I knew it must be getting close to time to get up but I was cold, tired and very grouchy.
It was about 1985, during the counter-revolutionary and Sandinista war in Nicaragua. My husband and I were serving as missionaries with an ecumenical development agency, CEPAD, and one of my roles was to care for groups of church folk from the US coming to see for themselves what was going on. This group’s plan was to experience coffee picking.
We had arrived to this mountain farm the previous evening, just in time to sit with the regular workers and eat dinner together. After dinner, we went with them to get settled for the night. We were taken to a big old wooden barn that had been converted into a bunk house by building giant shelving along both of the long sides of the barn. Each bunk was about 4 feet wide, 4 feet high and 6 feet long. Bunks were stacked four high. There were no beds, just wooden shelves and we had not come well enough prepared. Still, we passed around the blankets and sheets we did have and each sought out a shelf to sleep on.
I ended up with just a sheet, and this mountain area was much colder than the hot sea level city I lived in. All night long, I tossed and turned, pulled the sheet tighter, then rearranged it over and over, all the while whining to myself about how miserable I felt.
It was still quite dark when I heard a guitar beginning to play quietly, and then a voice began to sing. I peeled open my eyes and saw a small light up at the very top of the barn. One of the Nicaraguans had gone to the top shelf, reached out and hung a hammock from the middle of the roof. From that hammock a lovely voice was calling us into a new day, a day to work together, a day to pick coffee instead of picking up guns.
In another moment lights began to flicker on all around the barn. I could hear people moving around and whispering greetings to one another. In that light the barn changed. It became a home for a people working together. That light led me from feeling sorry for myself, to being part of a community of hope. I was still cold and tired but I could get up and rejoice in a new day.
In Spanish, one of the most common ways to say “give birth” is “dar a luz” or give to light. I’m sure that Mary did not sleep much that night as she labored in a barn to give her baby to the light; her baby that would be light for us all, a light that changes everything. Thank you Mary, may we follow in your pathway and give others to the light of your baby.
The Rev. Dr. Lyda Pierce serves as a United Methodist missionary for Hispanic/ Latino Ministry Development in the Pacific Northwest Annual Conference.
A spiritual mentor gifted me the book, “Soul Sisters” by Edwina Gateley, poetry inspired by the surprising women who show up in scripture. This book is one of the few physical gifts from my ordination that continues to bless me in its probing invitation to experience God through the perspective of dear ones on the margins.
Both Brian McLaren and Edwina Gateley shine the spotlight on the surprising people who show up in Jesus’ genealogy. McLaren takes special note of the bold women, low-ranked shepherds, and the impoverished in Jesus’s story while the poetry from “Soul Sisters” highlights the messiness and even violence present in the lives of marginalized people.
Who are the marginal people in our communities today? Who are those crossing boundaries that define them as stranger, “receiver of hand-outs” and “needy?” I try to imagine labels—“refugee,” “alien,” “immigrant,” “foreigner,”—and how they might feel when said about me. I let the uneasiness creep in and the discomfort fill me. On a deeper level, I am transported to personal experiences my family has endured as strangers in a new land. I notice the anger at how my parents were treated and if I stay with these emotions long enough, I also notice gratitude. I notice those who crossed boundaries with us.
It is in these moments where I steady myself in the promise of the One who accompanied my migrant family and continues to accompany landless masses, half a world away or right outside on my sidewalk. The hope present in Mary’s story is that she, and all who are “othered” with her—are called “highly favored one” by God.
Who else in your life and community are pushing through, fleeing violence, clutching their babies, “to feed the Son of God?” May we be bold like all the surprising people in Jesus’ life who, through daily acts of courage and deep faith in God, feed, clothe, and raise the incarnate of God in our midst.
Rev. Shalom Agtarap serves as Associate Director of Innovation for a New Church and as a member of the Greater Northwest Area’s Innovation Vitality Team.
How many of us have a nativity scene or crèche decorating our home this Advent?
Nativities include some powerful symbols in this season of waiting, even outside of the Christ child (that incidentally should be absent until Christmas!).
The shepherds are a powerful reminder of those who are looked down upon as they were the first to see and worship the incarnation of God.
Mary, God’s chosen one, is an unwed, pregnant teenager of all people.
