The birds have reappeared to build their nest under our eaves; while the trees have shown signs of their perennial rejuvenation that will offer shade and shelter in the coming days. Spring has officially arrived. The seasons come and go. So too, there is the liturgical cycle for some believers in the Christian faith tradition; that have led some on a Lenten pilgrimage to the observance of something commonly known as Easter.

It has always amused me that the date of such a religious observance was set by the lunar calendar and named after an Anglo-Saxon goddess, named Ēostre. Then there’s the cartoon-like, magic bunny who hides candy eggs for the children to seek and find; while more “seasoned” celebrants might tread more hesitantly with the reminder of our own mortality and any notion of an “afterlife.” But -- In one form or another -- it expresses our shared, longing hope and desire for new life to arise out of a past that is dead and gone.

But more so, it is a reminder there’s an important distinction between the gospel message and meaning about what resurrection truly means; beyond any illusory notion of any re-constituion of our mortal nature.

When Life Is About More Than a Cartoon, or Video Game

“But I (Jesus) tell you: Don’t react violently against the one who is evil: when someone slaps you on the right cheek, turn the other as well.” (Matthew 5:39)

Look around us today, all we see is death and destruction. The current occupant of the White House (my brother, Donald) recently launched a propaganda campaign to promote his bombardment of a foreign nation and assassination of its leaders; using memes to depict the blasting away of other members of the human family like a pinball machine.

Meanwhile, the Secretary of War (a governmental position formerly known as the Secretary of Defense) invoked his god to commit “overwhelming violence” against our nation’s enemies, and — quoting Psalm 3.7 — to “break the teeth of the ungodly.”

Utter blasphemy. (See my previous post.) But as despicable as these recent examples are, we all seem to be entrapped in the same old cyclical story of our human condition. Now, with yet another Easter proclamation’s observance, where might its message of a new kind of life be enough to raise what one might call the living dead?

A dozen years ago I wrote a lengthy commentary on the two scripture passages read on this fourth Sunday of the Lenten season (here). The prophet Ezekiel asks the rhetorical question if a “divine” message that was once dead and buried can “live again?” Then follows the story of Jesus, the Galilean peasant sage, miraculously bringing his old, dead friend back to mortal life. Lazarus’ bones may live a few more years. But is there a message that is eternal?

In the liturgical calendar of scripture readings for Easter, they are preceded by those for Palm Sunday; which narrates Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem on a jackass, as a lampoon to the monarchial powers of this world. Then follows his arrest, detention, trial, and execution by the same; in a futile hope his life and teaching could be dead and buried.

Some Christian believers take the various resurrection narratives literally; in the hope they too might inherit something imagined to be eternal life. Alternatively, some biblical scholars and theologians offer as many non-literal explanations of what the Easter proclamation might mean for us. And then there are those who may be inclined to faithfully go to church worship at least twice a year; observing Christmas and Easter!

It’s not difficult to believe the historical Jesus was born, and later died. But it was the Galilean peasant sage’s exemplary life journey and recorded teachings that have been irrepressibly raised up; to be believed, embraced, and followed.

© 2026 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.To read more by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives.

Recently, when the current occupant of the White House was asked by a reporter if there were any constraints on his global powers, he answered: “Yeah, there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”

Absolutely, I muttered under my breath. Then I caught my breath; aghast to be in full agreement, and without hesitation!

Unfortunately, the reporter was not allowed to follow up with that obvious, rhetorical question that often seems to be totally missing from any news coverage of most political debate or power plays on the world stage; namely, what are those morals? Have you no moral scruples? That is, what is the moral basis for anyone’s actions; both in mind and spirit?

Every spiritual tradition – and political persuasion, for that matter – claims to have a presumed moral basis, or foundation. There’s a moral code, for instance; like, say, ten commandments (Ex.20), or perhaps some beatitudes enumerated by a hillside preacher (Mt. 5). And, then there’s always the seeming exceptions made to the rule; to allow the human mind -- like my brother Donald’s mind, or mine -- to rationalize and deviate, with alleged justification. So, how does one square it all? Can you?

Personal Choice and the Missing Rhetorical Question:
Whither the Goldmine?

In the Judeo-Christian biblical tradition there is the Pentateuch, constituting the first five books of the canonical Bible; wherein can be read the Book of Leviticus (1400 BCE). It is a long, long list of do’s and don’ts, known as “purity laws”; constituting and enumerating a certain moral code for those adherents who would choose to follow it.

For instance, one is commanded to leave some harvest remnants in your fields and vineyards for the poor (Lev. 19:10). And, don’t curse the deaf and blind (Lev.19:14). Good enough. But it’s also forbidden to let your cattle “gender with a diverse kind “ (Lev.19:19), or put to death a man’s betrothed female if she’s had sex with another male against her will (Lev.19:20). Hmmm.

And, then there’s this meddlesome passage, which could be quite problematic nearly four centuries later if one were to read the headlines today, with regards to what’s currently happening in Minneapolis, Minnesota:

“And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not vex him. But the stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.” (Lev. 19:33-34)

Nearly two thousand years ago, there was once an itinerant Galilean peasant sage / teacher named Jesus; an historical figure who would have been well-versed in those ancient scriptures, including Leviticus.

Similar sayings attributed to him are, “Treat people in ways you want them to treat you.” (Mt. 7:12) and “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Mk. 12:31, Lk 10:28).

Those who had ears to hear what Jesus said then proceeded to ask the rhetorical question, “And who is my neighbor?” (Lk. 10:29) To which, of course, Jesus replies with the tale of “The Good (alien) Samaritan” (Lk.10:30-35).

Commonly known today as the “Golden Rule,” this moral rule underlying that story is actually a familiar piece of ancient lore from multiple traditions. For example, in the Book of Tobit, that 3^rd century character combined Jewish piety and morality that mined the depths of human experience to discover and reiterate the admonition, “What you hate, don’t do to someone else.”

So why is it that the obvious, rhetorical question about what truly constitutes one’s moral basis for one’s actions is rarely posed, or answered?

The 2-Step, or the Side-Step?
Well, it all depends …

Shall we dance?
On a bright cloud of music
Shall we fly?
Rogers & Hammerstein, 1951

The previously mentioned, current occupant of the White House seems prone to demolish and replace things in his own image. This includes the East Wing of his current residence, where he’s building himself a new ballroom. It might lead one to wonder if he’s looking forward to doing the two-step, or just another side-step; when it comes to the underlying question of his moral behavior?

When I was a much younger man -- and more adept on the dance floor myself -- I read a newly-published book by the American Anglican theologian, Joseph Fletcher, entitled “Situation Ethics: A New Morality” (1966). The book’s premise suggested that instead of a strict adherence to a rigid set of old rules (or, say, commandments) that the basis for one’s choices and conduct be set not only by the particular circumstances of each situation; but their consequential outcome, as well. Terms like “moral relativism” and “consequentialism” came into vogue; in an endless effort to counter the seemingly-naïve idealism with what I’d call the pragmatist’s claim to what’s “real.” Human nature seems inherently intent on clinging to the disclaimer, “well … it all depends.” Some examples:

In the “real” world of endless turf wars, there’s Russia’s aggression in Ukraine, or Israel’s disproportionate retaliatory violence in Gaza. Then there’s “land grabs;” with the latest example being what one might call the Greenland “side-step.’” How do such choices not only confront and challenge the ethical conduct of national leaders; but -- more importantly for the average nobody -- one’s individual personal moral choices in assessing it all?

The 18th-century German philosopher, Immanuel Kant, argued there was a “moral imperative” that was a non-negotiable responsibility to act in a certain way. It applied to both individuals, as well as communities and national identities. If such a line exists, how can our human free will constrain our choice to cross it?

I have reflected and written several commentaries about the oft-perceived naiveté of the Galilean peasant sage Jesus; when the “real” world perpetually dances to a different tune (here, here, here). Even the compendium of Judeo-Christian scriptures – a humanly-constructed document – forbids killing in some verses, while elsewhere allowing for an eye-for-an-eye form of retaliatory violence.

There is that injunction from Deuteronomy, “I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life.” (Deut 30:19-20). The underlying rhetorical question to that injunction might best be what constitutes true living, and not merely existing.

With that consideration, I return once again to that essential question, posed to Jesus in Luke’s gospel (Lk. 10). The inquisitor recognizes Jesus as one well-versed in all those ancient commands, purity laws, and moral codes of scripture. Jesus responds by having the inquisitor recite their shared version of the golden rule, and loving neighbor as one’s self. “Do that,” the sage replies, “and you will live.”

Not satisfied with the command alone, the rhetorical question that lies at the heart of all those moral codes is asked, “And, who is my neighbor?” The Tale of the Good Alien is then spun for those who still want to not merely exist, but truly live with a heart of gold.

© 2026 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.To read more by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives.

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see the lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark street shineth, the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
Philips Brooks (1835-1893)

We know the story of Jesus’ birth is a fanciful tale, unique to the gospel narrative attributed to an unknown first century believer named Luke, and his early tradition. And, like any good story that hardly hesitates to blur the lines between fact and fiction, it nonetheless conveys some ageless truths that can reveal the “hopes and fears of all the years” in countless other times and places. This could not be more pertinent than the last year we have shared together.

So, for the season we call Christmastide and all the gifts we might give and receive, I offer a reprise of a semi-fictional tale of my own; first written and told long ago at what was then the 17th Annual Vicar’s Banquet in 2,000 CE! It comes as close as I’ve been given the gift to see what it’s all about; “full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14)

A Christmas Story

I grew up in the small Midwest town of Kalamazoo. But I wasn’t born in Kalamazoo. Instead, the place of my own nativity was a grimy little town thirty miles south of Chicago, in the Land of Lincoln; though given the choice, I am almost certain Honest Abe never slept in Joliet. And, I imagine if the early French explorer after whom the town was named had ever come upon the place, he probably would have kept paddling.

[Above: Silver Cross Hospital, my birth certificate, circa 1948]

Winter was particularly grubby in Joliet; especially February, the deadest part of winter and the month of my birth. Everything was gray; the sky, the buildings, even the pallor of the people’s faces. The snow, if once white, had become dingy with dirt and soot.

Silver Cross Hospital, where I was delivered, looked like a gothic fortress; an institutional-looking stone building not unlike the state penitentiary located just across the Des Plaines River that sliced through the town. When the December holidays rolled around, the hospital staff would perch a huge five-pointed star on the rooftop, ablaze with lights, like a shining beacon from the ramparts. It was visible for miles. Some years the giant wooden structure remained there for weeks and weeks into the New Year; as if no one really wanted the light to go out in that drab place.

As a child, I liked to think they left it up on purpose in the winter of ‘48, until close to midnight one evening in February, when Dr. Joseph Fields delivered a second son to a young clergyman and his wife. My father was the rector of Christ Episcopal Church, located on West Van Buren Street, just a block from the river. He also served as chaplain to the Joliet Police Department, which included double-duty at the State Penitentiary. As a boy, I remember gazing with fascination at the star-shaped silver police badge he’d wear on the lapel of his black clerical suit on the days he’d call on the cons in the prison.

The warden’s name was Carpenter. He was new in town, and had a new bride with him. Her name was Margaret, which she would always pronounce Marguerite when introducing herself. She desperately wanted to believe she came from somewhere else, anywhere else. She fantasized being from some exotic foreign city; though, in reality, the true voice beneath her feigned French accent sounded more like Indiana Hoosier. She’d met her husband on a trip to the Windy City, when he was there for a convention for correctional officers, while she attended a teacher’s conference. They had struck up a chance conversation in the lobby of the Palmer House. In her eyes, he was a dashing young man with great promise from an exciting town out to the west, in Iowa; a place she pronounced Des Moines, which, according to her rough translation skills, meant something like “more of less.” It should have been an omen.

