I would like to share with you a story that I read in my favorite blog, an every-Saturday pleasure. I am paraphrasing — for reasons of privacy for the story teller who doesn’t want to be identified, but hopes that others, hearing her story, will be inspired to do something similar.

A young couple lived in the city, often helping someone whose needs they heard of, by a donation to a fund. In time, they wanted to do more than contribute money which gave no personal connection to the person who needed help. So they moved to a small country town, in an agricultural area, the kind of town I myself grew up in, where not only did everybody “know your name” but most of what was going on in your life.

Over the years, the lady who tells the story realized that there was much help that was given at the beginning of the crisis, but six months later there was no mention of the person and how they were doing longer-term. So began a ministry that has lasted twenty years and counting.

This lady keeps these individuals in mind all year; and around mid-November she chooses one person and makes up a Christmas-themed personal basket for them. During the year, she collects items such as a special mug and tea, a small fleece blanket, some chocolates, a book, and maybe a candle or Christmas decoration. Sometimes she adds mittens and socks; whatever she comes across in her travels. She tries to tailor a couple of items to the individual. At the end of November she has a random person deliver the basket to their door with only a “Merry Christmas from an anonymous elf.”

She says, “Their reaction to this small token is always overwhelming — to think that a virtual stranger would go to such lengths to acknowledge their struggles! I truly think that the basket says to them, ‘I see you, I feel what you’ve been through and you are not alone,’ a kind of acknowledgement of their strength.”

Over the twenty-year span, only about five people have figured out who is doing this. “The very best part,” she says, “is that all five who found me asked if they could ‘steal’ my tradition and do baskets of their own. Hence, they continue to pay it forward every year.

“I absolutely will continue this for as long as I can for the sheer joy it brings to me. Who knew that such a small act could bring so much warmth to people’s hearts and so much joy to mine! Imagine this world if we all set out to perform one single random act of kindness each day… oh, what a change we could bring!”

Perhaps Advent, a time of reflection, is a great time to begin a random act of kindness each day — doesn’t need to be something that reaches the newspaper headlines (although, what an improvement that would be!). After all, God doesn’t need a newspaper headline to notice what we quietly do out of love for each other.

-Nancy Hammerton

Watching the light of the afternoon sun as it lowers toward the tips of the Sibillini, I am mindful of the coming of Christmas this Advent Season.

I’m also grateful that I have been blessed with a wonderful life in a small Italian village, grateful that the darkness of COVID has pretty much passed us by here (no deaths, only one hospitalization and EVERYONE follows the rules!), and blessed to be able to have all three sons here in November at the same time, for the first time since we moved here in January of 2016.

Their absence, since their return home, makes me mindful, too, of how lonely it can be for some at this time of year and how important it is to reach out, even in the smallest of ways; a smile, a nod, a season’s greeting to help others know that we are all connected and that non one is truly alone.

Wishing all my friends at SUMC a Merry Christmas and a Happy and Healthy New Year.

-Gail Whitney Karn
“(former errant Stephen Minister and former terrible tenor at SUMC) … miss you all!”

Today, December 16, 2021, is the fiftieth anniversary of the passing of French composer, organist, conductor and pianist Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns. He is perhaps best known for his opera Samson and Delilah (which includes the raucous “Danse Bacchanale”), and for The Carnival of the Animals.

After studying at the Paris Conservatoire, he followed a conventional career as a church organist, including at the official church of the French Empire. He admired the music that was the most modern of his day, but he was a much more stylistically conventional composer.

He might be considered a grandfather of romantic French music: while he served as a music professor at the École de Musique Classique et Religieuse in Paris, his students included Gabriel Fauré, among whose own later pupils was Maurice Ravel. Both of them were strongly influenced by Saint-Saëns, whom they revered as a genius.

Since the composer’s death, writers sympathetic to his music have expressed regret that he is known by the musical public for only a handful of his scores. One critic wrote that his Christmas Oratorio is among his neglected masterpieces.

The Oratorio de Noël (Op. 12) is a cantata-like work for soloists, chorus, organ, strings and harp, in ten movements. Saint-Saëns wrote it in less than two weeks, completing it ten days before its premiere on Christmas 1858.

One musicologist notes that the Christmas Oratorio is shorter in length than a traditional sacred cantata, and in fact it was actually intended for presentation during a worship service.

Saint-Saëns chose the texts that he would set from several sources, including the Latin Vulgate Bible, and different portions of two Christmas Offices: the First Mass at Midnight and the Second Mass at Dawn. One author curiously calls the work “a musical enhancement of the words of the [Christmas] Office, without interest in the human drama.” The narrative portion of the text, taken from the second chapter of the Gospel according to Luke, appears in the second movement and tells the part of the traditional Christmas story involving the shepherds. The remainder of the texts are taken from John, Isaiah, Lamentations, and the Psalms.

Why do we mention all this?

Because fifteen years ago tomorrow morning, Sudbury UMC’s musicians presented this work as their Advent Cantata.

We’d like to offer you the Christmas Oratorio’s Latin texts, and their English translations, as something of an Advent Devotion.

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Movement 1: Prélude (dans le style de Seb. Bach), for organ and strings

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Movement 2: Recitative: Et pastores erant, for soprano, alto, tenor and baritone soloists, organ and strings; Chorus: Gloria in altissimis, for mixed chorus, organ and strings

Et pastores erant in regione Eadem vigilantes,
Et custodientes vigilias noctis Super gregem suum.
Et eece angelus Domini
Stetit juxta illos,
Et claritas Dei circumfulsit illos,
Et timuerunt timore magno
Et dixit illis angelus:
Nolite timere, nolite timere:
Eece enim evangelico vobis
Gaudium magnum
Quod erit omni populo:
Quia natus est vobis hodie Christus Dominus, In civitate David.
Et hoe vobis signum: Invenietis infantem Pannis involutum, et positum in præsepio.
Et subito facta est cum angelo
Multitudo militiæ cælestis
Laudantium Deum, et dicentium:
Gloria in altisimus Deo,
Et in terra pax, et in terra pax
Hominibus bonæ voluntatis.
Gloria in altisimus Deo, Gloria, Gloria Deo,
Et in terra pax, hominibus bonæ voluntatis.

There were shepherds at night in that same country, abiding in the fields,
And silently keeping their watch by night
Over the sleeping flocks around them.
And lo! An angel of the Lord appear’d,
Standing there beside them:
And the glory of the Lord shone round about them,
And they were sore afraid at his coming.
And unto them the angel said:
Fear not, o ye shepherds, fear not, o ye shepherds!
For, behold I bring unto you
Good tidings of great joy,
Which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born today a Savior Christ, the Lord,
In the city of David.
And this shall the sign be: Ye shall find the babe
Wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger low. And suddenly there was with the angel
A great multitude of the heav’nly host
Praising God, praising God, and saying:
Glory be unto God in the highest!
And on earth peace, peace be on earth,
Goodwill unto all men.
Glory be unto God in the highest! Praise the Lord our God! And on earth peace, goodwill to all men.

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Movement 3: Air: Exspectans expectavi, for mezzo-soprano soloist, organ and strings*

Expectans, expectans expectavi Dominum:
Expectans, expectans, expectans
Expectavi Dominum,
Expectavi, expectavi Dominum:
Et intendit mihi.

Patiently, patiently have I waited for the Lord,
Patiently, patiently, patiently
Have I waited for the Lord,
Have I waited, have I waited for the Lord.
And lo! He heard my cry.

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Movement 4: Air and Chorus: Domine, ego credidi, for tenor solo, women’s chorus, organ and strings

Domine, ego credidi, ego credidi
Quia tu es Christus Filius Dei vivi.
Domine, qui in hunc mundum venisti.
Domine, ego credidi, Ego credidi
Quia tu es Christus, Christus, Christus, Filius Dei vivi; Christus, Christus,
Filius Dei vivi,
Qui in hunc mundum venisti.

In my heart I believe, O Lord, I believe, O Lord,
That thou indeed art Christ, Son of the living God.
He who was to come into this world.
In my heart I believe, O Lord, I believe, O Lord,
Thou art indeed Christ, Christ, Christ,
Son of the living God; Christ, Christ,
Of the living God thou art the Son.
He who was to come into this world.

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Movement 5: Duet: Benedictus, for soprano and baritone soloists, organ and harp

Benedictus, benedictus,
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.
Deus Dominus, et illuxit
ominus illuxit nobis, illuxit nobis; Deus meus es tu, et confitebor tibi.
Deus meus es tu, et exaltabo te. Deus meus es tu,
Et exaltabo te, et exaltabo te,
Et exaltabo te.

Blessed, blessed is He who cometh,
He who cometh in the name of the Lord.
God, the Lord of Light, God, the Lord,
He has shin’d upon us, hath shin’d upon us.
Thou alone my God art: and all my trust is in Thee.
Oh Lord! Thou art my God, I will exalt Thee, Lord. My God Thou art,
I will exalt Thee, I will exalt Thee
And I will praise Thy name.

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Movement 6: Chorus: Quare fremuerunt gentes, for mixed chorus, organ and strings

Quare fremuerunt gentes? Et populi meditati sunt Inania?
Meditate sunt inania?
Quare fremuerunt gentes? Et populi meditati sunt inania? Quare? Quare?
Gloria Patri,
Gloria Filio, Gloria Spiritui Sancto; Sicut erat in principio, et nunc,
Et nunc, et semper,
Et in sæcula sæculorum.
Amen. Amen. Amen.

Wherefore do the heathen clamor? Why do the nations imagine
Vain and foolish things?
Imagine vain and foolish things?
Wherefore do the heathen clamor?
Why do the nations imagine vain and foolish things? Wherefore? Wherefore?
Glory, glory, unto the Father,
And the Son, and Holy Spirit!
As it was in the beginning,
Is now and ever shall be, and ever shall be,
World without end, without end.
Amen. Amen. Amen.

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Movement 7: Trio: Tecum principium, for soprano, tenor, and baritone soloists, organ and harp

Tecum principium;
In die virtutis tuæ.
Tecum principium, in splendoribus Sanctorum.

My soul doth magnify the Lord; My spirit hath rejoic’d in God.
For mine eyes have seen Thy glory.

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Movement 8: Quartet: Laudate coeli, for soprano, mezzo-soprano, alto, and baritone soloists, organ and strings

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Laudate, cœli, et exulta, terra,
Quia consolatus est Dominus Populum suum;
Et pauperum suorum, miserebitur.

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Ye heav’ns sing praises, be joyful on earth.
For the Lord hath pour’d
His consolation upon his people,
And He to all that are afflicted will be merciful.

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Movement 9: Quintet and Chorus: Consurge, filia Sion, for all five soloists, chorus, organ, strings, and harp

Consurge, Filia Sion!
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Lauda in nocte,
Lauda in nocte, in principio Vigiliarum.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Egrediatur ut splendor justus Sion, Et Salvator ejus
Ut lampas accendatur.
Alleluia, Alleluia.

Arise now, Daughter of Zion!
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Praise God, praise God in the night!
Praise Him, in the first watches of the nighttime.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
That Zion’s true glory might be manifested, That her Saviour
Might rise and shine before the nations. Alleluia, Alleluia.

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Movement 10: Chorus: Tollite hostias, for mixed chorus, organ and strings

Tollite hostias,
Et adora te Dominum In atrio sancto ejus.
Lætentur cœli, et exultet terra,
A facie Domini,
Quoniam venit. Alleluia.

Praise ye the Lord of hosts,
Sing his salvation, Bless His name, Show forth his praise in His holy house!
Rejoice, ye heavn’s, and be joyful, on earth,
Rejoice in the face of the Lord,
For He cometh. Alleluia.

-the SUMC Music Staff

Today, as I write, is a rough one for me personally, because of an anniversary of sorts. The world is still in a pandemic, so I’m not alone by any stretch of the imagination, am I?

There are other issues, for me and my family, though. Cancer hit a loved one again months ago; birthdays of loved ones to celebrate; the very recent unexpected death of a loved one; and then the birthday of a loved one who walked away.

Life ain’t easy.

It’s a whole lot of wonderful and horrible and even more mundane. At least, that’s the way I am seeing today.

And tomorrow will be another day that may or may not be so many things.

One thing is consistent. I have been given a Gift of Love, and I’m able to celebrate that. A gift of grace and forgiveness and all that makes celebrating the wonderful and getting through the awful and all the stuff in-between a possibility, because through the acceptance of this Gift, I can do all things. I’m not doing them perfectly yet, by any stretch again, but I am headed in the right direction.

Sometimes there’s commercialism involved in giving a gift that induces smiles in the faces of loved ones. Other times, there’s baking and singing and… Gift giving is a debatable subject. For certain, though, this Gift of Love is intended for me. And, for all of us, each and everyone. This Gift only needs to be received, because it has been freely given.

Merry Christmas! I am so thankful I can again receive this Gift of Love, with you!

-Cindi Bockweg

Perhaps Advent, or the coming of Christmas, should be more like the season of Lent before Easter, where we abstain from celebration.

Granted, we are celebrating the birth of Jesus, not the resurrection; but in advance, we could quietly contemplate the meaning and beauty of it.

And as the day grows closer, we could send greetings and small gifts to our family and friends. We could rejoice with songs that describe the day of Jesus’ birth.

Our gifts could be something we made with our hands. We could give gifts similar to those of the Magi, which had essential oils and an alluring fragrance.

The advent of Christmas could be a peaceful, not a hectic time. Then, on Christmas Day, we could celebrate and gather for a feast!

-Lynn Cunningham

It was December of 1980. I was in the Navy, on a ship headed to the Persian Gulf. We were not at war, but it was only a few months after Iraq invaded Iran. Hostilities ran high in the Gulf, with underwater explosives deployed by both sides and plenty of aerial combat taking place in the skies.

The thought of spending Christmas away from home for the first time was on my mind. I had been fortunate the first several years of my enlistment, always being able to get leave during the holidays. But not this time.

As we steamed across the Atlantic, then the Mediterranean Sea, the days dragged on. This was before the days of “TV at Sea” and we weren’t able to get news very often. Usually just messages posted on a bulletin board from the Armed Forces Radio and Television Services. So we really didn’t know what was in store for us in the days and weeks ahead.

What we did know was that we were about to transit the Suez Canal, where we felt we were sitting ducks if someone decided to attack. With tension on the high side, we entered and exited the Canal with no issues. I think I can speak for our entire crew of about 300 men that we lost track of the date until we completed that Canal journey.

