Faithful Conversations #154

“The past teaches us that the role of memory in identity formation is profound. Remembering who we really are is a sacred act. Histories are never objective, are always complicated, and are most often contested. We don’t have to look beyond our own families to know how often people respond to another’s memories with, “Well, that’s not how I remember it happening.” Both truths sit beside each other. Though memory is always haunted by the possibility of forgetting, it is the very act of remembering that fortifies our identity and reminds us who we are.” (Jennifer T. Kaalund)

Jennifer Kaalund’s words feel like an apt doorway into this final entry of a three‑year experiment. When I began walking through Years A, B, and C of the Revised Common Lectionary in February of 2023, it was simply a way to understand the weekly rhythm of readings more deeply. I didn’t know where it would lead. But staying open — to scholars and pastors, to poets and historians, to voices outside my own tradition — became its own kind of spiritual practice. Week by week, I found myself learning from perspectives I hadn’t expected and discovering how wide the conversation of faith really is.

So what have I learned? Many things, of course. But one truth rises to the surface as I close this chapter: our faith is rooted in history, and through Scripture we are in conversation with people across centuries. Their memories, their questions, their hopes still meet us in the text. And it is our responsibility to remain rooted in those memories and to carry them forward with care. Christianity emerged from the deep roots of Judaism, yet it also opened a profoundly liberating moment in human history. That tension — continuity and newness, memory and transformation — remains compelling to me as a historian. When we stay open, history doesn’t confine us. It grounds us, enriches us, and sometimes even sets us free. As I get ready to turn the page and move this blog into its next season, one truth stays with me: remembering who we are matters, and it’s something we do side by side.

Second, in the past 36 months, I have realized over and over again that knowledge of the Bible is an infinite process. A metaphor: let’s imagine Lake Superior represents the full understanding of God’s Word. Now picture me walking around with a small pail of water — that is what I know!

And one other thing. I remain convinced that we have much work to do as a society in how we experience the news of our world day to day — this feels like a recurring theme for me. I have spent my adult life trying to figure this out and how to relay it to students. The intersection of our spiritual lives with the complexities of our world remains a challenge, one that I suspect we share with our Christian ancestors across time. In that regard, let me point you to a terrific meditation I stumbled on this week from a woman named Peggy Haslar. I commend it to your reading this week — I linked it here.

The opening excerpt is from Jennifer T. Kaalund’s article from The Christian Century, 4 December 2025. I have since read several other pieces from her — a terrific scholar and writer.

Commemorations This Week

Thanks for visiting this space again this week and for your participation in this experiment! And let’s try to wrap our heads around this: By the time you may be reading this, Ash Wednesday is two weeks away! Hard to believe!

We have three commemorations on the ELCA calendar this week: The Presentation of Our Lord on Monday (2 February), Ansgar, Bishop of Hamburg, missionary to Denmark and Sweden on Tuesday (3 February), and the Martyrs of Japan on Thursday (5 February). Ansgar is of particular interest to me owing to the fact that my father’s name was Thorwald Ansgar and his rough attempts to “say” his middle name as a child (“Unksgar”) led to his nickname (“Unk”). My grandfather, also Thor, named his son for the Nordic pagan god and the Bishop who later Christianized Norway (go figure), something that always brought a good laugh from Unk. As they say, “you can’t make it up!” Oh, these ancestors of mine . . . .

Note: I include a few links within the blog — italicized and bolded — for further information on various topics.

Changes Coming Soon With the Lectionary Blog!

This week’s post wraps up the three‑year lectionary cycle we started back in February 2023. Beginning with Transfiguration Sunday (15 February), the blog will shift to a simpler design and a new name—Two Worlds—as part of a renewed focus on digital ministry and easier online engagement. Since I’m discontinuing the mailing list, you’ll need to subscribe directly through WordPress to keep receiving posts at no cost: enter your email near the bottom of the page, confirm the message WordPress sends, and you’re set. If the confirmation email goes missing, check your spam folder, and remember you can adjust your settings anytime through the “Manage Subscription” link. And for anyone on the old mailing list who runs into trouble, just send me a note — I can add you manually. If you go or stay, thanks again for your participation!

Luther’s Approach to Reading the Bible — Give it a try!

Readings for 5 Epiphany

Focus: The First Reading (Isaiah) and the Gospel (Matthew)

Reflection: “Living the Story We Inherit”

We find ourselves back on that hillside this week, listening again to the young teacher whose ministry is already turning heads. Matthew wants us to see more than a gifted preacher; he wants us to hear the deep echoes of Israel’s story in Jesus’ words. Remember, he’s writing for a predominantly Jewish‑Christian community — people who know their Scriptures, people who carry the weight of their history. It’s no accident that Matthew nods to Isaiah again and again. Scholars point out that he quotes Isaiah explicitly eight times and alludes to him far more. Matthew is stitching Jesus’ ministry directly into the prophetic fabric his audience already trusts. And that audience, most likely hearing this Gospel sometime around 80–90 CE, is still living in the long shadow of Rome’s destruction of the Temple in 70 CE. They know what it feels like to have their world shaken by a foreign oppressor. They know what it means to wonder how faith survives when the center of worship has been torn down. Into that landscape, Matthew brings Isaiah’s voice back to life — and lets Jesus carry it forward.

That’s why Isaiah 58 and Matthew 5 sit so naturally together. Both insist that faith has to look like something in the real world. Isaiah pushes hard against any version of religion that stays tucked safely inside the sanctuary. He says light breaks forth when people loosen the chains around others, share what they have, and repair what’s broken. Jesus picks up that same thread in Matthew 5. He tells his followers that they become salt and light when their lives actually reflect God’s justice and mercy — not by tossing out the Law and the Prophets, but by living them more deeply. It’s a word we need right now, when public life feels frayed and trust runs thin. Isaiah and Jesus both remind us that the world still hungers for people whose everyday choices — how they speak, give, vote, work, and show up — help others see a little more clearly and breathe a little easier. In a moment when many feel unmoored, these texts call us back to the simple, steady practices that reveal God’s character in ordinary life. They invite us to become the kind of people whose faith doesn’t just shine in worship but spills out into the world in ways that heal, restore, and illuminate. May we walk in that light.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Musical Meditation: “O Emmanuel”

“O Emmanuel” by Andrej Makor is one of those newer choral works that somehow feels ancient and immediate at the same time. The text comes from the final O Antiphon, part of that centuries‑old sequence of Advent prayers the church sings from December 17–23—each one naming Christ with a different title and carrying its own kind of longing. Makor, a Slovenian composer born in 1987, has a real gift for taking these old liturgical roots and opening them up with fresh harmonic color. He starts with the simple chant for “O Emmanuel,” then slowly lets it bloom into layered harmonies that the hope of Advent. And, yes, we are in the season of Epiphany and this is Advent focused, but it speaks powerfully to our time!

Prayer: Resisting Fearful Questions (Nouwen)

“The agenda of our world – the issues and items that fill newspapers and newscasts – is an agenda of fear and power. It is amazing, yes frightening, to see how easily that agenda becomes ours. The things and people we think about, worry about, reflect upon, prepare ourselves for, and spend time and energy on are in large part determined by a world which seduces us into accepting its fearful questions…. A huge network of anxious questions surrounds us and begins to guide many, if not most of our daily decisions. Clearly, those who can pose those fearful questions which bind us within, have true power over us….”

