Stumbling upon ‘second string’ saints

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Dia de los Muertos altar – Photo by Roger Ce on Unsplash

by Demi Prentiss

This week started off with what Diana Butler Bass’s Substack “Sunday Musings” terms “Allhallowtide – All Hallows’ Eve, All Saints’ Day, and the Day of All Souls (aka the Day of the Dead).”  The three days cluster around the Celtic festival of Samhain (“SAH-win”), marking a pivot point into the darker time of year, when the boundary between this world and the Otherworld was thin. In the shortening days as we look toward Advent, Christian custom honors those ancestors in faith who have gone before us, and calls on us to remember them – not just the “saintly” parts of their life, but their every-day-ness, the fullness of who they were, and continue to be in our hearts and memories. Episcopal bishop Marc Andrus, in dialogue with Rupert Sheldrake, has suggested that on All Souls’ Day we name not only our own dead, but the creatures and peoples that have vanished from the places we live.

The New Testament, especially in the letters traditionally attributed to the apostle Paul, uses the Greek word hagios to refer to any living believer in Christ – not reserving it for the exceptionally virtuous, nor the dead who have been canonized. Traditionally in scripture, the English translation of hagios is “saint.” And for me, I find it helpful to think of this time of remembering the “saints” as honoring all souls, even if they’re not candidates for the official title of “Saint.”

In keeping with that more inclusive interpretation, Steve Garnaas-Holmes’s poem “Second string saints” offers a fresh look at sainthood:
God, we praise you for all those subtle saints
who have blessed our lives:
for the parents who endured many a midnight for us,
for the grandma who was often flustered and confused
but never stopped loving us,
for the coach who let us fail over and over
till we got it right—praise!
For the neighbor who never knew what to say
but was a deep, appreciative listener,
for the guy who never had it together
but who stumbled with such good humor—praise!
For the enemy who forgave us,
and the woman who always got our name wrong
but kept praying for us—praise!
For the odd old fellow who never fit in
and lived a rumpled, loving life—praise!
For the widow, so brokenhearted, who showed us
grief is bad weather one can live through—praise!
For all those who never managed to succeed
but who showed us how to be faithful,
who without triumph or miracles
taught us greatness of heart—praise!
For the regular people in whom your light shone
whether they knew it or not—praise!
For all the second string saints,
hobbled, broken, and flawed,
into whom you poured your grace to overflowing,
praise!

The poet, in offering praise to God for “subtle saints,” opens the door, not only for the dead but for the living – even including US, in all our ordinariness – to participate in the communion of saints. May that inclusion draw us into claiming the subtle ways that the spark of God – God’s mercy and love carried inside each of us – frees us “to be the blessing God sees us to be,” as Mara Stillson writes in the Luther Seminary blog “God Pause”. She goes on to say, “God’s love liberates the oppressed and marginalized. God’s love invites the wealthy and powerful to participate in this kingdom, here and now. God’s love offers a promise for all people which is much greater than anything the world can possibly offer.”

May we discover that spark – in us and in others – daily.

Is there a balm in Gilead?

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Photo by Zero Vo on Unsplash

by Joe McDaniel, Jr.*

The Rt. Rev. Michael Curry, former presiding bishop of The Episcopal Church, built many of his sermons around a single, aching question from the prophet Jeremiah: “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has the health of my poor people not been restored?” (Jeremiah 8:22, New Revised Standard Version). It is one of the rawest lines in Scripture, not a statement of faith but a cry of grief. Jeremiah looked at a nation fractured by injustice, exile, and moral collapse, and he did not pretend the wound was small. He named it. He asked, aloud, whether healing was even possible.

Curry took that ancient lament and turned it toward the present. He knew that the question is really an invitation, that naming the wound honestly is the first act of faith, and that the old spiritual which answers Jeremiah’s despair with a defiant “there IS a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole” was not written by people who had it easy. It was written by the enslaved, by people who had every reason to conclude that no healing was coming, and who sang anyway.

