This little light of mine

Light has sprung up for the righteous, and joyful gladness for those who are truehearted. Psalm 97:12

Today, the Church remembers St. Ninian, bishop of Galloway.

Trained in Rome and inspired by St. Martin of Tours, Ninian left home to share the Gospel with people who had never heard it.

He built the Candida Casa—the “White House” of Whithorn—as a center of Christian worship. His story reminds us that evangelism begins in obedience to God’s call, even when the task seems daunting.

No one ever promised it would be easy, especially in difficult times such as we find ourselves now.

But just imagine if we weren’t overwhelmed by the enormity of the big picture, and focused instead on what we might do to make the world a bit better in our own limited sphere of influence.

Let us pray that, like Ninian, we can be bearers of light in dark places, not necessarily by traveling to distant lands, but by embodying Christ’s love in our daily lives—through kindness, truth, and courage.

Special Notice: My new podcast debuts one week from today, on September 23. The Wonder Files can be found wherever podcasts are published. Check it out and offer your feedback to wonderfiles01@gmail.com

Saluting fidelity

On September 9, 1878, an Episcopal nun named Constance died in Memphis, Tennessee.

Years later, she and a small cohort of similarly devoted people of faith would be lifted up as saints of the church.

The group is often described as Constance and Her Companions, or the Martyrs of Memphis.

When yellow fever swept through Memphis, many others fled the city in fear. But Constance, a nun of the Sisters of St. Mary, and her companions (Thecla, Ruth, Frances, Charles Parsons, and Louis Schuyler) remained to serve the sick, bury the dead, and comfort the orphaned.

Sister Constance declared, “It is a privilege to minister to the sick, and we are not afraid to die.

Her words were not bravado, but a quiet testimony of love stronger than fear.

Their lives are reminders that holiness is often found not in grand gestures, but in daily faithfulness, staying when others leave, serving when others retreat, loving when others despair.

The story of Constance and her companions is not only a page of history. It is also a summons:

When crisis comes, when fear tempts me to flee, may I pause long enough to heed Christ’s call to remain in love, and serve.

Footnote: Yellow fever is a viral disease spread through mosquito bites. Nowadays, it can be prevented through vaccination, and proper mosquito abatement strategies.

Mark 14:66-72

And [Peter] broke down and wept.

Dear friend,
I’d bet most of us know our own weak spots. Despite bravado that may suggest otherwise, we not only know our weak spot(s), we also may live in fear of being exposed. Heaven forbid that the world see us as we are. One coping skill that many of
us may wield in our own defense is “denial.”

Peter, you’re going to deny me three times before a rooster announces daybreak tomorrow.

Peter’s “no” was emphatic. Not me. I wouldn’t do that. You got this wrong.

But Jesus knew his friend well. He understood that Peter meant what he said about not betraying him. But after the crucifixion, followers hid in fear. “Knows Jesus” was being erased quickly from resumes throughout Jerusalem.
—
We live now in fearful times. We live among those who think separation of church and state is not necessary. Some live in fear they’ll be snatched off a street and, without due process, be locked in some hellhole by dinner.

We’re revisiting battles already won but now being questioned again.

We have federally mobilized troops in our cities.

It’s difficult to just keep going when we fear that we’re not going somewhere good.

It’s a test of faith, isn’t it, whatever our faith might be.

I mean, we have responsibilities for our neighbor—which means we can’t just walk on while they are in danger. Or hungry. Or naked. Or unhoused.

Falling to our knees and weeping may seem an appropriate response to an overwhelming need. But it doesn’t erase the need itself, and it doesn’t get our work done.

So, pardon me while I stand up, brush off my knees, dab my tears with Kleenex. I believe I am late for work.

Matthew 25:31-46
The Lady With The Lamp

Florence Nightingale.
I remember learning about her in elementary school.
She is considered to be the founder of modern nursing, improving survival chances from illness and injury through introduction of and insistence upon sanitation practices.
In her day, nursing was not a revered service. In fact, people usually enrolled in that work were impoverished, sometimes criminal. The elite family from whom Florence sprung not only thought the work beneath someone of their daughter’s station, they also found it to be unsavory.

Societal norms for the time suggested that Florence should marry some nice young man of promise. But that was not Florence’s plan and, in fact, she never married.
As I freshened my memory of her contributions, I am reminded of the exceptional human being she was. As much as, maybe more than, her education, knowledge, and medical accomplishments during the Crimean War, Miss Nightingale should be honored
for so much more. Yes, she was the Lady of the Lamp, walking among her patients at night, checking on their care. But she also should be held high in our esteem for her never-ending and near-ruthless battle with bureaucracy. Perhaps it was her greatest
battle, to improve organizational deficiencies that severely limited access to medical supplies and such necessary personal items as clothing and even toothbrushes. 
She never gave up when the care of her wounded warriors was at stake.
Today, the Church lifts her up for special tribute, and the readings offered are well suited to the purpose, especially the Gospel. In Matthew 25 we are reminded that those tenacious in the care of “the least of these” have a special place in God’s kingdom.
Surely then, we can expect Miss Nightingale to be there.