Some people just know how to write, and Henri Nouwen was one of them. I’ve quoted him dozens of times in this blog over the past three years because he had a way of naming the inner life with clarity and grace. Though he died in 1996, his voice still feels uncannily tuned to the struggles and hopes of our own moment. Nouwen reminds us that honesty, vulnerability, and compassion never go out of style—they’re the language the soul still understands. The quote offered above showed up in my inbox on Sunday. Let it sink in and guide your prayers this week.

Faithful Conversation Updates

Faithful Conversations #153

“We live in a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants, in a world that has achieved brilliance without wisdom, power without conscience. We have solved the mystery of the atom and forgotten the lessons of the Sermon on the Mount. We know more about war than we know about peace, more about dying than we know about living.” (Omar N. Bradley)

Omar Bradley’s words stopped me in my tracks this week as I dug into the Sermon on the Mount. His climb from poverty to West Point’s famed Class of 1915 is striking, but what grips me even more is this: those who knew war best — Bradley, Eisenhower, and countless veterans I’ve spoken with (including both my father and son) — never romanticized it. They approached conflict with steady, unvarnished realism, treating it as a grim duty rather than a platform for ego, and they carried the weight of their comrades’ lives with humility and moral gravity. Ike’s Farewell Address drives that truth home with unmistakable force.

Bradley’s spiritual background is striking. His early faith formation in the Stone–Campbell tradition, rooted in the Second Great Awakening, shaped his outlook even though he apparently showed little overt religious practice later in life. Growing up in small Church of Christ and Christian Church congregations, he absorbed a faith grounded in simplicity, integrity, and personal responsibility. Those early convictions — especially humility and the value of every human life — quietly guided his leadership and surfaced in the way he bore the burdens of command. His nod to the Sermon on the Mount reflects that deep moral grounding.

Upcoming Commemorations

Thanks for visiting this space again this week and for your ongoing interest in exploring the Lectionary! There are several commemorations included in our church calendar in the days ahead: missionaries Timothy, Titus and Silas on 25 January, Lydia, Dorcas, and Phoebe — witnesses to the faith — on 26 January, and teacher Thomas Aquinas who died on 28 January in 1274. Lydia, Dorcas, and Phoebe offer a clear glimpse into how the early church grew through the faith and leadership of everyday women. Lydia, the first recorded convert in Europe, opened her home in Philippi, creating a gathering place for believers. Dorcas, known for her steady compassion in Joppa, cared for widows and became so cherished that her death moved the whole community. Phoebe, a deacon from Cenchreae, carried Paul’s letter to the Romans and served as both patron and teacher. Together they show the gospel taking root through generosity, service, and the quiet strength of women woven into the life of the early church.

St. Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) is best known for the Summa Theologiae, his clear and comprehensive effort to bring Christian faith and classical philosophy into a coherent whole. Born into a noble family in 13th‑century Italy, he surprised his relatives by joining the Dominican order, choosing a life of study, preaching, and disciplined simplicity over the political and ecclesial power expected of him. He argued that faith and reason ultimately work together, giving the church a way to think that is both intellectually serious and spiritually grounded.

Note: I include a few links within the blog — italicized and bolded — for further information on various topics.

Changes Coming Soon With the Lectionary Blog!

This week’s post is the penultimate entry in the three‑year lectionary cycle we began together in February of 2023, and it comes with a quick update about what’s ahead. Beginning with Transfiguration Sunday (15 February), the blog will take on a simpler design and a new name — Two Worlds — as part of a renewed commitment to digital ministry and more intentional use of online tools for learning, reflection, and future offerings (I have been transitioning to the new name already). Because I am discontinuing the mailing list, you will need to subscribe directly through WordPress to keep receiving new posts at no cost: enter your email in the subscription box near the bottom, confirm the message WordPress sends, and you’ll receive updates automatically. If the confirmation email doesn’t appear, check your spam folder, and remember that you can manage your subscription anytime through the “Manage Subscription” link at the bottom of any email. One other note: Those who have been on the mailing list and are having trouble with the subscription process, feel free to email me because I am able to add subscribers manually on my end.

Try Luther’s Approach to Reading Again This Week!

Readings for 4 Epiphany

Focus Readings: Micah and Matthew

Reflection: The Mountain Where Everything Shifts

The readings for 4 Epiphany speak to one another with surprising clarity. Even without turning to Micah, that familiar line from 6:8 frames the Sermon on the Mount with unmistakable force: do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with your God. And every time I sit with this text (and many others), I feel that familiar hesitation: What can I possibly add? Few passages expose my limits like this one. The Sermon on the Mount sits at the center of Christian imagination, and every generation has returned to it for guidance, challenge, and hope.

First, some context. Matthew places this moment at a decisive turning point. Jesus has just begun his ministry in Galilee — teaching, healing, gathering disciples. Crowds are swelling. Expectations are rising. Before anything grows larger, Jesus climbs the mountain and lays out the heart of his message. Matthew presents this as Jesus’ authoritative teaching, the roadmap for life in God’s reign. (Sidebar: Mark offers nothing like it, and Luke’s Sermon on the Plain is shorter and sharper). Matthew casts Jesus as a new Moses, ascending the mountain to speak God’s will with clarity and compassion. Before the miracles, before the parables, before the conflicts, Jesus opens a window into the Kingdom of Heaven. (An interesting note here about the Brueghel painting — the artist clearly imagines this moment within the context of 16th Century Europe!)

Then come those beatitudes. They are not commands or moral checklists. They are declarations — bold, often unsettling announcements about where God’s blessing actually rests. Jesus names the people the world overlooks and calls them blessed. That alone disrupts our assumptions. But he goes further: he overturns the entire value system we take for granted. Power, wealth, status, and self‑sufficiency do not define the good life in God’s kingdom. Instead, Jesus blesses those who know their need, those who grieve, those who hunger for justice, those who practice mercy, those who make peace. The first beatitude always stops me. “Poor in spirit” often gets softened into a vague spiritual humility, but Matthew — and the world Jesus inhabited — pushes us toward something far more concrete. New Testament scholar Warren Carter describes the “poor in spirit” as “people who are materially poor and whose spirits are crushed by economic injustice, deprivation of resources, and few options.” Their poverty reaches into every corner of their lives — financial, emotional, social, existential. Their capacity to hope has been worn thin. (Sidebar: It is striking, isn’t it, that many in the Christian community argue for a placement of the Ten Commandments in public spaces, including school classrooms, yet I have never heard the same passion for placing the Beatitudes in public spaces, but I digress!)

My life in the classroom often meant encountering students who fit that description. And in recent weeks, I’ve met several people in our community who are homeless — navigating cold nights, scarce resources, and systems that seem designed to drain them. Carter’s words describe them exactly. If Jesus calls such people blessed, then our response cannot remain theoretical. How do we stand with those whose lives reflect the very conditions Jesus names? How do we resist the temptation to spiritualize his words and instead let them reshape our priorities, our compassion, our advocacy, our generosity? To be “poor in spirit” is a condition Jesus sees with powerful empathy and urgency. And if the kingdom belongs to such as these, then our calling becomes unmistakable: recognize their dignity, listen to their stories, meet immediate needs when we can, and work for a world where fewer spirits are crushed by injustice.