Her future husband had told her he was getting an important job in a town not far from the big city. Joliet, sur le rivre Des Plaines, was the way she pictured it in her mind. As if entranced in a beautiful dream, before the weeklong convention had ended, she knew she would follow him anywhere. They were married on a Monday morning in the spring of ‘47, at the Cook County Courthouse in Chicago, and moved to Joliet.

It didn’t take Marguerite long to discover Joliet was no the City of Lights, and le Rivre Des Plaines was not the River Seine. Words like sleek or sophisticated or magnifique were not part of the local dialect. Mon Dieu, this was a town where the locals spoke in short, slurred sentences, running one or two syllable words together. That is, except for one particular idiomatic expression which got unconsciously tagged on to most sentences. “Don’t-cha-know?” they’d say, making everything a question, which only perpetuated the nonsense. “Don’t-cha-know?” they’d say to anything: “Gonna-be-a-cold-one-t’day, don’t-cha-know?” “Yep–‘fer sure-you-bet, don’t-cha-know?” “Got-dat-right , don’t-cha-know?” they’d say.

There wasn’t what you would call any joie-de-vivre about the place. Nor was there any je ne sais quoi about the smell that would emanate from the river on those hot, muggy summer days with what came floating downstream from Chicago. By the fall of ’47 Marguerite was asking herself in bewilderment, what had she done? In one brief, blind moment she had taken all her dreams and tossed them to the wind. And like a cruel twister from out of the plains, it had plopped her down in Joliet with a jailer from Des Moines.

The reason our family knew so much about the warden’s wife was because she’d begun teaching art lessons that first summer to local children on Saturday mornings. I was too young to take part in the program at the time, so my mother would take my no-talent big brother, who was the first-born and bore my father’s namesake. I was happy for him …

Teaching art lessons had been the warden’s idea he’d said, in part to bring new innovative thinking to criminal rehabilitation through the applied appreciation of the arts; but also perhaps to try to satisfy his wife’s desperate desire to bring a little bourgeois culture to this otherwise-bleak Illinois river valley town. As it turned out, the program quickly became so successful with Chicago’s most hardened criminals that they decided to offer it to Joliet’s children. So every Saturday morning my mother and brother would file in through the heavy lock-down gates, behind all the other women from the outside going to visit their men. Marguerite’s most successful effort that Fall was a Christmas card project with the inmates. Supplies and postage were provided from the state prison rehabilitation fund, and inmates could draw cards and write holiday greetings to whomever they wished: wives & sweethearts, old buddies on the outside, etc. Not surprisingly, many sent cards to the Governor, don’t-cha-know? By the time December had arrived, Marguerite herself considered writing to Springfield to ask for a reprieve. It was already cold and gray. How she longed to escape. This! This was what had become of her life, and she felt as if someone had locked up her heart and thrown away the key. She was doing hard time for the simple crime of falling in love. It wasn’t until she sifted through all the Christmas card contest entries and picked the winner, that she began to think differently.

The front of the card had been sketched by a lifer who’d been doing hard time since before she was born. While other inmates had drawn the typical, colorful holiday scenes – an assortment of Santa with reindeer and sleigh, or holly and mistletoe, Courier and Yves-type prints, or manger scenes with Madonna and child, wise men, shepherds and sheep -- a convicted murderer from Skokie had sketched an image of the only thing he could see from the second tier window of his cell block. It was a five-pointed star atop a ghostly building across the river. From where he gazed, it was the biggest star in the steel blue Illinois night sky. It hung over a place of nativity; a place that spoke of something different, something new, new beginnings, another chance, a fresh start. There was something redemptive about it. It was a star to wish upon, a star to dream upon; about exotic, adventurous, faraway places, Marguerite thought.

She had just been thinking to herself Christmas was something too good for a place like Joliet. Or Bethlehem, for that matter. But then she asked herself, had she forgotten Christmas? The first Christmas? Had she forgotten about the dreary stable, and the inhospitality of the innkeeper, and the donkey dung in the bed of straw? Had she forgotten about the murderous strife and division, the insurrectionists, the fickle religious and political bickering, the cruel might of the Empire, the plight of the innocents and – in the midst of it all – something so powerless, insignificant and outcast; yet, nonetheless, something that would so change the course of the human story that two millennia later folks would still be writing cards and letters over and over again to each other about it? It was 1947. Here were all the convicted incarnates in the Illinois State Penitentiary. And across the river there was every new delivery at Silver Cross Hospital. There was little difference between her own dreams, and those of every child born to every mother’s greatest hopes and fears. Though she cringed at the thought of it, Christmas in Joliet was probably as holy, and real, and telling a place as any; and maybe more than most.

She had just been thinking to herself Christmas was something too good for a place like Joliet. Or Bethlehem, for that matter.

Still, she had to admit to herself the other reason she’d picked the winning Christmas card that first year. The convict-born-artist had sketched the cover in simple black and white. Everything was so white. It was only a dream, of course. A dream scribbled and sketched on paper. And Margaret would keep her own dreams to herself, and ponder them in her heart. Staring out across the half-frozen river, she’d continue to dream en francais; of faraway places like Paris, or Vienna, or Venice, or some other exotic place far, far away from here.

Why, she’d heard there was even a Venice in sunny southern California, of all places; not far from a City of Angels, where an azure Pacific lapped against it’s sandy shores. Just imagine that. On Margaret Carpenter’s first bleak Christmas in Joliet, Illinois, the distant musical sounds from a cellblock radio filled the air with an old familiar Irving Berlin tune:

The sun is shining, the grass is green,
The orange and palm trees sway.
There’s never been such a day,
in Beverly Hills, LA.
But it’s December the twenty-fourth,
and I’m longing to be up north …

I’m dreaming of a White Christmas,
Just like ones I used to know.
Where the treetops glisten, and children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow. … (don’t cha know?)

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write.
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmas’ be white.
Irving Berlin (1888-1989)

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© 2025 by John William Bennison. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of progressive pilgrim from the Christian faith tradition, go to the Archives here.

I wonder as I wander, out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die
For poor ord’nary people like you and like I.
I wonder as I wander, out under the sky.
American Folklorist, John Jacob Niles, 1933

My last few commentaries have reflected on the chosen direction and destination of a pilgrim’s path, contrasted with the life of a wandering itinerant Galilean peasant sage; whose vision of “deliverance” was to a “promised land” of a different sort (here here).

As we observe the perennial Feast of the Holy Nativity (aka Christ’s Mass), we know the tale includes three stargazers who were deemed to be wise; and who followed a star-lit path to an unlikely destination.

But in addition, there were also just poor, ordinary (or ornery) folk like you and like me, who wondered as we wandered just where the Galilean sage might better lead us next.

I Wonder as I Wander: The Traditional Carol

When Mary birthed Jesus ‘twas in a cow’s stall,
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all;
But high from God’s heaven, a star’s light did fall,
And the promise of ages it then did recall.

In the composer’s unfinished autobiography, Appalachian folklorist, John Jacob Niles wrote:

“I Wonder As I Wander” grew out of three lines of music sung for me by a girl who called herself Annie Morgan. The place was Murphy, North Carolina, and the time was July 1933. The Morgan family -- Christian revivalists all -- were about to be ejected by the police, after having camped in the town square for some little time, cooking, washing, hanging their wash from the Confederate monument and generally conducting themselves in such a way as to be classed a public nuisance. Preacher Morgan and his wife pled poverty; they had to hold one more meeting, in order to buy enough gas to get out of town. It was then that Annie Morgan came out—a tousled, unwashed blond, and very lovely. She sang the first three lines of the verse of “I Wonder As I Wander.” At twenty-five cents a performance, I tried to get her to sing all the song. After eight tries, I had only three lines of verse, a garbled fragment of melodic material—and a magnificent idea.”

It has been suggested that the line from the first stanza of those lyrics that refer to the rest of us could be interpreted as not only ordinary, but sometimes downright ornery, as well! After all, the cast of characters that the biblical birth narratives provide of this tale (Lk. 1, Mt. 2) include lowly shepherds, lowing cattle, jackasses, and what were described to be “wise,” undocumented aliens; all drawn to what was a temporary lodging for the homeless (albeit with an angelic choir hovering overhead).

Need it have been that way? After all, as the carol goes:

If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,
A star in the sky or a bird on the wing,
Or all of God’s Angels in heaven to sing,
He surely could have it, ‘cause he was the King.

As those different versions of the gospel narratives then unfold, we know what will eventually become of the itinerant peasant from Galilee. His reign will constitute the path of a wandering sage; who was left to preach his beatitudes from a hillside, or teach a moral lesson along a Samaritan’s ill-fated trail, or a prodigal’s path home again after he’d wandered astray.

Jesus’ “kingship” would be marked with a crown of thorns; while those who would forever thereafter presume to pose as “kings” – claiming greatness for themselves in their misbegotten words and deeds – would manifest just the opposite of his life, vision and message of that other kind of kin-ship.

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die,
For poor orn’ry people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.

If you find this commentary and message meaningful, you can share it with anyone for free. Just forward it to them. If you find yourself humming the tune, you can sing along to this carol with piano accompaniment here (skip any commercial pop-up!)

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive here.

As a mid-west boy growing up in the “fifities” (last century), the annual Thanksgiving holiday was memorable in several ways. There was the question of whether it would be marked by the first snowfall of Winter, and sledding with our old wooden toboggan; and when the F.A.O. Schwarz Christmas toy catalog might soon appear in our mailbox.

There was also the traditional Thanksgiving dinner, with all the “fixin’s;” including my mother’s homemade turkey stuffing. But there was also the “stuff” of legend, such as the quaint image and tale of pilgrim’s who’d recently arrived at what was deemed to be their “promised land.” It included indigenous peoples who’d called those same shores their home for centuries, sitting down to a shared, thank-filled feast. No one appeared to be homeless, or hungry.

Part of those memories also included a children’s version of a tale once written more than three centuries earlier by John Bunyan, entitled, “A Pilgrim’s Progress.” The characters included one who had adopted the name, Christian; along with others he’d meet along his journey, who were given such allegorical names as Faithful, Hopeful, Evangelist, the tempter Apollyon, Obstinate, Pliable and Mr. Worldly Wiseman. In the story, Christian is on a pilgrimage; from the world we know to a destination yet to be found. As the original subtitle read, “From This World to That Which Is To Come.” Hmmmm …

One might assume from the storyline – which was based on the Christian scriptures to which the writer adhered – that he was referring to a heavenly realm, not of human origin, nor our own making. However, I would suggest instead that the pilgrim’s journey remains one of our own “ad-venturing.”

In Part I of this commentary , entitled “Deliverance, Without a Promised Land,” I shared the story of a seven day cycling trip I’d recently taken in northwest Spain and Portugal; a portion of which included the Camino de Santiago. It’s a path nearly 500 miles long that pilgrims have trekked for hundreds of miles for centuries to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. However, the chosen cycling route took us in the opposite direction; leading me to wonder if there might be another kind of destination, metaphorically-speaking.

It was then that I recalled that brief passage from the canonical gospel of Matthew; about a wandering 1st-century Galilean peasant sage, named Jesus. When one sojourner proclaims he’ll follow him wherever he goes, Jesus replies, “Foxes have dens, and the birds of the sky have nests, but the son of Adam has nowhere to rest his head.” (Mt. 8:20)

I would humbly suggest the simple point being made in the sage’s reply was not simply an appeal to help the homeless who hungered for only one passing meal. But rather to envision another, greater worldly feast and place of our own making that everyone might call “home.” Such a homecoming is the “stuff” of that other kind a pilgrim’s journey the ancient sage once imagined; accompanied by such characters as Hopeful and Faithful.