That tension, between the prophet’s despair and the spiritual’s hope, feels close to home for anyone carrying real grief. It shows up in ordinary places: in a family stretched thin, in a friendship strained past repair, in a young person who has quietly stopped expecting things to get better. Jeremiah’s question is not a relic confined to scripture. It is still being asked, in different words, at kitchen tables, in hospital waiting rooms, and in the quiet of a pew: is there no balm? Is there no physician? Why is there no recovery?

What Curry understood, and what the spiritual insists on, is that lament and hope are not opposites. The prophet’s grief is not weakness; it is honesty, and honesty is the precondition for healing. A country that cannot admit its wounds cannot treat them. So, the despair many feel right now is not something to talk anyone out of. It deserves to be spoken plainly, the way Jeremiah spoke it: without spin, without the easy comfort that papers over real loss.

But the spiritual does not stop at grief. It answers Jeremiah’s question with a verse he never got to hear: “Sometimes I feel discouraged, and think my works in vain, but then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.” That is not naivety. It is a discipline, a decision, made and remade, to keep showing up for the work of healing even when the evidence for hope is thin. The balm was never a guarantee that suffering would end quickly. It was a promise that the suffering was not the last word.

That is the pivot the life of faith calls for: not less honesty about what is broken, but more resolve about the work of mending it. Balm in Gilead was, historically, an actual remedy, a resin harvested and traded, applied to real wounds by real hands. Healing was not passive. It required someone to notice the wound, name it, and do the slow work of application, again and again.

Michael Curry has spent decades telling congregations that love is the way through despair, not a sentimental love, but the hard, patient kind that shows up in service, in listening, in the refusal to give up on one another. Jeremiah asked his question over two and a half thousand years ago. It is still worth asking honestly. And the answer, sung by generations who had far less reason for hope than we do, is still worth believing: there is a balm. It is made, in part, by those willing to apply it.

*Mr. McDaniel serves as co-chair of the diocese’s Commission on Racial Justice & Reconciliation. He also serves on the Executive Council for The Episcopal Church.

[Reposted by permission, from the website of the Diocese of the Central Gulf Coast.]

Reading ourselves into deeper commitment to justice

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by Brandon Beck

I recently learned about a book important to our Episcopal heritage. The Rev. Dr. Robert Tobin, chaplain at The Chapel of Sts. Peter and Paul at Old Royal Naval College inside the Maritime Greenwich UNESCO World Heritage Site, published Privilege and Prophecy: Social Activism in the Post-War Episcopal Church with Oxford University Press in 2022.

The Rev. Dr. Tobin draws upon extensive archival research to bring us this brilliant book in which he describes the people and situations that led The Episcopal Church into liberation theology and practice. He carefully reminds that The Episcopal Church has been and remains a catalyst for progressive change, but that doesn’t mean that The Episcopal Church has done everything right, fast enough, or well enough. He notes that the great progress in The Episcopal Church sometimes came at the neglect or oppression of black, female, LGBT, and working-class Episcopalians.

I believe that those of us who are putting ourselves daily into the world in ways that push against the status quo need inspiration in order to keep going. We must read ourselves into our continued commitment to justice and peace. We must read ourselves into our continued commitment to actively respect the dignity of every human being. Seeing ourselves in the lives of others, in the stories of people who did this work before us, can and should be a source of raison d’etre and will to keep on keeping on.

The Rev. Dr. Tobin provides the stories we need to hear. I commend his book Privilege and Prophecy to you as you seek purpose and joy in the work you do as change agents.

The Episcopal Church attracts people who know how to acknowledge their privilege and how to leverage that privilege for social justice action. The Episcopal Church learns from the past and grows in new directions for justice and peace. The people of The Episcopal Church recognize that the inherent dignity of every human being means that every person has some privilege in their own experience and offers that personally privileging experience for the good of others. The people of The Episcopal Church lift each other up and recognize Jesus in everyone, putting no one down.