So, let us return to that hillside and sit with our Christian ancestors, listening to the young man whose emergence we are witnessing—what is he saying to us in 2026? In our lectionary gathering on Sunday, Pastor Jen emphasized that within the ELCA, our view is that the Kingdom of God is already present among us. If that is true — and I believe it is — then these blessings are not abstract ideals. They are invitations. They call us to align our lives with God’s priorities, to stand with the people Jesus names, and to participate — actively, courageously –in the world God is bringing to life right now.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Note: Once again, this week, I drew from Warren Carter’s commentary on this passage (1 February 2026), accessed through Working Preacher (Luther Seminary). Carter is a New Testament professor in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Musical Meditation: “This is My Father’s World“

Maltbie Davenport Babcock (1858–1901), a Presbyterian pastor known for his love of nature, often took long walks near his home in Lockport, New York, telling his wife he was going out “to see my Father’s world.” Those walks inspired a sixteen‑stanza poem he titled My Father’s World, published only after his unexpected death in 1901 (the lyrics provided below represent only a portion of the poem and are included in the ELW, page 824). It may be that the poem was inspired as he looked out over Lake Ontario. His friend Franklin L. Sheppard later selected several stanzas and set them to an English folk melody his mother had taught him, creating the tune now known as Terra Beata. The hymn first appeared in a 1915 Presbyterian Sunday school hymnal and quickly became a staple of American worship. Its enduring appeal lies in Babcock’s blend of wonder, trust, and the conviction that creation itself sings of God’s presence. The jazz interpretation of the hymn offered here is by a jazz pianist name Euiju Cheong, also known as Jazz Jane. Enjoy — and may I suggest listening with headphones if available!

Prayer for Balance (Nouwen)

Within the three-year lectionary cycle, I have referenced Henri Nouwen, I suspect, dozens of times. Though he departed this earth twenty years ago, his writings live on. This one comes from a recent Daily Meditation I received from the Nouwen Society and speaks to our present moment — how do we navigate the intersection of faith and politics, especially in a polarized moment?

“Receptivity and confrontation are the two inseparable sides of Christian witness. They have to remain in careful balance. Receptivity without confrontation leads to a bland neutrality that serves nobody. Confrontation without receptivity leads to an oppressive aggression, which hurts everybody. This balance between receptivity and confrontation is found at different points, depending upon our individual position in life. But in every life situation, we not only have to receive, but also to confront.“

Heavenly Father,
You see the fractures that run through our world and through our communities.
Teach us the hard balance Nouwen names—hearts open enough to receive one another, and courage strong enough to confront what harms or divides. Keep us from the neutrality that avoids truth and from confrontation without love. Shape us into people who bridge divides without losing the center of our faith, so that our witness reflects the grace and truth of Christ, in whose name we pray. Amen.

Faithful Conversation Updates

Faithful Conversations #152

“Imagination is hearing the silence because we have heard some of the sounds . . . Our imagination to see the past as it actually was has to return to the past in its own present, with all the possibilities of its future still in it, with all its uncertainties . . .” (Greg Dening)

The call of those first disciples has always pulled at my imagination. Matthew gives us only a few spare words — “Follow me” — and leaves the rest in silence, offering no glimpse of what these fishermen thought or said as their lives abruptly tilted in a new direction. What conversations rose in those homes and workplaces as they tried to make sense of such a sudden call? In a 1996 keynote address titled Empowering Imaginations, Greg Dening argued that such silences for historians are never empty; they open a doorway into a world not our own. Matthew wrote for readers who already understood the force of Jesus’ call, the grind of daily labor, and the deep hunger for something more. When we attend to these silences, we begin to see the disciples as real people stepping into an uncertain future, not characters locked into a script. Their quick response becomes a moment charged with courage and possibility — an invitation to listen for the unspoken depths in our own stories of calling. More on both the Isaiah and Matthew passages in my reflections below.

Commemorations this Week

Thanks for visiting this space again this week and for your continuted interest in exploring the Lectionary! Three commemorations shape the ELCA calendar this week: Henry of Uppsala on January 19, Agnes of Rome on January 21, and the Conversion of Paul on January 25. St. Agnes’s story strikes with particular force. A young Christian of noble birth, she faced the brutal persecutions of Emperor Diocletian around 304, refusing powerful suitors and standing firm in her faith even when it meant death. Her unwavering witness as a virgin martyr lifted her into the heart of Christian memory, where communities across the world still honor her each January 21.

Sunday also is the end of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity.

Note: I include a few links within the blog — italicized and bolded — for further information on various topics.

Also, Dr. Dening’s speech, Empowering Imaginations, was offered at the eleventh Pacific History Association conference at Hilo, Hawaii, 12 July 1996. I accessed this through Scholar Space.

Upcoming Changes With the Lectionary Blog!

Beginning with Transfiguration Sunday (15 February), the blog will have a cleaner, simpler design and a new name—Two Worlds—as part of a renewed commitment to digital ministry and more intentional use of online tools for learning, reflection, and future offerings. Because I am discontinuing the mailing list, you will need to subscribe directly through WordPress to keep receiving new posts (no cost): simply enter your email in the subscription box, confirm the email message WordPress sends, and you will receive updates each time I post. If you do not receive the Confirmation Email, check your spam folder. Also, you can manage your subscription anytime through the “Manage Subscription” link at the bottom right.

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Readings for 3 Epiphany

Focus Reading: Matthew 4: 12-23

Reflection: “Trusting the Light: Jesus in the Borderlands“

Reading the Bible is always humbling and this week’s passages from Isaiah and Matthew remind me of that old adage — “the more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know!” Here’s a framework to help us better understand these texts. Matthew anchors Jesus’ early ministry in Israel’s long memory, drawing directly on Isaiah to speak to a community shaped by loss and empire. Writing after 70 CE, with Rome’s destruction of the Second Temple still fresh, he invokes the Assyrian crisis of Isaiah’s time and places it directly alongside Rome’s rule — a parallel his audience would have grasped immediately. He places Jesus in Zebulun and Naphtali — the same borderlands Isaiah once named — now again under foreign rule, and marks Jesus’ move there after John’s death as the moment his public ministry begins. In that charged landscape, ordinary workers drop their nets at his call, stepping into a future defined not by fear but by trust. Matthew insists we read Christ’s move into these covenant‑rich lands through Isaiah’s vision. By citing Isaiah 9, he locates Jesus within the same story in which God’s light breaks into Assyrian darkness (echoing Isaiah 9:2). He casts Rome as a new Assyria and presents Jesus as the one who fulfills Isaiah’s promise that God’s saving light will cut through imperial shadow. Every act Jesus performs in Galilee embodies Isaiah’s hope for deliverance breaking into a land long held down by foreign power.