---

I’ve always had a special place in my heart for nurses, which has much to do with the fact that my mother was a registered nurse.
Time and needs changed, though, and she gave up a profession she dearly loved to raise a family.

But in many ways she was always the nurse, tending to all manner of wounds, lifting
spirits as she went.
She had a knack for knowing the right thing to say to cheer someone on, or to motivate them to get up and try again. I don’t think she properly appreciated her gift, but I witnessed her doing this over and over. Saving lives, really, but without fanfare or
salute.
Like Florence Nightingale, she was a Matthew 25 person, serving “the least of these.”
In doing research for this piece, I just learned that Florence Nightingale lived to age 90,
despite battling poor health, both physical and mental. Weakened in perpetuity by a battlefield disease, many now say she also suffered from bipolar disorder, somehow managing the mood swings amidst helping others.
My mother’s own gifts played out from under a shroud of depression, though recipients of her loving wisdom likely did not know it.
They were wounded  healers, seldom aware of just how far and wide their gifts extend.
An excellent resource: Lytton Strachey, Eminent Victorians: Cardinal Manning, Florence Nightingale, Dr. Arnold, General Gordon. 1918.

Mark 8:22-38
Tree People

Every time I bump into today’s passage from Saint Mark, I encounter a bit of spiritual discomfort.

It’s a familiar account of Jesus using spit and dirt as salve for a blind man’s eyes.

When checking in with the patient, Jesus hears that full healing has not occurred.

“I can see people, but they look like trees, walking, ” the blind man tells Jesus.

This is where discomfort enters.

What is this? An incomplete miracle, requiring further action?
Even though a second “treatment” from Jesus is at hand, I am confused by the need for it. Jesus doesn’t need do-overs. What gives?

But maybe it’s similar for all of us. Maybe it’s why some go to church every Sunday: A maintenance check.

Why some listen to old-time Gospel music in the quiet of their home late at night, and let the tears fall without apology: A much-needed catharthis.

One night years ago I was part of a parking lot service, attempting to offer God’s healing in that place, the site of a recent brutal murder. As we began to sing Amazing Grace, a man lurched from the crowd now gathered. Ragged and dirty from years on the street, his perfect baritone voice joined with ours: “I was blind but now I see.”

I guess that’s how it can be in our relationship with God: Some days, when we’re trying to forge our own way, alone, maybe all we can see are “tree people.”

We need a refueling of the sort that can only come from above, before we can see things as they are.

In defense of Mary Magdalene

An old proverb comes to mind for me today. It is often attributed to the Irish, but also has been credited to Mark Twain. Also, to the American humorist, Will Rogers. Also,  Winston Churchill.

So, while it may be of questioned origin, its abiding truth shouts to us from across the centuries:

Get a reputation as an early riser and you can sleep until noon.

It works in reverse, too. Once saddled with a fabricated story, it’s often the fabricated story that is remembered.

Today, the Church celebrates the monumental contribution of Saint Mary Magdalene. The Apostle to the Apostle. At Jesus’ side. At the cross. At the tomb. In the garden. First to see the risen Jesus. Chosen to break the news to others.

The Bible says Jesus rid her of seven demons, without detail.

What the Bible does not say is that she was a prostitute. That lie about Mary is attributed to Pope Gregory’s sermon in 591AD, as he conflated several women into one person. In doing so, he created an error, which it took years for the Church to correct 

In 2016, Pope Francis elevated her feast day to the same status as that of the male apostles.

Further, it was Francis who bequeathed upon her the honorific, Apostle to the Apostles.

Why is it important to clear up such an old and perpetuated falsehood about Mary Magdalene?

One, simply to set that history straight, that a woman was a principal member, leader even, of Jesus’ A-Team.

Two, the error perpetuated the myth about women, sin, and sexuality.

Three, it obscured the chance to see a female as a strong leader in early Christianity.

So, please. Pass it along: Mary Magdalene was NOT a prostitute.

I wish there was more clarity
Mark 2:1-12

I am not from Missouri, but maybe I should have been. Missouri, if you recall, is the “show me” state, a reference to its people being especially vigilant about the truth.

Perhaps needing more evidence.

Show me.
I, too, require some proof. Especially in this day and age of fake news and AI news and CGI movies and all the liberties taken with facts and factual occurrences.

In Mark‘s gospel today, Jesus tells a paralyzed man that his sins are forgiven.

Some scribes sitting nearby think it an outrageous claim. Anyone could say that, but where’s the proof?

So Jesus decides to offer something big and visible. Rather than just the invisible “forgiving” of sins.

To the paralyzed man he says, get up, take your mat and go.

Show me, the nearby scribes say. Jesus does.

So I wonder. From wherever I am in life’s journey, am I even capable of being grateful to God for the myriad gifts bestowed? Do I even see them all? Or do I overlook them because prayer answers come in some form I’m not expecting? Such as my sins being forgiven versus being able to walk again.