All of a sudden it was December 24th, and the sadness of being away from home once again set in. Then something wonderful happened. It was announced over the loudspeaker that there would be a Christmas Eve church service in the hangar bay (a place where a helicopter would normally be stored if we had one onboard). You could immediately see and feel the improved morale of the crew. Transiting the Red Sea with Egypt on one side and Israel on the other brought back so many memories of Bible stories I learned in Sunday School growing up in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

The ship’s Lay Leaders held a beautiful service with lots of singing of hymns and carols from mimeographed (remember those?) sheets of music. So many of the crew attended that the hangar bay doors had to be left open to accommodate all. It was the only ‘indoor/outdoor’ Christmas service I attended (until SUMC, that is!). It was heartwarming, and it brought the crew much closer for what was about to be a five-month extended cruise in the Persian Gulf.

Though many of us were feeling down, up to that point, the light shined brightly on the USS Koelsch that evening, and the Lord protected us the rest of the long journey. I pray that someday when you need comforting, a loudspeaker will sound for you, and you will be lifted up as I was on Christmas Eve in 1981. Amen.

-Jeff Lance

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite Christmas decorations at my grandmother’s house was a little ceramic church. It had a lightbulb inside and when you plugged it in and turned it on, the light shone through the little stained glass windows.

Several years ago, I found a similar ceramic church that I purchased. This one just has space for a candle and rather than having stained glass windows, it simply has holes that allow the candle-light to shine through. While it’s different than the one I used to adore as a child, this little church not only serves as a decoration at our house, but also reminds me of my grandmother.

My grandmother also had a funny tradition of leaving one Christmas decoration up all year long. As she was putting away her tree, wreath, and ornaments in January, she would select on item and place it in a corner or on a shelf where it would stay all year. She would tell me that it was important to keep a little bit of Christmas with us all year long, so that was her reminder. I’ve continued that tradition, as well.

So last January, as I was putting away our Christmas decorations after our non-traditional Christmas celebrations of the COVID holiday year, I decided that the decoration I would keep out all year was our little church. Throughout 2021, the church has held a prominent position on our mantle over the fireplace, reminding us of how the light shines, whether we’re in the church building or worshipping remotely.

This year as we celebrate Advent and prepare to bring Christ into our hearts, I hope you’ll also think of a way to keep a little bit of Christmas shining in your home throughout the year.

-Kim Prendergast

On Sunday morning, various musicians of Sudbury UMC will present four anthems during what would usually be the sermon segment of the morning worship service. This morning, we’ll preview two of them with program notes and the texts… one is a published anthem, and one is “homegrown”, from the musical pen of SUMC’s music staff…

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“A Cradle for a Lamb” is an anthem with music and lyrics written by Indiana-based composer, arranger, and pianist Penny Rodriguez (herself a pastor’s spouse) in 1991.

Just a poor humble shepherd boy,
No great wealth did I enjoy;
But the angels came to me saying: “Go to Bethlehem.

There you’ll find the one you’ve waited for —
Your Messiah, Christ the Lord.
You will find Him in a mager bed, in a cradle for a lamb.”

Now I’ve seen the newborn King;
Light and peace to all He’ll bring;
But what could be more humbling than a cradle for a Lamb?

God, in love, has found a way:
A perfect, holy Lamb will pay
For my sins; He’ll sacrifice His precious, only Son,
His most precious, only Son.

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The poem “Wartime Christmas” was written by New Jersey-born journalist and poet Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918). Kilmer was widely regarded as the leading Catholic American poet of his generation, and was known for poetry that celebrated the common beauty of the natural world as well as his religious faith. But this poem clearly bears the stamp of Kilmer’s view of his last years, spent as they were fighting and dying as a member of the United States Army in the First World War. All the ugliness he witnessed on the battlefields of the First World War never shook his faith in God or his belief in the beauty and goodness of life. He once wrote, “At present, I am a poet trying to be a soldier.”

The poem has been set to music for this year’s “Advent Cantata Sunday” by SUMC’s Choir Director, Rob Hammerton.

Led by a star, a golden star,
The youngest star, an olden star,
Here the kings and the shepherds are,
A-kneeling on the ground.
What did they come to the inn to see?
God in the Highest, and this is He,
A baby asleep on His mother’s knee
And with her kisses crowned.

Now is the earth a dreary place,
A troubled place, a weary place.
Peace has hidden her lovely face
And turned in tears away.
Yet the sun, through the war-cloud, sees
Babies asleep on their mother’s knees.
While there are love and home — and these —
There shall be Christmas Day.

On Sunday morning, various musicians of Sudbury UMC will present four anthems during what would usually be the sermon segment of the morning worship service. This morning, we’ll preview two of them with program notes and the texts… one is a published anthem, and one is “homegrown”, from the musical pen of SUMC’s music staff…

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“An Advent Garden” is an anthem created from a poem written by Texas-based composer and pianist Joseph M. Martin, to the tune of “Brother James’ Air”, in 2011. It is published as part of a collection of Advent-themed anthems called Tapestry of Light: A Celtic Christmas Celebration.

A tender rose is blooming, a flower pure as snow.
The winter air perfuming, heaven’s graceful winds will blow.
The gfit of love sent from above will like a garden grow.

The desert sands will come alive as streams begin to flow.
The barren lands will bloom and thrive. The hills will be made low.
In ev’ry place, God’s gift of grace will like a garden grow.

Alleluia! Alleluia! Let the earth lift its voice;
For a new rose is blooming in Zion. Let the garden rejoice.

The lion and the lamb will rest. The bear will feed on straw.
In Zion home will reign at last. A Child will lead them all.
The gift of peace will be released and like a garden grow.

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“The Waits” is a poem by Boston poet and activist Margaret Deland. In rural England, there is an ancient custom of neighborhood youth traveling from house to house, singing carols and begging for coins, food or drink. These groups of carolers are known as the waits. Margaret Deland (1857-1945) was an American novelist, short story writer, and poet. She is considered part of the literary realism movement and was active in Trinity Church Boston especially in their outreach to the homeless.

The poem has been set to music for this year’s “Advent Cantata Sunday” by SUMC’s Music Director, Kevin Murphy.

At the break of Christmas Day,
Through the frosty starlight ringing,
Faint and sweet and far away,
Comes the sound of children, singing,
Chanting, singing,
“Cease to mourn,
For Christ is born,
Peace and joy to all men bringing!”

Careless that the chill winds blow,
Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer,
Noiseless footfalls in the snow,
Bring the happy voices nearer;
Hear them singing,
“Winter’s drear,
But Christ is here,
Mirth and gladness with Him bringing.”

“Merry Christmas!” hear them say,
As the East is growing lighter;
“May the joy of Christmas Day
Make your whole year gladder, brighter!”
Join their singing,
“To each home
Our Christ has come,
All Love’s treasures with Him bringing!”

Don’t ask me why I was looking through my files in such a way that I found this little nugget of nostalgia, but … I found my notes from a Worship & Music Commission meeting from five years ago and saw an agenda item that made me frown, giggle, and look wistfully into the sky simultaneously.

That’s not easy. It’s a wonder I didn’t perform a spontaneous backflip, given all the different directions my head was propelled.

But the question before the group was, what are some ways in which we can gently encourage people not to hold full-throated conversations during the Sunday-morning worship service’s organ prelude?

Lordy, what I wouldn’t give to have that as my biggest problem these days.

Well, at the time, it was a contentious question.

Which brings me to another form of music that is generally accompanied by audience members sometimes attempting to hold conversations through the gaps in the sound.

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One writing-prompt question from this year’s Advent Blog instruction page is “Are there now traditions or activities that didn’t look like Christmas before, but do now?”

Got one.

People who know me, know that during my time as a UMass student I was faintly involved with the marching band. Every fall, once we finished our football game schedule, we only had two events to take care of: [1] the post-season banquet (wherein we dressed up, dined, and danced), and [2] Merry Maple.

That was an event on the Amherst Town Common, which included the lighting of a big ol’ tree, refreshments, and live music provided by the Minuteman Marching Band. The band would mass a few side streets away, march onto the Common, play a number of Christmas carol arrangements, and then play our halftime-show music (since we knew that music the best).

[Before you ask: yes, the town of Amherst, the Five Colleges nearby, and the Pioneer Valley generally, is known for its embrace of lots of different cultural traditions and its love of that whole separation-of-church-and-state thing. But December is full of holiday cheer! –And full of the need to create a little holiday-shopping awareness for the benefit of the local businesses. Ya know.]

In the more raw, wild days of UMass in the 1980s (when the school’s nickname was “ZooMass”), it was not unheard-of for a few band members to arrive at the massing point just a little, um, inebriated. And for me, a sheltered little ol’ freshman, that was a new and not entirely welcome thing, partly because GUYS! you’re wearing a band jacket and people will note that it’s a band member who is being a bit wobbly and giggly and DECORUM, PEOPLE!

Also, it was largely cold and dark and disorganized-seeming and did I mention cold?

But somehow, after the Merry Maple gig of my sophomore year, I began to see it as a more enjoyable kickoff to the particular version of the December holiday season that is experienced by college students. Yes, we’re studying for exams, but it’s about to be Christmas! and we should celebrate the holiday with our friends. And in doing so, we should celebrate our friends — these relatively new friends in our lives whom we are beginning to suspect will be our friends for a long time to come.

Two moments from the Merry Maple process have remained with me, have made me smile at the memory of that disorganized, dark, weird holiday event.

I’ll describe them, but not in chronological order.

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One afternoon during November of my senior year, the band was rehearsing our Merry-Maple Christmas repertoire. We hacked our way through marching-band arrangements of “Sleigh Ride” and Leroy Anderson’s “Christmas Festival”, the latter of which we later abandoned. And we bludgeoned our way through the 1950s-era Christmas-carol band arrangements (the band was not yet a great sight-reading group).

Our director, George Parks, reminded us that our traditional way of performing the carols was “play a verse, sing a verse, play a verse”.

When we got to “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas”, we executed our usual way of singing a verse: “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas,… la la la la laaaa! La la la la la la laaaaa, la la la la laaaa!”

At which point, Mr. Parks looked over to the back corner of the rehearsal hall, where I was standing along with my fellow drum majors Heidi and Chris … smiled … and said to the band, “if you don’t know the words, just ask Heidi after rehearsal.” Heidi’s jaw dropped and then all three of us drum majors chuckled while at least half the band wondered what was so funny.

Heidi was … at least a tiny bit Jewish.

Preparing for Merry Maple was just that kind of a relaxed affair.

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After the band’s Merry Maple musical performance, in December of my sophomore year — which included our halftime-show version of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” — the drumline cranked up its thunderous parade cadence, and we marched away, two by two. (That was the only way we were getting off the Common — there were more people standing around than we could possibly have asked to move to create space for our regular parade block, eight across.)

As we departed the Common, I made eye contact with one of our “band aides”. She was a second-year senior named Beth who had graciously befriended me early in my freshman year, at a moment when I probably looked a little bewildered. She was about five-foot-nothing, had a nicely silly sense of humor and a raucous laugh to match. And during my sophomore marching season, she was tasked with standing in the end zone during our “1812 Overture” performances and repeatedly firing off a little cannon at the appropriate climactic moment.

As we made eye contact, Beth called out to me, “did you hear me?!” I said, “I didn’t even know you were here! What’d you do?” She said, “when you guys got to the big hit at the end of ‘1812’, I jumped up in the air and shouted BOOM!!!”

And indeed, as she said that, she jumped up in the air, limbs flailing, and indeed shouted “BOOM!!!”

Have you ever known, known, that you would remember a moment for the rest of your life … as that moment was happening?

I did, right then.

Before that moment, for me Merry Maple was a disorganized, too-relaxed, not-rule-following-enough part of my college marching band life.

From that moment on, Merry Maple looked and felt … and has since always looked and felt, to me … like Christmas.

May you find something similar, something that used to not be so festive or meaningful or Christmas … but which does become all that for you.

-Rob Hammerton

“See, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me.” (Malachi 3:1a)

Was the Grinch wrong?

Now that the Advent Bible study I’m leading on Mondays at 7pm has begun, I’m having a lot more fun than I expected. Matt Rawle’s book, The Heart That Grew Three Sizes, is helping me to respect the Grinch in Dr. Seuss’ beloved story far more than I anticipated. As grouchy and self-focused as he is, the question I have been chewing on, since our first Zoom session, comes from Rev. Rawle’s unique reading of a tale that I assumed I already understood inside-out: Was the Grinch wrong?

Clearly, the Grinch was wrong when he raided the town of Whoville while everyone but Cindy Lou Who was sleeping. It’s not okay to dress-up as Santa, the model of selfless gift-giving, and then steal gifts that aren’t yours. It’s not okay to harness your dog in front of a sled, flog him with a whip, and run him over when gravity accelerates your midnight ride down the slopes of Mount Crumpet. The narrator must be right. There is something deeply wrong with the Grinch. His heart must be two sizes too small.

On the other hand, there is something right about the Grinch and his indictment of Christmas in Whoville. From his perch high over the village, the Grinch sees three problems that feel awfully familiar. The celebration below is way too focused on toys, noise, and gluttony. When Whovillians celebrate the birthday of Jesus, their cherished traditions are all about gorging their own appetites. They are out of touch with the “reason for the season.” Even gift-giving, which is supposed to mirror the gift-giving of the Magi, and especially the gift of salvation all wrapped up in Bethlehem’s baby, has lost its intended meaning and its constructive purpose –- reflecting God’s good news, what Christians call the Gospel.

Was the Grinch wrong? Well, yes. “Thou shalt not steal.” But also, no. Without intending to redeem Whoville’s over-the-top celebration of Christmas, the Grinch becomes an accidental prophet, a messenger from God who sees what God sees in our self-focused festivities and calls us to turn around.

That’s why Advent is a purple season –- like the purple season of Lent. Advent is meant to be a time for taking stock, looking at our lives from God’s point of view, and turning in God’s direction before our celebration of Christmas begins. The Bible’s word for turning around is metanoia –- usually rendered in English as repentance. But repentance rarely happens unless a messenger from God “prepares the way.”

Cleverly and perceptively, Rev. Rawle points out that the Grinch on Mount Crumpet and John the Baptist in the wilderness are cut from the same prophetic cloth. The Grinch and John live alone. They have separated themselves from communities gone astray. John, the son of a priest, lives in the desert instead of serving like his father in a big city Temple that is tainted and corrupt. The Grinch, like John, also lives alone, refusing to celebrate a holiday that is tainted and corrupt. Like them or not, we need prophets like John and the Grinch to lead us to a quiet place and prepare the way of the Lord.

