“I think this is part of how God shows us to be grateful, you know? For what we have. For our health. To teach us.”
This was the response that someone gave me after I was lamenting about the unfairness of disease and catastrophe.
The idea that people are sick in order to be object lessons for people who are not is one of the many problems that we have with narcissistic religion and a form of Christianity that is totally devoid of deep spirituality.
It becomes cruel.
People are not sick in order to teach you a lesson.
For the ancient Celts, October was a special month. All hinge points in the wheel of the year were seen as an opening into the next phrase.
January is Winter’s portal into Spring. April is Spring’s portal into Summer. July is Summer’s portal into Autumn, and October is the Autumn portal into Winter.
But within those four portals there was seen to be two great portals: the invitation into the light, and the invitation into the shadows.
April, with it’s growing light as our star decided to hang around longer and longer each day, was an invitation into the light half of the year.
October, with it’s lingering moon, was an invitation into the shadow half of the year, and was known as the “season of frost and firelight.” Indeed: we’ve lit a fire the past few mornings in our own house.
The Celts called the festival at the end of October “Samhain” (pronounced “sow-wen” in Gaelic). It literally means “summer’s end.” This festival was Christianized around the 7th Century as Hallowmas (or All Hallow’s Eve) and, on November 1st, All Hallow’s Day (All Saints’ Day).
That phrase continued to evolve and is now colloquially Halloween.
Rather than some sort of time to celebrate evil or goblins or whatnot, Samhain was actually a time where the Celts explored and ushered in the gifts and mysteries of the shadow-half of the year.
Why do things seem to “go bump” in the night?
Why do we take fire for granted until we can’t see anything anymore?
What does it mean to take seriously the idea that rest and fallowness are necessary for life?
How does family time change when we’re all stuck inside, and what does that mean for us? Could it be possible that, in these intense family times, dead family members join us around the fire (as specters or ghosts)?
Why, in the shadows, are we more tempted to do what we should not? How do we ward off such tempters? (One solution was the Jack-o-lantern)
The shadow-side of the year, like our own shadow-sides, is not to be feared but, as the Celts did, explored and held and learned from.
Today the church honors the Feast Day of St. Luke, the Evangelist.
We believe Luke was a Greek, and a Gentile, but we’re not really sure where he’s from or much about his life, other than he was a physician. He was a disciple of St. Paul and worked alongside him in missionary endeavors.
In Luke’s Gospel (which has a sequel in the Book of Acts) we learn that Luke was not an eyewitness to anything Jesus did or said. According to early lore Luke wrote his Gospel in Greece and preached in Bithynia, though we can’t verify any of that. Lore also has him reaching the ripe old age of eighty-four, a bachelor all those years.
Again, none of that is really more than speculation.
There is also an obviously dubious claim that he painted the first picture of Mary, Mother of Our Lord. For this reason many icons have him holding a painting of her.
The observance of this day as his feast day is quite old in the Eastern Church, and may be closely associated with the actual day of his death. On this day in many places people will make special donations to hospitals and nursing homes, an homage to this physician-evangelist, and there may have even been some “healing services” or anointing services happening in some churches (though, in the midst of a prolonged pandemic, I imagine this physician would rather churches limit gathering in person again this year).
Luke’s spiritual sign is the patient ox, because he plods along in his story, slowly, recounting in detail much about Jesus and the life of the early church.
Luke’s Gospel is marked by special attention to women, the sick, and the marginalized communities in general in the ancient world. For this reason it is the favorite Gospel of many. Luke, for instance, has Jesus giving his main sermon not on a mountain, but on a plain…a sign of equality (and, also, a reminder that the Gospels don’t all match up). Luke also notes that “Blessed are the poor” in his recounting of the Beatitudes includes an economic element. Matthew changed it to “poor in spirit,” but Luke has it as “those who are in poverty.”
Luke, and in his recounting, Jesus, cares deeply for the poor, the sick, and the marginalized.
He is a reminder for me, and for the whole church, that the church, too, has a duty first and foremost not to the powerful, but to those Jesus felt a duty toward: the poor, the sick, and the marginalized.
The ancient Celts found October to rest under the Ivy Moon. Now half past the month, the harvest is pretty much done and everything is starting to wear its nakedness.
But they called this Autumn moon Ivy Moon because ivy has a difficult time dying, and can live on even after the host plant has died. Ivy, for them, was a reminder that everything goes on in some form or fashion: life, death, rebirth.
It’s the way of things.
Ivy is strong, evergreen, resilient. Though the Earth is wearing their nakedness in these days, Ivy reminds us that the wheel is turning, not dying. It is spinning, not stopping.
Today the church honors three British Bishops, all ceremoniously executed by English royalty for their opposition to decisions of the monarch: Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury; Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester; and Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of Rochester.
The most familiar to most, Bishop Cranmer, was instrumental in crafting the language that would end up in the Book of Common Prayer, a compendium that Ridley helped commission. All three were influenced by the Reformation movement in Germany, with Cranmer even marrying the daughter of Andreas Osiander.
Bp. Cranmer’s scholarly work shaped how Christianity became expressed in the English-speaking world.
