. Last week I realized this in a new way, as our family vacation found us high up in the Rocky mountains. One day we made it up to the top of Pikes Peak, which sits at 14,115 feet. The rest of the week we lived in a cabin at 11,000 feet, looking up at 2 other “fourteeners” as the natives call them. There are 58 peaks over fourteen thousand feet in Colorado.

I learned some things about breathing, about oxygen, and about altitude sickness. Did you know that at 14 thousand feet you only breathe 57 percent of the oxygen you do here in the midwest at sea level? And at 11 thousand feet, only 70 percent? And did you know that this can cause you to become sick as your body struggles for the necessary breath it needs to stay vital and alive?

Let me back up a bit. The day we were leaving home for the airport I slipped on the stairs and bent my right foot backwards in all kinds of directions. By the time we made it to Colorado the bruising and swelling had taken hold, and that didn’t change throughout the week. I was wondering if the altitude situation had something to say about that. And once we arrived, without getting into all the gory details, my gastro-intestinal system went for a wild three day ride! Woah!

Thank God for google. I learned there that my body was so focused on the absolute necessity of that breath of mine, and that it would keep going, that it stopped worrying about other important functions. My body spoke. It said, “I’m gonna worry about that swollen, ligament stretched foot later, and for now your sour stomach and digestive system will just have to take a break, because right now every bit of energy needs to be focused on keeping your heart beating and your brain keeping your breathing going on. I feel threatened. Let’s focus completely on the most important thing.” And that’s indeed what my body did. And it worked, though I wasn’t very happy about it! After a while, a few days, it started to get back to multi-tasking a bit, but it wasn’t really until we got home that I could feel my body saying, “Ahh! all is well again.”

This whole journey makes me reflect on how fearfully and wonderfully we are made. Clearly its exhilarating to venture up into the heights, but we are not created to live there! I know, I know, many do, and that’s another wonder, that eventually our bodies can adapt to a new normal. Just think what a miracle it is that we feel so well so much of the time!

Mostly, though, I’m thinking about breath, and breathing, and the fragile moment-by-moment process it is from our human beginning until its end. And God has given us this breath of life! What a gift. “Let everything that has breath praise the LORD.” (Psalm 150:6)

It was wonderul there, and it’s so good to be back home! Now I must go and ice my swollen foot.

Peter Hawkinson

Today’s blog post is written by Pastor Jen.

Last week Friday evening, I was watching the Olympics opening ceremony.

And I was on a text thread with my sister and a friend and colleague of hers, reacting to the different parts of the artistic program as they happened.

My sister, who had watched the program live, as it was broadcast here in the states that afternoon, was telling us about different parts of it and anticipating our reactions.

When we got to one part, featuring a cast of characters in bright costumes arrayed behind a long table, she texted and said: Jen, at this part, I wondered…last supper??

“Yes!” I said, taking in the image.

And we talked a bit about how the central figure looked like a woman, and also appeared to be spinning records – a DJ?

Someone else quoted Ariana Grande lyrics as a joke, and we all moved on.

But the internet did not move on.

Days later, my Facebook thread was exploding with reactions from fellow pastors and theologians who all had something to say about this scene from the ceremonies.

And I had to dig a bit to realize that their reactions were to other reactions, from people loudly decrying the moment as an insult to Christianity, disrespectful, and abhorrent.

As the days went by, the furor only kept mounting, with more people weighing in, either escalating their rhetoric, or in a few cases, pausing to ask good questions:

Why are people so fixated on this?

Why aren’t they showing the same level of anger about the shooting death of Sonya Massey, an elderly black woman killed by police in Springfield, Illinois? Why are they more concerned about this “insult to Christianity” than that – the senseless loss of life of one of God’s children?

Why does this matter so much more?

The designer of the artistic program finally weighed in, assuring people that the scene was meant to depict the bacchanalia, a feast honoring Bacchus, the god of wine (also known as Dionysus) – not Jesus and his disciples.

Art historians examined images of the moment, counted the participants, and concluded that for a variety of reasons it was probably not meant to illustrate the Last Supper – but more likely served as an homage to a 17^th century painting by Jan van Biljert called “The Feast of the Gods” (see this NYT article).

But people were shouting too loud to listen by that point, and this morning a friend shared with me news that the Olympic Committee had issued an official apology about the whole thing.  