Who are the prophets that you listen to? What do the messengers whom you respect see, indict, and ask you to do? How will you heed their calls to turn around and celebrate Christmas as a holy day and not just another holiday? Spend some time in prayer pondering these prophetic Advent questions.

-Pastor Joel Guillemette

Last year I began my Christmas letter in my Christmas cards by saying “It is a Covid-19 Christmas! What more can I say.” Well, here we go again but at least this year my whole family is vaccinated and we can be together inside! Whoopee!

Last year we met in my garage. I put my Belgian lace tablecloth over my storage shelves at the back of my garage and set up my artificial tree in front of it. My daughters insisted that we all wear masks, and one grandchild at a time was able to come into the garage to greet me and exchange gifts. No hugs, no kisses, but lots of love!! The snowdrifts on either side of my driveway were packed with beer bottles since all my east-coast grandchildren are all over twenty-one. My twenty-six-year-old grandson dressed in his red ski jumpsuit. We put a Santa hat on him, and all the neighbors were asking for weeks to come how I had Santa visit my condo. We laughed and played reindeer games in the driveway.

This year, we will gather around my Lladro nativity scene and warm by the fireplace. Wishing God’s blessing to each and every one of you.

-Judy Aufderhaar

Advent always comes at the wrong time of year.

The season of Advent is the start of the Church year, and it’s a time to quiet our souls and prepare our hearts for Christmas. Advent calls us to contemplation and quiet, humble expectancy. During Advent, we hear the prophets reminding us to “beat our swords into plowshares,” to “be full of the knowledge of God,” and to “make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” In this season, we should be attending to the ways of peace and justice to which we are called.

Instead, I inevitably find myself scrambling to keep up with the demands of every day during Advent. It’s the busiest time of the semester where I teach, with tests and papers due, final rehearsals for Christmas concerts crowding my evenings, grading filling my days, and extra meetings piled on top of everything else. At home, there are special gatherings of friends and family to squeeze in, and school events to schedule. Over the airwaves, we’re reminded to shop, shop, shop, and spend hours we don’t have decorating so that our home is picture-perfect.

Every year, I look forward to the lovely season of Advent, and then I face the frustration of longing for quiet and contemplation while being caught in the whirlwind of the end of the semester. Not only do I face frustration, but I also feel as though I am “failing” Advent by not setting aside time for the inner work and preparation that belongs in this season.

I have found, however, that there is great wisdom in the alternation of seasons in the Church year, even if they seem challenging at first. Maybe it’s important that Advent begins in the busiest time of the year. Maybe it’s during this very busiest time that we need the reminder that quiet and contemplation are important. And maybe “success” in Advent is not achieving perfect meditation for hours each day and the elimination of all distractions, but instead a kindling of our desire for time to quiet our hearts and our spirits. Advent may be most needed and most helpful precisely when it’s most difficult… right now.

Let us pray: Loving God, we confess that we are busy and distracted. Yet we long for time to prepare for the coming of your Son. Calm our troubled schedules and supply us with the quiet moments we need. Fill us with trust that this is enough. Amen.

-Heather Josselyn Cranson

The Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend was the first day ice appeared on the pond.

That didn’t deter the heron. It stood as utterly still in the water as it had six months before. The fish were probably stunned the bird was on the hunt on a late November day. Maybe that’s what the heron was counting on to lead to good fishing. The tall, brown, desiccated stems of plants leaned at sharp angles on the shore of the pond. They bobbed up and down, and side to side, in the breeze. They appeared in their movements like nodding older people, telling anyone who is watching they have been through this for months now. Some will stay semi-erect to bounce up and down while poking above the drifts of inevitable snow. There were few birds at the feeder. Maybe the turkeys told them to stay away during Thanksgiving.

It had snowed six inches the night before, a hundred and fifty miles north of here. The Internet reported sales on Black Friday had been less than three-quarters what they had amounted to the year before. A new variant of the COVID-19 virus, first reported in South Africa, was revealed in the press early in the weekend; the Internet news sites couldn’t get enough of it.

The first Advent candle is lit at church. Hope. The Prophet’s Candle. The anniversary of the birth of Jesus seems far away, though. It’s still November. Celebrations with friends and family are over for now. We have almost a month until Christmas. My soul mirrors the landscape: bare, flat, lifeless.

And yet, a close look at the exposed branches of the trees near to the edges of the pond already shows the buds that will burst with leaves and flowers when the warm weather returns. Life is there. Christmas is coming.

Some of us will make the transition to it slowly. We are already in the season of light. Hanukkah began last night. Every Sunday for a while another Advent candle will be lit. We will see more lights outside homes and lit trees inside. The season will get brighter.

More light. More anticipation.

Hope.

-David Downing

[Editor’s Note: Mr. Downing is a friend of the Hammerton and Murphy families, having been a writing instructor at the Charles River Creative Arts Program when Kristin and Rob were school-age children.]

Like God, Santa is benevolent and forgiving.

The harmony in our Christmas Carols is like the harmony of the lowing cattle and the angels above the manger.

Our Christmas Evergreens are similar to the Palms of Nazareth.

And the Three Kings are late, just like some of our relatives are late for Christmas dinner.

So … I think we are doing it right!

-Lynn Cunningham

[Editor’s Note: the author gave me a heads-up even before passing along this item to me: “it’s okay if you decide to just toss it.” Three things occur to me: first, either in the choir world or the devotional blog world, I’ve never felt that it would be in my best interests to just tell people to go away! Second, the really valuable things in life are so often found in unexpected, uncomfortable, and often untidy places. And third, the objects that this piece focuses on are also metaphorical — the things we might be motivated to just toss aside often have the potential to teach us the most. After all, the Innkeeper in Bethlehem could have told those two (soon to be three) travelers that there was no room for them at all anywhere on his property, couldn’t he have?]

This commentary may not mesh exactly with the word “devotional”, but I think it will be inspirational from a Nature and dedication-to-life point of view:

Maybe two decades ago, I became closely acquainted with biologist/paleontologist Jim Mead, then a faculty member at the University of Northern Arizona. His research specialty was exploring the many hidden caves found in the steep, rocky terrain of the Grand Canyon’s walls, and in the surrounding arid regions of Arizona, and elsewhere.

He brought almost religious dedication to seeking obscure clues to what the region’s wildlife was like, including animal species, geology, climate and, if lucky, clues to any human activities, especially what life was like well before Christian missionaries arrived to “convert” so-called heathens to our multiple versions of Christianity.

Mead and his colleagues (mostly graduate students, a/k/a “academic slaves”) found their best clues deep inside obscure caves high in the vertical walls of the Grand Canyon. Hard to get to, but worth exploring.

It became very clear that multiple different animal species occasionally found their way inside these old caves. And of course these animals were not especially tidy, so they left behind strong clues about their species, sizes, and lifestyles, and even broken bones and fur samples.

More important, they also left behind copious dung samples containing direct information about what plants they were eating, which spoke clearly of climatic conditions, foods that were available, and the hazards they faced.

Prof. Mead recalled that he and another scientist, Larry Agenbroad, had actually discovered an obscure cave in nearby Utah that was filled with ancient mammoth dung. It yielded copious information they were seeking, and they soon named it (unofficially) “the Hope Diamond of Mammoth Dung.”

‘Nuff said.

-Bob Cooke

Earlier this year, I wrote about the great blue heron in my Lenten devotion. I talked about my dreams of a great blue heron flying down and spreading his wings around my nephew, Ryan, who was so sick from leukemia.

The heron’s wings in my mind were like Jesus’s arm, wrapping Ryan in love and comfort. The heron has special meaning to our family and, for many years, has symbolized God’s presence in our lives.

You’re probably tired of me writing about herons by now, but I want to share a story about how the heron continues to bring light and hope into our lives, even now after Ryan’s death.

After a long, intense battle with cancer, our relentless Ryan entered the house of the Lord in March. Our family has been shaken with grief that we think will never fade. I worry so much about Ryan’s parents, my sister Kim and her husband Craig, but they are staying true to their faith and taking care of one another as they patiently wait for each day to pass, hoping that a little bit of their sadness will fade with each passing day.

Kim finds a sign almost every day that Ryan is with her —- hummingbirds, butterflies, cloud images, sunsets, rainbows, giraffes, zebras, and of course, herons. About a month ago, she and Craig were taking a walk as the sun was starting to set. It was the day before we turned the clocks back an hour, so darkness appeared sooner and sooner each evening. The sky was gorgeous as night slowly arrived. Kim and Craig were talking about Ryan’s friends and how they were each trying to bring peace to their lives as they grieved the loss of their dear friend.

Suddenly, Kim heard loud rustling in a tree next to the road as they were headed up a hill toward their home. As soon as they looked over to the tree, a great blue heron flew out of its nest high up in the branches, its wings spanned at least six feet wide as the graceful bird soared towards the setting sun. The sounds of its wings created an amazing “whoosh, whoosh…” sound as they pushed air down to move the bird up in the sky.

Kim and Craig were taken back by the beauty and presence of this beautiful creature. They knew, at that moment, that Ryan was sending a message to them that he was in the arms of the Lord. The great blue heron never fails to bring light and hope to our lives, and we thank God for using this special creature as a symbol of His grace, love, peace, and safety.

The heron is a patient bird. I hope that my family can learn to be more like this bird because patience and a sense of calm can bring us close to Jesus. Let me “…wait patiently for the Lord; then He will incline to me and hear my cry” (Psalms 40:1).

This Advent season, as we anticipate the arrival of Christmas day, I pray that we can be like the great blue heron and wait patiently and calmly. But, let’s not forget to respond in action and do the work of the Jesus here on earth. What can we do to help others feel like the Lord is wrapping His arms around them? How can we be like a heron? Do we need to swoop in and make a loud entry, or can we do little things that make a big difference? Can my simple presence in someone’s life bring light to them in some way?

Prayer: May Jesus Christ provide light for you in all your days. May He wrap you up in love and grace and help you live your life in service to Him. Amen.

-Kristen Straub

The writing prompt said, “What part of the Christmas season don’t you care for and why?”

Part of the expectation of Christmas in this modern age is gift-giving. These days, I dislike trying to figure out what material gifts those in my family and extended family would like. I don’t like to shop for gifts. I would much rather give a more lasting gift—a gift of time spent with them throughout the year. I would also like to give to others less fortunate than myself in my Christmas gift giving.

Recently, I came across the writing below. This is what I’d like to reply when my adult children ask me what I want for Christmas. Perhaps it will resonate with you, too.

My children ask me the same question each year. After thinking about it, I decided to give them my real answer. What Do You Want for Christmas?

• I want you to keep coming around.

• I want you to ask me questions. Ask me advice. Tell me your problems.

• Ask my opinion. Ask for my help.

• I want you to come over and rant about life. Tell me about your job, your worries, your interests.

• I want you to continue sharing your life with me.

• Come over and laugh with me or at me. Hearing you laugh is music to me.

• I want you to spend your money making a better life for you and your family.

• I have the things I need. I want to see you happy and healthy.

• When you ask what I want for Christmas, I say “nothing” because you’ve already been giving me my gift all year and that is YOU.

So why do we celebrate Christmas? Isn’t it really about a special gift that God gave the world? God sent Jesus into the world as a gift to us, born as a baby and growing in stature, wisdom and love to be an example of how God wants us to live.

When my sons were in elementary school, I read an article about something that became a tradition in our celebration of Christmas. Under the tree were many presents, but there was one that said “For the Sweeney Family.” Sometimes it was a big wrapped box; at other times a small one. I had our boys open it. Inside was a picture of Jesus (as a baby and as a grown-up, cut from Christmas cards or Sunday School leaflets) with these words in large print: “The Greatest Gift of All”. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? Isn’t that why we celebrate Christmas?

Yes, it’s nice to get and receive gifts, especially ones that are thoughtful or homemade. But in doing so at Christmas, let’s not forget whose birthday we are really celebrating. Read the Christmas story in the Bible, enjoy an Advent calendar, light some candles, tell each other what you appreciate about them, talk about Jesus and what he teaches us, sing some Christmas hymns. Enjoy the Advent Season!!

-Nancy Sweeney
(SUMC member from 1973-2016; now living in Plymouth, MA)

Advent in December brings a sense of wonderment and a feeling that something good is about to happen. The Christ Child will appear. For me, December seems the month that I have chosen to have surgery … twice. My old body is falling apart and needs to be updated.

In December 2017, I had my hip replaced at New England Baptist. I went in on the morning of surgery, had the replacement, spent the night, and left the next day. Our Pastor Joel with his abundant love came to visit me in the afternoon. What happened still makes me laugh. I am assuming that it went this way:

Joel went to my room … and it was empty. He went to the nurse’s station to find out what was happening.

Joel: “Where is Mrs. Stroud?” Nurse: “She is gone.” Joel: “Gone? She just had surgery yesterday. Her room is empty.” Nurse: “Yes, she is gone… …home!”

Poor Joel did not anticipate that surprise.

So now, in keeping with tradition, I am scheduled for a knee replacement on December 7. This time, I have chosen to go to Emerson Hospital, which is right next door to our retirement community, Newbury Court. My husband says jokingly that I can walk home; it is so close. Well, at least if Joel is making visits during these COVID times, he will know where to find me!

I am looking forward to my new Christmas gift, my new knee, as crazy as that sounds. There is anticipation and curiosity and a promise of something good eventually. That describes Advent as well.

-Lynn Stroud

There may be no other time of the year that is so marked by traditions. What we do, where we go, what we hear, what we see, whom we think of, what shopping-mall traffic jams we get into … certainly up through two Advents ago, a lot of us had amassed a great many Things We Always Do and a great many Ways We Always Did Those Things.

And then, not to beat a dead horse, but … certainly in this past nearly two years (and perhaps for more it will be the case that) a great many Things Are Now Different. And there are a great many Things We Still Can’t Do, or at least Things We’re Not Comfortable Doing Yet.

Maybe that’s the reason you might be feeling a bit like a Grinch.

We’re not sure of the reason why the actual Grinch was feeling like a Grinch (Dr. Seuss never gets specific about that particular origin story) … but we might well be quite sure of our reasoning.

Half a year ago, COVID-19 conditions were beginning to look up. Without a Delta variant yet in sight, Sudbury UMC’s staff was looking ahead to this Advent season as one in which we could very well be returning to our usual practices.