Bp. Latimer, known for pithy and homey sermons that packed a punch, was zealous in speaking against corruption in the church. He was made Bishop of Worcester, but resigned his see over Henry VIII’s policies. He, unlike Cranmer, did not believe the Reformation’s goals were noble.
Bp. Ridley, however, did believe in the Reformation movement in Britain, and pushed them as Bishop of Rochester.
All three took part in the Oxford disputations against Roman Catholic theologians…and that’s where things really went wrong.
With Queen Mary’s accession to the throne, these Protestant Bishops who refused to recant their theology, would all lose their lives in the political struggles of the day. Queen Mary, a staunch and rigid Roman Catholic, would have none of it
Cranmer was burned at the stake in 1556.
Latimer and Ridley were thrown in the Tower of London and executed together on this day in 1555. Latimer’s last words to Ridley, as they were led to be burned at the stake, were “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle by God’s grace in England that shall never be put out.”
Latimer ended up being correct.
These Bishops are a reminder for me, and for the whole church, that when ideas about a “national religion” get batted around, or when any sect tries to impose their religious beliefs on an entire people, things go poorly.
The (literally) shining example of these three imperfect humans is testament to this.
A church must be free to critique the state, and to do that it can’t be in the pocket of the state.
-historical bits taken from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
-stained glass from, ironically, St. Mary’s Church in Melton, known as the “Oxford Martyrs”
Today is the feast day of one of my favorite mystics and saints, St. Teresa of Avila, Visionary and Renewer of the Church.
St. Teresa was born in 1515 into an old Spanish family of note, and had nine brothers and sisters all told. Her mother died when she was fifteen, and Teresa was sent off to school at a convent where she read the letters of St. Jerome (whose saint day was not too long ago!). Inspired by his writing, St. Teresa decided to take vows and become a nun.
Her father, though, had other ideas, and forbade her from pursuing a life in the church. So, Teresa did what every teen does: she ran away from home and joined the Carmelites in Avila.
Soon after joining the convent, however, young Teresa fell deathly ill and lapsed into a deep coma which, after she recovered from it, left her paralyzed from the waist down for three years.
It was then that she began to receive her visions, though she was quite lax with her spiritual practices. It didn’t seem to matter, though, because she began to physically feel the presence of the Divine quite acutely, eventually prompting her to recommit to her vows and take the name, “Teresa of Jesus.”
In 1560 she decided she needed to reform the monastery, as she felt it had become too austere. Facing great opposition she found a way to have a new monastery built, and dedicated it to St. Joseph.
In a page that could have been ripped from today’s headlines, lawsuits ensued. Her nuns were shamed and called names, and their numbers remained quite small. St. Teresa, in her wisdom, actually limited the number of nuns she would take to 21 in sum total, believing a smaller cohort had more chance to create community.
Eventually the Pope blessed the order, now called the Discalced Carmelites (because they wore sandals and not shoes), and St. Teresa set about starting other reformed monastic communities, calling them from pretention and austerity to a more humble way of being.
Throughout Spain St. Teresa established seventeen other communities. They were always small, intentionally poor, and extremely disciplined.
St. Teresa of Avila eventually fell ill and died in 1582, having struggled her whole life to call the church to greater humility.
St. Teresa is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes small pockets of apocalyptic (that is, reforming) people can change the world and be remembered in the annals of history. No one recalls the large convents of her day, booming with money, golden candlesticks (or, as we might say today, screens and technology), but we all recall this slight visionary who struggled and led a handful of folks.
I mean, that story kind of sounds like Jesus, right?
Let those with ears to hear, hear.
-historical notes from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
I drove into a Falls River Greenway parking lot. I had 15 miles before me.
In the parking lot was an older white male, standing in the middle of the drive with a gun and holster on his belt, a “patriotic” shirt tightly tucked in.
No badge. No way to tell if they were an officer of some sort.
Because open carry is legal here in NC, I was unsure of what to do, if anything. To add to the concern, a group of young Latinx men were loading up their fishing gear into a nearby truck, and the man was pacing directly in front of them.
I was worried for them. I was worried in general.
Had my boys been with me, we would have left.
I texted Rhonda, just so she would know what was going on if something happened.
Open carry laws cause confusion.
How can we tell if someone is about to shoot up a greenway, or is just “exercising their supposed right to carry a weapon of mass murder?”
I stuck around for a bit, stretched, tied my shoes. The men in the truck left, and though the armed man kept standing there, I went on for 15 miles.
Should I have called the police? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don’t know.
But a few things now:
-if I see someone carrying a gun, I’m calling the police. Even if it’s “legal,” I think we’re past the point where we can take the chance.
-white men are still the most dangerous gun owners. I get a lot of pushback when I say that, but the statistics, facts, bear it out as true.
-despite all this, I refuse to own a handgun. Even for “protection.” The presence of a gun statistically makes a situation less safe, not safer.
Today the church remembers a saint from Turkey who is most revered in the Balkans who, when her parents tried to prevent her generosity, balked at them: Saint Paraskeva the New, Activist and Traveler.