In her compelling commentary on these texts, Pastor Christine Chakoian offers this reflection on history: “It is faithful to live in the present, ‘in the day that the Lord has made’ (Psalm 118:24). But that does not mean forgetting the past. Remembering it provides for a more faithful life now — even when the past is painful to recall.” Yes, humanity’s history is filled with pain, and it is tempting to forget, to deny, to sanitize. We do that at our own peril, however. As Christians, we need clear vision and clear thinking, something our faith provides — we need perspective. Again, quoting from Pastor Chakoian, “What would it look like for our generation to learn from the past? What would it tell us about the present? Even more, how would it lead us to change the trajectory of the future, looking to the kingdom of heaven — the template of God’s will? Maybe it starts where Jesus did: recognizing the lowest ranking in society, both for the value they bring and the burden they carry.” Wise words to ponder on a cold winter day, my friends.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Note: I drew from two sources for this reflection and am indebted to these theologians for prompting my thinking:

Warren Carter’s 2017 commentary on Matthew accessed through Working Preacher (Luther Seminary). Carter is a New Testament professor in Tulsa, Oklahoma. And Christine Chakoian’s analysis of both the Isaiah and Matthew passages from January edition of The Christian Century. Chakoian is pastor of Westwood Presbyterian Church in Los Angeles.

Musical Meditation: “Sure on This Shining Night” (Lauridsen)

James Agee’s 1934 poem Sure on This Shining Night, especially in the remarkable musical setting by Morten Lauridsen (b. 1943), resonates deeply with the Epiphany season. Epiphany is the church’s meditation on light revealed in the midst of human need, and Agee’s poem holds that same tension between shadow and radiant light. Its plea for kindness and healing mirrors the Gospel stories of Jesus’ early ministry, where divine presence becomes visible in acts of compassion. This interpretation by the Nordic Choir of Luther College is from 2015 — enjoy a few peaceful moments this week with their amazing rendition!

Prayer for the Children of Ukraine

The Russo-Ukrainian War began in February of 2022, nearly four years ago! To put that in perspective, the war has now been raging longer than US involvement in World War II! Among other things, Russia’s invasion has included a systematic effort to remove Ukrainian children from their families, communities, and cultural identity. Investigations by the Yale Humanitarian Research Lab and other international bodies document that more than 19,000 children have been forcibly taken to Russia or Russian‑controlled territories, where many are placed in “re‑education” programs, adoption pipelines, or facilities designed to sever their connection to Ukrainian language and heritage (the number may be much higher than that). We offer this prayer on their behalf this week.

God of justice and mercy, we cry out for the children of Ukraine, whose lives have been torn apart by war and by those who seek to erase their identity. Stand between them and every force that threatens their safety, their heritage, and their hope. Break the grip of those who have taken them, and strengthen all who work to protect, shelter, and reunite them. Surround these children with people who act with courage and tenderness, and let Your light cut through every shadow that tries to claim them. Hold them fast in the truth that they are not forgotten by their families, by the world, or by You. Amen.

Faithful Conversation Updates

Faithful Conversations #151

“In Niebuhr’s view, we all worship something. A simple way to figure out what we worship is to ask: Where do we find our sense of meaning? That which gives our lives deeper meaning is that which we worship. If we do not worship God — if we do not seek and find our purpose in relationship with our Creator — we seek meaning in an endless array of other things. Political causes, charismatic people, or even one’s own ego could become an object of worship.”

(Jeremy L. Sabella, An American Conscience: The Reinhold Niebuhr Story).

“What are you looking for?” Jesus’ question to Andrew and Peter in this week’s Gospel reading from John cuts straight through our defenses. It echoes Reinhold Niebuhr’s insight, as described by Jeremy L. Sabella, that human beings are inherently religious — not because we all gather in sanctuaries, but because we all hand our devotion to something. Whatever shapes our trust, fuels our desire, or anchors our identity becomes, in Niebuhr’s terms, the object of our worship.

I’ve suggested before that our spiritual malaise grows when we move our deepest trust away from a shared spiritual center and toward substitutes—our politics, our work, our purchases, our online personas, or the circles we join to feel like we belong. These forces don’t just compete for our attention; they form us, claim us, and often harden us. None of this is new, but in 2026 the pull feels unusually fierce, as if the very atmosphere is charged with rival altars calling for our loyalty.

Commemorations this Week

There are three commemorations on the ELCA calendar this week. Thursday 15 January: Martin Luther King, Jr., renewer of society and martyr; Saturday 17 January: Antony of Egypt (c. 356), renewer of the church; and Sunday 18 January, Confession of Peter (Apostolic Festival).

Sunday is also the beginning of the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. Some quick history: The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity began in 1908, when Episcopal priest Fr. Paul Wattson proposed an eight‑day period of prayer from January 18–25, linking the Confession of St. Peter to the Conversion of St. Paul as a symbolic frame for Christian reconciliation. In the 1930s, Abbé Paul Couturier broadened the vision, encouraging Christians to pray not for unity on any one group’s terms but for “the unity Christ wills.” This more inclusive approach helped the observance spread across traditions. Since 1968, materials for the week have been prepared jointly by the World Council of Churches and the Vatican, marking a major step in global ecumenical cooperation. Today, communities around the world join in this annual rhythm of prayer, seeking healing and deeper unity in the Body of Christ.

Note: I include a few links within the blog — italicized, bolded, and underlined — for further information on various topics.

Update Regarding the Lectionary Blog!

With 5 Epiphany (8 February), we complete the three‑year Revised Common Lectionary cycle that began in 2023 as an offshoot of an Introduction to Bible Study course — an experiment that has grown to more than 150 posts. Beginning with Transfiguration Sunday (15 February), the blog will take on a cleaner, simpler look as I experiment with layout and design to make it easier to read and navigate — I’m also transitioning to a new name — Two Worlds. This refresh reflects a renewed focus on digital ministry and a more intentional use of online tools for learning, reflection, and future Bible studies.

And, a REMINDER on this change: I will no longer use a mailing list. To continue receiving new posts, please subscribe directly to the blog (at no cost). After entering your email, WordPress will send a verification link to confirm your subscription. You’ll find a subscribe block at the bottom of the blog, along with a pop‑up option in the lower right corner. If you already subscribe through WordPress, you’re all set—no need to sign up again.

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Readings for 2 Epiphany

Focus Reading from John 1 (Gospel)

Reflection: Jesus’ First Question

The Gospel reading this week brings us into the early days of Jesus’ ministry, but John’s Gospel asks us to see those days through a different lens. (Sidebar: Several people I have talked to recently indicate to me that John is their favorite of the four Gospels, and I concur). Unlike Matthew, Mark, and Luke — written earlier and shaped by communities still close to the first generation of believers — John’s Gospel comes from a later moment in the church’s life. Most scholars place it near the end of the first century. By then, the Christian movement had weathered decades of tension with local synagogue communities, the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple, and the growing challenge of defining its identity in a changing world. John reads less like a straightforward narrative and more like a deep meditation. Its purpose is not simply to recount events but to reveal who Jesus is and what his presence means. It invites readers to see with new eyes, to enter a relationship rather than memorize a timeline.

Before reaching this week’s passage, John has already laid a rich foundation. The Gospel opens with that sweeping prologue: “In the beginning was the Word…” Jesus is placed at the center of creation itself. Then John the Baptist appears — not as the Messiah, but as a witness. His whole mission is to point beyond himself. Religious leaders question him, but he stays focused: prepare the way. By the time we reach verse 29, the anticipation is rising. The true Light has stepped into the world, and John is ready to direct others toward him.