So much for that.

Plenty of opportunities to wonder, forlornly, “will we ever [fill in the blank] again?”

Well, not to toot our own horn overly, but matters have begun to force us to invent new activities that might well become Things We Always Do.

Last Christmas Eve, at the end of our worship service, we gathered on the front steps of the church and in the parking lot to sing “Silent Night” because it meant we could gather safely, socially-distantly, and sing lustily. (You may recall that at that point, congregational singing was frowned upon by public-health officials.)

Who knows? Years from now, we may still be singing “Silent Night” outdoors, our dulcet tones carrying into the night sky, because it’s a lovely thing to do.

These online-blog versions of SUMC’s devotional writing collections actually began a year before COVID struck, but they certainly were useful afterward — a way of distributing our congregation’s lovely writings without the need for hand sanitizer.

But now, rather like our Sunday-morning live-streaming capabilities, those writings can be sent out into the wider world, possibly to reach more people than could be reached previously. All to the good.

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Some of the writings that follow, here — posted every morning from now until Christmas Day — may be responses to questions drawn from a book that Pastor Joel is using as the centerpiece of his Advent season Sunday-morning children’s times: “The Heart That Grew Three Sizes: Finding Faith in the Story of the Grinch”, by Pastor Matt Rawle. And some may not be.

But as usual, they all will be written by members and friends of Sudbury UMC. One of those pleasant and rare examples of something that “we’ve always done this way” and which nonetheless continues to make sense.

(As is only possible with the online format, we have a few of the writings ready to go, but there is still quite a bit of “space” remaining … so if you’d like to have a go at writing something for inclusion here, BY ALL MEANS check out those writing ideas (https://www.sudbury-umc.org/s/AdventBlog2021_Instructions.pdf) and see what inspiration strikes you!)

Ready?

Off we go… again!…

-Rob Hammerton

PART TWO

22 Chorus
Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world. (John 1:29)

23 Air (Alto)
He was despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. (Isaiah 53:3) He gave His back to the smiters, and His cheeks to them that plucked off His hair: He hid not His face from shame and spitting. (Isaiah 50:6)

24 Chorus
Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows! He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him. (Isaiah 53:4-5)

25 Chorus
And with His stripes we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5)

26 Chorus
All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way. And the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all. (Isaiah 53:6)

27 Accompagnato (Tenor)
All they that see Him laugh Him to scorn; they shoot out their lips, and shake their heads, saying: (Psalm 22:7)

28 Chorus
“He trusted in God that He would deliver Him; let Him deliver Him, if He delight in Him.” (Psalm 22:8)

29 Accompagnato (Tenor)
Thy rebuke hath broken His heart: He is full of heaviness. He looked for some to have pity on Him, but there was no man, neither found He any to comfort him. (Psalm 69:20)

30 Arioso (Tenor)
Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto His sorrow. (Lamentations 1:12)

31 Accompagnato (Soprano or Tenor)
He was cut off out of the land of the living: for the transgressions of Thy people was He stricken. (Isaiah 53:8)

32 Air (Soprano or Tenor)
But Thou didst not leave His soul in hell; nor didst Thou suffer Thy Holy One to see corruption. (Psalm 16:10)

33 Chorus
Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of Glory shall come in. Who is this King of Glory? The Lord strong and mighty, The Lord mighty in battle. Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of Glory shall come in. Who is this King of Glory? The Lord of Hosts, He is the King of Glory. (Psalm 24:7-10)

34 Recitative (Tenor)
Unto which of the angels said He at any time: “Thou art My Son, this day have I begotten Thee?” (Hebrews 1:5)

35 Chorus
Let all the angels of God worship Him. (Hebrews 1:6)

36 Air (Alto or Soprano)
Thou art gone up on high; Thou hast led captivity captive, and received gifts for men; yea, even from Thine enemies, that the Lord God might dwell among them. (Psalm 68:18)

37 Chorus
The Lord gave the word; great was the company of the preachers. (Psalm 68:11)

38 Air (Soprano or Alto) (or Duet and Chorus (Soprano, Alto and Chorus)
How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things. (Isaiah 52:7; Romans 10:15)

39 Chorus (or air for tenor)
Their sound is gone out into all lands, and their words unto the ends of the world. (Romans 10:18; Psalm 19:4)

40 Air (Bass) (or Air and Recitative)
Why do the nations so furiously rage together, and why do the people imagine a vain thing? The kings of the earth rise up, and the rulers take counsel together against the Lord, and against His anointed. (Psalm 2:1-2)

41 Chorus
Let us break their bonds asunder, and cast away their yokes from us. (Psalm 2:3)

42. Recitative (Tenor)
He that dwelleth in Heav’n shall laugh them to scorn; The Lord shall have them in derision. (Psalm 2:4)

43 Air (Tenor)
Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel. (Psalm 2:9)

44 Chorus
Hallelujah: for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. (Revelation 19:6) The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord, and of His Christ; and He shall reign for ever and ever. (Revelation 11:15) King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. (Revelation 19:16)


PART THREE

45 Air (Soprano)
I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God. (Job 19:25-26) For now is Christ risen from the dead, the first fruits of them that sleep. (1 Corinthians 15:20)

46 Chorus
Since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive. (1 Corinthians 15: 21-22)

47 Accompagnato (Bass)
Behold, I tell you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. (1 Corinthians 15: 51-52)

48 Air (Bass)
The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal must put on immortality. (1 Corinthians 15:52-53)

49 Recitative (Alto)
Then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.” (1 Corinthians 15:54)

50 Duet (Alto & Tenor)
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. (1 Corinthians 15:55-56)

51 Chorus
But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. (1 Corinthians 15:57)

52 Air (Soprano & Alto)
If God be for us, who can be against us? (Romans 8:31) Who shall lay anything to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth, who is he that condemneth? It is Christ that died, yea rather, that is risen again, who is at the right hand of God, who makes intercession for us. (Romans 8:33-34)

53 Chorus
Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by His blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing. Blessing and honour, glory and power, be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, for ever and ever. Amen. (Revelation 5:12-14)

My first visit to SUMC was on Palm Sunday exactly 20 years ago, when I moved from Pennsylvania to Concord. My neighbor, Dick Harding, invited me! I remember vividly the lineup of children and of some of the boys “fencing” with their palm branches. Before and after that day flow many years of memories of Hosannas sung and palm branches waved.

Palm Sunday has, for years, also been the day on which I wear light colored “spring clothes”. I have a personal aversion to “Easter outfits”, so, whether the garment is new or old, I wear it before Easter.

The somber worship services of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday were observed throughout my life. I remember many Good Fridays when the sun actually did diminish or even disappear in the middle of the day. It was almost as if Nature was expressing the sorrow of the day.

Of course, Easter Sundays (eighty-six of them) pass in a colorful procession of church attendance, triumphant music, beautiful flowers, and, of course, Easter gifts and candy. My earliest memory (probably I was four years old) is of a blue shovel filled with candy waiting for me at my home in the Bronx. The shovel was a practical and sensible gift. It brought great fun for months after the candy was gone.

There were small baskets of candy on Easter during my Connecticut childhood, but I don’t remember anything about a bunny delivering them. The most joyous part of the day was dinner with extended family – sometimes as many as twenty relatives ate, talked, and laughed together.

Family gatherings continued for years after my own children joined the clan. Their Easter gifts (from their parents) consisted of a new book and a very small quantity of candy. They probably felt somewhat deprived because when they established their own families, I noticed huge quantities of candy were delivered by a very generous Easter Bunny. Sometimes that very bunny brings “Peeps” to Grandma!

Now, in this pandemic year with continued restrictions, we are all thankful for health and the ability to enjoy electronic worship or even “masked worship” with others. We are now allowed to sing in chapel, so muffled alleluias will abound. No family will come for dinner, but we will enjoy being with our community family for Easter dinner. Our Living Lord has blessed us!

-Janet Johnson

It took me until adulthood to understand the heroic choices that my father made in his life, and how they affected our family. Let me explain; this is how I closed my father’s eulogy.

“To close, I want to share a passage from the prophet Ezekiel from chapter 18, verses 19 and 20, that points to the greatest gift my dad gave to us:

“‘Yet you ask, “Why does the son not share the guilt of his father?” Since the son has done what is just and right and has been careful to keep all my decrees, he will surely live. The one who sins is the one who will die. The child will not share the guilt of the parent, nor will the parent share the guilt of the child.‘

“My dad was rarely an openly affectionate man. He could be dismissive, a bit contemptuous… and sometimes we wondered why he had such difficulty articulating his emotions. But, as we grew, we recognized the impact of his childhood upon him. Growing up in a household with few resources and parents who struggled with their demons would leave any child more closed, more wary as they grew into adulthood. But decades ago, I realized the enormous gift my father really gave us. Psychology teaches us that abuse is cyclical, and we frail human beings often visit ‘the guilt of the parent‘ upon our own children. This my father resolutely refused to do. As Ezekiel reminds us, if my dad’s parents shortchanged him when he was young, he was free to relate to his children in a new and better way. He provided us the things he lacked growing up — affection, play, support, safety. We wanted for absolutely nothing. He was a walking firewall, someone smart enough to recognize the inadequate hand he was dealt growing up and resilient enough to know how to keep us from experiencing the same hardships. He never passed the pain on to us. He may have earned the right to park in a two star general’s parking spot in Heidelberg; but that was not what I respected and loved the most about him. He kept the demons of dysfunction away breathtakingly well. He did a spectacular job.

“We love you and already miss you so deeply, Dad. I know you are on the other side now, beyond illness and asking Saint Peter if he has weighted his portfolio towards indexed mutual funds. But Dad does these things because he loves you and wants for you the very best… just like he wanted it for us.”

Some superheroes become famous because they do heroic deeds. Some become heroic because of the things they resist doing. I think everyday about my father’s success in this regard, and it is a constant invitation to try and get it right, like he did.

-Kevin Murphy

Some years ago someone at a meeting used an off-color expression that was a common one in my mother’s wide vocabulary. I felt her presence in the room as we all laughed and I told the person that I hadn’t heard that expression since before my mother’s death. I didn’t say that the next day would be the anniversary of that sad day. After the meeting ended and we went our separate ways, I felt as if a weight had been suddenly slung onto my back again. For much of the rest of the day, I felt the heaviness of my own body; I felt tired and short-tempered. I woke in the night and could think only, “March 4th”, “the anniversary of a day that changed my life”.

This was now some years ago, but still, at times I will think that I might pick up the phone to call my mother. Then I remember and I am back at least for a moment to the place where I just heard the news. The path of mourning is winding and we can get lost along the way. We think we are back “on the right track” and then someone uses an expression that our loved one used and we feel the sudden burden of sadness. We carry on and then we see an empty chair and our lives feel suddenly empty. We stop to browse through a drawer filled with stuff and we find instead it is filled with memories and mementos that then fill us also with either great pain or abiding peace and we cannot anticipate which. We go along the road and we find that we have circled back upon ourselves and all the emotions are still raw and untidy. The journey of mourning is long; there is no easy bypass route to the other side.

When I was a child, my family was not very religious and though we attended church on Easter and then sometimes on Palm Sunday I didn’t really understand the story told during Holy Week. Now I am so grateful for that part of the story. I am grateful for the recognition that in Christ, God came among us, and that in Christ, God was willing to suffer all of what we suffer. I am grateful for the disciples and the women who stumbled and bumbled their way through their grief. I am grateful for Peter’s denial, for the disciple’s sleepiness in the garden, and even for Judas’ betrayal. I am grateful too, as the story unfolds to hear of Mary, Mary and Salome’s fear, for Cleopas and his companion’s confusion on the road to Emmaus, and for Thomas’ doubt. The faith offers to us the assurance that because God, in Christ, was willing to enter the human story there is no place in this wide world where we are outside of God’s presence. When we feel our heart torn out by the death of one we love, God is there. When we are in the midst of grief that makes us feel muddled and mixed and mired down, God is there. When we feel the first springs of hope, like tiny snowdrops, God is there.

Lent is a season for introspection, a time for settling down and placing before God the weight of the burdens we carry, forty days when we might reflect upon Christ’s death and the deaths of those we love, a time to circle back toward our grief, so that when Easter comes we might know the full blessing of Christ’s resurrection. As you come to the close of this Lenten season, your heart may not yet have caught up with the hope offered in the story of Easter but the promise still is there, just under the surface of the messy spring soil, waiting for the warmth and light of the summer sun.

-Rev. Avis Hoyt-O’Connor (Associate Pastor, SUMC, 1989-1995)

A few years ago I had the opportunity to spend an August pre-season band camp week with a high school band out in western Massachusetts. I was expecting the usual: lots of sweat and sunblock; lots of learning of notes to play and places on the field to stand; and the relatively rare chance to hang out and in fact collaborate with my good friend the band director.

I got what I expected. Holy heck was it hot out there on the parking lot. But what I also got was … a moment.

That moment involved an example of what I can only call quiet, collective, unconscious heroism.

A few framing questions:

Who are some of the most put-upon people who are younger than college age?

High school band kids.

What was the problem that had recently earned this particular high school some very dire headlines that it absolutely would not have wanted?

Bullying.

What was that “starred thought”, that catchy and useful phrase, which was offered to us by our college band director (the fellow who taught and inspired both my high-school band-director friend and me, all those years ago)?

“Band is a place for everyone.” Very often, band is the most helpful place to be, for those kids who feel like they have no other place to be.

So: back to the parking lot, and the rehearsal room, and the auditorium, and my work with the kids who played the brass and woodwind instruments, helping them learn and perfect their parts for that year’s halftime show.

There were about twenty wind players, if I recall correctly. Small band, big sound. And my band director friend had given me a tiny heads-up about one of them. Not a behavior thing; not any kind of neuro-atypical thing (por ejamplo) that would have any impact on the rehearsals we were going to run.

But that flute player, the only blonde one? What was her thing? Not much, really … only that she was going through everything a high-school kid goes through when they’re working out a new gender identity.

Okay, I said. Truthfully, the only things that I really needed to know about any of these kids ahead of time were: what are their names, and can they play?

I’m embarrassed to tell you that I cannot at this moment remember that flute player’s name. But, at the time, “oh yes,” my band-director friend said, “that one can definitely play.”

Okay then.

The week began … it progressed … and it neared its ending. All the flutes could play the notes, and hit their drill sets, and move and play together quite well indeed.