Paraskeva (whose name literally means “Friday,”) was born in nobility not far from Constantinople (or is it Istanbul?). Her wealthy parents looked askew at this pious young woman who, even as a child, had a habit of just giving her things away.
Yeah, that’s right: she literally just gave her family’s possessions to the poor, from about the age of ten.
Her parents were not pleased with this, and perhaps rightfully so. But instead of engaging her in conversation and constructive learning, they essentially forbade her from going out anymore, confining her to the home.
The profession of her parent’s faith, as they were Christian, and their displeasure at her generosity caused conflict within the young woman. How could they have taught her the words of the Gospel, even Jesus’ own instruction to “give up everything,” and yet be really angry when she followed those very words they gave her?
In fact, I’d offer up that this situation is happening right now in many homes! Children brought to church are confused when they hear Jesus say “love your neighbor,” and their parents rail against undocumented immigrants or LGBTQIA+ protections. They wonder how Jesus can heal any who came to him, and yet expanding affordable healthcare is somehow “socialism.”
The struggle is real.
Saint Paraskeva left her home and decided to live on the streets, existing off of the hospitality of strangers. She traveled from city to city visiting holy shrines and sites, praying and fasting as she went, welcoming the poor as her sibling on the journey. She eventually set up a hermitage near the Black Sea, living as a desert monastic. On this day she died at the far-too-young age of 27 in the year 1027 CE.
Saint Paraskeva is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that we cause confusion in people when we hear the words of Jesus say one thing, but live our civil lives doing the opposite.
Let those with ears to hear, hear.
-historical bits from public sources and Illes, Daily Magic.
Today I would propose that the church, and the world, remember a modern tragedy that is still all too relevant today: St. Matthew Shepherd, Son, Martyr, and Hate Crime Victim.
Matthew was born in Casper, Wyoming, and was known as a friendly kid interested in politics and theater. After moving around with his family, he eventually landed at the University of Wyoming in the town of Laramie as a Poli-Sci major. He was raised Episcopalian, and his father noted that Matthew had a knack for relating to most anyone he met, but especially those who felt like they didn’t belong.
Here is where I would usually write about what happened to Matthew, but in typing out the incident that led to his death I found myself unable to continue because it was so terrible, horrifying, and graphic.
And it made me think of my own two babies. My heart breaks for his parents, his whole family, still.
On October 6th Matthew was offered a ride by two men at the Fireside Lounge in Laramie. He left with them and, instead of going home, they robbed him, beat him, and left him tied to a fence in freezing temperatures. He was found the next day, comatose, and died in the hospital on October 12th.
The two men, and their girlfriends, were brought up on charges of first degree murder and accessory after the fact. Though their testimonies became convoluted, it was noted that they pretended to be gay to lure Matthew, and then killed him motivated by prejudice, homophobia, and hatred.
When I woke up on this morning last year, I woke up to headlines indicating that the head coach of the Las Vegas Raiders, Jon Gruden, resigned due to leaked emails containing misogynistic, homophobic, and racist statements. Statements from years of emails.
Just this last year it came to light that North Carolina’s Lt. Governor, in a SERMON, called homosexual and transgender people “filth.”
He’ll run for governor next cycle.
We remember St. Matthew, martyr, on this day, because the evil that moved in the hearts of people to kill him that night still move today.
It’s literally in the headlines.
And we need to call it out when we see it and hear it.
Today the church honors St. Philip the Evangelist, not to be confused with Philip the Apostle…or any of the other nine hundred Philips in the ancient world. Seriously, it’s like they were short on names…
Philip was one of the Greek speaking disciples chosen in Acts 6 to distribute food to the widows and the poor in Jerusalem. This was the first organized ministry we have recorded by the ancient church, and note that it wasn’t planning a Harvest Festival, Rally Day, or a Christmas Bazaar.
It was feeding people.
Philip would go on to preach the gospel in Samaria, where Simon the Magician was said to be converted by him. It’s worth explaining that “Magician” in the ancient world probably meant “Sorcerer,” which is pretty cool if you think about it.
St. Philip would be the one to break down barriers in the church when he encountered the Ethiopian eunuch on the road and helped him make sense of the scriptures. This important Ethiopian was a sexual minority, and I think it’s important on National Coming Out Day (here in the United States) to honor the fact that St. Philip in the First Century welcomed a sexual minority in the church through baptism.
If only the modern church would emulate St. Philip.
Well, actually, it’d be best if the modern church would emulate the Ethiopian, wrestle with the scriptures, and ask to be converted.
St. Philip was also known to have four daughters who were called prophets in the early church. They hosted St. Paul on his journeys, and it is thought that he ended his ministry life preaching and baptizing in Asia Minor.
St. Philip is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that the organized faith has a long tradition of welcoming and affirming humans from all walks of life. St. Philip, when entertaining the possibility of withholding the sacrament of baptism from the Ethiopian, received pushback from the traveler, saying, “There is water here. What is preventing you?”
What prevents us from extending the accepting grace of God to people?
The question remains.
-historical bits from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations
-I love this icon, but cannot find who wrote it. If you can find it, please let me know.
Reluctant Xtian 