Am I looking for something bigger, better, more provable?

I have to be honest. Yes, at times I’d love the assurance of proof. But instead, I’ve been given the blessing of faith. And, as you may know, it doesn’t always line the path with lights and directional signs.

So every once in a while, in times in which I am more needy, I may falter and wish Jesus could just show me the way, the answer, the next step. Meanwhile, my faith and I will continue the journey, sometimes wishing I could see more clearly, but, in the absence of proof, we carry on.

Psalm 121 and Uncle August
I never met my mother’s uncle, but I heard many colorful stories.

August was my mother’s  mother’s brother, a man of adventure, or so it would seem. His legend endured down through the years, though surely embellished over time.

A professional gambler, let’s just say he did not fit into the rules of his Southern Baptist sister’s home. But he was just so likable, and her kids adored him. So, as long as he didn’t bring up his gambling, no one else did either.

My mother told the story about one early childhood morning when just she and August were at the small kitchen table. She watched as he filed the tips and pads of his fingers.
“I can feel the cards better,” he explained. They were special buddies, so he shared some “trade secrets” with her.

So what does any of this have to do with Psalm 121, one of the psalms offered today? Let’s consider another Uncle August story. It took place during the Great Depression.

A terrible storm had swelled the Rio Grande River in south Texas. Food supply was low at the house and, between having no money and the storm cutting off access routes, the family dinner seemed in jeopardy. His sister said, “August, you go find us some dinner.”

What? he thought.

As he walked along the banks of the Rio Grande, he saw that the river had started to recede. Ahead he noticed something flopping around, splashing water. Mystified, he walked at a greater pace, wanting to see what it was.

Lo and behold. A sixty-pound catfish was trapped in a hole, not making it out while the river was high. August reached in the hole, hooked his index finger into a gill, lifted the massive fish, and headed home.

Dinner plans that were doubtful that morning took a miraculous turn. It brings to mind these words from Psalm 121:

I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?   My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

An age-old question

Pontius Pilate’s role in the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth is rich ground to till.

The passionately ambitious Roman Prefect of Judea, by historical accounts, was not a nice man. He was not “woke.” Ordering a crucifixion would not burden his conscience—all things being equal.

But all things were not equal in the case of Jesus. These “things” made Pilate nervous— nervous enough that he told the jeering crowd that he found nothing for which to condemn Jesus.

Summed up, it all had to do with “truth,” which Jesus said was his purpose on Earth. To bring the truth.

Pilate’s question is still pertinent today:  “Truth? What is truth?”

Remembering Francis

Reprinted with permission of author, Jim Thebarge, from Facebook:

A Letter to the World: On the Passing of Our Holy Father

Last night (April 21), as the Easter moon hung like a silver tear in the sky, the soul of our beloved Pope slipped gently from this world into the arms of eternity. The bells tolled softly in the Vatican, yet the sound echoed across the world like a collective heartbeat breaking. A shepherd has left his flock. A voice has gone silent in a world that needs it more than ever.

And yet, what a voice it was.

He spoke not only from the balcony of Saint Peter’s, but from the margins of our world, from refugee camps and prison chapels, from broken pews in bombed out sanctuaries, and through the whispered prayers of those who had been told they did not belong. His voice was a bridge across rivers of division. He spoke of a God who makes no distinctions, of a Christ who dined with outcasts, touched lepers, and made a tax collector a disciple.

He envisioned a Church without walls. A sanctuary that echoed with the songs of many tongues. A table where all had a place, regardless of race, class, gender, love, or creed. He called us not just to worship but to welcome. Not merely to pray, but to embrace.

And now, during this sacred season when we celebrate resurrection and new life, we are met with loss. The tomb is empty, but so is the chair. Easter morning rose with a quiet vacancy. The man who knelt to wash the feet of the forgotten has returned to the One whose feet were once pierced for us all.

He did not fear death. He had long made peace with its shadows. In his final homilies, he spoke of the afterlife as a reunion, a great homecoming. “Heaven,” he said, “is where no one asks why you are there, only Who you are there to love.”

But we, those left behind, must now wrestle with the silence. His absence is not just ecclesiastical, it is existential. A world fraying at the edges needed his stitching words. A polarized humanity needed his grace. And yet perhaps, like Christ, his true ministry begins now, in us.

He planted seeds in soil we did not know could grow. It is now our sacred charge to water them. To embody the gospel of gentleness, the gospel of courage, the gospel of all are welcome. His death at Easter is no coincidence, it is a divine echo. It is God reminding us that every ending is the threshold of a rising.

Let us rise in his memory.

Let us carry his light into the cathedrals and the streets, into the silent corners of loneliness, and into the loud debates of our time. Let our actions speak where his voice no longer can.

And as we whisper prayers into the night sky, may we find comfort in imagining him at last sitting at a heavenly table, shoulder to shoulder with saints and sinners, smiling gently, saying:

“Yes, all are welcome here.”

Amen.

With reverence, grief, and enduring hope, One of the many who still hears his voice.