And then it came time for the “friends and family show”. That’s when the pre-season camp’s work is done; the show is on the field in some condition or other; and the band would now like to show parents, and friends, and anyone else who happened along, the fruits of the labor.

So an impressively large contingent of parents, and friends, and former band members too, gathered on the edge of the parking lot under the shade … and waited for the Mighty Marching Whatevers to make their entrance from the band room across the way.

In the band room, the band and gathered and made a big circle, so everyone could see everyone else. One last pep talk from the director and instructional staff. If this had been an athletic team, it would have been: one last “defense on three; one, two, THREE…”

In this case, though, the band was led by its fine director through an exercise to which she had been introduced at a professional development activity of her own, some years before.

Ordinarily I am wary of these “team building activities”, these “ice breakers”. They can be anywhere from inspirational to an utter waste of time. And even the useful ones can end up being, well, just kind of “meh”, if there’s not buy-in from the participants.

This one was interesting.

First, the kids all counted off — one, two, one, two, all the way around. Each group would have a role to play; then those roles would be reversed and we’d play the game again.

The first group stood facing away from the center of the circle, eyes closed. (To be clear, they had been well-prepared for this; it was not a surprise. Also, they had just spent a week getting to know each other very well. These were important factors.)

The second group then walked slowly around the inside of the circle, stopping at each outward-facing person and doing one of three things for them, each of which signified something specific about the band camp week just finished.

It’s been awhile; but I think the idea was something like: gently placing one hand on the person’s head meant “I’ve been pleased to meet you for the first time, this week” … gently tapping fingertips on each shoulder meant “you and I were friends before, and are better friends now, after this week” … and gently pressing hands down upon each shoulder meant “I’ve come to care about you, this week”.

Yeah: in the wrong metaphorical hands, very squishy. Very “I’m OK, You’re OK”. Heaven help us if the participants don’t take it seriously. And in these days of being very very careful about physical contact, it could have been anywhere from risky to just plain wrong.

But in the case of this particular band, I thought as the exercise began, it might just work out.

The exercise finished; my band director friend gave her charges one last word of advice — “have fun” — and the band collected its instruments and flags and began to head out the back door toward the parking lot.

And I noticed that my new blonde flute player friend had tears streaming down their face.

I looked at my band-director friend, near whom I happened to be standing, and pointed at our blonde flute player, and asked a question with my face only.

My band-director friend smiled. She’d been watching specifically during that exercise.

“Every single person pressed down.”

I had gotten to like that band, that week. They had just the right sense of “band hype” without being fake about it; they actually seemed to enjoy working hard to accomplish something; they always made sure no one felt left out, on or off the field.

But from that moment on — a moment which I really, really doubted they’d planned in advance — a moment that the entire band collectively may not even have realized they’d created — I really, really, REALLY liked that band.

It was a moment of quiet, collective, unconscious heroism.

Again, I’m willing to believe that they might have had zero collective understanding of what they had collectively done — but for all they knew, they might have turned a kid’s life around. Maybe even saved it, conceivably.

Do people really think I’m okay? that flute player may have been wondering.

Or are they all just humoring me, and then talking behind my back?

Are they all putting on a good show when they’re really lying to me?

Before that afternoon, that flute player may have had no very good idea what the answers to those questions were.

They did now.

And even if they didn’t have answers to those questions regarding the entire rest of the student body who weren’t in that band … they knew what these forty-odd kids’ answer was, individually and collectively.

We’ve got your back.

Those kids played a heck of a show that afternoon.

-Rob Hammerton

A few nights ago, I came upon a Rick Steves “special”, a travelogue prepared as part of his support for Public Broadcasting’s pledge week. Rick Steves’s life work is to encourage travel to Europe through his excellent TV shows, so I knew I would find it interesting.

In the next hour, I saw how several countries in Europe observe Holy Week. Each country has its own traditions, but they share many similarities. For instance, on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, there are processions through the narrow streets of towns and along the lanes of villages. Someone, for whom it is a great honor to be chosen, lovingly carries the lifelike form of Jesus from its usual place of honor in their church. During Thursday’s procession, the faithful raise their voices in appreciation for Jesus’ institution of holy communion, but mourn with genuine sorrow on Friday as the visual reminder of the crucifixion passes before them. On Saturday, church pews are filled with the faithful, as they keep watch between the crucifixion and Easter. With everyone dressed in their finest clothes, on Easter morning the churches are at capacity and then some. When all the Alleluia’s are sung, families and friends gather together to celebrate and visit, while the lamb on the spit roasts to perfection.

What stood out for me in the Europe video, far more than the pageantry, was the faithfulness of the people. They understand the importance of participating in the whole journey, from Palm Sunday to Easter, to remember that Jesus was vilified and crucified during the days between. It was both humbling and inspiring to see that they allow nothing to keep them from being present every eventful day to show their love for Jesus and their thanksgiving to God for the gift of eternal life.

Can we do less?

SUMC’s Maundy Thursday service: April 1, 7pm, in person or via livestream
SUMC’s Good Friday service: April 2, 7pm, in person or via livestream

-Nancy Hammerton

[Ed. Note: Arthur Powell Davies (June 5, 1902 – September 26, 1957) was the minister of All Souls Church, Unitarian in Washington, DC from 1944 until his death in 1957. A prolific author of theological books and sermon collections, he came to national prominence in the US through his advocacy for civil rights for African-Americans and women, for ethical stands against post-war nuclear proliferation, and for the methods employed by the US government during the era of McCarthyism.]

[Here is a poem for Lent by Rev. Davies:]

When Sorrow Comes

When sorrow comes, let us accept it simply, as a part of life.
Let the heart be open to pain; let it be stretched by it.
All the evidence we have says that this is the better way.
An open heart never grows bitter.
Or if it does, it cannot remain so.
In the desolate hour, there is an outcry;
a clenching of the hands upon emptiness;
a burning pain of bereavement; a weary ache of loss.
But anguish, like ecstasy, is not forever.
There comes a gentleness, a returning quietness, a restoring stillness.
This, too, is a door to life.
Here, also is the deepening of meaning – and it can lead to dedication;
a going forward to the triumph of the soul, the conquering of the wilderness.
And in the process will come a deepening inward knowledge that in the final reckoning, all is well.

-submitted anonymously

Just as the disciples were confused and questioning in the last days of Jesus ministry, so we puzzle over the events of what we call Holy Week. I remember a discussion with my mom when she was in her nineties. Her question was, “Why did Jesus have to die?” The question is raised again and again and has been asked through the centuries.

In the 20th century, I was captivated by the show “Jesus Christ Superstar”. I have seen several live performances and several versions on television. My favorite one remains the movie shot on Masada. Throughout the play, the followers of Jesus are puzzled by many of his statements and actions. The predictions of temple destruction and stones crying out are incomprehensible.

Actually, the word incomprehensible sums up the story of death and then resurrection. I remember my mom, a sincere and loving follower of Jesus, asking plaintively, “why did Jesus have to die?” Neither she nor I was comfortable with the idea of God demanding the sacrifice of His only son in order to save us from our sins. That is totally incomprehensible to me. It appears that Jesus died because his deeds of service and love aroused the ire of the governing powers who were threatened by his actions. Yes, He died, but not as a sacrificial lamb; rather as someone whose death resulted in an astounding resurrection. I believe that He died and rose to life to show us that new life is possible – not just the eternal life after physical death, but also a new life of selflessness. Care for others can become a sort of resurrection if we die to excessive concern about our own welfare and needs.

This kind of life of service or imitation of Christ is explored in the last chapter of our Lenten study book. Pastor Matt Rawle includes data on Superman’s efforts to imitate Jesus in the action of helping to feed the hungry, as well as well as in the act of stretching out his arms in love as does the statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro.

That idea of imitating Christ (as best we can) is expressed in various ways in this last chapter. Rawle uses the adjective incomprehensible when examining Christ’s death and resurrection. It helps a bit to think of how seeds must be planted in darkness (just as Jesus was placed in a tomb) before they can burst forth in usefulness. To me, this state of being buried in the darkness of ignorance and selfishness and then rising to the light of service helps a bit to understand Christ’s death and resurrection. The darkness and despair of death was transformed into a glorious life that we, too, can experience.

A productive life can be ours after we have buried our selfish pursuits to reach out in service as followers of Christ. Rawle states it beautifully: “Christ offers salvation through humility, generosity, obedience, and sacrifice … we let go of ourselves so that we might learn to love God and love one another.”

-Janet Johnson

[Excerpts from a song written and performed by Jewel]

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we’re all OK
And not to worry ‘cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these.

I won’t be made useless
I won’t be idle in despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear.

My hands are small, I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken.

Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn’t steal your laughter
And headache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn’t ever after.

We’ll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what’s right
‘Cause where there’s a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing.

In the end, only kindness matters
In the end, only kindness matters.

I will get down on my knees and pray…

…We are God’s eyes
We are God’s hands
We are God’s heart.

…And I am never broken
We are never broken.

-submitted by Lynn Cunningham

[Ed. Note: In the world of comic books, an “origins episode” is “an episode, issue, chapter, or a multi-part story arc that exists primarily to examine the origin of a character or setting after the work has been going for a while,” according to TVTropes.org. We at Sudbury UMC have known Pastor Cho-Kim for some time now … or at least, we think we have. Read this item from our Director of Adult Formation, and see if you don’t learn a thing or two! -RH]

I am Hakyung Cho-Kim and I was born in Pyongyang, Korea. My father was Wan Cho and my mother Uhn-Shin Kim. My family name, Cho-Kim is a combination of my maiden name and my married name.

We moved to Shanghai, China, in the early 1940s. My father abandoned the family there when I was four years old. When I returned to Korea with my mother in 1945, we discovered that the country had been divided by the United States and the USSR and our hometown was now the capital city of North Korea.

Three years later, when the Communist government began to confiscate personal property, my mother and I attempted to escape to South Korea. We were caught, but were able to buy our freedom using my mother’s valuables. We were guided to the border and lived with our relatives in Seoul. I was able to attend elementary school where kind and compassionate teachers encouraged me. I especially enjoyed singing in the school choir.

My mother remarried, but our family life changed drastically after 1950 during the Korean War. Several members of my extended family died in a bombing by US planes. My mother was incarcerated by North Korean Intelligence, but later released – just to have to flee again. On Christmas Eve, 1950, we escaped by clinging to the top of a freight car for nearly 200 miles to get to Daegu. I was able to attend school there.

In 1953, we were allowed to return to Seoul. The only housing available was a partially bombed house belonging to my aunt. I began school there as a ninth grader. After I completed high school, I attended Ewha Women’s University in Seoul, where I graduated with a BS in Pharmacy in 1961. At this point my English was pretty fluent, since I started learning the language in high school and continued studying it in college by reading Time magazine.

My plan was to come to the US to obtain an advanced degree in pharmacy and to become a professor in Korea. However, my plan encountered many changes and difficulties along the way. My fiancé, Kyuha Kim, had come to America before me. He was a 5th degree black belt in judo and was the Korean National Judo Champion as well as an instructor with the Korean Air Force Academy. An American army captain saw a business opportunity in Kyuha’s abilities and invited him to Oklahoma City to become a martial arts instructor.

I came to the US in November 1961 to join Kyuha. We were married in Oklahoma City in the chapel of Good Samaritan Hospital, with a few of his martial arts students as guests and no family able to be present.

We started our life together in a studio apartment without a car or TV and just my husband’s modest income. Soon we realized that I was pregnant. Despite this happy news, we were faced with the harsh reality that we had no health insurance. One of my husband’s private students was the Attorney General of Oklahoma, who suggested our only option was for me to go back to Korea to have the child. Later, I realized that his actions were motivated by racism. He did not want our child to be born in this country and thus become a legal American citizen.

I went back to Korea when I was eight months pregnant. My husband had to remain in Oklahoma City because of his work contract. When I landed in Korea, my mother barely recognized me because I was so swollen from the pregnancy. My daughter, Mary, was born on August 31, 1962. I nearly lost my life giving birth, and my recovery was an amazing gift from God. My mother offered to raise the baby so I could return to Pittsburgh to complete my pharmacy studies. Mary wasn’t able to join us until she was almost five years old. Our son, Eugene, was born in 1966 in Korea.

I was fortunate to receive full scholarships for all of my college education. I reached my educational goal when I received a PhD in Pharmacology from the University of Pittsburgh in 1969. I had already earned a BS in Pharmacy and an MS in Medicinal Chemistry from Pittsburgh’s Duquesne University. I was able to do considerable cancer research on botanical plants, and was the owner and pharmacist in pharmacies in Bethel Park and Pittsburgh, PA. Despite my professional achievements, I felt a strong calling to the ministry and I entered the Pittsburgh Theological Seminary in 1983. Three years later, I became the first Asian woman to be ordained by the Western Pennsylvania Conference of the United Methodist Church.

I have served churches as laity and clergy for more than 50 years: in Western Pennsylvania, Southern Indiana, and the New England Conference of the United Methodist Church. Since my retirement from parish ministry, I have published five devotional books, and I continue to be involved as Adult Formation Director at Sudbury Methodist Church. I moved to Newbury Court in March 2018.

When I entered the ministry, I found that the many challenges I faced in life helped me to focus on the spiritual disciplines and strive to live a life that is grounded in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

-Hakyung Cho-Kim

Years ago on a visit to Riverside Church in New York City, I encountered a banner displaying the following famous quote: “The seven last words of the church are – we have always done it this way” …

Leaders (often pastors and teachers) are likely to hear this message if they introduce a different way of worship or other activities. I’ve been impressed with the introduction of unfamiliar hymns in worship both at SUMC and here in chapel. We have learned to appreciate these challenges that gradually become dear to our hearts.

Innovators have to be creative and careful when changing the “old ways”. Science and technology don’t seem to be concerned. Those areas seem to be constantly trying new things and changing our lives – often for the better, but sometimes not. An example of this has been the presence of cellphones at family gatherings. I’ve watched all six teenaged grandchildren with heads bent over phones, interacting with someone or something NOT in the room. Fortunately, as they have entered adulthood, those same people now put away the cellphones and actually talk with each other (and with me).

In chapter five of “What Makes A Hero”, we are reminded of the value of history (the “old ways”). Both personal genealogy and a community genealogy are important. I have collected and printed stories about my own ancestors as well as the succeeding generations. I have enjoyed wonderful stories about SUMC and the young couples such as the Paros who worked to literally build our church. I also admire the people of all ages who reach out to build the fellowship and service of SUMC. Through the years many new programs and helpful experiences were made possible by “new people” who have become valuable additions to our faith community. Working together is the key.