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.” T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets: Little Gidding (1941)

INTEREST OF NOTE: John Bunyan wrote “A Pilgrim’s Progress,” while imprisoned for violation of the Conventicle Act of 1664; which was an act of the Parliament of England that forbade any religious assembly of more than five people, outside the authority of the Church of England and the rubrics of the 1662 Book of Common Prayer. Those who might identify themselves as progressives in the Christian faith tradition beware …

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to: http://wordsnways.com

Preface: A Californian Dreamin’

“Last night I had the strangest dream, I’d never dreamed before,
I dreamed the word had all agreed to put an end to war.”

Recently, the current occupant of the White House issued the following Executive Order:

“On August 7, 1789, 236 years ago, President George Washington signed into law a bill establishing the United States Department of War to oversee the operation and maintenance of military and naval affairs. … The Founders chose this name to signal our strength and resolve to the world. The name “Department of War,” more than the current “Department of Defense,” ensures peace through strength, as it demonstrates our ability and willingness to fight and win wars on behalf of our Nation at a moment’s notice, not just to defend. This name sharpens the Department’s focus on our own national interest and our adversaries’ focus on our willingness and availability to wage war to secure what is ours. I have therefore determined that this Department should once again be known as the Department of War and the Secretary should be known as the Secretary of War.”

A Pilgrim’s Path: Which Direction?

“In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue …”

On a recent cycling trip which Germaine and I undertook in northwest Spain and the Portuguese coastline the route took us through numerous quaint villages and many miles of vineyards and mountainous landscapes. Along the way, the guides recounted the ancient history of the two great former empires that had once navigated the world in conquests now relegated to the dustbin of history.

The route began in Santiago, Spain; in front of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, dedicated to St. James. For over a thousand years, pilgrims have travelled the Camino de Santiago for a variety of reasons to this destination. But the towering cathedral itself is a religious monument to part of that now ancient glory; when conquistadors had once discovered “new worlds” and claimed them as their own, in the name of their own state and organized religion.

Inside the religious shrine, one could not help but be struck by the ornate – if not ostentatious – depiction of a savior figure, surrounded by angels and archangels heralding its message.

However, the cycling route for the next eight days led us in the opposite direction. Along the way we’d pass numerous pilgrims, with their walking sticks and backpacks. Being one to never pass up a good metaphorical interpretation, I couldn’t help but wonder who was going in the wrong direction …

Deliverance, Without a Promised Land

“The falling leaves drift by my window …” once again …

Waging war, in order to “secure what is ours,” might aptly describe the cyclical story that comprises human history. Empires rise and fall, come and go. The repetitive cycle of human history we’re still experiencing on a daily basis perpetuates the same plotline; consisting of “turf wars” and “land grabbing;” resulting in tragic conflicts of retaliatory violence. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict in Gaza, and Russia’s invasion in Ukraine are only the latest examples of indisputable genocide. The resulting death, devastation and displacement will only fuel another generation of fighters claiming to secure a “lasting peace.”

But lest we forget, the biblical tradition also includes the notion of a so-called “promised land” for wandering sojourners without a place to call “home.” For example, in exchange for allegiance and obedience, Moses tells the Israelites their god will bequeath to them just such a place (Deut. 30:15-20).

But in the gospel tradition, we are also reminded that Jesus, the Galilean peasant sage, was portrayed as an itinerant, “with no place to lay his head.” (Mt. 8:20, Lk. 9:58). Still, he beckons anyone who would be his disciple to come, follow him. But to where? And, if – as the saying goes – home is where the heart is, what remains at the heart of his life and teaching that might still promise another place to dwell, now and always?

In this story, I’ll return to where the last chapter of my own last pilgrimage began, at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

While wandering past the crowds of sightseers and a small gathering of worshippers who’d gathered for mass, I stole away to a secluded side chapel that was closed and empty. Peering down the name of the chapel there was a very simple stained-glass window with the depiction of what first appeared to be a dead and barren tree.

Then, looking more closely, of course, one could discern it was the image of crucified figure with its head hung low. There was a single green leaf emerging from what was once – and might be again – a tree of life.

Translation: Despite the rise and fall of empires and the destructive messages they proclaim of hollow victory and bitter, decadent defeat, the “living words, teachings and life example” of a wandering itinerant sage from Galilee still lingers and remains like that one green leaf.

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives.

x

A Preface

When I was a boy, growing up in the Fifties/Sixties (last Century) there was the popular game show on our black-and-white television set, “To Tell the Truth.” There was a person of some notoriety who teamed up with two impostors to match wits with a panel consisting of four well-known celebrities. The object was to try to fool the celebrities into believing the two impostors. Most important, perhaps, was to remember it was only a game.

The challenge and struggle to distinguish between truth and falsehood, fact and fiction -- and even what might be determined or believed to be “real” or “unreal” -- seems to be an increasing human dilemma.

As children we also heard the mythic tale about our first president who was unable to tell a single lie to his father when he cut down a cherry tree. Nowadays, of course, the current, duly elected leader of our “free” world can place his hand on a Bible, then proceed to spew misleading claims that are either mistaken un-truths or outright, deliberate lies; which have been confirmed and archived, with little dispute. So, what’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

Truth Seekers: Where to Turn

Nowadays, if one were to strive to get to the bottom of anything, one might be tempted to pick up your cell phone and seek “the truth” from what is sometimes perceived to be an all-encompassing, unbiased source; namely “artificial” intelligence. So, I asked ChatGPT “What is the Truth?” and in seconds it replied with its own version of something that it carefully clarified was not absolute:

“The concept of truth can vary depending on philosophical, cultural, and personal perspectives. Broadly speaking, truth often refers to the quality of being in accordance with fact or reality. … Ultimately, what one considers to be true can be influenced by individual experience, evidence, and social context.”

And, then it asked me,

“What specific aspect of truth are you curious about?”

So, I asked this artificial inquisitor about the distinctive relationship between what is considered true and what is false? Without hesitation, it replied,

“The relationship between truth and falsehood is foundational in logic, philosophy, and epistemology. Here are some key distinctions: Truth: A statement or belief that accurately reflects reality or facts. Falsehood is a statement or belief that does not align with reality or facts.”

I can vaguely recall taking an undergrad philosophy course in epistemology (the study of the nature and limits of human knowledge) and phenomenology (the study of lived experience). But, before getting too far into the weeds (or, before the reader may doze off …) it is essential to remember that “artificial” intelligence, of course, is exactly that. It is artificial. It is the collection of human knowledge, intelligence and thought processes of what might be verifiably known up to this point; but which is (presumably) interpreted and expressed without human bias. And, if you can believe that, it raises the whole matter of trust or distrust, belief, or disbelief!

So, the same thing, of course, can be said of any humanly constructed system of beliefs. Obvious examples are the two fundamental ways in which we have historically framed our belief systems; namely, in religious and political belief structures.

As an example, from the Christian faith tradition and its canonized scriptures, take the fanciful tale of the religious figure of Jesus, and his trial before the Empire’s authoritative / political representative, Pilate (John 18).

Interrogation and Exploration into Truth-telling

Because it could be conjectured there were no court reporters, press or other eye-witnesses present to record and preserve any archival footage of the encounter, it was instead left to a word-of-mouth oral tradition to try to just imagine, tell, re-tell and interpret what might have happened; in order to try to promote a particular religious claim: namely, the “divine” kingship of Jesus that – to quote scripture – was not “of this world.” Obviously, not yet anyway!

In response to Pilate’s interrogation, the Jesus figure says, “Mine is not a secular government. If my government were secular my companions would fight to keep me from being turned over to the Judeans. But as it is, my government does not belong to the secular domain.”

“So, you are a king!” says Pilate.

“You’re the one who says I’m a king,” responds Jesus. “This is what I was born for, and this is why I came into the world: to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth can hear my voice.”

“What is truth?” Pilate asks. And then the story abruptly ends with this dangling question left unanswered. *

The political figure in this story is totally befuddled. He judges Jesus, based on the only structural paradigm he can comprehend; about the kingdoms of this world. Because Jesus is his one and only witness in this trumped-up trial – with his only defense being that of telling “the” truth as he claims it to be – the interrogation ends, leaving us all puzzled when Pilate asks: “What is the truth?”

Truth Be Told: The Gospel Truth

Alas, if that 1^st Century Galilean peasant sage were alive today, perhaps he might try to answer Pilate’s question by picking up his cell phone and asking ChatGPT for an answer to Pilate’s question. Instead, the historical figure of Jesus is condemned to death by the political and religious powers of his day; in the same world of lies and mistruths we still witness and experience on a daily basis.

But the truth does not die with Jesus. Amidst all the bad news in our world there remains the “good news” of what is still true about another kind of world we might become; described again and again by the teachings and life-example of the Galilean peasant sage.

Retaliatory violence will never resolve the dispute with your enemy. Your neighbor is the one in need that you’d prefer to pass by on the other side. Pompous liars are the poorest among us, and deserve our pity. A little bit of trust can vanquish fear. Hope is an eternal spring.

Such is the gospel truth that could one day set us free. If only …

*John 18:11-14, 28-38 - Jesus Seminar translation

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives.

News, News, News. I’m So Sick of News

Growing up in the middle of the last century, I’m old enough to remember the signature sign-off used by news commentator and journalist Walter Cronkite. “What kind of a day was it?” he’d ask. And then provide his own answer to the question he’d posed: “It was a day like all days. Filled with those events that alter and illuminate our times. And you were there.”

At one point in the sixties (last century) -- during the controversial American war in Southeast Asia -- he offered his own newsworthy on-the-ground assessment in Vietnam with the telling comment, “We are mired in a stalemate.”

Six decades later -- considering the numerous places in the world today that are caught up in similar unresolved conflict -- one might certainly and despairingly conclude such a stalemate still remains, only on a larger scale. Consequently, one could certainly wonder if things will ever change; particularly if one recalls Cronkite’s other familiar sign-off, “And that’s the way it is.”

Cynics or Pessimists?

In a recent post, professor / author / political commentator Robert Reich reflected on the disturbing and disheartening era in which we find ourselves these days, and made an important distinction:

“If all of this makes you pessimistic, I understand. The immediate future does look bleak. But please do not become cynical. Don’t lose hope. … Pessimism is different from cynicism. Pessimists believe an outcome will be bad. But cynics don’t even try for a different outcome because they’ve lost all hope.”

As a pessimist (or, or perhaps, just plain realist) of a certain sort, I’ve written and shared a number of commentaries on the nature of hope (e.g. here); and the oft-perceived naiveté that lies the heart of a “good news” message once taught and practiced by the Galilean peasant sage (links). Such a message might be dismissed as a charmingly quaint, but futile, response to what is perceived to be the “real” world.

Understandably, in fact, one might think it would take a miracle if things were to ever change. Indeed. But what kind of miracle?

Miraculous Hope:
“Twas Blind, but Now I See”

Did Jesus really cure the lame to walk again, restore sight to the blind, and raise the dead to new life? When it comes to those gospel stories in the canonical scriptures describing the miraculous powers of Jesus’ “earthly” ministry, I don’t believe in any literal interpretation of what seemed to his followers to be simply miraculous. I say, if someone did experience an inexplicable restoration to health, or some mortal was inexplicably resuscitated to extend their mortal life a few more days, good for them!

But I also believe so-called miracle workers today -- who invoke their savior’s name, in order to try to physically imitate or replicate such an event -- are short-changing the far more significant message to be conveyed in such gospel tales. Consider, for example, one well known “miracle” story from the scriptures:

Decades after Jesus was dead and gone, the canonical Gospel of John was recorded by an early pre-Christian faith community that strove and struggled to re-tell and interpret many tales passed down to them through an oral tradition. One of those stories was about Jesus miraculously restoring the sight of a man born blind (John 9:1-41).

