As I think about the challenging times and the “signs of the times” in which we live, I have been doing some looking back into years of my own life, to other challenging times and other “signs of the times.” Growing up in West Los Angeles in the 60’s and 70’s I saw some things: the Watts Riots, the years of Vietnam War protests, the hippie movement with its sit ins and “love ins”, and the “oil crises” and years of double-digit inflation.

This past week, I ran across a 2011 article from The New York Times reporting on a study of small town that bore intriguing results. San Pedro Manrique in Spain is known for its annual fire-walking ritual, which draws the entire village and spectator-tourists. Researchers were interested in exploring how people connected around community ceremonies, and whether there were any physical/biological responses to the experience.

In our assigned Psalm for this Sunday, the psalmist prays for God's blessings not just for the people of Israel, but for "all the peoples" and "all the ends of the earth." Like the people in Ukraine, I imagine. Or even closer, Buffalo, New York. The psalmist’s prayer resonates with me as a good prayer, but it also feels like a future so far off that I can’t even begin to imagine how to attain it.

Today, we read about Jesus’ last post-resurrection encounter with his disciples in the Gospel of John, a story that is fondly called, “Breakfast on the Beach.”  I love this story – there is nothing more delightful than imagining the risen Jesus preparing a barbeque on the shore for his tired and hungry friends.

I am still basking in the glow of our Easter Day service, and the joy that flowed between us as we celebrated resurrection and welcomed our newest member into the household of God through the waters of baptism.  Christ is risen indeed!

As we move through Holy Week into the threshold of Easter, I am thinking about a visit I had with an old friend one Lenten day two years ago, right before COVID-19 descended upon us. We had planned to take a walk around the University of Richmond, but right in the middle, it began to rain. So, we sheltered in a covered patio, taking a more stationary pilgrimage than we had intended, sharing instead some of the terrain we had each crossed since our last visit. In the time that had passed between that visit and this one, we both had lost marriages and buried loved ones, all before their time.

As we arrive at Palm Sunday and Holy Week, I have been reflecting on what it means to be a member of a faith tradition that follows a teacher who literally laid down his life in the name of justice and peace for all people. I’m not big on sacrificial theories of atonement that regard Jesus’ death on the cross as some cosmic transaction that wiped away our sins, but I do buy into the concept that through Jesus, God entered our human lives to show us just how far love is willing to go to make things right.

This year’s Lenten series on “Creation Care” is having a big impact on me, in ways I had not expected. Maybe it is all that we’ve got going on in our world, but I feel more connected to everything and everyone than I ever have, not to only the humans whose lives have been disrupted and dislocated through a two-year pandemic and now a horrible war in Europe, but to the plants, animals and elements whose very existence is at threat due to drastic changes in climate. Our discussions on Wednesday evening are reminding me how easy it to distance ourselves from the sources of water, food, energy, shelter, and clothing that are essential to survival.

In our reading from Psalm 27 for today, the questions, “Whom shall I fear? Of whom shall I be afraid?” have a particular resonance, as we grieve the Russian invasion of Ukraine and the toll it is taking on millions of people, even as we mourn the loss of loved ones in our own community.

By now most of you know that the word “Lent” is derived from the old English word lencton, meaning ‘spring.' It is is not only a reference to the season before Easter, but also an invitation to a springtime of the soul. In the words of Barbara Brown Taylor, “Forty days to cleanse the system and open the eyes to what remains when all comfort is gone.

This past week, as I was busy preparing reports for our Annual Meeting, I was reminded just how far we have come in the past year, and at the same time, how many times we had to shift gears, in fits and starts, to arrive where we are. And what struck me the was the creativity, energy, and teamwork that has been born from this time of pandemic and constant change, along with a new way of visioning possibilities for our beloved community.

This Sunday in church, we will be hearing some of Jesus’ most challenging teachings from his “Sermon on the Plain” in the Gospel of Luke.

“Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”

This Sunday we will hear the great Epiphany story of Jesus turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana of Galilee in order to keep the party going. This is one of my favorite miracle stories in the gospels, not only because Jesus was egged on by his mother to save a family from the embarrassment of running out of wine, but because I’m able to preside at so many weddings myself – which is among the greatest joys of my ministry at St. John’s.

This year, the season of Christmas has beckoned me to see and do things very differently as I’ve tried my best to keep the long-loved traditions kept by my family and our church community. Shared meals, gift giving, cookie making, once so spontaneous and free flowing, have been preceded by COVID rapid tests and no small amounts of anxiety. Our Christmas church services, a time when we open our doors and fill our pews, have required extra care and caution to seat people at a distance and keep them safe.