The whole world has been challenged in this year of pandemic to carry on a tradition of loving care for one another as well as for others we don’t even know. Pastor Rawle (the author of “What Makes a Hero”) says that “successful change means listening to years of wisdom while capturing the passion of new ideas”. That means listening to one another and respecting one another. All new ideas won’t work, bit some will. All old ways are no longer practical or even possible, but a combination of new and old seems to work well in our personal lives and in the life of our beloved church family.

Remember the ”old” advertising slogan – try it, you might like it!

-Janet Johnson

[Note: Back in 2015, just before after I headed out for my annual week or two of teaching high-school-drum-majors-to-be at West Chester University (PA) and UMass-Amherst, I published an essay on my personal blog, called “The Unlikeliest of Heroes”. Below is a very-slightly-edited version of that essay:]

Marvel Studios have managed to produce a string of movies with some really fine moments in them, in the past few years. Over and over again, they’ve offered the movie-going public some story revelations that cause said public to think, “aha! It really has all been leading up to this.” Somehow, these movies about inherently silly characters – the giant green rage monster, the not-really-Norse god, the “genius billionaire playboy philanthropist” – have all been deftly intertwined, at least within their Cinematic Universe. (Aficionados of the comic book versions of things may need to cool their jets here, as shhhhhhh! this isn’t really the subject of this piece, but instead, as usual, the author needs a hook and this time your favorite characters are it.) Fun to go back and look at certain scenes again and say, “they really were thinking about six movies down the road, there.”

Other scenes are kinda right up in your face, to the point where one could accuse the filmmakers of being almost ham-handed in their need to make sure you Get The Point.

I’ll admit right away: I’ve got one favorite Firmly Telegraphed scene. The scene came in the first Captain America film, “The First Avenger”.

And by the way, I will happily admit: of all the silly Marvel Comics characters, to my way of thinking, ol’ Cap was THE flippin’ silliest of them. I’m all for red and blue costumes (rah rah rah Superman), but honestly, between the little teeny wing things on the sides of his helmet and what I perceived, rightly or not, as the “I can win World War II all by m’ lonesome” vibe …

Um, no and no. Sorry. Silly look; don’t want to wallow in the jingoistic; nice artwork, but I think not.

So the filmmakers wrote a nice little series of scenes that served as a nod to the “classic” Captain America look and a reassurance that, well, we’re going to try to sand down as much of the silly and cheeseball as we possibly can. In fact, we’re going to have Cap react to his own cheesy look, his very own self.

I’ll be honest: I don’t know the comic-book Captain America origin story well enough to know whether the moviemakers’ version was an homage, or just a great new idea to link him to the, um, chemistry-set experiments that produced a giant green rage monster. Either way, they made the point, sometimes rather heavily but at least earnestly, that Captain America used to be a 98-pound weakling but he was the 98-pound weakling who had his priorities straight.

The Firmly Telegraphed scene that I like so much is this one:

First, a montage of scenes depicting the physical trials that the US Army is putting two dozen or so soldiers through – the soldiers who are being considered for participation in the Army’s super-secret super-soldier program. Then the Colonel in charge (played by Tommy Lee Jones with gruff charm, like almost every other gruffly charming character that Tommy Lee Jones has ever gruffly and charmingly played) tosses what appears to be a live grenade into the midst of the soldier-candidates. They scatter – all of them except for one, the 98-pound weakling called Steve Rogers. Instead, he throws himself on top of it and wildly waves everyone else away.

Turns out, it’s a dummy grenade. But Rogers is the only one who volunteers to “take one for the team” – on the grounds of some backwater Army training camp, far from The Front, he’s willing to lay down his life for the rest of the squad. Never mind that amongst that squad is one guy whose personality had already been Firmly Telegraphed as arrogant, smug, and a genuine bully to everyone in general and to Rogers in particular. Rogers is taken seriously by absolutely nobody there – with the exception of the scientist whose technology is driving the whole super-soldier project, who has insisted that Rogers be considered for reasons which no one else in the US military establishment quite understands) – but he’s a good guy.

A few other, earlier Firmly Telegraphed scenes in “The First Avenger” have already done their part to build the story point: Steve Rogers is a decent human being. And after Rogers is selected, the scientist puts it to him this way: “This is why you were chosen. Because a strong man who has known power all his life … [he loses] respect for that power. But a weak man, he values his strength. And loves compassion.” And then, he says, “Whatever happens tomorrow [after the super-soldier transformation experiment goes forward], you must promise me one thing. That you must stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier. But a good man.”

Shortly I’ll be heading out for my annual summer teaching fortnight with the George N. Parks Drum Major Academy. For many reasons, I look forward to this experience every year, more than almost any other. And one of those reasons has to do with Captain America, or at least the Cinematic Universe’s incarnation of his origin story.

Stay with me. It’s not nearly as silly and cheeseball as that sounded.

In the years in which I’ve head out to the DMA locations at West Chester University and UMass-Amherst, I’ve had the chance to work with lots of high-school seniors, and juniors, and a few sophomores, who arrive at our clinics having been labeled by their high school band directors as Drum Majors Of Their Bands. Some of them are veterans – they’ve gone on this ride before, and for the most part they have a decent idea of what that job entails, what parts of it they’ve been good at, and what they still need to work out, or what the areas are in which they can refine their performance.

Some of them are new to the game. Of these, some put on a good game face at the start of the week, some acquire that game face by the week’s end, and some of them probably clutch the certificate of completion-of-studies on the way home still wondering what in the world they’ve gotten themselves into. Or, more accurately, knowing what they’ve gotten themselves into and hoping for a little divine inspiration that will help them through it.

It’s been fun to see some of the evidence that some of those figured it out. Blessed are the meek, for when they become not meek anymore, their boldness means so much more than that of the People With Good Game Faces.

There was one particular example of this which I wrote about [in 2013] in [my personal blog], in a post called “New Rachel”. And at the end of summer 2014, I experienced a relative torrent of Facebook friend requests from DMA students (as I wrote then, instead of the usual one or two, there were fifteen or twenty). It was neat to see the “on the bus to our first game” selfies … and by season’s end, it was fun to read the brief anecdotes about “best season ever” and see the photos from band banquets and such.

And then, [in spring 2015], I spotted a Facebook status post authored by one of the students who was in one of my [small groups]. S/He was not the strongest conductor; s/he was not the strongest caller of commands; s/he was desperately trying to keep up with all the material being thrown at him/her; but s/he seemed a genuinely decent person. I saw her/him again at the final presentation (for parents and family and friends) and wondered actively to myself how s/he would fare.

And while I always keep in mind the old “can’t judge a book by its cover” adage … still, by no means did that student fit the standard typical average normal median Drum Major Look. I even wondered if s/he had been one of those kids who had spent a lot of his/her life being on the receiving end of the pranks, or the jokes, or the out-of-the-corner-of-the-eye looks, or even the overt bullying, that can happen when adolescents interact unsupervised.

I wondered if s/he was chosen by his/her director in spite of the skepticism of the rest of the band, deserved or not. I hoped s/he’d do well, of course … but I didn’t know.

(An aside: S/He wasn’t even one of the [2014] DMA students who had Friend-requested me … but I saw the Facebook post because it was “liked” by several of the DMA students who had. Which was a hallmark of [summer 2014]’s group … all season long, they continually urged each other on. It was very cute, and also more than a little reassuring.)

The post went on at great length (or as long as Facebook allowed), as I recall, about things like “greatest year of my life” and “love my band so much” and “grew so much as a person”.

Well. All right then.

By hook or by crook … without necessarily becoming the second coming of [famous band conductor] Frederick Fennell, or of the commander of the US Marine Silent Drill Team … somehow, some way, s/he made it work, and it indeed worked, and s/he came out the other side victorious.

Maybe something happened that was perhaps not quite as dire as throwing him-/herself on top of what could have been a live grenade … but that had a very similar effect on the people around him/her.

Maybe s/he managed to be his/her band’s unlikeliest of heroes.

Maybe what s/he was really meant more, ultimately, than what s/he was able to do.

That’s what makes DMA so much of a big deal to me, I think.

We’ll find out what [summer 2015] reveals. See you on the other side…

[Note, cont’d.: Shortly after this was published in 2015, I got an eMail from one of the DMA students whom I worked with at West Chester University that summer. This future HS drum major wrote, in part (with her own superhero reference, no less):

“I felt a bit like this when I was named drum major. … [T]he problem was that I had spent the last few years in band as being a quiet, reserved bass/third clarinet player. The band wasn’t expecting me to be able to shout, let alone ‘rah, rah, siss boom bah’. … And then my name went up on the wall. Senior year, first clarinet, drum major. I was probably the most surprised and the most estatic. … I hope that this year I can become perhaps not the drum major my band wanted, but the drum major they deserve.”

-Rob Hammerton

This winter, I read Jeanette Winter’s Wangari’s Trees of Peace to my second graders, to introduce them to an amazing and brilliant scientist, environmentalist, scholar, legislator, and humanitarian. Wangari Maathai learned to love and respect nature from her mother, and her parents recognized her potential, sending her from her home in Kenya to the US to earn degrees in biology. After earning her BS and Masters degree, Wangari returned home to Kenya, and became the first woman in East Africa to earn a doctorate. After graduating with her PhD, she became a professor at her alma mater, the University of Nairobi, and rose to become the Chair of the Department of Veterinary Anatomy.

Wangari heard the complaints of women who were fellow members of the National Council of Women of Kenya. Their streams were disappearing, causing the women to have to walk miles for water. Their harvests were less each year. There were no trees nearby to provide food or shade. Wangari recognized that the pillaging of Kenyan trees by global corporations was the source of this problem. She hired thousands of Kenyan women – many of whom received their first income from her – to plant trees in order to reforest Kenya. She paid them extra if the trees survived. This movement, which became known as the Green Belt Movement, returned trees to the landscape, the roots of which kept the soil from eroding, and thus allowed groundwater to fill streams. The trees also were a source of food and fuel, and directly improved the women’s lives, since they no longer had to walk hours for water and firewood. Wangari’s movement planted thirty million trees.

Through her work, Wangari Maathai recognized that in order to counter the illegal and corrupt conversion of public lands to private use which had caused Kenyans to suffer, she needed to speak publicly – thus drawing the ire of the Kenyan government, which jailed her. Instead of suppressing her, the incarcerations and the threats, beatings, and harassment she endured did not deter her. In fact, her advocacy and determination to secure women’s rights and democracy eventually earned her a position in the parliament, as well as the title of assistant minister for the environment.

This recognition of her skills and talents did not end her quest for environmental justice, climate justice, democracy, and women’s rights. She continued her life’s work by traveling globally to campaign for positive global change, right up until her death in 2011. In 2004, she became the first African woman to receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

It is safe to say that my second graders were captivated by the story I had read to them about Professor Maathai. Because they are younger than the students I usually teach, I chose a simpler story, which didn’t provide much detail about Maathai’s persecution, but simply said that members of the government jailed her. Student after student unmuted themselves during our discussion afterwards to ask questions that revealed their incredulity about Wangari’s time in jail. They clearly could not understand why she wasn’t lauded for her actions. One student used his new knowledge about story genres to posit a guess about the jailing of Maathai, saying, “Mrs. Murphy, maybe this is realistic fiction. It could have happened that she went to jail, but she didn’t.” I realized that I needed to continue our discussion, and to make Wangari’s story real for my students, and so I collected footage of Maathai giving a speech and accepting the Nobel Peace Prize. I found a short video clip that described her life’s mission. I also chose another book to read to students, called Seeds of Change: Wangari’s Gift to the World by Jen Cullerton Johnson. This book was meant for a slightly older audience, and explained the events of her life – including her persecution – in more detail.

When I taught this new lesson and read the second book, heads pulled closer to their cameras. There was head nodding – up-and-down for her work, and side-to-side when she was treated unfairly and when she was jailed. The discussion afterwards focused on her persistence and her accomplishments, even when criticized, dismissed as not being capable of succeeding, and even when people in power tried to quash her message. Students recognized how this huge movement, with its tangible improvements in the lives of Kenyans, began with one woman, and with one seed. At the end of our discussion, one student – the same student who commented about the genre of the book – unmuted himself and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Murphy, for reading us this book.” It was about the highest compliment I have received.

As it happens, this year about two-thirds of my class is composed of students of color, perhaps because I am teaching in the town’s fully remote program, and families have chosen to be in this program; perhaps their choice is related to the disproportionately negative effects of the viral pandemic in which we find ourselves. More than half of my class identifies as girls, as well. However, the vast majority of all of the biographies I share as read alouds with my classes each year tell the story of women of color. Their stories have been unfairly subtracted from the world’s ears.

We tend to think of superheroes as wielding power by force to accomplish their goals. I want my students to recognize that real-life superheroes thwart corrupt and unjust power, which makes life better for people. Real-life superheroes grow power for good into a movement. This reminds me of Jesus’ work on earth. I pray that the works of real-life superheroes may one day be on the tongues and in the minds of every student. I hope that my students remember the power of one to change the world. I hope that they are that one.

-Kristin Murphy

“Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today.” -Thich Nhat Hanh, Vietnamese monk and activist

Is there a God who understands how frustrating it is in the midst of a pandemic to be stuck and unable to do the simple things we ungratefully took for granted?

Is there a God who “gets it” when we get stopped trying to find an appointment to get vaccinated?

Will I be safe in my doctor’s waiting room next week, even for a few minutes?

How can I worship on Sunday morning if I’m trying to find God in the worship service and my computer screen freezes?

Why are there times when it’s easier to ignore the dishes in my sink than take ten minutes to clear them up?

Darn it! My landline is ringing. Probably SPAM again. Thought I had that stopped but I guess not.

“Hello? Will I be home tomorrow morning about 10:30? You want to stop by with something for me? Yes, I’ll be here.”

“Good morning. It is a nice morning, isn’t it? What, this is for me? This loaf of tea bread and this beautiful fruit? THANK YOU! What a lovely surprise! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this! I was just about to run out of fruit, too. No, you didn’t interrupt me, I was just about to clear up the kitchen.”

Maybe I’ll go out for a walk. It’s a nice sunny day! When I get back, I’ll get those pots cleared up!

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A 5-minute phone call, a little baked “treat”, taking someone’s trash to the transfer station, offering to pick up something at the grocery store, stopping by for a “distance” conversation for a few minutes… little things? You may think so. I sure don’t!