We often see animals that are clean and happy in nativity scenes, but I wonder if we lose some of the message of Christmas (and in fact the message Jesus himself brings to us as Emmanuel/”God with us”) if we keep our holy season completely sanitized. Does the season speak to the world today as richly when we don’t realize the importance of keeping Herod in our awareness during Advent and Christmas.
There was darkness in the world that first Christmas, and there is certainly darkness in our world today. Just as innocents were slaughtered by Herod, we have innocents who have been slaughtered in places of worship, in stores and in schools. We don’t have to look any further than the daily news to see the darkness in our world. Herod is THE symbol of our messed up world ruled by fear and violence.
Will we acquiesce, become cynical or depressed, or will we look for another way? Mary’s song, the Magnificat, foreshadows how the rulers of the darkness will be brought down and how her son will lift us up! The message Jesus brings is a call for us to be people of love and hope in a world of fear and violence; to be people who can attest to the light that cannot be overcome by darkness; to be a people of healing and life in a world of death and disease.
In this CrossOver year, where there is anxiety in our United Methodist system, my prayer is that we don’t forget about the darkness in our world, but it ought not be our sole focus either. What if we were to actually “cross over” from an existence ruled by anxious reactions to the darkness in our world to one in which we can thoughtfully and faithfully respond, guided by the peace and grace of Christ?
There is another way … a way that leads to life.
May we follow that more excellent way, this Advent and always.
Rev. Gregg Sealey serves as Superintendent for the Inland Missional District in the Pacific Northwest Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church. He is the current dean of the PNW Cabinet and is a trained and certified Professional Co-Active Coach.
The Bible tells us of the challenges faced by Sarah and Elizabeth in their efforts to conceive a child. The way women of their time established their validity and self-esteem was to have a child and they could not do so. Their time had passed, and they had no hope!
The impossible happened: They conceived and gave birth. Luke also shares another conception story—the miracle of Mary and the Virgin birth.
The Impossible Happens: Three women prevail against all the forces of nature and science which are arrayed against these powerful women.
This devotion brought back memories of Elizabeth Korn, my art history professor at a college, decades ago. She was a Jew living in Germany with her scientist husband in the face of Nazi persecution. She was headed to the Death Camps. She fled in the dark of night to Norway and ultimately arrived in the United States.
Her life was impossible: She had lost everything. She told me the only thing she had left was her education and her talent as an artist. She moved into a third floor walk-up flat in Hoboken, New Jersey and took a job teaching as an instructor at my alma mater. She was a gifted teacher and an inspiration in the classroom. She took me to New York and to every museum and instilled in me a love of art which greatly impacted my life. At the same time, she became an American citizen and helped defeat a corrupt political boss in the city where she resided.
The impossible happens: Today’s headlines reveal many stories of women and their children who, like Professor Korn, face incredible challenges as immigrants to our wonderful country. Perhaps we should help make the impossible happen so they, and their children, can find a safe haven in our land.
Llewellyn Pritchard is a lay member of Lake Washington United Methodist Church in Kirkland, Washington. He also is the long-serving chancellor for the Pacific Northwest Conference of The United Methodist Church.
“His clothes were as white as snow.
… And flames were all around its wheels.
A river of fire was flowing. It was coming out in front of God.
A worldwide flood with only two of each type of animal surviving?
A burning bush not consumed by flame?
A sea parting so a people can escape slavery?
Early missionaries to Alaska met a people used to hearing tales of feats by the shamans making these Bible stories easy to believe. The locals had heard of shamans’ interstellar travels or of their experiences changing into spirit animals.
Ever wonder how the concept of a Promised Land might sound to an indigenous person hearing a missionary expound promises of a life eternal? Then to hear that same promise followed by an uncertainty of when that fulfillment might happen?
What might be our response today to stories we deem hard to believe? Do the stories in the Bible challenge our faith; do the stories seem impossible?
Rev. Charles Brower is an Inupiaq serving Nome’s Community United Methodist Church. Social justice, homelessness, and high poverty challenge this mission church.
Photo Credit: “parting the red sea” by amboo who? , CC BY-SA 2.0.
You know this, but I’ll say it anyway. Culture is always emerging.
You get what that means, right? That the world and ways around you are always shifting — always innovating. The introduction of new things and new methods continues to happen every moment of every day, whether or not we are willing to embrace it. The larger question lies in how we choose to respond. Do we welcome the uncomfortableness of the new or do we double down with a comfortable existence in the world?