My words are idealistic, I know. Of course, not every single person who calls themselves Episcopalian can be of the same mind. But we are a people of common prayer, so we have a common intention through that. I hope that as you read The Rev. Dr. Tobin’s Privilege and Prophecy that you will be inspired to continue to work for justice and peace and will find new ways within yourself to understand the dignity inherent in every other person of our shared world.

Give yourself a spiritual workout

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Photo by Pam Tinsley

by Pam Tinsley

Last fall my oncologist referred me to ReVital prehabilitation physical therapy to help me prepare for a bone marrow transplant. I thought I was in moderately good shape, but after just six weeks, I was surprised by how much stronger I’d become.

Then came chemotherapy and transplant. Three weeks in the hospital along with significant weight loss quickly erased the results of all that effort. Muscle melted into loose skin. After I was finally discharged to home, I began the arduous work of rehabilitation with twice weekly physical therapy sessions at the “gym,” along with a daily exercise program in our “home gym.”

Progress was slow but steady. Six months ago, I needed to lean on a nearby piece of furniture to get up from the floor. Eventually, I discovered that I could rise from the floor without using my hands or my knees. Muscles appeared on my arms and legs, and I could even lift our 3-year-old grandson without hesitation. Persistence has its rewards!

Just as our bodies need regular exercise, so too does our spirit.

Epiphany Parish in Seattle, where I’ve served as an assisting priest, refers to itself as a spiritual gym – a place where we strengthen spiritual muscles to help live out Kingdom of God values. And, of course, this gym is open to people of all levels of “experience.” Like the YMCA with its diverse exercise programs – from the cardio room to the track to weights and the pool – a spiritual gym offers “coaches” and different types of workouts, such as worship, prayer, Christian formation, and pilgrimage – whether to a distant land or a half-day retreat.

The goal of our workout isn’t simply to check it off our list. Rather, it’s to become more deeply attuned to God’s values, to follow Jesus more closely, and to accompany others on their spiritual journeys, just as others accompany us.

The result? Strong spiritual muscles to carry us through the rest of the week – and for the challenges that life brings.

In his September 2 blog, the Rev. Scott Gunn of Forward Movement describes the importance of regular spiritual workouts this way: “As Christians, we are all works in progress. We’re never ‘done’ being formed as followers of Jesus. There’s always more to learn about God, about our faith.”

So, whatever your current level of spiritual fitness, why not give yourself a workout?

Hear the whistle blow!

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by Pam Tinsley

Snoqualmie Valley Railroad historic coaches pass just across the street from St. Clare’s front doors. (Photo courtesy of Northwest Railway Museum)

Last month, I had the joy of serving as a supply priest at a small church tucked near Snoqualmie Pass in the Cascade Mountains of Western Washington. It was a beautiful, sunny, summer day, and the church’s windows were open to allow a gentle mountain breeze to refresh us during the service. Windows behind the pulpit and altar opened to a parishioner’s magnificent garden that contributed stunning flowers for the altar. There were also windows on the other side, facing the town’s main street, just steps from the front door.

Thanks to the windows – open or closed – you can’t help realizing that the church isn’t secluded or insulated. The windows are an ongoing reminder to worshipers of the integral relationship of the church and the world – both the community and God’s creation. As if to emphasize this connection, an historic train runs up and down the track immediately across the street from the church. So, even while we were in church worshipping, we were also in the world.

Just as I was preaching about Jesus casting seeds with wild abandon, my words were drowned out by the sound of the train whistle! I saw the senior warden helping lift the small children of a young family so that they could see and wave to the passengers, for that was the day that a very special train engine had come to town: Thomas the Tank Engine!

Just as church bells are a call to worship, I was reminded that the train whistle for this congregation is a call to serve God’s people. It’s a reminder that worship and everyday life are closely entwined and that the purpose of our weekly worship isn’t to isolate us from the world, rather to prepare us to be Jesus’ hands and feet in the world.

Can you hear the whistle blow?