In the story, Jesus simply spits on the ground, then rubs mud on a blind man’s eyes, and the man can suddenly and clearly see what he’d heretofore never been able to see since the day he was born. Read that sentence once more; and then consider that’s the simple, underlying, metaphorical message that might well be deemed miraculous.

But instead, the story then devolves into a long, drawn-out debate as to how it all could have happened. Physical blindness – like any other impairment -- was believed to have been the consequence of some unforgiveable wrongdoing; having been determined by some divine power who decides shall, or shall not be so afflicted.

“Who sinned?” the truly vision-impaired standing around seem to endlessly debate in this story. “Was it the newborn infant, of his parents?” Then the religious hierarchical authorities are dragged into the fray to explain how such an impairment could be explained away.

No one bothers to ask what it is that the one once blind could now clearly see; as if -- in reality -- it is everyone else who remains without the vision to more clearly see what Jesus was trying to say and show them in all those teachings that were then illustrated and “lived-out” by his own actions.

So, what is truly miraculous?

A Hopeful Pessimist

When I look at the world around us today, I can easily concur with what a long-departed newscaster decades ago clearly observed and concluded, “And that’s the way it is.” Indeed, it would take this kind of miracle for this human saga to ever change. And then take another path to which Jesus once provided us the sight to see.

So, I don’t believe in miracles in any literal sense. But the“miraculous” – interpreted and understood as I’ve suggested – remains an important, hopeful message to which I still hold fast; regardless of whether or not it ever comes to fruition in this age, or the next. jb

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit. To read more commentaries by John
Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go here.

Recently, thousands of citizens in hundreds of towns and cities throughout our country held a “No Kings” Day rally; protesting what was declared to be excessive overreach by the current occupant of the Oval Office. The last king who tried to retain such a reign over this country was George III, almost 250 years ago. I am one who can recall an earlier era of anti-war protest marches and civil rights demonstrations. “Make Love, Not War” or “We Shall Overcome … Someday,” were typical signs carried. But the cryptic signage nowadays seems exceptional.

At our local rally, just a few of the signs read: “Elect a Clown, Expect a Circus.” “You Can’t Spell HAT-RED without a RED-HAT.” “The Only Good Monarch is a Butterfly.” And “Now You’ve Pissed-off the Menopausal Women!”

Now, in the “traditional” translation of the Lord’s Prayer (Luke 11:1-4, Matthew 6:9-13 ), when the disciples ask to be taught how to pray, they’re told to begin by invoking a wish for divine intervention, “thy kingdom come;” thereby making the distinction between the successive, embattled kingdoms of this world, with the seemingly futile hope of something more, or different. Two millennia later, of course, it remains an unanswered prayer.

Consequently, such a different kind of kingdom which the historical Jesus once taught his first followers seems to have been a losing proposition.

So, what’s the “good news” for anyone today who would strive to dethrone any would-be present-day monarch?

A Gospel for Losers:

Of Monarchs & Martyrdom

Last year, I wrote a 3-part series of commentaries (I, II, III) reflecting on the seeming naiveté reflected in the teachings of that first-century Galilean peasant sage; constituting what became the heart of the gospel’s message. This included both welcoming the alien in our midst; as well as endlessly forgiving the other, in order to break the cycle of retaliatory violence. The fact that this repeated message by such prophets and martyrs remains unchanged does not nullify that hope and vision of a different kind of kingdom.

In one of the earliest post-Jesus traditions reflected in the canonical New Testament there is the portrayal of the Jesus character and his trial before Pilate (John 18:33-38). While many biblical scholars agree the exchange attributed to the two figures were constructed from an early second-hand tradition, the basic plot and theme which this story reflects is a recurrent, universal one.

First, consider the two characters in the tale. Pilate is the representative of the sovereign power of what was the Empire at that particular time; and one that would only rise and eventually fall. Now, the word sovereignty comes from the Latin word “superanus” … No, it’s not what you may be thinking. It means supreme, or paramount. In other words, a sovereign is one that exercises power without limitation. Sound familiar?

So, when Pilate asks Jesus if he is a king – as opposed to the king to whom Pilate has borne allegiance – the figure who is about to be condemned disowns the title; along with the power and privileges attributed to a monarch.

“Mine is not a secular government,” the Jesus character replies. “If my government were secular my companions would fight to keep me from being turned over to the Judeans. But as it is, my government does not belong to the secular domain.” (Jesus Seminar translation)

“So,” Pilate exclaims, “You are a king!”

“You’re the one who says I’m a king,” responds Jesus. “This is what I was born for, and this is why I came into the world: to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth can hear my voice.”

“What is the truth?” says Pilate. And then the story abruptly ends, and leaves us hanging there.

The Truth, and Nothing Butt …

Among the various protest signs at the recent “No-Kings” rally in which I participated was one that initially made me laugh out loud. It was a caricature of Donald Trump looking back over his shoulder. The caption read, “Does this ass make my country look smaller?”

But then I looked at one more sign that wasn’t merely mocking a would-be monarch with a political jab that would only perpetuate an obvious, overt, partisan divide. Rather, it was one that spoke to a deeper, fundamental truth. It was the distinction between cruelty and compassion.

Compassion, of course, refers to the capacity of the human heart to identify and suffer with the ‘other,’ without regard to who that other happens to be, in their own particular state of diminishment.

Cruelty, on the other hand, is the consequence of a certain kind of impoverishment; namely, the lack of any sense of empathy. In this regard, the truth is my brother Donald is the poorest public figure to come along since any other previous would-be king, or fascist leader. He is, in the truest sense, pitiful and pathetic.

A Fantasy Tale:

Donald awakens in the middle of the night with alarm and a sense of urgency. Instead of posting another tweet to distract from the one a day earlier, he orders his team to whisk him away to the airport to board Airforce One. He flies across the country to the U.S./Mexico border and scurries to the security fence; where immigration officers are about to deport an unnamed alien. Donald orders the handcuffs removed and then introduces himself to the stranger who’s in tattered work clothes; and who can only speak a little English.

Donald learns the man’s name is Carlos. Carlos has been tirelessly picking crops in the fields outside San Diego to earn a day’s wage; while his wife and three children are homeless and hiding out somewhere on the streets of the City of Angels.

Donald explains he can only do what one man can do for another; but orders his team to do whatever they can to find the family. If successful, Donald tells Carlos they can come stay at his own house on the other side of the country. It’s a big white house with plenty of rooms. But he warns Carlos it’s only temporary, for the next 1,306 days; when they’ll both have to find other lodging. Carolos breaks down in tears, as Donald gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder …

There are no kings in this fanciful fairytale; only a little kinship to be discovered that could far surpass the more familiar fairy tale kingdoms of this world that would feign to “make us great again.”

When it comes to my own choice of sovereign allegiance, I may be a loser, with a lost cause. But I’ll continue to strive to follow one who expressed and reflected the truth of compassion over cruelty.

Postscript

Years ago, I wrote a song entitled, “At Work in the Fields of the Lord” (here). I recently thought about my estranged brother, Donald, when I recalled the lines below:

Once there was a man, so lost and alone,
Life had grown shallow, with everything he owned.
Seems the more he had, he hungered for more.
Found that the more he had, the more he was poor.

Refrain:
He had never known love without measure,
He had found only life’s earthly pleasures,
He never found his heart’s treasure,
‘Til finding the fields of the Lord.”

Came upon that field, unlike any other
Family of strangers, like sisters and brothers,
Working hand in hand, he never had heard
‘bout giving and growing in faith, with these words:

Refrain:
I can show you love, without measure,
You can find more than life’s earthly pleasures,
Together we’ll share our heart’s treasure
At work in the fields of the Lord.

If you’re like the man, so lost and alone,
Trust in the harvest of joy that’s been sown,
Work without limit, give without cost,
Knowing your labor can never be lost.

Refrain:
I can show you love without measure,
You can find more than life’s earthly pleasures,
Together we’ll share all our pleasure,
At work in the fields of the Lord.

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

“Poetry is the language that most truly reflects the life of the soul; it is the person of faith's native language. Both poetry and faith work to challenge the sleepwalking life ... Poetry and Faith reflect parts of each other... as they deepen and not resolve the meanings, mysteries and mayhem of the world.” – Mark Oakley

Mark Oakley is an Anglican priest and Dean of Southwark Cathedral in London. I recently became aware of his work and his 2016 book, “The Splash of Words: Believing in Poetry.” It got me reflecting on the immense role various “poetic” expressions have played in my life; including poems I’ve read and even memorized, or written for myself, or sung in lyrical fashion.

When we were young, we all presumably learned there was a difference between prose and poetry. But, in addition, prose can all too often become prosaic; defined as lacking in imagination, and dealing only with what is known or alleged to be factual. Hence, prose can often claim to provide the distinction between what might be deemed to be the fictional and non-fiction. But when prose fails to spark the human imagination -- that seems to ultimately resist domestication -- poetry can liberate both our mind and spirit. Hence, there is a spiritual path we might describe as the poetic one.

In similar fashion, along such a path, we may have learned there’s a difference between the language of codified beliefs and the literal; contrasted with the poetic that uses fewer words to infer and allude to that which one can only hope and affirm as ‘trust’ (Gr. πιστός ‘pistis,’); which is the synonym of course for the word ‘faith’.

The compendium of holy writ known as the Bible is full of both prose and poetry, of course; as well as the prophecies that forever point to that place as yet unreached, or unrealized. There are 150 psalms, for example, to recite or sing. But regrettably they’re all too often interpreted more literally than metaphorically (or, one might say, “spiritually”). The prologue to John’s gospel, for example, declares it all began with theWord (‘logos’) that “became flesh to dwell among us.” But the prose that then follows is too often left to become stultified in theological interpolation. The gospels portray the Jesus figure as “Son” of a living “God,”the one and only savior and redeemer, who’s the preferable “Lord” to follow among all other choices.

But at their best, the gospels also recount a Galilean sage who told fictional tales in a kind of true poetic fashion that rang more true than being merely factual when it came to, say, a prodigal son and his father, or a good Samaritan, or a sower of seeds, or an unnamed shepherd to a single lost sheep, or a woman upending her life to find one lost coin.

So, where is the poetic – as characterized by the distinction I’ve suggested -- to be most authentically found in your daily life, and mine?

In a Word (or Two), Versus “Nothingness in Many Words”

“Words, words, words,
I’m so sick of words.” – Henry Higgins, “My Fair Lady”

If you were to recount your life’s journey up to this point along the path, how might poetry -- including the poet in you -- play a part to describe your various chapters; when, perhaps, simply a rhyming Hallmark greeting card was insufficient to express your most authentic thoughts and emotions?

I recall one year in boarding school when our English teacher would require students to memorize and recite a classic poem each week. There was, for example, the Shakespearean love sonnet,

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May …
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Ah … But then some of us witless students shortened the Bard’s verbiage to :

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
A bale of hay?
A cheese souflé? …

Soon after that, however, real life got in the way; when I turned eighteen years old, and I was required to register for what was then a military draft. [Jump ahead five decades now, when the Memorial Day observance this year included a commemoration of the American War in Southeast Asia from a half-century ago.] To my own surprise, here’s one stanza of a poem I recently re-discovered in an old cardboard box of memorabilia that I’d written in 1966 that went like this:

Why can’t you hear my brother, oh,
Why can’t you hear my cries?
Resounding through this night of death,
Throughout the empty the empty skies?
You never took my warning,
You never paid no heed,
And now mankind must suffer
Its self-destructive deed. (Complete transcript here.)