Am I allowing this shift to happen in me? Always for the good? Always letting go of the old me in order to make room for the new, less comfortable me? I have to be honest with you for a moment: Every morning, I wake and have to check myself because it feels like the ground beneath my feet continues to shift. I feel compelled to regularly address the question: Who am I?
How do I allow myself to be undone and recreated by the grace of God? There’s enormous value in the process of unlearning my cultural identity as an American Christian and relearning what it means to be a follower of a rogue revolutionary, un-American, Middle Eastern-born person of color, represented in Jesus the Christ. Secondly, how does my personal undoing become a part of a corporate rebirth — shifting from individual to community?
I am always drawn to Matthew’s telling of the Sermon on the Mount, which you can read in chapters five through the beginning of seven in the Gospel of Matthew. There, you have this 30-something newcomer, sitting on a hillside near the Sea of Galilee, with disciples, followers, and the curious gathered around. Among people who have been shaped for generations under the Law of Moses, Jesus calls into question everything that had defined their perspective of the world. He basically said in varying ways, “You have heard the law that says _______________. But now I say _______________.” Jesus was rewriting the Torah on the fly! Surely people were reflecting (maybe even out loud), “Who does this guy think he is?” Can you imagine the internal struggle going on within those listening to Jesus? He called into question their cultural formation and challenged them to see the world — including the “other” — through a new lens. The lens of Christ.
This unlearning and relearning process can be painful, but it is a necessary part of spiritual growth and re-formation. It inescapably remains at the core of what it means to be a follower of Jesus. And if the statement “culture is always emerging” is true (and it is), then how are you I emerging as part of the Body of Christ within the neighborhood, community, region, nation, and world? How are our individual actions creating space for a fresh, communal voice to rise up above the bombastic noise we (and others) are hearing?
As we move toward a CrossOver Year in the Greater Northwest Area, beginning this Advent season, these questions could never be more important than they are now.
Shift happens. While making room for others, how will you respond in the midst of it and cross over to life? A new season is dawning. Let’s make the road by walking into the new.
Rev. Dr. William D. Gibson serves as Director of Innovation for a New Church for the Greater Northwest Episcopal Area including the Alaska, Oregon-Idaho and Pacific Northwest Annual Conferences.
The Rapanut grandkids having a light moment together before we drove to the airport.
My mother passed away earlier this month. And while she had not fully recovered from the stroke she suffered almost two years ago, her death was sudden and completely unexpected. The last time I talked to her, she was full of life and happy to report that she was making good progress in learning to walk again. That was three weeks before she died. Phone and internet lines had gone down after the devastation of Typhoon Mangkhut, preventing us from making wi-fi calls. Perhaps I should have tried harder to find other means to connect. It’s too late now.
No matter how hard we prepare ourselves and our loved ones for it, death still comes with an impact that shakes us to the very core. We who are left behind are left to pick up the pieces from the life that has ended while dealing with the void created in our own lives and the deep sense of loss.
I have been on the phone with my Papa Joe more frequently these past few weeks after Mama’s passing. I’ve been on the phone with my brother Noel almost everyday since we got back from the Philippines for Mama’s funeral. This is something we’ve not done as much as we would like to since my family and I moved to Alaska almost 10 years ago. Even in death, Mama has her way of keeping her family close and connected as she did when she was alive. We are supporting each other in our grief. We are crying together, and laughing together as we remember our beloved Mama Rhona. We are journeying together and figuring things and details out as we go. We are “making the road by walking” and we are trusting that God is walking with us.
To honor the mathematician that Mama was, we came up with an epitaph that describes her life in mathematical terms: “a finite life lived in infinite grace.” As we make the road by walking, we pray that this road be one that would honor her memory, keep alive her legacy and ultimately glorify God.
What about you, dear friend? What shifts or changes, great or small, are you, your family, your group or your community going through right now, throwing your life into a complete tailspin and causing you to lose hope and sense of grounding? Is a way forward yet unknown? Is the road ahead yet unseen? How can I journey with you so that together, we might make the road by walking? And more importantly, how can we together trust that God is journeying with us, even as we walk through the valley of life’s deep and dark shadows?
Let’s talk. Let’s journey with God. And together, let’s make the road by walking.
To the one who first taught me how to walk, physically and spiritually, and I know walks with me still.
Rev. Carlo Rapanut serves as Conference Superintendent for the Alaska Conference of The United Methodist Church.