Today’s reading moves with purpose. Those of you that have been consistent blog readers know that I’m fascinated with “moments” from scripture, especially turning points — add this one to the list. (Sidebar: The painting included here depicts the moment Jesus calls Andrew and Peter, from Matthew’s Gospel, but I’m including it here because it depicts the three main characters). John sees Jesus and names him “the Lamb of God.” Two of John’s disciples (Andrew and Peter) hear this and begin to follow Jesus. Then Jesus turns, and we hear his first words in this Gospel: “What are you looking for?” In Greek, the question is even sharper: “What are you seeking?” It’s a simple question, but profoundly important. Jesus doesn’t begin with a command or a teaching. He begins with desire. He asks them to name what they long for. That question still reaches us. In this season after Epiphany—a season of light, clarity, and revelation — it feels especially urgent. What are we seeking as individuals? What are we seeking as communities? What do we need as a nation? What does our world hunger for right now?

The two disciples don’t offer a polished answer. They don’t ask for a miracle or a lesson. They simply say, “Where are you staying?” On the surface, it sounds like a practical question. But underneath it lies a deeper longing: Where can we remain with you? Where can we dwell in God’s presence? They want to stay close enough to see who Jesus truly is. Jesus responds with an invitation: “Come and see.” Discipleship begins there—not with certainty, but with movement. Not with perfect understanding, but with a willingness to stay close.

So Jesus’ question returns to us: What am I seeking? Do I seek peace? Healing? Purpose? Belonging?
Do I seek a way of living that feels honest and hopeful? Do I seek a place where God feels near? In this Time After Epiphany, we are reminded that God’s light still breaks in. Jesus’ question helps us name our longing. And his invitation — “Come and see”—opens the path forward. Good words for a cold December day.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Note: I am indebted to Audry West, distinguished associate professor of New Testament at Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, and project administrator of Moravian Clergy Connections, for her interpretation of this passage. Accessed from Working Preacher at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, MN. 11 January 2026.

Musical Meditation: “Blackbird” (Paul McCartney)

How many of you recall the Beatles coming to America in 1964 and appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show? (an early memory for me!). Released in November of 1968, Paul McCartney has said that Blackbird was his quiet response to the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. (the prior April) and the wider civil‑rights struggle unfolding in the United States in 1968 (including the Little Rock Nine episode). The image of a blackbird learning to “fly” became his way of encouraging Black Americans — especially Black women — who were facing discrimination and violence. He wrote the song as a message of hope in a moment of national grief, wanting to offer comfort after King’s death and to affirm the courage of those continuing the fight for justice. The song has been covered by multiple artists. The one I’m sharing here is from a concert by the Harvard Opportunes in December of 2025, and is a remarkable rendition! Enjoy!

Prayer Reflection: Renewers of Society (ELW)

Have you ever wondered about the connection between MLK and Martin Luther? Here’s the backstory. Martin Luther King Jr.’s spiritual life was rooted in the Black Baptist tradition he inherited from his father, yet it grew into a global moral vision shaped by scripture, nonviolence, and a profound sense of divine calling. Born Michael King Jr., he received the name Martin Luther after his father — deeply moved by a 1934 trip to Germany and the legacy of the Reformation — changed both their names, a shift that symbolically linked the young preacher to a long line of reformers who challenged injustice. MLK’s official name change occurred in on 23 July 1957. The general prayers for renewers of the church prayer are found on page 60 of the ELW.

Let us pray: Holy and righteous God, you created us in your image. Grant us grace to contend fearlessly against evil and to make no peace with oppression. Help us, like your servant Martin Luther King, Jr., to work for justice among people and nations, to the glory of your name, through Jesus Christ our Savior and Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

Two Sources:
Taylor Branch. Parting the Waters: America in the King Years 1954-63.
The National Museum of African-American History, Washington, D.C.

Faithful Conversation Updates

Faithful Conversations #150

“There are a few times in life when you leap up and the past that you’d been standing on falls away behind you, and the future you mean to land on is not yet in place…”
(Ann Patchett)

This week’s Gospel and Second Reading prompt thinking about thresholds we cross in life. Most of us can recall those quiet or sudden shifts when the ground beneath us gives way, and only later do we realize how sharply life divided into a before and an after. Fiction writer Ann Patchett, in her 2019 novel The Dutch House, captures this with striking clarity — we often step into new terrain without recognizing its weight until much later. The vivid scenes in Matthew 3 and Acts 10 unfold in just this way. At the Jordan, Jesus enters the waters of baptism and rises into the fullness of his public calling as the Beloved Son. In Caesarea, the Roman centurion Cornelius receives a vision that will open the gospel to the Gentile world and redirect the early church. Both narratives remind us that God often meets us at these crossings. More on that in my reflections.

Important Update on the Blog!

With 5 Epiphany (8 February), we complete the three‑year Revised Common Lectionary cycle that began in 2023 as an offshoot of an Introduction to Bible Study course—an experiment that has grown into more than 150 posts. Thank you for reading and making this part of your weekly rhythm. Beginning with Transfiguration Sunday (15 February), the blog will turn the page. I will still be following the RCL, but with a cleaner, simpler look. Over the next month I’ll be experimenting with the layout and trying out a few ideas to make it easier to read and navigate. This shift reflects a renewed focus on digital ministry and more intentional use of online tools for learning and reflection. The blog can also serve as a hub for future Bible studies and adult education.

One key change: I will no longer use a mailing list. To keep receiving new posts, please subscribe directly to the blog (no cost). After you enter your email, WordPress will send a verification link; clicking it confirms your subscription and prevents spam sign‑ups. You will find a subscribe block at the bottom of the blog and a pop-up subscribe application in the lower right also. I encourage you to go ahead and do that now, if you wish to continue receiving the blog.

** If you are already a subscriber through WordPress, no need to redo that process!

A Simple Strategy for Reading

Readings for The Baptism of Our Lord

Focus Readings from Matthew and Acts

Reflection: “Where the River Meets the Doorway”

Two stories, two encounters that change everything. This Sunday we stand at a threshold where Scripture shows God expanding what we imagine is possible. In Matthew 3, Jesus steps into the Jordan and receives his divine affirmation and calling. In Acts 10, Peter crosses the doorway of a Roman centurion’s home and discovers that the Spirit has already gone before him.These moments are separated by roughly a decade and by miles of geography — from the wilderness of Judea to the coastal city of Caesarea — yet they share the same disruptive grace. What began at the river now breaks open in the household of a Gentile officer, revealing a God who keeps pushing the early church beyond its inherited lines and into a wider, more surprising future.

Jesus’ baptism happens around the year 28 or 29 CE at Bethany beyond the Jordan — Al‑Maghtas — the wilderness site where he steps into the water and into the public ministry that will reshape the world. By the time Peter stands in Caesarea, entering the home of Cornelius, we are roughly a decade later — early to mid‑40s CE — and the Jesus movement has spread north from Jerusalem into Judea, Samaria, and the coastal regions. Peter is no longer the fisherman from Galilee; he now leads a rapidly growing and increasingly diverse community of believers. Then Cornelius enters the story — a Roman officer, a Gentile, and a representative of the very empire that executed Jesus — already guided by a vision to send for Peter. His household becomes the unlikely setting for a major turning point in Christian history. Here Peter delivers one of the earliest and clearest summaries of the Gospel. And when he steps across that threshold and sees the Spirit poured out on Gentiles, the early church learns that God’s promise is not confined by ethnicity, purity codes, or inherited boundaries. This moment doesn’t just widen the circle; it redraws the map of who belongs.