Beyond enough

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by Demi Prentiss

Photo by Ashkan Forouzani on Unsplash

It’s been a tough week. As I look at my list of “to-do’s” and the time on my calendar, I’m reminded of the “loaves and fishes” story from a couple of Sundays ago. And I’m reminded of what Jil Fiemeyer, a graduate of Luther Seminary writing for the “God Pause” blog, had to say about “feeding the 5,000” from Matthew (14:13-21):

“The disciples look at five loaves and two fish and see too little. Jesus looks at the very same meal and sees where to begin. I look at my calendar, my energy, my abilities, and wonder if they’ll ever be enough. But Jesus has never asked us to begin with enough.”[1]

Fiemeyer reminds us to notice the 12 baskets of left-overs – “The baskets remind me that Jesus doesn’t simply provide enough.  He reveals the abundant heart of God. His grace is never measured in barely enough, but in the quiet assurance that God will faithfully provide what we need.

“Looking back, I can see moments when I wondered how I would make it through. Yet somehow there was enough strength for that day, enough hope for the next step, enough mercy to begin again.”[2]

The miracles of God’s abundance show up in our lives again and again. And especially when our trust in God outweighs our fears.  “Because Jesus doesn’t begin with what we lack. He begins with what we’ve placed in his hands.”[3]

Fiemeyer closes with this prayer: “Gracious Jesus, when I focus on what I don’t have, help me trust you with what I do. Teach me to place my ordinary gifts into your hands, believing that you are already at work in ways I cannot yet see. Amen.” [4]

[1] https://www.luthersem.edu/godpause/2026/07/30/37550/

[2] https://www.luthersem.edu/godpause/2026/07/31/37553/

[3] https://www.luthersem.edu/godpause/2026/07/30/37550/

[4] https://www.luthersem.edu/godpause/2026/07/30/37550/

The seeds are the kingdom

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Karolina Grabowska for Unsplash+

by Pam Tinsley

I love to garden, and – aside from tomatoes – I prefer growing flowers and vegetables from seeds rather than by purchasing starts. Each morning, I faithfully check to see if a sign of new life has emerged from the freshly tilled and enriched soil. By summer’s end, what began as a bare patch of soil teems with a bounty of vegetables and flowers.

This summer the Revised Common Lectionary has highlighted a string of Jesus’ parables in Matthew. I can’t help making the connection between my small-scale gardening and the work of the Master Gardener in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Jesus reminds “those with ears to listen” that the Kingdom begins in the smallest of places: a seed in the ground, a pinch of yeast in dough, an unnoticed act of kindness, a word of encouragement, a gesture of forgiveness. These little things, when nurtured by hope and inspired by love, become the very means by which God’s love permeates and flourishes in the world.

Little things in daily life are signposts to the riches of the Kingdom of Heaven and are often hidden in plain sight. A mustard seed grows into a great shrub that shields birds and other creatures from the sweltering sun. A small measure of yeast transforms an entire batch of dough, more than enough to satisfy our hunger.

God’s Kingdom works the same way. Hope planted in the midst of despair; love offered in the face of indifference; mercy extended where resentment would seem easier are all seeds of transformation. They quietly change lives, communities, and ultimately all of creation. The Kingdom grows through countless small acts of faithfulness that are easily overlooked. Yet each act ripples outward, farther and deeper than we might ever imagine.

The seeds of the Kingdom of Heaven are found in the ordinary rhythms of everyday life. The mustard seeds and yeast of our lives flourish in times of quiet faithfulness, unnoticed generosity, patient endurance, humble service, and within communities that choose hope over fear and love over self-interest. These small acts are not merely symbols of God’s Kingdom; they are the very places where God’s Kingdom takes root and grows.

Photo courtesy of Pam Tinsley

Say ‘Yes’

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Colin + Meg for Unsplash

by Demi Prentiss

For me, the crown jewel contained in the Episcopal Church’s 1979 Book of Common Prayer is the Baptismal Covenant.  Born in 1949, a “cradle Episcopalian” as they used to call us, I was formed by the majestic cadences of the venerable 1928 BCP.   I was 30 by the time the “new” prayer book was officially adopted. And I quickly discovered that the Baptismal Covenant filled a hole in my heart that I had hardly recognized was there – an outline of my faith and a guide for living it out.  It has shaped my life ever since, and led to my partnership with Fletcher Lowe in writing Radical Sending as a primer for celebrating ministry in daily life as an every-day practice for all baptized Christians.