Thank you, God, for “heroes” – maybe your “angels”? – who arrive just in time, not on our schedule but yours. Thank you, thank you!

Be a hero.

-Nancy Hammerton

The very title of this fourth chapter of our Lenten study book elicits my strong memories of our first parish in Bristol, CT in the late 1950s (not a Methodist church). Too tiny to provide a parsonage, the church provided a salary of $50.00 a week with which to rent living quarters that cost $50.00 a month. We had a two-bedroom, third-floor apartment in an old Victorian house located in a section of town that included mansions. One of our parishioners was housekeeper in one of the mansions, and when her employers were away she gave us a tour. It was a marvelous glimpse of “how the other half lived”.

But we had enough (well, barely). It was the truly poor members of our congregation who were amazing. They provided gracious hospitality, showed interest in our needs, gave their talents to the church. That kind of sharing was a real inspiration. In that parish, and in succeeding ones, it seemed that the “have nots” were the true heroes – as was the woman who gave her coins in the temple. They also allowed us to share what we had with them. One family of six accepted our hospitality one winter week when they had no power, and we had a coal burning heat source and a gas stove for cooking. In another parish in New York City, the poorest family accepted groceries and gave back woodworking talents as well as faithful attendance on Sundays and at other church events. It was all a matter of sharing.

“Haves” (and that is what most of us are) can truly be spiritually enriched by giving away what they can. These days it’s usually money, but could also be time and talent. At the same time, accepting whatever the less fortunate have to give is vital. The middle-aged children of the New York City family still write letters telling me of their lives. I treasure the contact.

Connecting and sharing is definitely a two-way street. It prevents the loneliness described by [Lenten study book author] Matt Rawle in that fourth chapter. It brings us closer to the Kingdom of God and dissolves the lines between “haves” and “have nots”. As Rawle states (p.98), “The Kingdom of God is a place where Have and Have Not get turned upside down. The poor are blessed because the wealthy share…. All are blessed when we invite Christ to be the Center of our lives”.

-Janet Johnson

Recently in a small group setting, an older woman rather angrily expressed her feelings that she had no recourse but to retire from a choral position with young children, that she loved and held for decades, when three young people in their twenties joined her work environment. She acutely felt the disparity in age, unappreciated and ignored by these newcomers. She had become, in her eyes, as she thought was in theirs, dispensible. She was grieving! Her hurt was palpable!

This revelation was unexpected in this setting. The four of us were new to each other. We were part of a Lenten study and had broken out into smaller groups. The focus of the evening’s program was Henri Nouwen’s words describing the importance of the Eucharist as the center of our lives and a divine gift from God; forgiving our enemies is not within our power but “it’s there that you receive the love which empowers you to take the way that Jesus has taken before you: a narrow way, a painful way, but the way that gives you true joy and peace and enables you to make the nonviolent love of God visible in this world.”

These breakout groups are not normally meant for discussion but contemplation. Yet, how could we not comfort her? How could we help her to see her retirement not as an end but perhaps a beginning? Looking back at my own decision to retire from food service management, over ten years ago now, brought back conflicting feelings I had at the time. I had done the best that I could with my stated parameters in my twenty-four years at that location. But there was an undercurrent building momentum; it was time for new blood, new ideas, other ways to look outside of the box, a new vision! I needed to let go and give an opportunity to someone new.

Group members talked and brought up more positive ways of looking at retirement. Her anxiety lessened after a while. And then, her countenance brightened and with a demure smile, she told us that she was going to volunteer with dementia patients! Oh, what a gift she will be!

What does God have planned for you now?

The day after this Lenten event, I talked with a spiritual advisor connected to the program. Mentioning my work history, volunteer efforts, fun times with friends and family and just receiving my second vaccination shot while experiencing the natural depression accompanying this year long down time with COVID, she asked, “What does God have planned for you now?”

For those kinds of unexpected changes in your life, why not try to look at it as a new adventure instead of a downer? God has plans for you!

-Caryl Walsh

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”*
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This poem comes to mind when I think of a person I’ll call our hero. We all would consider this person a hero as he said “yes” to his sister’s request to her health care proxy. And now the sister is sick in the ICU with COVID pneumonia, breathing with the help of a ventilator.

The poem’s lines, “to ask if there is some mistake”, and “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep”, keep circulating in my mind when I think about the weight on this hero’s shoulders, trudging through daily tasks as their loved one lies in the hospital bed. Each day this hero shows up to answer common questions as if they have on the complete suit of armor from Ephesians 6:10-15, “…having shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace.”

Please pray for this hero and their family as days unfold with many mysteries.

-Meg Fotakis

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*This Robert Frost poem entered the public domain on January 1, 2019.

My mom and I arrived in the United States in April of 1970. We were picked up at JFK Airport by loving and excited family members and driven to our new home in a truly diverse neighborhood of Park Slope, in Brooklyn, New York.

I began my elementary school education in the United States at P.S. 39. In history class, I learned names such as Abraham Lincoln, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks and Robert Kennedy. In high school and college, and as an adult, other names were added to the list of social justice heroes. Names such as Nelson Mandela, Oskar Schindler, Elie Wiesel, Mother Theresa, Marie Curie, Mohandas Gandhi (obviously originally learned back in India), Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and most recently, Amanda Gorman, to name a few. I am always amazed by the courage, dedication and fortitude required by those heroes.

I am ashamed to say that I don’t know the name of a personal hero that I encountered in 2000, while my son was a toddler.

The encounter happened when I took Zak, who was about 2 years old, to a bakery after dropping his sister off at school. It was a once-a-week treat, and occurred during rush hour (Manhattan was a 30-minute ride away). I should tell you something about Zak at this point – as a youngster, he hated any show of concern when he had minor accidents. He would become truly irate. Family members learned eventually to not show concern and school our facial features when he would stumble or bump his head etc.

On that day, Zak took a tumble on the sidewalk, and I gasped. He was so mad that he sat himself down on the sidewalk and proceeded to head bump the concrete! Twice! I knew better than to try and stop him at this point. I decided the best thing to do would be to sit down on a bench right next to him and let him cry it out. Meanwhile, commuters were trying to catch the train which ran overhead. While we were not in their path, they were passing the spot where we were seated. I was getting suspicious and angry looks from everyone passing us; and in hindsight, I am grateful that cell phones were not as ubiquitous as they are now.

It occurred to me that the reason I was getting those looks was because my son looks nothing like me – he looks like his Caucasian dad. The commuters assumed I was a nanny who was ignoring the child under my care. A woman who saw the situation sat down next to me. She assessed the need to lend her support, she took the time, and engaged me in a conversation while deflecting the animosity directed at me. She joined us in the bakery after Zak calmed down. She and I had a pleasant conversation for fifteen to twenty minutes. I was so flustered that I never even asked her name or properly thanked her for her assistance. Eventually she said her goodbyes, and Zak and I enjoyed the rest of our day.

While most of us will never be called to rise to the challenges faced by the heroes mentioned in our history lessons, we can change our little corner of the world like my hero at the bakery. Inequalities, whether racial, gender based or economic, are huge problems that seem overwhelming and insurmountable. We know that inequalities have been in existence since time began. Fear of the other is apparent in the stories of the Bible involving Moabites, Canaanites, and Samaritans, to name a few.

The baptismal covenant printed in the United Methodist Hymnal includes a question to be asked by clergy to the participating parents: “Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves?” As the body of Christ, we are called to be the hearts, eyes, voices, hands, and feet of God on Earth. Through God’s help, let us all strive to remedy the injustices we see in our own corner of the world.

-Shetal Kaye

Lenten Communion
by Katharine Tynan (b. 1861, County Dublin, Ireland; d. 1931, London, England)
(from Tynan’s collection of wartime poems, Herb o’ Grace: Poems in War-Time, published in London in 1918)

Rest in a friend’s house, Dear, I pray:
The way is long to Good Friday,
And very chill and grey the way.

No crocus with its shining cup,
Nor the gold daffodil is up, –
Nothing is here save the snowdrop.

Sit down with me and taste good cheer:
Too soon, too soon, Thy Passion’s here;
The wind is keen and the skies drear.

Sit by my fire and break my bread.
Yea, from Thy dish may I be fed,
And under Thy feet my hair spread!

Lord, in the quiet, chill and sweet,
Let me pour water for Thy feet,
While the crowd goes by in the Street.

Why wouldst Thou dream of spear or sword,
Or of the ingrate rabble, Lord?
There is no sound save the song of a bird.

Let us sit down and talk at ease
About Thy Father’s business.
(What shouts were those borne on the breeze?)

Nay, Lord, it cannot be for Thee
They raise the tallest cross of the three
On yon dark Mount of Calvary!

So soon, so soon, the hour’s flown!
The glory’s dying: Thou art gone
Out on Thy lonely way, alone.

-submitted anonymously

After living in Belgium for four years, it was wonderful to return to the States and we settled in Sudbury. We looked for churches and found SUMC. Because we also had a house in New Hampshire, we didn’t attend regularly. We were CEOs (Christmas, Easter Only!). Our weekends were spent in NH waterskiing in the summer and snow skiing in the winter.

When I went through my divorce seven years later, we had to sell the house in New Hampshire so that I could buy my ex out of his share of the Sudbury house. I wanted to make everything go smoothly for my three children. The girls were in college, but my son was a high school senior at Lincoln-Sudbury. I had been a stay-at-home mom and was worried about what I would do to take care of my family. It was a stressful time, and I remember crying in the shower so that the kids wouldn’t hear me. I didn’t know where to turn. I often prayed in the shower for God to give me strength during this stressful time.

One day the doorbell rang and Rev. Alan Moore, from SUMC, was there. I invited him into our living room – which was never used except when I wanted to read while the kids had friends over in the family room. I really didn’t know Rev. Moore or anyone at SUMC at the time. But he was so nice, and we chatted for a while, and I finally told him that I was going through a divorce and felt very insecure about it. He was wonderful, and at the time I didn’t realize that he was my hero coming to save the day.

He talked about the church and all the single women who attended. He said that in fact, Pat Williams was starting up a group of single women for mutual support, and he would be happy to introduce me to her if I would come back to the church. I met Pat, and she introduced me to Lyn MacLean, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Lyn and the women of the church became my support group. All the other activities that I was involved in featured mostly couples. I am not sure I would have made it through the divorce without my church group. The more involved I became in the church, the more confident I became.

God had truly guided Alan to my home just when I needed him the most. God gave me the strength I needed. I remember telling Alan’s wife, Ruth, this story after Alan passed away. She was so pleased to hear this and probably many other stories about how Rev. Alan Moore changed lives. He truly was my superhero.

-Judy Aufderhaar

When the winter sky
Rises to my office window,
It blinds me to my computer screen.
I have two options …
… curse the sun or
Pause and give thanks.

I stop.

Thank you, God!
For this day,
For my health
And for the sun.

-Wendy Pease

An interesting reference at the beginning of Chapter 3 of our Lenten study book is “The American Way”. We toss around the word “American” as if it belongs to the people of the United States. In reality, those who live in Canada, Mexico, Central America, and South America are all Americans. The author suggests defining our community as a smaller group with whom we share culture and celebrations. The essential factor is to be sure that the “we” of that sharing does not totally exclude others who might enrich our lives beyond measure. It is vital to realize that no one person or group has all the answers. We must rely on Jesus who welcomes all into His community of love.

Loving and acknowledging others as fellow children of God is a worthy goal. It’s not easy to accept and affirm someone whose behavior and views differ from one’s own, even if both are part of the same community. This was made painfully clear to me some 65 years ago during my junior college days in Chicago. We were all students at a Christian school – returning from an evening evangelical service – likely at Moody Bible Institute. On the city bus, one classmate moved from seat to seat asking its occupant if he or she was saved – if he or she had accepted Jesus as Savior. Most of us were embarrassed by his evangelical efforts. Where was the unified “we”? We were all followers of Jesus.

There are never any easy answers. Peter, the denier, became Peter the leader. Paul, the persecutor, became Paul the church builder. People have fought to the death over doctrine. Perhaps the key is to follow what each of us perceives as the “Jesus way” and not judge how another follower lives out his or her own faith. The important thing is to maintain a sense of God working in each of us to become connected as kind and helpful “doers” – the we of God’s kingdom. As the beloved song states, “We are the church together”.

-Janet Johnson

Who is a hero? The dictionary defines hero as someone with great courage and strength, a person prominent in some event or cause because of special achievements or contributions. And yet, I believe anyone can be a “hero” for another just by doing small acts of kindness whenever the opportunity presents itself.

In this pandemic, we often think of the doctors and nurses who unselfishly risked their own health to care for those with COVID as heroes. We express our gratitude to them as well as to policemen, firemen, grocery store workers and other essential workers who continued to work for our safety and benefit.

However, when you or I uplift someone with encouraging words in person or through phone calls, e-mails, notes, or by bringing a meal to one who lives alone, we are doing small acts of kindness.

In the Pine Hills in Plymouth, where Jim and I moved to five years ago, a few women learned of an organization called “Letters Against Isolation”. They decided to make this happen in Plymouth. They asked volunteers to write two to four notes or letters a month, to be distributed to people in nursing homes, rehab hospitals, and assisted living facilities. You would address the letter “Dear Friend” and just sign your first name. You could write about anything, add drawings and stickers, encouraging words. I knew this was some small act of kindness I could easily do. Hopefully it would bring a ray of sunshine to someone’s day.

In searching for what to write, I stumbled on a free-verse poem I had written many years ago — perhaps even on one of the family retreats SUMC had each September. I’d like to share it with you:

Relax, relax . . . Let mind and body and soul relax.
Wander in your imagination to a quiet place
Where you can leave behind
Worries and burdens — the rush of life.
Slow down, relax, and be with God.
Smile, believe that life is good
Believe that God cares for you, believes in you.
Do not ponder why bad things happen.
Just imagine light and love bursting forth like Spring.
Soak in the sunshine, the warmth, the compassion.
Imagine Jesus or peace or God’s Kingdom on earth.
Relax, relax . . . don’t worry,
He is with you, blessings abound
Listen to quiet music,
Give thanks and praise for family and friends,
Together in silence, together in sharing, together in faith.
Relax, relax . . . Let mind body and soul relax.
You are in the presence of God,
Now and Forever

Although Lent can be a time of letting go of things we enjoy or letting go of negative words, thoughts and behaviors, it can also be about taking up something. What can you do to reach out to someone or grow spiritually? Can you do a small kindness for someone? Can you simply take more time to enjoy being in God’s presence, to try new ways of praying, to read your Bible or a devotional?