These two moments — one at the river, one at a Roman household — offer lessons that still press on the church today. First, they remind us that God often begins new work long before we recognize it, inviting us to step into movements of grace already unfolding around us. Second, they challenge us to cross our own thresholds of fear, habit, or inherited boundary, trusting that the Spirit is at work in people and places we might never have expected. These are not just ancient stories; they are invitations to discern where God is calling us to move next!

Soli Deo Gloria!

Musical Meditation: The Only Son from Heaven

Elisabeth Cruciger (born von Meseritz) came from a Polish noble family. When persecution forced her parents to flee to Wittenberg, she settled there as well and married Caspar Cruciger in 1524. Caspar, the son of a Leipzig townsman, began studying in Wittenberg in 1522 and quickly became one of Martin Luther’s closest and most promising students—Luther even treated him like a son. Caspar later served as Rector of St. John’s School and preacher at St. Stephen’s Church in Magdeburg, and in 1528 he joined the Wittenberg faculty as a professor of theology at Luther’s urging.

Out of this same Wittenberg circle came Elisabeth’s hymn The Only Son from Heaven, the earliest known Lutheran hymn written by a woman. It appeared in 1524 in the Erfurt Enchiridion, one of the first evangelical hymnals, where it was the only hymn by a female author. After leaving her convent, Cruciger entered Luther’s household community, where close contact with the reformers shaped her theological voice. Sung to the tune HERR CHRIST, DER EINIG GOTTS SOHN, the hymn has endured for five centuries and remains in use across Christian traditions (ELW 309). The version I included is in German and replicates how the hymn may have originally sounded.

Note: This information was drawn from the Hymnary.Org website, 3 January 2026.

Lyrics (ELW)

1 The only Son from heaven,
foretold by ancient seers,
by God the Father given,
in human form appears.
No sphere His light confining,
no star so brightly shining
as He, our Morning Star.

2 O time of God appointed,
O bright and holy morn!
He comes, the King anointed,
the Christ, the virgin-born;
grim death to vanquish for us,
to open heav’n before us,
and bring us life again.

3 Awaken, Lord, our spirit
to know and love You more,
in faith, to stand unshaken
in spirit, to adore;
that we, through this world moving,
each glimpse of heaven proving,
may reap its fullness there.

4 O Father, here before You
with God the Holy Ghost,
and Jesus, we adore You,
O pride of angel-host.
Before You mortals lowly
cry, “Holy, holy, holy,
O blessed Trinity!”

This YouTube channel creates electronic interpretations of Medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque music. The producer gathers MIDI files from various sources, edits them, and arranges them into virtual concerts, using digital tools to mimic the sound of early instruments like the shawm, crumhorn, viol, lute, and cornetto. The visuals draw on public‑domain artwork and manuscript images, and a voice‑simulation program supplies the sung texts. The creator continues to refine earlier uploads and occasionally adds new pieces inspired by pre‑1800 musical styles.

Prayer Reflection: Vision of the Future

“Often it is the dark forest that makes us speak about the open field. Frequently prison makes us think about freedom, hunger helps us to appreciate food, and war gives us words for peace. Not seldom are our visions of the future born out of the sufferings of the present and our hope for others out of our own despair. Only few “happy endings” make us happy, but often someone’s careful and honest articulation of the ambiguities, uncertainties and painful conditions of life gives us new hope. The paradox is indeed that new life is born out of the pains of the old.” (Henri Nouwen)

Inspired Prayer:
O God, who meets us in the dark forests of our lives, teach us to trust that the very places of hunger, longing, and uncertainty can open our eyes to freedom, peace, and new possibility.
Give us the courage to speak honestly of our pain and the grace to discover, even there, the quiet beginnings of new life. Amen.

Source: Henri Nouwen Society. Daily Meditation, 3 January 2026.

Faithful Conversation Updates

Faithful Conversations #149

“A thing may be incredible and still be true; sometimes it is incredible because it is true.” ~ Herman Melville

Herman Melville remains my favorite fiction writer, and the aphorism above from his 1849 novel Mardi names a hard truth: we often turn away from what is real simply because it unsettles us. That insight still lands with force. Scholars often cast Melville as a man locked in a fierce struggle with Christian faith — unable to claim it fully, yet unable to release it. Many of us know that tension. Melville read the King James Bible with care, and its rhythms pulse through his novels, essays, and poems. Once you start listening for them, those biblical echoes become part of the pleasure of reading him. His mix of honesty, restlessness, and reverence keeps drawing me back. He refuses to let us settle. He urges us to look again. As we move through the Christmas season — its beauty, its strangeness, its long and layered history — we meet stories that still stretch our imaginations: a virgin birth, the incarnation, angels breaking open the night, a star pulling foreign seekers across deserts. It’s no surprise that many outside the Christian story view these claims with skepticism. Yet these exciting mysteries invite us to consider how truth can rise beyond what we think possible.

Update: Our Lectionary Journey

Since February of 2023, we have explored the church calendar, and I appreciate your ongoing interest in the Revised Common Lectionary (RCL)! One surprising discovery in preparing this post: the earliest Christians apparently didn’t celebrate Christmas. Their worship centered on Easter and the Resurrection, the heartbeat of their faith. The first observance of Jesus’ birth actually lived inside Epiphany — a single feast that once held his birth, the Magi’s visit, and his baptism together. Only in the fourth century, as Christianity gained legal standing in the Roman Empire, did Christmas emerge on December 25. Over time, shaped especially by German and northern European traditions, our modern holiday took on the form we now assume is ancient, though much of it isn’t. You can feel that older rhythm in the Twelve Days of Christmas, a pattern reaching back to the Council of Tours in 567 CE, when the church crafted a calendar to help believers linger with the mystery of Christ’s birth. These days carry us toward Epiphany, rooted in the Greek epiphaneia—appearance, manifestation, revelation. Historians might call it the moment when the hidden becomes visible; the church calls it a season when God’s presence breaks through in unexpected, life‑altering ways. From the Magi’s long journey to Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan, Epiphany invites us to revisit familiar stories and discover that they still have something new to reveal. I will explore that further in my reflections.

Finally, here’s a calendar consideration for this week. Across many Christian traditions, January 1 marks the commemoration of the Name of Jesus, historically tied to the eighth day after his birth, when—according to Luke—he was circumcised and formally given the name “Jesus.” This name, announced by the angel before his conception, means “Yahweh is salvation.” If inclined, here’s some further history on that commemoration.

A Simple Strategy for Reading

2 Christmas and Epiphany Readings

Focus Reading: John 1: 1-18

Reflection: “The God Who Pitches a Tent Among Us“

Our faith, like history, never stands still. As a historian, I’ve learned that the stories we inherit keep unfolding each time we return to them, shaped by the questions we carry and the lives we’ve lived since our last encounter. That’s why the historian’s craft has always felt so close to the work of the church for me: we revisit these texts, turn them in the light, and let them speak with fresh force. The Revised Common Lectionary gives us that rhythm. Its three‑year cycle brings familiar passages back until they feel like old friends — steady companions who still manage to surprise us. And Christmas, perhaps more than any season, reveals how layered those surprises can be. As Pastor Jen reminded us on Christmas Eve, joy and ache often sit side by side—memories that warm us, memories that unsettle us, nostalgia for a church that once felt different, or quiet questions about what we believe.

