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