Was I simply another one of those peace-not-war protestors of my generation who’d seek “conscientious objector” status or flee across the Canadian border? Or was there a notion once previously instilled in my own upbring in my earlier years within a certain faith tradition by the teachings of a 1^st century poet-sage in the Christian faith tradition? Was there a kind of living injunction in that youthful idealist rhyme about sheathing the sword (Mt. 26:52), or turning those swords into plough shares (Is. 2:4), and forever seeking to love your enemy (Lk 6:27-36), and persistently turning the other cheek (Mt. 5:39)?

Later, in young adulthood, I’d indulge and delight in some of the popular poets of that era, like James Kavanaugh and his slim volume, “There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves.” Or Rod McKuen, when I moved to San Franciso and experienced my own Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows. And, then there was E.E. Cummings’ poems, when I learned you didn’t have to capitalize every line, or construct a metered rhyme!

After numerous successive life chapters as a writer, preacher, speaker, and what I would occasionally and despairingly describe myself as a “word merchant,” probably the most gracious compliment I ever received was from an old colleague when he distinguished some of my own script-ure from what he otherwise deemed to all-too-often be “nothingness in many words.” It was also a word of caution -- and affirmation -- of that poet which is en-trusted in us all. In a word, we are entrusted in faith.

Finally, perhaps most formative for me were these words once written by T.S. Eliot:

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. …
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. …
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Excerpts from T.S. Eliot’s “Little Gidding,” The Four Quartets (1942)

Postscript

As a personal reflection and variation of Eliot’s recurrent journey awaiting completion, I’m sharing with my reader’s a poem I composed in 2012; written with whatever sparseness this word merchant could muster:

DAWN

Last night
was so warm
the house hung
by its windows

The earth
had cracked
like a shell
but now
the air had cooled
in the forgotten hours.

If only
for a while I
could capture
an unspoiled moment
to fill the
still, dark room.

Crickets
lulled me
motionless
and I
had wandered
down strange paths,
now forgotten,
as light began to push
black shapes into
old familiar forms.

I’ve woken before
a cackling bird
repeats its
one
monotonous
note,
while the hours
roll over and
crawl back
to the other side.

Whatever
is inevitable
comes,
and with it
a roar of rubber wheels
whining louder,
nagging at
the undone scraps
that await completion.

The darker hours
will come again
and sooner next time.

And I’ll rummage
for another way
to speak,
or write
of something more.

August 10, 2012 - by John W. Bennison

Who is John Bennison? To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

The day after Easter this year, a mortal named Jorge Mario Bergoglio died. He’d spent the last eleven years of his life serving one particular expression of the Christian faith tradition, under the assumed name Francis. The “Holy Father” chose the adopted name to remember and try to emulate certain human virtues once expressed by a 13^th C. friar who had been posthumously elevated to sainthood. One might wonder why no Pope before the late-Pope Francis adopted that name. Better yet, why did Jorge choose it?

The stories about the former Francis – elevated to sainthood by the ecclesiastical church of Rome in 1228 CE, and just two years after his death – are legendary. Those human virtues attributed to him were his care of the poor and marginalized (including the role of women in the social order), and the love of nature and environmental concerns. Sound familiar?

So, there is the tale about this first Francis, who originally – in his lifetime – went by the name Giovanni di Pietro di Bernadone. He’d been wandering the Umbrian hills, before entering the sanctuary of a crumbling church in Assisi (Italy). Transfixed by an icon there of a crucified Jesus that seemed to be staring at him, he asked what he should do? Who should he be? “Rebuild my church,” was the reply he heard.

Was he supposed to physically repair the church of San Damiano? Or -- as in any transformative or spiritual moment – was he not supposed to interpret such a religious calling literally, but symbolically or metaphorically?

It’s interesting to note that nowadays every pilgrimage to Assisi includes time spent in the sanctuary of San Damiano. But then that’s not just the end of a journey, but rather a new beginning. Where will each pilgrim’s sojourn presumably take them next, and to be who, and do what?

Likewise, as the Catholic cardinals gather now to presumably not only expedite their last papal leader to sainthood, they are also already debating whether they will continue in the more progressive direction of the two former Francis figures; or revert to simply repairing the crumbling façade of a former past.

But to be sure, the underlying question and point is even more universal; and is just as applicable to those who of us may not be of that particular example or denominational (catholic) persuasion. So …

What’s in a Name?
A Personal Sharing

Pope Francis’ original name was Jorge, a Spanish name that means “earth-worker.” And, from the Latin, the word ‘francis’ means “free man.”

So, what’s in a name? Your name, my name, maybe a nick name given us, or another name you might assume -- with the choice to do so -- and why?

The name I was given derived from my two grandfathers, John Arthur Haglun and Floyd William Bennison. Fortunately, I got John William, instead of …. But the nickname my own father used to call me was the Greek pronunciation of my name John, Ionnes (Gr. Ιωάννης), which means “God is gracious.”

And, my last name is an old English word that means “blessing” or “divine favor.” In Shakespeare's play, "Macbeth," the old character uses the word when he blesses Ross and bids "God's benison go with you" (Act 2, Scene 4). With a name like that -- I used to jest -- how could I do and be anything but a cleric?

So, for two dozen years, I once pastored a congregation known as St. John’s Parish; named after the fourth Evangelist in the New Testament. But the standard gag line when I would answer the office phone was, “Hello, St. John’s, John speaking ….” While I doubt I’ll ever be elevated to sainthood -- just as a bygone past need not be renovated or resurrected -- I remain mindful of the name by which I am still called and blessed.

My pilgrimage remains defined by following the life and teachings of that Galilean peasant sage; who was given the Hebrew name Yehushua (Jesus), meaning “God saves.” “God?”

Again, such a term represents something more than a crumbling facade; but instead whatever our human imaginations might discern to be divine, when taken metaphorically, not literally.

With such a reminder — in both mind and spirit — I am often and gently persuaded of my calling and the name given me by a single verse from the Psalter; as well as one verse from a hymn I still regularly hum or murmur:

“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12)

And,

“So, order too this life of mine, direct it all my days,
The meditation of my heart, be innocence and praise.
My rock and my redeeming Lord, in all my words and ways.”
based on Psalm 19, by hymnwriter Timothy Dudley Smith (1926-2024)

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To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

We look for peace, but find no good,
for a time of healing, but there is terror instead …
Is there no balm in Gilead? (Jer. 8:15,22)

In novelist Margaret Atwood’s 1985 book, “The Handmaid’s Tale,” a radical, religiously-inspired political group – calling themselves the “Sons of Jacob” -- storm the U.S. Capitol, establishing a fundamentalist theocracy. The new regime – located in Washington, DC -- is named Gilead; with its name taken from the ancient tale from the Book of Jeremiah. That tale envisioned a healing balm to cure all human ills. But in Atwood’s fictional story, women are simply subordinated with their reproductive rights restricted. So, the heroine flees to Canada …

Forty years since Atwood’s novel was published, actual “real life” events have taken place that may sound alarmingly familiar to what the novelist once described. The world as we know it remains torn asunder. Nations rise up against nations. The rich and the powerful hold sway, while the poor and disenfranchised perish in vain hope of something else, somewhere else.

Presumably, there is a healing “balm of Gilead,” the prophet Jeremiah first declared six centuries BCE (from the Hebrew Bible, Jer. 8:22). Subsequently, the phrase itself has become a form of figurative speech to signify a curative salve for all human ills.

Geographically, Gilead is a mountainous region in what is now the nation of Jordan. But neither literally, nor figuratively, we might readily conclude we’ve yet to reach that mountaintop. However, perhaps such a long sought-after destination is of another sort, and remains forever within reach.

One Ritual Reenactment to Point the Way

“There is a balm in Gilead
to make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead
to heal the sinsick soul.”

Traditional African-American spiritual

The old spiritual quoted above was meant to provide some reassurance to the enslaved and downtrodden that a savior figure would redeem their plight; with Jesus being that messianic figure. While I may not share the same belief structure about what redemption might mean, I do recall the many years I practiced the ritual of declaring the curative power of what could be understood as a healing balm from the Christian faith tradition.

First, there are those stories of so-called miraculous healings which the gospels describe. There’s the one where Jesus defies the prevailing, dominant religious convention by healing on the Sabbath; in order to restore the sick and lame (Mk. 3:1-6).

Then there is that ritual re-enactment in the Christian faith tradition of spiritually healing with some balm, of sorts. It’s known as the oil of Chrism. Traditionally, it’s a blend of olive oil and balsam.

But that same balm is also given baptismal candidates when initiated into the “body of Christ” to follow; both by the example set by one accorded the title ‘lord,’ and on what might otherwise seem to be a meandering itinerant’s path, as well.

In the that ritual I administered for decades, I’d splash the forehead with water, then wipe it dry. Then dipping my thumb into the oil stock, I’d mark the baptismal candidate’s forehead with a sign of the cross; symbolically joining them with those who had already taken up the path to accept the Galilean sage’s invitation to follow.

However, at the conclusion of the traditional ritual, I would also add an additional blessing that was essentially a charge, or commissioning, of sorts. Borrowed from a dear friend and colleague – which he’d partially adapted himself -- I’d briefly touch the newly-baptized five more times, and utter:

I bless your eyes, that you may see the face of Christ (Jesus) in all people.
I bless your lips, that you may speak the gospel of Christ (Jesus).
I bless your ears, that you may always hear the cry of the poor.
I bless your hands, that everything you give and receive may be a sacrament. And,
I bless your feet, that you may always run to those who need you. *(credits below)

At that moment – and, in that time and place -- one might wonder if we’d already reached the mountaintop called Gilead. If only such a balm received — and commission given — might be enough to one day truly redeem our own human story.

jb

* The first two blessings mentioned above were adapted from Frederick Buechner’s novel, Godric. And the last three blessings were crafted by Episcopal Bishop John Thornton.

To learn more about John Bennison, click Here. To read more commentaries by this writer from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

“This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York island,
From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and me.”
Singer / songwriter, Woody Guthrie

Among the Academy Award nominations this year for Best Feature Documentary is a film entitled, “No Other Land.” It tells the story, from the collaborative perspective of a Palestinian filmmaker and an Israeli journalist in the occupied West Bank, who chronicle Israel’s demolition of Palestinian homes from 2018-2023; in order to make way for a live-fire Israeli military training ground. The film’s title is taken from a woman’s despondent cries, whose displaced family has nowhere else to go but the cave beneath their feet.

Towards the end of the film, the narrator summarizes what they have documented: “Every week, a new family must decide, endure or leave their land. If a family leaves, they lose their land. The hardest struggle is to stay on the land. Masafer Yetta (the name of the destroyed village) exists for one reason: People who hold onto life.”

It takes little discernment to recognize that “land grabbing” – and the subsequent resistance and conflict -- is a perpetual, historical cycle to our human saga. In my youthful idealism many decades ago, I’d strum the guitar and boisterously sing Woody Guthrie’s 1940 tune, “This Land is your land, this land is my land.” The historical fact that my European ancestors had usurped the land beneath my feet from indigenous peoples who’d called it their homeland for centuries before me seemed of little consequence.

Nowadays, the most obvious current flashpoints are the Israeli/Palestinian and Russia/Ukrainian conflicts. Turf wars by either dreams of empire, or religiously inspired claims of a so-called “promised land,” are nothing new. Just peruse the history books or biblical scriptures. An example:

Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’ (Genesis 12:1-3)

When one turns to the teachings and life example of the Galilean peasant sage – from which the early pre-Christian movement derived – it’s helpful to remember that the historical Jesus was himself an itinerant with no other land to call home; except the one dominated by the dominant militarized Empire of his day that suppressed all armed resistance; along with a certain dominant faith tradition in the time and place in which he lived. Watching scenes from the recent film mentioned above, I could not help but envision the historical Jesus trudging those same dusty backroads as today’s displaced Palestinians.