The Christmas story familiar to us derives from Matthew and Luke — Mark and John do not include it. John begins his Gospel not with a manger or a genealogy but with a prologue that feels like stepping into eternity. (Sidebar: I often find it helpful to read these passages aloud — and that is certainly the case with John’s prologue!). Before shepherds, before angels, before Bethlehem, John takes us to the beginning— “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.” Clearly, John is echoing the creation accounts from Genesis — note this language: “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light.” I can almost hear the voice of Spock from Star Trek here — fascinating!

And then, in one breathtaking line, he brings that cosmic sweep down to earth: “And the Word became flesh and lived among us.” *The Greek verb translated “lived” is skenóō—literally, pitched his tent. John wants us to imagine God not as distant or abstract but as someone who moves into the neighborhood and chooses to dwell right in the middle of our ordinary, fragile lives. It’s an astonishing claim. The incarnation stretches our imaginations to the breaking point, yet our faith is grounded in it. Luther once said that if we actually saw the raw majesty of God, it would terrify us—crush us. That’s why Christ took on our humanity. God comes to us in a form we can bear, a presence we can approach, a face we can recognize. The tent is pitched not on some distant mountaintop but here, among us. And that makes John’s next observation all the more heartbreaking: “He came to his own, and his own did not accept him.” The NRSVue notes an alternate translation: “He came to his own home.” Christ came home — and home rejected him. Imagine the grief of that.

In her commentary on this text in The Christian Century, writer and Yale Divinity student Mindy Misener presses into this theme of rejection. She reminds us that the longing for home runs deep in Scripture and deep in human experience. Most of us, she writes, lose at least one home in our lifetime—sometimes gently, as time reshapes a place we once knew; sometimes violently, as homes are swept away by disaster, war, or the decisions of people far removed from the suffering they cause. Such losses, she notes, are nothing short of traumatic.

John tells us that Christ came home and was turned away. Yet that rejection did not stop him from making a home in this world, revealing God’s glory in the very place that resisted him. And many did receive him. John lingers on that word—receive—a physical verb before it becomes a theological one. The first disciples welcomed him not only with belief but with their lives, their tables, their presence. They said, in countless practical ways, welcome home. As Misener asserts, It’s tempting to let “home” drift into metaphor, but the child stumbling out of a bomb‑blasted city does not need a metaphor. She needs a home. And John’s prologue suggests that receiving Christ always pushes us toward making room for others—real people, real bodies, real dwellings.

So what lessons rise from this passage? Misener’s insight helps us see at least three, each one pressing into the heart of the Gospel. First, God knows the ache of homelessness—Christ himself steps into it. He enters a world that does not always make room for him, carrying in his own story the dislocation so many of us know. Second, God’s response to that ache is not abstraction but incarnation. The Word does not hover above human suffering; he pitches his tent among us, choosing proximity over distance, presence over detachment, solidarity over safety. And third, God invites us to embody that same nearness. To receive Christ is to create space where others can belong, to offer shelter where the world has offered none, to practice welcome in ways as concrete as the needs before us — meals shared, doors opened, dignity restored, homes rebuilt.

Soli deo Gloria!

* This reference is drawn from Pastor Elisabeth Johnson’s commentary on this text in Working Preacher from 2 January 2022. She does a beautiful job of explaining this text!

** I am indebted to Mindy Misener for this interpretation. Her article appears in the January 2026 issue of The Christian Century. She offers an interpretation of the Epiphany texts as well.

Musical Meditation: Of the Father’s Love Begotten

No hymn captures the opening sweep of John’s Gospel quite like Of the Father’s Love Begotten. Its roots reach all the way back to the 4th century, when the poet Prudentius wrote it as a way of expressing the same mystery John names in his prologue — the eternal Word through whom all things came to be. It’s a natural fit for this week’s Gospel reading — a companion to John’s vision, reminding us that the child in the manger is the One “begotten before all worlds.” In its simplicity and depth, the hymn invites us to stand with John in wonder as eternity steps into time. The version I’m sharing here offers its own distinctive interpretation of this old treasure. In the ELW, you’ll find it at #295. And, by the way, the poem originally had nine verses — the ones you see here are typically used in modern versions.

Of the Father’s love begotten,
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the source, the ending He,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see,
Evermore and evermore!

He is found in human fashion,
Death and sorrow here to know,
That the race of Adam’s children
Doomed by law to endless woe,
May not henceforth die and perish
In the dreadful gulf below,
Evermore and evermore!

O ye heights of heaven adore Him;
Angel hosts, His praises sing;
Powers, dominions, bow before Him,
And extol our God and King!
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Every voice in concert sing,
Evermore and evermore!

Christ, to Thee with God the Father,
And, O Holy Ghost, to Thee,
Hymn and chant with high thanksgiving,
And unwearied praises be:
Honor, glory, and dominion,
And eternal victory,
Evermore and evermore!

ChurchFolk is a folk‑influenced worship collective that grew out of College Church in Wheaton, a historic congregation long intertwined with the Wheaton College community. Its members include musicians from the church’s staff and congregation.

Prayer Reflection: New Year’s Eve

Eternal God, you have placed us in a world of space and time, and through the events of our lives you bless us with your love. Grant that in the new year we may know your presence, see your love at work, and live in the light of the event that gives us joy forever — the coming of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

Source: ELW. Lesser Festivals, Commemorations, and Occasions (2006). page 63.

Faithful Conversation Updates

Faithful Conversations #145

“When we suffer from amnesia, every form of serious authority for faith is in question, and we live unauthorized lives of faith and practice unauthorized ministries.” (Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination)

Spurred by Pope Leo’s recent travels, Creeds have been on my mind this week. In the rush of headlines—and our constant focus on domestic politics—most Americans overlook international stories. Yet Pope Leo XIV’s visit to Turkey this week — his first international trip as Pope — drew attention back to the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. On November 28, he joined Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew I and other Christian leaders in Iznik (ancient Nicaea) for an ecumenical prayer service at the ruins of the Basilica of Saint Neophytos, where the Nicene Creed was recited as a sign of unity. The Pope urged Christians to overcome “the scandal of divisions” and called for dialogue across faiths. Just days earlier, on November 23, he issued an apostolic letter, In Unitate Fidei (“In the Unity of Faith”), underscoring the enduring power of the Creed to unite Catholics, Orthodox, and Protestants. His visit blended historical commemoration with a broader appeal for reconciliation and peace. Imagine if we focused more attention on stories such as these!