Living our daily lives can be hard, given all the interference we encounter along the way.  A recent daily meditation from the Center for Action and Contemplation, titled “A Place for God to Move In,” included a quote from Richard Rohr: “You are a child of God, and always will be, even when you don’t believe it. And so is everyone else! God created us all. We are all God’s children.” [1]

Once we can claim that identity – and recognize that all those “others” around us have similar claiming rights – it’s a bit easier to allow God to move in, to take up space in our lives. Just as we hear in John’s Gospel:  “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood” (Jn 1:14 The Message). Greek scholars remind us that what is often translated “became flesh” is the Greek verb skēnoō, “to tabernacle” (or “live in a tent”) among us.

In that same meditation, Episcopal priest Elizabeth Edman reminds us that living our true identity means claiming fully our identity in God:

Christianity is all about being who you are. That’s what Jesus was trying to tell us: Orient your whole being to the sacred, he insisted. Not because I’m telling you to, not because it’s what Scripture demands; do it because it’s who you are. It’s who God created you to be. God made us to be complex creatures, every one of us, for a reason. So if you want to honor God, here’s the first step: Know who you are. Be who you are. Be the person God created you to be. Amen. [2]

But do we really, truly “belong”?  Br. Jamie Nelson, SSJE, urges us to pay attention to those Jesus says “belong” in the kingdom of heaven: “Let the children come to me and do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs” (Mt 19:14).  Nelson calls us to remember the “such as these”:

One of the riches of the Episcopal Church’s Book of Common Prayer is the Baptismal Covenant, which includes five invitations for how Christians are called to live out our faith. The liturgy includes these lines:
•   Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?
•   Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
To which we respond, “yes, with God’s help.”
With God’s help, as you live out your baptismal vocation today, say yes to the vision of the kingdom of heaven Jesus proclaims here.

Say “yes,” and welcome your neighbor into the kin-dom of God. “Yes,” and allow God room to “pitch tent” in your heart, as well – right here, right now.

[1] Adapted from Richard Rohr, The Universal Christ: How a Forgotten Reality Can Change Everything We See, Hope for, and Believe(Convergent Books, 2021), 36–37

[2] Elizabeth M. Edman, video companion to the book Queer Virtue: What LGBTQ People Know About Life and Love and How It Can Revitalize Christianity (Beacon Press, 2016).

Goooaaal ! ! !

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Photo by My Profit Tutor on Unsplash

by Pam Tinsley

In the Revised Common Lectionary’s Gospel for June 28 (Matthew 10:40-42), Jesus commissions the apostles to take the Good News into the towns and villages. He then speaks of the radical welcome they might receive and its spiritual implications: “Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.” Radical welcome transforms both parties, those receiving hospitality, as well as those showing hospitality.

And in Jesus’ world, welcoming strangers meant welcoming everything that they represented, their tribe, their country, and their families.

This was a challenging message in Jesus’ day, and it is equally challenging today.

As hundreds of thousands of soccer fans and players attend the World Cup co-hosted by the United States, Jesus’ message about radical welcome intersects with the opportunity that we, as everyday Americans, have to show hospitality to people from different countries and cultures.

I used to think of the US as welcoming and hospitable, and for decades our country was a haven for tourists from other countries. Until recently. The political climate during the past two years has left many potential visitors from other countries hesitant to travel to the United States. Tourism from around the world has plummeted sharply due to the current administration’s antagonism toward other countries, the higher cost of travel, barriers to obtaining visas, and concerns about safety – including the possibility of detention by immigration officers. The winter snowbirds from our neighbor to the north who sought sunshine and warm temperatures in California, Arizona, Florida, and beyond have stopped coming to a country they now perceive as unwelcoming – even hostile.