Merci Beaucoup, or Merciless?

Land of mercy is more than an exclamatory remark of belief, or disbelief. The word mercy has many and various etymological roots; from “reward, or price paid” (Latin), to “thanks,” or even “pity” (Old French), to compassion (com-passion, shared empathy). Regardless of any of these variations, they might all be understood by not only what it might mean to be filled with much mercy; but more distinctly what it means to be merci-less. So, what does any of this have to do with the times and place we inhabit?

Our own daily news cycle has been consumed for a seemingly interminable time with what is called a crisis at “the border.” For those among us who would long to make America “great again,” the question might best be posed with regards to who among us – on the one hand -- might be regarded as merciful. Or those among us who are little more than pitiful; and – like it or not -- for whom we are reminded to nonetheless show mercy.

At the core of the wisdom tradition reflective of both the life example and teachings of the homeless Jesus were those expressions and vision of a homeland where no one would be excluded or cast out. *

jb

* I’ve written several recent commentaries about Jesus’ perceived naiveté; with a gospel message that’s just too idealistic or illusory for the “real” world. Or whether we can ever merci-fully find within our human community a homeland in which we may all dwell. See the Archives To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read additional commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

I began to write this reflection on a historic Monday in January; when Donald Trump was sworn into office as our president on the same day our nation observed the annual commemoration of the life and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

American flags around the Capitol grounds that were being flown at half-staff, in honor of the life of the late-President Jimmy Carter, were ordered by the House speaker to be raised for inauguration day. But rather ironically, freezing weather (or providential design?) made that mechanically difficult on several flagstaffs.

Regardless, it’s not that difficult to distinguish the stark differences in the life path that each of those three prominent figures freely chose to follow. At the same time, one might wonder, whatever possessed each of them? One was an assassinated civil rights leader and pastor. Another was not only a former president, but a world humanitarian and Nobel Peace Prize recipient. And the last of the three … I leave to your own description.

But -- on a more personal level -- one might ask of oneself: Given the choice – when any of us are accorded the freedom to do so –what is it that calls, leads, draws, or propels us forward?

Some Scripture Context for Consideration

“Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (John 21:18)

There’s that passage in the canonical Gospel of John about which I’ve been ruminating, once again. From a textual standpoint, Biblical scholars generally agree the writer of that book gathered such “Jesus sayings” many, many decades after the death of the Galilean peasant sage. The quote attributed to Jesus of Nazareth was part of an oral tradition; replicated from that collection by the author/s.

Nearly two millennia later, we have our own life stories to tell. As such, I would suggest a possible, relevant application of that ancient gospel passage for you or me might be about the consequences of a new lifepath one might not necessarily have consciously or deliberately chosen for oneself; whether or not one may have thought we’d been given the freedom or deeper foresight, to choose it.

In such case, freedom is not simply the right to do whatever you damn well please; but rather the willingness to accept a beckoning call to sometimes go where one would otherwise not have chosen to go. It might have come like the stirring of a gentle breeze; or, on the other hand, a blustering wind.

In the Christian faith tradition, it is sometimes referred to as being led by the “Spirit” (Gr. pneuma, wind, breath). And with it, there comes the open acceptance of what could be likened to an unwelcome gift, with what might be called the “yoke” of freedom.

A Cautionary Tale

“We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us. Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain. Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls.” – Joseph Campbell

The other day, my beloved was watching one of her favorite British murder mystery series on television. As I walked past, I happened to briefly glance at the screen, and noticed one of the characters was dressed as an Anglican clergyman.

“He’s got his clerical collar on backwards!” I impulsively exclaimed. The button that was supposed to be worn in the back of the collar was clearly in view of the camera. Backwards? What did it matter? Well, if you know me at all, I just happen to be one who looks for the possible metaphor in almost anything …

For decades -- in an earlier life chapter of my own – I had strapped on a clerical collar daily, and freely accepted the yoke of formal ministry in the Anglican faith tradition; along with the priestly stole I often likened to a dog leash; which, in turn, led me to faithfully lead a flock of followers.

It is when I relinquished that garb many years later, I was free to move forward, not backward. And, rather than clinging to the vestiges of a very meaningful bygone past, I was free to seek and discover that to which, by faith (Gr. pistis, trust), I might be led once more, and raised up once again.

So, mine is a cautionary tale; when an old yoke can sometimes come to resemble a noose. There is spirit. And, we are more than dust in the wind; when one can recognize the freedom which one has to be led.

© 2025 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved. This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit. To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

Come to Bethlehem and see
Him whose birth the angels sing,
Come, adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.

19th C. French Carol, “Angels We Have Heard on High”

About two millennia ago – as one story goes – shepherds with their sheep were beckoned to a cow stable in a little town in what is now the West Bank of the besieged State of Palestine; located in the Judean hills about five miles south of Jerusalem. There they would find a baby Jesus. He would be hailed as “Lord of Lords,” “King of Kings,” “Prince of Peace,” whose reign would last forever, and ever. (Isaiah 9)

Nearly two millennia later now, it might be much safer to make your pilgrimage to St. Peter’s Chapel in Lucerne, Switzerland; where an avatar in the form of an Ai Jesus has been installed to engage any sojourner or pilgrim in a one-on-one encounter with what has been dubbed a Deus in Machina.

Having been programmed with a compendium of inherited and canonized biblical texts – just like you’d expect of any reputable theologian, biblical scholar, priest, or preacher – this particular imitator (or impostor) of the Jesus character has the ability to peddle a multitude of teachings; along with their various interpretations. As a holiday bonus, “he” can even hear confessions, giving counsel and absolving the penitent of their sins. What more could one possibly want, or hope, to receive this Christmas?

But, in this perennial season of gift-giving, a better question might be is there anything new or different to be received, or given in the exchange?

To Whom Shall We Bear What Gifts?

In our household, the annual task of unpacking the holiday decorations includes a wooden creche; replete with the entire cast of biblical characters (pictured above). These not only include the holy family, a cow, a jackass, and a hovering angel; but also well-to-do gift-bearing astrologers lured to this nativity scene (in Matthew’s version), and empty-handed low-class shepherds, beckoned hither with their sheep (Luke’s version). With imagined cow dung for incense, and the refrain of an angelic chorus filling the air, what are we to still make of the long-awaited “Christ the Lord, the newborn King?”

About eight centuries before these particular nativity tales were written, the Jewish poet and soothsayer, Isaiah, prophesied about the advent of a prince of peace and his eternal reign. (Isaiah 9). Political and armed strife had consumed the Middle East, which continued in one form or another up until the lifetime of the historical Jesus, and now far beyond his time. So, I asked the post-modern Ai Jesus – now neatly tucked away in the Swiss Alps -- why such everlasting peace has never come to the “Holy Land;” or elsewhere, for that matter? Within seconds, the avatar responded with the observation that sounded as evasive and inconclusive as it is readily apparent. It read:

“The lack of everlasting peace in the Holy Land is a deeply complex issue, rooted in a combination of historical, religious, cultural, political, and social factors.”

It then went on to cite historical conflicts, territorial disputes, competing claims of the three major religious traditions in the area, subsequent colonial legacies and global involvement, social and economic factors, and concluding with something that lies at the heart of the question; namely, human nature and brokenness. “From a spiritual perspective,” it observed,” some believe the lack of peace reflects the broader brokenness of humanity. Greed, pride, and a failure to fully embrace principles like forgiveness and love hinder reconciliation.”

As reluctant as I am to admit it, I couldn’t have said it better myself. But, then again, it’s what I’ve been pondering and preaching for as long as I can try to re-member (i.e. re-assemble) what lies at the heart of that message once-gifted to us by that Galilean peasant sage, born nearly two millennia ago.

Hopes & Dreams: A Royal Remembrance “Gift” of Hope
A Personal Story

O holy town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by;
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;The hopes and fears of all the years
are me in thee tonight.
Words: Phillips Brooks (1868)
Music: Forest Green, and English melody

Nearly a half-century ago, after I concluded my graduate studies in religion, I was ordained in one particular expression of the Christian faith tradition, and then began preaching a “good news” message. In my first year in that endeavor, I was given a gift by a grateful parishioner. It is a wooden wall carving from England, circa 1750 CE, depicting the holy nativity. All the usual characters are included, including the baby Jesus.

But above the infant Jesus, and between Mary and Joseph, there’s also a young prince Jesus; as well as a “king” Jesus figure holding an orb. In other words, he’s got the whole world in his hands.

This particular gift is not something I stash away again when the holiday season comes to an end. Instead, it has hung for decades on a wall in my house; as a daily reminder that there can always be a re-birth of all the hopes and fears of all the years; with an ancient nativity gift that keeps on giving.

One need not trek to Bethlehem, nor scale the Swiss Alps, to find it. If only my house, and your house, might someday resemble the “house” of the one to whom we might bear allegiance as the lord of our life.

As, in the words of the poet/prophet, Isaiah:

In days to come
the mountain of the Lord’s house
shall be established as the highest of the mountains,
and shall be raised above the hills;
all the nations shall stream to it.
Many peoples shall come and say,
‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,
to the house of the God of Jacob;
that he may teach us his ways
and that we may walk in his paths.’
For out of Zion shall go forth instruction,
and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
and their spears into pruning-hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war anymore. (Isaiah 2)

© 2024 by John William Bennison, Rel.D. All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.
To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

A Reprise: Sometimes a story is worth retelling …

This personal reflection on the perennial holiday is a reminder to pause and reflect on those people and things for which we are most grateful. I wrote this story in 2014, but upon reading it again recently ir gave me a reason to write a letter to a few more people from my past who were important companions in an earlier life chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

Is it ever too late to say thank you?  Yes, and no.

The newspaper story from Farmington, Maine was all about a first-class postcard recently delivered to Ruth McGary, an 83-year old retired public health worker, now living in Manchester.  The postmark on the card with a 1-cent postage stamp revealed it was mailed 64 years earlier, in 1946.

At the time, Ruth was a student at the University of Maine.  It was sent to her by a couple named Charlie and Gert.  She vaguely recalled Charlie was the manager of a little department store in Augusta, where Ruth had worked the summer before, earning wages sufficient to pay for her first semester’s tuition.  She’d also played trombone in an amateur swing band the couple had put together, performing at local social halls.  Apparently, she’d  written Charlie and Gert a thank you note, telling them all about her new college adventures.  In return, they’d sent her this thank you postcard. On the front of the card was a drawing of the Catholic church in Winthrop.  On the other side was the note, carefully written and addressed in ink pen to a dorm room in Purington Hall that no longer existed, at what was then Farmington State Teachers College (now part of UMW).  In part, it read:

Dear Ruth,

Thank you for your card and for remembering us. Glad to hear you’re playing again, and hope the swing band gets together - let us hear about it. Hope the homework won’t interfere. I’ve been glad to be home and get some work done - there’s plenty to do. Glad to hear the food is good. Keep well and regards to your folks. Drive over sometime.

Sincerely,
Gert & Charlie

  How the postcard remained lost all these years at the local post office remains a mystery. But when the person who now works in the University’s mailroom took one look at the historic mail piece that appeared to be in perfect condition, she checked the postmark; then immediately set about tracking down the intended recipient through the alumnae office.

By the time the postcard was finally hand-delivered to her, Ruth said she couldn’t recall sending a letter; but she was happy to have finally received the thank-you reply.  Now a senior citizen herself, she realizes it’s a little too late to send Charlie and Gert a note in return.  Her only regret is that the senders never knew if she’d gotten their expression of thanks.