So, a reminder regarding creeds. In our Lectionary discussion last Sunday, we touched on the difference between creedal and non-creedal churches. Creedal traditions — i.e. Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, Anglican, Lutheran, Presbyterian — formally affirm and often recite the Apostles’, Nicene, and Athanasian Creeds as authoritative summaries of faith, preserving unity with the ancient church (sidebar: In the ELCA, we say the Apostles’ Creed often, and the Nicene Creed occasionally. I cannot recall ever reciting the Athanasian Creed during worship, but that is a topic for another day). Non-creedal churches, by contrast, reject binding creeds, insisting on Sola Scriptura (“Scripture alone”) and often relying on local statements of faith. Many Baptist, non-denominational, and Restorationist congregations embody this stance, wary of elevating human words above God’s Word. Lutherans, however, have always been shaped by creeds. From the Reformation onward, Luther and his followers held fast to the three aforementioned creeds, while also writing their own confessions — like the Augsburg Confession and Luther’s Catechisms — later gathered in the Book of Concord. These creeds and confessions gave Lutherans a shared voice, safeguarded core truths about God and Christ, and distinguished them from both Catholicism and non-creedal movements. Walter Brueggemann’s opening warning rings true here. As Lutherans, we use creeds to resist amnesia, keeping memory alive and connecting us with generations of saints before us. History, yes, is important.

Thanks for your continuing interest in studying the Bible and exploring the Revised Common Lectionary! Following up from last week, my reflections will focus on the Isaiah passage. I’m also including a unique interpretation of a familiar Advent hymn, a prayer from Pope Leo XIV, and the second excerpt of an interview with Pastor Jen regarding her trip to Malawi.

NOTES REGARDING SOURCING:

** Note 1: Links to outside references are bolded and italicized and are meant for further reading or research on your part. While the text I am including in the blog is my own, I am pulling from a multitude of sites for ideas and connections.

** Note 2: In my increasing use of A.I. (Copilot), I will cite sourcing of how I am using the tool, if necessary. I don’t want that to be overly cumbersome, but I am gradually incorporating more tools.

** Note 3: The images I include in the blog are drawn from Wikimedia Commons to the fullest extent possible.

Common Themes Among the Readings

A Strategy for Reading

Focus Passage: Isaiah 11:1-10

Reflections: Prophecy in Context, Promise for Today

Isaiah’s voice rings out again in Year A of the lectionary, and one can almost hear the thunder in his words: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” He is speaking into the late 8th century BCE, a time when Judah was caught between empires and living under the shadow of Assyrian domination. The northern kingdom of Israel had already fallen to Assyria in 722 BCE, and Judah itself was vulnerable, its people anxious about survival and the future of David’s royal line. Into this moment of fear and uncertainty, Isaiah proclaimed hope: that from the “stump” of Jesse — the family line of David — new life would emerge. For Isaiah’s first hearers, this was not a distant messianic dream, but a promise tied to their own history, a vision of King Hezekiah whose reign brought reform, renewed trust in God, and a measure of peace even in the face of overwhelming threat. (Sidebar: Everything didn’t go well for Hezekiah. After recovering from an illness, King Hezekiah proudly showed Babylonian envoys all the treasures of his palace and armory. The prophet Isaiah rebuked him, warning that this display of wealth would lead to Judah’s riches and even his descendants being carried off into exile. This story, found in 2 Kings 20:12–19 and Isaiah 39:1–8, highlights the danger of pride and misplaced trust in human powers rather than in God).

Fast forward several centuries. First generation Christians (many of whom were raised within Judaism) heard these words from Isaiah differently. They did so because their world had been reshaped by the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, which reframed ancient promises in light of a Messiah who had already come rather than one still awaited. As Christians, we cannot help but hear these words through the lens of Jesus, the one who embodies wisdom, justice, and peace in ways that surpass any earthly king. Yet we must pause and honor how Jewish hearers would not have seen Jesus here; their longing was for deliverance in their own time, not centuries later. For them, Isaiah’s vision resonated with hopes for national restoration and relief from oppression, not the inauguration of a new covenant. That tension reminds us that prophecy is always heard in context, and that God’s word speaks differently across generations. In our own day, these same words continue to meet us in fresh ways — sometimes as a call to justice in our communities, sometimes as comfort in seasons of loss, and sometimes as a reminder that God’s promises are larger than any single moment. Prophecy, then, is not a static prediction but a living word.

And so, what is the takeaway for those of us in the Christian community today? Isaiah’s vision is not just about a ruler, but about a transformed world. For his original audience, the images of wolves lying with lambs and children playing safely near wild animals were not fanciful but deeply symbolic: they represented the end of violence, the undoing of fear, and the restoration of creation to harmony under God’s reign. In a society where survival often depended on strength and where predators were a constant threat, these pictures of peace would have sounded almost unimaginable — a radical reversal of the way things were. For Christians, the imagery points us toward Christ, who breaks down hostility and calls us into a kingdom where reconciliation is possible. In our own fractured time, Isaiah’s vision invites us to imagine what life could be if God’s justice truly reigned — a peace that defies division, a hope that steadies us, and a call to bring this hope to those we meet along the path.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Note: I am indebted to Cory Driver of Miami University in Ohio for his interpretation of this passage from 2022, accessed from the Working Preacher website, sponsored by Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota. You can read his essay here.

We will explore this passage further in our Sunday Lectionary group using the discussion questions included in the Faithful Conversations update below.

Advent Hymn: Come Thou Long Expected Jesus

Charles Wesley, principal founder of Methodism, wrote Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus in 1744, moved by both Scripture and the social needs he witnessed in England. Drawing on passages like Haggai 2:7, he framed Christ as the “dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart,” capturing the universal hope for a Savior. The hymn was first published in Hymns for the Nativity of Our Lord and later gained wider recognition when Charles Spurgeon quoted it in a Christmas sermon in 1855. Over time, it became a beloved Advent hymn across denominations. Its enduring power lies in its dual focus: remembering Christ’s birth in Bethlehem while anticipating His future reign, making it both a prayer of longing and a declaration of hope. (Hymn 254, ELW). Enjoy this unique version from Celtic Worship — feel free to sing along!

Prayer Reflection from Pope Leo XIV

Holy Spirit of God, you guide believers along the path of history. We thank you for inspiring the Symbols of Faith and for stirring in our hearts the joy of professing our salvation in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, consubstantial with the Father. Without him, we can do nothing. Eternal Spirit of God, rejuvenate the faith of the Church from age to age. Help us to deepen it and to return always to the essentials in order to proclaim it. So that our witness in the world may not be futile, come, Holy Spirit, with your fire of grace, to revive our faith, to enkindle us with hope, to inflame us with charity. Come, divine Comforter, source of harmony, unite the hearts and minds of believers. Come and grant us to taste the beauty of communion. Come, Love of the Father and the Son, gather us into the one flock of Christ. Show us the ways to follow, so that with your wisdom, we become once again what we are in Christ: one, so that the world may believe. Amen.

Excerpt from Pope Leo’s Apostolic Letter, In Unitate Fidei, commemorating the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea, November 2025. I included a link to the full letter in my introduction this week.

Faithful Conversation Updates

Reflections On Malawi: Part 2

Since 1999, the Northwest Synod of Wisconsin and the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Malawi have been companions in ministry. Recently, several NW Synod representatives, including Pastor Jen Hatleli and Patti Whitworth from ELC, traveled there and met with many of our partners in the region. During Advent, I am posting excerpts from my interview with her about the trip. In our second exchange, she comments on how worship in Malawi challenged or deepened her understanding of faith.