At which point I threw up my hands and sighed.

Not because I don’t like people getting angry. I love when Jesus flips tables in the temple courts, and I recognize the need for righteous anger that makes things better.

But I can’t stand when Christians center themselves so much as to demand respect instead of earn it.

When they get angry about what I would consider the wrong things.

I keep returning to those moments in scripture when Jesus tells his disciples, “if they persecuted me, they will persecute you” and trying to imagine his reaction to this: Christ-followers making a huge scene about a perceived slight.

I keep asking: are we so insecure that we can’t take even the suggestion of a joke? It seems clear enough to me that this wasn’t the intent of that moment in the opening ceremony, but I keep returning to this idea: so what if it was?

Shouldn’t we be able to listen for the criticism implicit in a moment like that, and learn what has been so damaging about our witness that people are driven to make jokes at our expense and throw barbs our way?

Or are we so concerned with preserving our respectability and reputation that we have to yell this loudly at what we think is an insult – even when it’s not?

I don’t know about you, but to me, this doesn’t seem to embody Jesus’ way.

As a friend and colleague said to me over lunch today, I think Jesus would have been more likely to sit down at that table than to yell at the people already there.

One article I read about this firestorm of reactions called it “a ridiculous moral panic.”

And I honestly have to agree. It seems both clear to me that we weren’t the butt of a joke, and that even if we were, that’s more a cause for reflection and conversation than indignation and outrage.

But I keep coming back to a point that others have made, and more eloquently than I will here:

Pay attention to what people are mad about.

Watch where they put their energy into making things “right.”

Is it the suffering of vulnerable people?

Is it the protection of marginalized communities?

Or is it their reputation? Their own rights? Their privileges and opportunities?

I don’t know that there’s one lesson to be learned from all this; I suspect there are many.

But I encourage you to think about this, whether in regards to the Olympics, or the next time you feel affronted: why am I angry? What am I trying to protect?

Maybe you’ll learn something. Maybe you’ll still have to yell a little bit, but then again maybe not.

Maybe you’ll create the space for a more Christ-like response.

Maybe you’ll realize, as I keep doing, that Jesus doesn’t need us to defend him, but to follow him.

Most of all, that is my hope.

Yours,

Pastor Jen

“For once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of the light — for the fruit of the light is found in all that is good and right and true.” (Ephesians 5:8-9, NRSV)

“You groped your way through that murk once, but no longer. You’re out in the open now. The bright light of Christ makes your way plain. So no more stumbling around. Get on with it! The good, the right, the true — these are the actions appropriate for the daylight hours.” (The Message)

The Spathiphyllum Wallisii, commonly known as the Peace Lilly that sits in a pit at the right end of my desk here tells a story. As quickly as it’s soil dries up, as desperately as it thirsts for water, even more I’ve been watching it for 10 years now, ferociously bending toward the light. The window to the west calls, and I am constantly rotating the plant so that the dark side can catch the light and catch up. It’s amazing. And this image of darkness and light blooms everywhere in scripture, which is not surprising given our natural world and its cycles.

Over the years the light has become a most important metaphor for me. I’m guessing you’re getting tired of hearing how much I love the summertime, more for the light than anything else. Rising to it, the birds well into their day already, and it’s slow relinquishing at the end of day. It’s creation’s tug-of-war, and in this season in our northern hemisphere light wins, and everything comes to life (including all those weeds!) And I do too.

I so deeply resonate with this sense of life’s tug-of-war between the good and the bad, the right and the wrong, the truth and the lies, “the good, the right, and the true” as St. Paul writes. I know well too that the bad, the wrong, and the lies that the darkness invites me into sometimes find the darkness having it’s way too. This is our human condition.

And this why our new life in Christ is a daily — no, hourly — no, breath by breath journey away from the darkness and into the light. Coming back to my Peace Lilly, I bend toward the light as the Holy Spirit keeps turning me, and watering me with what I need to grow, to stay alive. We deeply believe that Jesus, “the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world”, and that “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1).

How deeply I want to live for what is good and right and true! How are you engaged with the tug-of-war between the darkness and the light?

Dear God, bend me toward the light, as I reach out for new life!