I suppose one could glance at this little human interest story and simply conclude, well, that’s the post office for ‘ya.  But it got me thinking about people in my life for whom a thank you -- however belated -- would be a great thing to do this time of year. The Thanksgiving holiday is the time of year everyone typically pauses to remember and take inventory of the abundance of blessings, people and things in our lives for which we are grateful.  As ironic as it may seem, the less we have, the easier it is to take stock of what remains.  Maybe it’s that process-of-elimination thing?  Or, maybe it’s a matter of looking beyond what is most obvious and immediate.

This year, when we gather around our Thanksgiving table, I’ll invite everyone to remember and offer at least one thing for which they are grateful, as always.  But specifically, this time I’ll suggest we each recall someone from our past who we have only subsequently come to realize was influential, helpful, formative, and important; and for whom a belated expression of thanks might be appropriate.

After reading the little story about Ruth, Charlie and Gert last month, I got an early start on this idea.  I thought of teachers who’d made a positive impression on me, at a time in my young life when it never occurred to me to express any appreciation to those who usually just piled on the homework assignments and demanded excellence.  For me, I can still easily remember some profs like Arthur Lessing, Tom Trotter, Jack Coogan, John Cobb and Hans Dieter-Betz.  And in high school, there was also Robert Usellis.

When I was in boarding school, it was long enough ago that our teachers were still called Masters, and we were still required to wear a jacket and tie to class.  In my junior year I took an American history course with Master Usellis. When it came time for the midterm essay exam, the question was all about early 20^th century immigration policies, and their effects on our progress as a country, and the national character.  How totally useless and irrelevant could you get, I thought!  I’d studied little and knew even less.  My essay consisted of one short paragraph containing about three sentences that said next to nothing.

The exam question was all about early 20^th century immigration policies, and their effects on our progress as a country, and the national character. How totally useless and irrelevant could you get, I thought!

The next day a fuming Master Usellis stormed into the classroom, throwing down the stack of graded exams, yelling at the top of his lungs, “What a bunch of crap!”  I can still picture the scene as if it was yesterday.  Obviously, its left a vivid impression to remember these many decades later. Then he randomly picked out just one of those little blue books and read aloud in it’s entirety my own very brief answer to the essay question.  Thankfully he spared me the embarrassment of disclosing the author’s name.  Head down, I sank as low in my desk as possible.  My face felt flushed. “Buckle down!” he bellowed.  Then class continued, but the day’s lesson for me was already completed.  I buckled down, and by the time I submitted my final term paper weeks later, my chosen topic was all about the history of immigration reform in America.

At the end of the semester I was summoned to Mr. Usellis’ dormitory apartment one evening after supper.  With trepidation, I knocked on his door and was ushered in.  Standing there, facing him man to man, he shoved my exam book forward into my shaking hands.  On the cover I immediately saw the circled “A-“ and realized I would pass the course. He then went on a bit, muttering a few follow-up words of advice about more books and periodicals on the subject which he thought I might find interesting, etc.  To be honest, I’ve never been much of a history buff, or looking back over the well-worn trodden paths of others.  But history wasn’t the lesson to be learned, of course.

Only afterward did I look again and read the note Mr. Usellis had bothered to write beneath the grade.  “Congratulations, John.  You are like the prodigal, and I rejoice over your return.”

Over the years, it’s obvious I can clearly remember that incident that happened so long ago.  More than once, I’ve wondered what ever happened to Mr. U.  Someday I really should get around to expressing my appreciation to him for what he did, I’ve thought.  As I’ve grown older myself, I’ve come to realize how much it’s meant to me when I’ve received similar gestures from a handful of folks I’ve been privileged to help in some small and extraordinary way. So, the story of Ruth, Charlie and Gert got me thinking again about Master U, and the belated thank-you I still wanted to send him.

I contacted my old school’s alumnae office, inquiring if they had any information on a former instructor from 1965!  They had nothing. So, on my own I then discovered there was someone by the name of Robert Usellis who’d served as the first headmaster of a private high school located on the other side of the country, that started up in the mid-sixties.  It was about the time my former history teacher had left Cranbrook.  As it turns out – and to my surprise – it turned out the Athenian School is located about ten miles from where I’ve lived the last 40+ years!  But alas, they had no record of their Mr. U’s whereabouts at this point either. I searched title records of property owners in the local bay area counties, to see if I could find anyone with that name, but to no avail. At this point, the trail has gone cold.

Of course, I realize, given the number of years that have elapsed, I have no idea if Mr. Usellis is “grass or sod,” as my paternal grandmother liked to say.  Though I remember him as a younger teacher in my adolescence, he may well no longer reside at a deliverable address. Nonetheless, I’ve decided my efforts have not been for naught. I realize that it doesn’t really matter. And, in observance of my Thanksgiving holiday this year, I’ve gone ahead and written Mr. Usellis my belated Thank You note:

Dear Mr. Usellis,

Thank you for your American history class in 1965.  More importantly, thank you for your fury and disappointment; for your hope and high expectations; but mostly, thank you for your eager readiness to rejoice and welcome a prodigal’s return.  It has served me well, and I am grateful for the brief time you were a part of a young man’s journey; and subsequently in my lengthening of days.

Gratefully, and with my best wishes,

John Bennison,
Cranbrook Class of ‘66

  I’ve dropped my note to Mr. U. in the mailbox using the following address: “Address Unknown.”  I figure it has nearly as good a chance getting delivered as Charlie and Gert’s postcard.

In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway.  The season perennially reminds us, it’s better to give than receive.  As meaningful as it is to receive an expression of appreciation, it’s even more important and meaningful to say ‘thank you.’ However belated it may be, or whether it ever reaches its intended recipient, it can never be a misdirected gesture.

And, among the Thanksgiving leftovers there's this: In the mid-sixties, at my old boarding school, there could often be heard the sounds of a new British rock group’s records blaring from our dorm rooms; just down the hall from Mr. U’s apartment.

There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain

All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all. 

       In My Life, by John Lennon & Paul McCartney

Footnote: Sometime after this story was first published I got a note from a distant relative of Mr. U, who informed me he was no longer among the living, but that they were grateful to have discovered the story.

© 2010 by John William Bennison, Rel.D.  All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

“The kings of the armies, they flee, they flee!’
The women at home divide the spoils.” - Psalm 68:12

In the morass of the current post-election world we’re experiencing, those seeking a bit of consolation might ask what truly distinguishes a winner from a loser. In worldly, political terms, power is accorded to the one who triumphs over the other. In conflicts between peoples, or military conflicts between nations, “to the victor goes the spoils” as the psalmist put it long, long ago.

So, a few days ago the International Criminal Court issues arrest warrants for both the Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his chief adversary, Hamas leader Yoav Gallant for committing war crimes against humanity. In their defense, it is claimed the deliberate and indiscriminate killing of thousands of civilians is a righteous cause that will not end until victory is achieved. Wherever might one such as our brother, Benjamin, get such a notion? Quoting a few more verses to Psalm 68:

4 Sing to God, sing praises to his name;
   lift up a song to him who rides upon the clouds—
his name is the Lord—
   be exultant before him.

5 Father of orphans and protector of widows
   is God in his holy habitation.
6 God gives the desolate a home to live in;
   he leads out the prisoners to prosperity,
   but the rebellious live in a parched land.

7 O God, when you went out before your people,
   when you marched through the wilderness,
8 the earth quaked, the heavens poured down rain
   at the presence of God, the God of Sinai,
   at the presence of God, the God of Israel. …

21 But God will shatter the heads of his enemies,
   the hairy crown of those who walk in their guilty ways.
22 The Lord said,
   ‘I will bring them back from Bashan,
I will bring them back from the depths of the sea,
23 so that you may bathe your feet in blood,
   so that the tongues of your dogs may have their share from the foe.’

Even the American conservative evangelical community appears to affirm a similar scenario in the times in which we now find ourselves. An example:

While simultaneously celebrating the outcome of the recent presidential election, some of those same “Bible-believing” evangelicals have also been waging the fight to have that whole compendium of scriptures incorporated into grade-school curriculum in several states.  In Texas, education officials just approved additional funding for school districts willing to include selected portions the Bible in their reading lessons. In Oklahoma, the state superintendent seeks to likewise compel all educators to teach from the Bible; with the implication a simple literal interpretation is sufficient. And, some righteous crusaders in Louisiana wage a legal battle to require the Ten Commandments be displayed in classrooms.

As one of several major and historically important world religions, I can appreciate and even support the consideration given to including some of the great, universal mythic tales to be found in the Bible. Examples apparently cited by some proponents are the moral and ethical topics conveyed in Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount,” and the parable of “The Good Samaritan.”

At the same time, one might wonder how these same Bible-believing citizens can reconcile Jesus’ injunction to welcome the stranger -- whether “legal” or “illegal” -- with dignity and hospitality (Mt. 25:31-40), with their support of the presidential winner’s pledge to deport millions of them.

And, then there’s that meddlesome sixth commandment from the Torah (“Don’t kill”), when all three states mentioned above support capital punishment? An inquisitive student might be somewhat puzzled by the seeming contradictions; let alone an underlying implication only some passages are to be taking literally as divine truths. 

Of course, the compendium of scripture in the Christian faith tradition is filled with passages that are full of contradictions; let alone multiple interpretations. Among them are numerous passages that depict a divine power that will ultimately triumph over the kingdoms of this world. There are winners, and there are losers. So the question remains, whose side are you on?

“There are winners, and there are losers. So the question remains, whose side are you on?”

In this regard, it is difficult to fathom how the historical Jesus – who he was, and what he said, with the values he preached and proclaimed -- was anything but a loser; when it comes to touting any of the typical winner’s trophies we associate with monarchs or maniacs that rule by virtue of their own self-importance, power and ego.

To Thine Own Self

I’ve reflected in a few recent commentaries about what might seem to be naiveté at the heart of the gospel message. It may, however, be a matter of how one defines what truly constitutes exactly what it is that one might gain, win, or lose. 

All four canonical gospels in those Christian scriptures deemed holy each include a variation of this passage, attributed to Jesus:

“Those who want to come after me should deny themselves, pick up their cross, and follow me! Remember, those who try to save their own life are going to lose it, but those who lose their life [for my sake and] for the sake of the good news are going to save it. After all, what good does it do a person to acquire he whole world and pay for it with life? Or, what would a person give in exchange for life?” (Mk. 8: 34-38)

Some biblical scholars surmise that there was likely a “proverb,” of sorts, about true gain and loss. It was then adopted and “Christianized” by the gospel writers in the decades following a “loser’s” crucifixion; followed by the subsequent claim with those victorious post-resurrection stories. Hence the injunction, enjoining followers to likewise go ahead and take up the (loser’s) cross of persecution.

But, whatever one’s belief and/or interpretation of what it means to be raised up to a new life, at the heart of the passage is that wisdom saying that we all might do well to learn, study and reflect upon. Namely, what are you willing to lose for the sake of finding and affirming that which constitutes your true “self.”

© 2024 by John William Bennison, Rel.D.  All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

Prelude

“But I’ll miss you most of all, my darlin’, when autumn leaves start to fall.” – crooner Frank Sinatra, 1957

It’s that time of year when the natural order of all things brings with it the repeated reminder that former things are passing away. And, at the same time, I watch the evening news broadcast these days with more than a bit of circumspection – if not resignation – that nothing about each successive episode in our human story ever changes; except the names, faces and places.

The ancient Book of Ecclesiastes – written some 2-3 millennia ago - enumerates there’s a time for this, a time for that, a time for everything under the sun – or heaven; including “a time to live, a time to die… a time to love, and a time to hate … a time for war, and a time for peace.” (Eccl 3:1-8).  