Yet, as many soccer fans and players from all over the world are finding, the opposite is true. They are connecting with everyday Americans in restaurants, hotels, stores, and – of course – in the soccer stadiums. Ordinary Americans offer “cups of cold water” to visitors with friendly greetings, by offering directions, or initiating conversations and sharing stories. And then through simple hospitality, a miracle happens: both parties are transformed.

And, isn’t that what the Kingdom of God is all about? The Kingdom of God isn’t just a creed or a dogma. It’s a way of living; it’s being in relationship with one another. The Kingdom is revealed in ordinary acts of kindness and generosity offered in Jesus’ name. By sharing one cup of cold water at a time, we open a window to the infinite hospitality of God’s extravagant love.

Not only that, but when we welcome others, we often find ourselves being transformed. Every act of hospitality keeps the chain of God’s grace unbroken. Little by little, through everyday acts of love, God’s kingdom becomes visible among us. And little by little, we just might break down the barriers that divide us.

Let that be our “Gooooaaal!”

God’s intention

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Photo by PaaZ PG on Unsplash

by Demi Prentiss

For prehistoric people, differences among people or species or environments triggered fear, and not without reason. Something new – different people groups, different environments, different foods, different customs – could pose an existential threat. And those nearly automatic survival responses are still present in our 21st century brains and bodies.

Among first-century Jews, the idea of crossing cultural, ethnic, or social boundaries was threatening and revolutionary.  Scholars now believe that one of the potent attractors bringing people to early Christianity was the radical acceptance shown by those early believers – most of them at the margins of society – for the outcasts and the downtrodden.  Richard Rohr, in a 2028 Daily Meditation, wrote, “From the perspective of occupying Roman powers, the Christian sect was radical because it encouraged alternative behaviors that were both attractive to those at the bottom and threatening to the worldview of empire. Rather than acquiring wealth, this new sect shared possessions equally. Followers of the Way lived together with people of different ethnicities and social classes rather than following classist and cultural norms.” [1]

In her book A People’s History of Christianity, historian Diana Butler Bass writes, “For all the complexity of primitive Christianity, a startling idea runs through early records of faith: Christianity seems to have succeeded because it transformed the lives of people in a chaotic world.”[2]

The notion that diversity and difference are desirable seems counter-intuitive to many of us.  But looking at the incredible diversity found in nature, we begin to grasp the idea that abundance and variety are hallmarks of God’s creation.  And the profusion of variations found in nature increases the odds of survival.  Variety and evolution are the twin engines of life on Earth. Variety provides the raw materials (genetic differences), and evolution determines how those materials change over generations. That’s true not only for biology, but also for human systems.

Br. Curtis Almquist, SSJE, writes about God at work in and through differences:
"It is unjust that some people don't know that they belong: that their uniqueness because of their skin color, or cultural, or ethnic, or religious heritage, or education, or age, or abilities have been used against them to keep them out push them down. God’s intention is just the opposite. These differences are evidence of the majesty of God, who has created and shared life with us in a world with almost infinite differences."

What if we could understand that every variation, of every kind of matter, is an expression of the living God, who created and is at work in and through all of God’s creation?  Poet Steve Garnaas-Holmes offers a view of the infinite and ineffable God at work in the most unexpected places:
Sparrow

          Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? 
          Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Abba God. 
          And even the hairs of your head are all counted. 
          So do not be afraid; 
          you are of more value than many sparrows.
                                           —Matthew 10.29-31

They do fall.
But into the hands of God,
out of the sky that is God.

You will suffer.
But your sorrow is God,
divine consciousness,
mindful in you,

the love that has tended
every grain of your being,
every verb of your story.

Your pain is God,
divine vulnerability
alive in you.
That you are not a rock.

That you can fall
is God having woven divine light
into a body,

that you can drink the nectar of this world
and be filled,
that you can love at great cost.

Like God, who is also a sparrow,
unnoticed, in the open field.

[1] Richard Rohr, “The Beginnings of the Way,” Daily Meditation, September 2, 2018.

[2] Diana Butler Bass, A People’s History of Christianity: The Other Side of the Story (HarperOne, 2009), 26.