Love from Here

Peter Hawkinson

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Philippians 4:4

It was my favorite show growing up in the 70’s — Ralph Malph made me laugh — but that’s not what I’m thinking about here. Today and these days I’m finding the Church, and I mean our Church, a happy place. I first had that feeling a few months ago when I watched a couple of Church kids dancing with a couple of our senior members while pastor Lynnea and the the band was playing “A-la-la-la, la la la leluia…” The Sunday following I heard from a couple of you who had found reconciliation to be a real thing after praying for each other during communion. Finally, during my morning and evening prayers I began to find my spirit rejoicing in a season of unity among us after some tough years and challenges.

At some point I mentioned this sense of congregational happiness to the executive board report, and there were smiles about it, and that was that (or so I thought). And I’ll admit that I have wondered if this sense of a happy season is just a figment of my hopeful imagination. But you have told me no! A couple of you, in different community gatherings at different times, have said to me recently, “The church seems to be a happy place right now.” I am so gratified to feel and experience these rather sunny days with you.

I wonder why, what are the contributors?

Well, we have a settled energy about the welcome of all people, and some new friends are finding in our community an invitation to belong. As a result, we have a number of new families and friends, bringing new life to our community. Also, I have not seen in many summers the level of participation in our worship and other numerous gatherings as this year. It’s wonderful! Together, these realities indicate a renewed desire in us to express our love for God and for each other. May it continue as summer moves into fall.

I know, I know that so many challenges are in front of us, both locally and nationally in terms of the life of the Church. But in these days, its important to stop, and reflect, and realize just how blessed we are to belong to Winnetka Covenant Church. Find your own way to give thanks. These are happy days!

Peter Hawkinson

Today’s blog post is written by Pastor Jen.

The other day, I was staring at one of my bookcases – the one that I use to store prayer books and worship planning resources – when I noticed all my devotional books for different seasons. I have ones for Advent and ones for Lent, ones for Easter and Christmas, but then it struck me: it’s ordinary time.

We are, at this point in the church year, deep into the longest season that we sometimes refer to as “after Pentecost,” but which is also known as Ordinary Time.

The time between big seasons of preparation and celebration, Ordinary Time can make up as many as 34 weeks of the 52 in our liturgical year.

And while it can get a little boring to keep seeing those numbers…”5th Sunday after Pentecost”…”21st Sunday after Pentecost”…show up week after week, I am coming to love Ordinary Time.

A few weeks ago, I flew out to Cleveland to see dear friends that I went through seminary with. For Christmas this year, they had used their airline miles to buy me tickets to fly out and see them, and the timing was perfect. One of my friends there is a bivocational (well, really she’s a trivocational) pastor and was just about to start a month off, part vacation, part sabbatical. I was arriving exhausted too, off a month of some difficult news in my family, lots of things going on at church, and trying to get all my ducks in a row for my own sabbatical.

So what did we do during my mini-vacation?

A lot of ordinary things.

I was hard-pressed to share stories of exciting travel adventures when I got home, because the truth is this:

We played video games.

We took a walk around her neighborhood.

We watched her cats try to play with each other, and we figured out what to make for dinner.

We played a board game with her husband and another seminary friend of ours, and I went to her church for a Saturday night service.

I slept in, and ate fresh bagels, and we walked around the city’s arboretum.

And it was perfect.

We did lots of ordinary things, but together, and my empty cup was slowly but steadily filled again.

This is the gift of ordinary time.

Don’t get me wrong; I love our festival seasons of the church year, just like I love a vacation where I go somewhere exciting and glamorous, where I have adventures to share upon coming home.

But sometimes ordinary is exactly what my soul needs: simple things, a slower pace, rest. The kind of time that allows me to notice the show that fireflies are putting on in my neighbor’s yard, or to savor a slice of perfectly ripe peach. Time to breathe and to be present and to notice that God is still very much active in the routine things of life.

Summer can be the opposite of ordinary time, for a lot of us. It can be juggling camp schedules and family vacations and beach days and road trips. It can be full days and late nights and a happy chaos of sandy feet and sunburned shoulders.

But hopefully it can also be a time where we stop and savor the ordinary. Where we recognize the gift of it, and the grace of it, and the holiness in it.

The next time we cross paths, I hope you’ll tell me about your ordinary time. I’d love to hear about it.

yours,

Pastor Jen