During my own (earlier) anti-war era of the “sixties” (last century), the folk singer, Pete Seeger, modified the ending of that ancient passage just a bit in his own rendition, “Turn, Turn, Turn,“ singing, “A time for war, a time for peace,” by adding “I swear it's not too late.” (1957).

Still, with the repetitious cycle of retaliatory violence that has followed these many years later, it makes me wonder if a wholly-different change of seasons will ever come to pass.

The Mis-begotten Notion of Religious “Immunity” …

Here’s another thought: The notion of immunity has gotten a lot of attention these days.  It can range anywhere from immunity from prosecution, to seasonal protection from various health contagion. The oft-heard questions people are hearing these days range from: “Would you vote for a convicted felon?” to “Have you had your various vaccinations yet this Fall?”

But there is also the age-old pitch of what I’d call “religious immunity;” where dogma and doctrine of various  persuasion all tout with certitude a way to elude and escape from our basic human, mortal nature with a promise of immortality. This illusion of certainty is not confined to only the religious sector, of course. Political candidates make all kinds of illusory promises they’re unable to keep. In the process, it “contaminates” the whole manner in which human communities strive to function and formulate a way out of the inevitable cyclical treadmill. Combining religion and politics, the “Christian nationalism” movement is an overt, contemporary example.

An All-Hallowed Alternative

The other day, our cycling group was pedaling through a local neighborhood that had gone to extraordinary lengths to remind us of an upcoming holiday. Among the decorations of ghosts and goblins, witches, pumpkins, giant spiders and cobwebs, were more than a few human-like skeletons at inhuman heights of nine feet, twelve feet, or more; looming over us as we passed by. One possible message: perhaps even such once-mighty giants had not been able to elude death.

And then we came across another front yard that had three human-size skeletons, all running in fright; with one of them carrying a sign with the caption, “Run for your life!”

 I took it as a metaphorical teaching moment …

This is that time of year when another question some folks are asking each other is this: Who, or what, are you going to be for Halloween? In other words, who will you be for just one day, as someone other than your self?

All of which begs the question, who are you; and who will you be the rest of the year, and the rest of your life, before you are no more? Who is your one, true, authentic self?

The three synoptic gospels provide variations to a particular saying that is attributed to the Galilean peasant sage, Jesus from Nazareth. Some biblical scholars agree the quote was likely an adaptation and/or elaboration by the persecuted early Church; who learned the possible consequences of “taking up a cross” as Jesus once did (the rest of that particular scripture passage). As such, they were all wrestling with the same existential question posed above.

“Remember, (Jesus said) those who try to save their own life are going to lose it; but those who lose their own life for my sake are going to find it. After all, what good will it do if you acquire the whole world but forfeit your life? Or what will you give in exchange for your life?” (Matthew 16:25-26)

The upcoming secularized holiday derives from the observance in the Christian faith tradition called All Hallows Eve. It precedes All Saint’s Day, when those of the “faithful departed” are remembered. The Jesus figure (or figures) depicted in the various traditions all strive to reveal to us the character of one who – with those core gospel values his own life represented and expressed -- demonstrated what it means to be that one, true authentic self.

As such, this season comes with the reminder to fall forward -- not backward -- and run for your life.

jb

© 2024 by John William Bennison, Rel.D.  All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

In Mel Brook’s 1981 classic film, “The History of the World,” Moses is depicted descending from Mt. Sinai with not one, or two, but three stone tablets. A booming voice cries out, ordering him to deliver fifteen commandments of the Lord’s holy writ to his chosen people. “I shall give these laws unto thy people,” Moses obediently replies.

But, as Moses clamors over the rocks and cries out, “The Lord, the Lord Jehovah, has given unto you these fifteen …” he stumbles and drops one of the three tablets, shattering it to bits. He quickly amends his pronouncement, reducing the number to only ten; leaving one to wonder, perhaps, which commandments got omitted …

On the other hand, perhaps it’s all quite arbitrary and does not matter. By one count, the Torah went on to institute at least 613 laws, consisting of 248 “thou shalt” commands, and 368 “thou shalt not’s.”

Then, turning to the canonical New Testament of the Christian faith tradition, in one instance Jesus is attributed with saying he wasn’t there to abolish, but fulfill, the Law (Mt. 5:17). But then, in other gospel accounts, he’s condemned for breaking the law about keeping the Sabbath “holy” when he goes about the laborious task of healing the afflicted (Mark 3:1-6). So, which is it?

It all leaves me wondering even further which of the laws and commandments might be dismiss-able, forgivable or unforgivable; since most of us mortals have certainly broken more than a few of them.

In this case, in particular, I’m referring to one of those prohibitions; namely, taking the “Lord’s” name in vain.

Part II: About Blasphemy

A few weeks ago, a former U.S. president who still wants to believe there were some of his opponents who broke one of those other familiar commandments – “thou shalt not steal” -- declared in a live interview, “If Jesus Christ came down and was the vote counter, I would win California, ok?” Donald then continued to elaborate, “In other words, if we had an honest vote counter, a really honest vote counter … I would win California.”

Now, some political postulators might question this one particular candidate’s ability to distinguish fact from fiction, truth from falsehood, honesty from dishonesty. But the same thing might be said of some religious types, as well. So, my own personal and immediate reaction to this particular quote was not to simply dismiss Trump’s claim as just one more example of political buffoonery; but to mutter under my breath, what sheer blasphemy.

A little used term these days, blasphemy laws actually have deep historical roots in both secular culture, as well as religious circles. By one common definition, it refers to an insult that “shows contempt, disrespect or lack of reverence for a deity or object considered sacred, or something considered inviolable.”

So, by definition, what would you personally deem to be blasphemous in your own worldview?

I would start with my own interpretation and understanding of that ancient “thou shalt not” commandment about taking the Lord’s name in vain. 

And, to begin with, one might remember the derivative, common root word to this alleged mortal infraction is vanity.  In other words, invoking the Lord’s name always runs the risk of committing an act of self-conceit, so beware!

So, rather than start with one’s own importance of self in our allegations and assertions -- or even petitions we might utter to an imagined deity -- it might behoove us to instead remember and strive to identify and define our own “self” by who we consider to be the “lord” and master of our life. That is, to whom – or what -- would we bear allegiance; with the life-values we say we not only believe, but actually embrace, honor and emulate in our own life.

In this regard -- if ever I would invoke the name of Jesus -- I would try to remember and remind myself who that ancient Galilean peasant sage was, and remains; in my best understanding of who he was, what he said and did.

jb

Footnote: Yes, there are many “Jesus” characters; including the historical search of that ancient figure, and in the multitude of subsequent belief-systems that subsequently emerged from this particular faith tradition.  In a number of my earlier commentaries (e.g.,  “What Kind of Jesus” (2011), or “If I Called Myself a Christian” (2017) I elaborate further on this topic.

© 2024 by John William Bennison, Rel.D.  All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.

What has been is what will be,
   and what has been done is what will be done;
   there is nothing new under the sun. (Eccl. 1:9)

Anyone who may have read my long list of commentaries over the years, may have concluded long ago that I may have sought many different ways to say the same old thing, over and over again. Well, in my own defense, nearly three millennia ago King Solomon is credited with having written the Book of Ecclesiastes; wherein he observed there was “nothing new under the sun.” But here’s the thing:

Sometimes a good story is worth re-telling. And an important thought or “teaching moment” is worth repeating; until – in some cases –the repetition of it becomes something to be regarded as near-sacred law, or even scripture. Then the task is to not only retell the story as authentically as possible; but live out what has become of such enduring truths that one becomes part of such great living, mythic tales. 

Sun Block, or Sun Stroke?

As I began to draft this commentary, our particular place on this endangered planet was under a hot weather alert; while simultaneously in the midst of some national political turmoil and international conflicts that are only getting hotter by the day.  Except for our increasingly warming planet, it’s nothing new, of course. Human history seems irrevocably entrapped in a repetitive cycle; familiar to anyone who’s lived long enough to have previously observed and experienced the same old thing.

Along with this reality that seems as clear as the light of day are the two ways with which we have historically attempted to break this historical cycle; and establish a sense of order in the midst of our disorder; namely with our political (‘polis’) and religious (‘religio’) structures. Two brief examples:

Recently, Israeli prime minister Bibi Netanyahu criticized the International Criminal Court’s condemnation of his government’s genocidal atrocities in Gaza; asserting the Court didn’t know Palestine was Israeli territory. Because he likes to quote the Hebrew scriptures, when convenient, it did make me wonder about the ancient tale when his “God” freed and delivered “His” people into alien territory by claiming it was their “promised land” … Another recent historical example:

When a would-be assassin’s bullet narrowly missed its target recently, the former U.S. president tweeted the very next day that “God alone” had spared him. Many of his political supporters who are also devout believers of a certain religious persuasion praised their “God” for His divine intervention; while bestowing on their political hero near-martyr status.

But within a week, Donald was giving himself credit for sparing his own life; when he asserted that he – not his savior -- had just happened to turn his head at the right moment.

While some may find the mix of such claims both baffling and contradictory, it is nothing new, of course. A little over six years ago, I wrote a commentary about the synonymy of politics and religion, with the observation: “Because politics and religion both attempt to address the same needs, dreams and desires, values and principles – they are essentially synonymous terms.”

But, in addition, it would seem that all attempts by our human faculties and imaginative spirits have nonetheless failed to concoct any religious or political structure to break the cycle.

And yet, while there may be nothing new under the sun, I still cling to a certain belief and hope that a certain faith perspective might be re-told and shared with a wisdom tale or teaching to help avert something akin to what one might call “existential sun stroke.” 

I still cling to a certain belief and hope that a certain faith perspective might be re-told and shared with a wisdom tale or teaching to help avert something akin to what one might call “existential sun stroke.” 

Cyclical Futility, or a Circular Practice of Another Sort

There is the rather staid term used to describe a form of worship in the Christian faith tradition, known as ‘liturgy.’ It comes from two Greek words, translated as the “work” of the “people.” For decades I used to remind a flock of worshippers that an hour spent on a Sunday morning was only a rehearsal for what they were called to practice and live out the rest of the week.  I would remind them of this again and again; while also collectively reciting a certain creedal statement over, and over again. After a while, it might have seemed like we were just going around in a redundant circle.

But the circle, of course, has always been a symbolic representation of something eternal. As such, I’ve provided two examples of human conflict that seem to have kept us spinning round and round, in perpetuity. But perpetuity and the imaginative notion of what is eternal are not necessarily the same thing. The question has always been how to ever break that seemingly perpetual cycle I’ve described that has only gotten us no-where. Consider:

The circle is also a symbol of unity; where everyone can discover and instill in their own lives a way to live out a different world order together.

While this essential message may be expressed at the heart of different religious traditions, in one expression of the Christian faith tradition it is liturgically practiced regularly in Pathways gatherings. We intentionally repeat it, over and over again; as representative of the life and teachings of the one I endlessly refer to as the “Galilean peasant sage.”

I believe in love as the measure of all things.
In life and in death Jesus showed the power
of love to raise and restore.

I believe in
love over hatred
good over evil
peace over war
truth over falsehood
faith over fear
generosity over selfishness
mercy over judgment
humility over arrogance
 reconciliation over division
an open mind and an open heart.

I believe in risking, daring and never yielding
in the struggle for peace and justice,
until love becomes all in all.

May that circle be unbroken. jb

© 2024 by John William Bennison, Rel.D.  All rights reserved.
This article should only be used or reproduced with proper credit.

To learn more about this writer, click Here. To read more commentaries by John Bennison from the perspective of a Christian progressive go to the Archives Here.