Prayer: Lord, we thank you for your presence in our lives. Inspire us to do small acts of kindness that show our love and care for others and for You.

-Nancy Sweeney
SUMC member 1973-2017, now living in Plymouth, MA

TRADE DEADLINE

“Smuck teams!!”

I’ll back up.

Use your imagination to conjure up the image of about two dozen first-graders trying to organize outdoor activity.

Winded yet?

Ah, but when you’re one of those first-graders, it’s easy. It just happens. And at least in the case of the group I’m thinking of, it was a no-brainer.

In the rarefied air of six-year-old athletics, it does become clear which particular ones should be the team captains. They rise to it — mostly thanks to their actual athletic prowess, although a degree of popularity does come into it from time to time.

I was not necessarily known for my athleticism, although in retrospect, I was probably at least middle-of-the-pack. And I made lots of friends, but was never bound for membership in the Popular Group, at least not the one that looks like John Travolta and his posse in the movie musical Grease. So, as teams were picked, they were picked by someone other than me; and I was a middle-round draft pick.

The school-year-long series of kickball games began in earnest in the very early fall, and it quickly became clear that by sheer bad luck, the teams were almost hopelessly mismatched. One team won all the time. All. The. Time.

Often, the winning team prevailed by run totals measured in multiples of a dozen. I seem to recall at least one ninety-run day for the team we’ll call the Prevailers.

I also recall quite clearly that over the course of those couple of fall months during which afternoon recess was held outdoors, I learned how to lose gracefully. For I was part of the team we’ll call the Futiles.

Occasionally, it got frustrating. Of course it did. I didn’t express this opinion, but other members of the Futiles did. I have no idea of the etymology of the term, but the cry went up every week or so: “these are smuck teams!” It had become understood, at some point on that school playground, that to “smuck” was to win mightily — not to cheat to do it, mind you, but to win so hard that the losing team couldn’t even challenge the outcome. (“Did you see the Red Sox play last weekend?” “Yeah, thirteen to nothing. They got smucked.”)

We routinely got smucked.

Winter came, and we’d have kept playing except it’s much harder to play kickball with six inches of snow on the ground. So, as spring training arrived and the snow receded, we resumed our athletic exploits.

The Prevailers continued to prevail. The Futiles kept on getting smucked, most of the time. When we weren’t getting smucked, we were at least not winning. Ever.

Very early in May, though, came an afternoon recess that was memorable. If, at age six, I’d had any idea that I would one day even be fifty-four years old … I might have felt that I would remember this recess until then. I didn’t; but I do remember it.

Before the kickball game of the day began, my friend Jon walked over to me and said, “Hey Robbie.” (At the time, I was Robbie. In fact, that’s how you know whether someone knew me before I went to college, if they call me that.)

I looked up and smiled. I say “my friend Jon” because quite honestly, he was everybody’s friend. He was one of those frankly amazing people who are immensely popular — the “stars” of their class or team or organization — but absolutely everybody feels befriended by them, or at least treated well. He was popular enough that he certainly could have looked down upon (or even bullied, if he were that kind of person, which he wasn’t) the kids who lived toward the bottom of the popularity list … but he just didn’t.

“Robbie,” he said, “you’re going to switch teams.”

It took me a moment to realize what was happening. I don’t remember which member of the Prevailers was being traded to the Futiles, but clearly, with him, I had become part of a blockbuster two-player deal.

Jon could make this statement because he was the Prevailers’ team captain.

I spent the rest of that school year playing for the Prevailers. At least once, I scored more than two runs in a single inning, which meant that we “batted around” twice, which meant that we sent at least twenty-five batters (kickers?) to the plate before the Futiles managed that third out. “Oh,” I thought to myself after the first, second, third, and fourth games of May, “…this is what winning is like.”

Blessed are the long-suffering…?

Very nearly a half-century later, I still remember and appreciate Jon’s act of… well, I’m not sure what it was an act of.

Did Jon arrange to get me on his rather dominant kickball team out of pity? No: I don’t think most first-graders do pity.

Did he do it because he saw that I was a monstrous athletic talent on a pathetic team and wanted to get me a chance to feel what winning was like, or to feel like I was contributing to successful sports? No: I was a decent player but not Hall-of-Fame material; and again, I’m not sure most not-quite-seven-year-olds operate on that high a psychological plane, or at least they don’t find a way to express it.

Did Jon orchestrate that headline-creating trade because he saw me putting my nose to the grindstone, playing hard, not complaining (much), and therefore wanted to reward me for it? No: whether I was doing that or not, he was too busy (for example:) quite rightly jumping up and down and congratulating his teammate for their third grand-slam of the day.

But I’m reasonably assured that Jon’s kind offer to bring me onto the roster of the Prevailers that warm May afternoon demonstrated to me a way to live my life. Which sounds over-the-top: one isolated moment, most of three months before I even turned seven years old, became a touchstone for a lifetime of behavior?

Well, longer and better novels than this one have been written about such moments. Why not? If I’ve ever tried to help someone out … if I’ve ever taken a moment to feel sympathetically for a losing player or team … if I’ve ever had a moment of empathy, wherever and whenever … I could well have my friend Jon’s example to thank.

Does this count as a heroic act? In that recess-kickball moment, it was certainly momentous to one person, even if few kids on that field even noticed it. Momentous enough that that one person still remembers it, a half-century later.

Maybe that counts.

-Rob Hammerton

(P.S. Belatedly, I figured out that my friend Jon had to have worked out that momentous two-player deal by negotiating with the Futiles’ captain … who undoubtedly was one of Jon’s actual close friends, but whose identity, to my everlasting regret, I can’t remember. Because THAT kid probably deserves a tiny bit of childhood-hero credit, too, for agreeing to the idea.)

I grew up in a Southern Baptist church, where Lent was not something that was practiced. So it took a bit of getting used to when I embraced the United Methodist tradition some thirty-plus years ago. And while I have come to greatly appreciate the spiritual value of sacrifice and the giving up of things for Lent over the years, I may have gotten too comfortable, complacent, or perhaps lazy in my fasting. I tend to give up the same things each year – and focus too much on the legalistic, self-discipline, or just “getting it right” aspects of my abstinence.

I recently came across an interesting perspective on the fasting concept when I had the opportunity to catch a sermon by the Rev. Brian Wilkerson. One of the main points of the sermon was that “giving up something we desire leaves room for God to replace something good with something even BETTER.” He went on to suggest that instead of thinking about how much we miss what we are temporarily doing without, we could use that moment to consider what God thinks is missing in our lives.

If you’re like me, I have what I call my occasional internal whinings: for example, “I would sure love that beer that I gave up for Lent right about now” – or “Oh man, it’s still six and a half ‘til Sunday, when I can celebrate and scarf that three-pound bag of Peanut M&Ms I stashed in my glove box!” I much prefer the concept of taking that negative grumble and turning it into something positive. It becomes positive the moment we ask God to take that void and to fill it according to His will. It then seems like we have replaced a negative thought with the start of a prayer – and potentially an even longer conversation with God.

Now, I’m not saying that I’m anywhere near proficient at what is for me a new Lenten aspiration; but I feel like if I work at it a bit more, I may be able to grow into it. As Christians making an effort to hear the voice of God during our journey toward being an Easter people, I wonder if we sometimes focus too much on the act of giving up and the sacrifice itself. Perhaps, as Rev. Wilkerson says, Lent is not so much about what we give up, but how we allow God to fill the void. When we fast, we have made a conscious decision and effort to remove something from our life during Lent as a sacrifice or gift to God. Perhaps the greater gift would be to allow God to fill the hole we intentionally created for Him in the first place!

Prayer: Lord, I realize that my sacrifice is small compared to what you gave up for me! But I give it freely and gladly in the hopes that you will take what I don’t really need and replace it with something you feel is even better! And God, please be with my sister, Bev, who is suffering mightily with a 17 day migraine. Be with her and Barb as they travel to Chicago, and for the doctors as they work to find her some comfort – or even better….a cure! In your Good name. Amen.

-Brad Stayton

If you had told me that one of the very good things that has come out of living through the COVID-19 pandemic is a gain of friendship, I would not have believed you. It doesn’t make sense that, when there is a loss of freedom and little variety of activity, one could make new friends or deepen already-valued friendships.

For the deepening part … the people I have called friends, with whom I have shared happenings and experiences, have been in my scope all during the lockdown and resulting re-opening. I was particularly worried about one friend who lost her love partner at the beginning of the pandemic. She was able to say goodbye but then had to spend weeks in solitary confinement while she mourned alone. I called her every day to make sure she was okay. Bob and I were both feeling sad about this loss, as well, so we could all share the process with her.

And there is my friend who is struggling with a husband in the throes of early dementia. She was locked in with someone “new” to her. It was frustrating and sad. He is a social guy, but could not keep up when we were free to have meals together. And then they both were in lockdown where she was responsible for keeping him entertained and safe. I would call her often to make sure she was okay. She always appreciates a call, a check in, a time to laugh.

The list is long … bad health does not leave during a pandemic. So there is lots of communicating as to who is not well, or gone to the hospital, or is having unidentified symptoms. I feel it is important to keep up with these friends … they are my support group, too. We all need each other or will at some point. The beauty of living with lots of housemates!

When our community started to open up, there were many more opportunities to take classes and be with other humans. I started “Under the Tent with Stephen Collins” classes in the late summer/early fall. Jessie, our talented Program Director, asked me if I could help her by taking reservations and making confirmation calls. We had a great setup: in the beginning of this process, I would take reservations at the end of each class, Jessie would take phone calls adding to the list, and then I would confirm the reservations on the day of the class.

Remember, these classes meet three times a week. In the beginning, I would call and give my spiel. I have called many of the same people so many times that now when they see my name come up on caller-ID, they just say “okay, I will see you there!” I know all these people by name and face, and consider them my new friends. It has widened my friendship circle considerably.

For those friends who shared classes or activities with me before COVID, they are even more important to me. My Writing Group friends, with whom I share a monthly meeting, are so interested in knowing what I have written when that first Monday of the month rolls around.

My exercise pals are also more important to me. They laugh when I say “Water! Water!” We look forward to seeing each other a couple times a week. It is our social life. We check up on each other, inquire about sick husbands, groan when necessary, and enjoy the cooling-down part of our 45-minute workout. We are in it together.

Singing by Zoom with Madrigals also created stronger friendships. It is not easy to sing along with our leader playing our part, but NOT hearing the other parts. We try. We speak up when our leader is going too fast, or when we don’t get the German or French words pronounced as they should be. We laugh a lot. We appreciate each other and what we are trying to accomplish. If I try to bring humor into our conversation, I know there will always be a few singers who will laugh. I like them!

The Chat Time before our weekly community Zoom Meetings is particularly precious. Here is the same group several times a week, showing up early and chatting as if we were entertaining a small gathering in our suites. We talk about all sorts of things. We share and laugh and talk. I have “met” so many new residents doing just that … chatting. These are my new friends, whom I had never known. It is a rewarding change.

Reaching out to others is not limited to those in our community. Having more time at home without travel to interfere, I have reconnected with my boarding school classmates. I am keeping in better touch with my good friends from Cincinnati, where we lived for 44 years.. I am better-connected with our summer friends, anticipating when we can be together again. I have enjoyed reaching out to our friends from our annual trip to Paradise each winter. All this connecting makes me value these relationships even more.

During a time of loss, there is also a time of gain. I take my friendships very seriously. They mean a lot to me. The pandemic is not all negative, tragedy, loss, loneliness, etc. It is a time to have new experiences, have new relationships and celebrate old friendships.

“Honor the friendships that allow you to pick up from where you last left off,
Regardless of how long it’s been since you connected.
The friendships that survive hiatuses, silences and space,
Those are the connections that never die.” (seen on Facebook, 2/22/2021)

-Lynn Stroud

In September of 2017, Hurricane Maria impacted Florida after causing immense devastation in the Caribbean. My mom and dad were safely sheltered for several days in the high school while most of their town dealt with power outages and storm damage. In October of the same year, my father needed surgery followed by convalescence at a rehab facility. I visited them at the end of October, and it quickly became apparent that dad would not be able to return home. Soon after, I knew that it was becoming a challenge for mom to juggle all her responsibilities without help. It wasn’t possible to offer much support from Massachusetts, and I could not make regular trips to Florida.

Many Sudbury UMC members of my generation have gone through this challenging journey. As an only child, I knew that it would be up to me to try and find a solution. I prayed diligently for many months and wondered why God was not answering my prayers. I finally realized that unlike J.K. Rowling’s hero Harry Potter, God does not have a magical wand! I reluctantly came to the realization that I would have to make decisions on behalf of my parents and arrange to move them to Massachusetts, all the while depending on God to lead me to sound decisions.

Finally, in January of 2019 it was time to put the plans into motion. While I was angry at God that a seamless and elegant solution was not laid at my feet, I realized that God was indeed working to the benefit of us all. I knew that I would need a nurse to help dad during the trip. I contacted a nursing service in Florida to figure out the logistics involved to hire someone to make the trip with us. At the same time, a fellow congregant from mom and dad’s church, named Lewis, suggested to mom that he could help during the trip and would be happy to accompany us. Lewis is a retired nurse! I was truly overjoyed. He was someone dad knew, and he would be able to help if there were any health issues during the trip. A few days later, cousins from Seattle, Ursula and Elsie, called to say that they would love to help me with purging and packing mom and dad’s condo. Again, I felt truly blessed that God was watching over us.

The process of moving mom and dad was stressful to say the least. But God sent help in the form of everyday heroes. My cousins kept me and mom laughing the entire time we spent organizing and packing. We all spent ten to twelve days going through a lifetime’s worth of belongings, all the while reminiscing and joking. Lewis was the perfect person to help dad make the 9-hour journey door-to-door, and dad was comfortable traveling with someone he knew. I will never be able to repay them for their help, but they do not require or expect payment. They exemplify Christian love by putting their faith into action.

God does not always answer our prayers in the manner that we want, but He always provides us with the support we need.

-Shetal Kaye

In grade school, he protected me from the bullies on the playground.

In middle school, on a summer vacation, we “borrowed” a canoe and pretended we were early explorers out on the river.

In high school, he bought me a raccoon coat at a rummage sale, which I wore when I rode in the rumble seat of his car.

He taught me how to drive in his 1937 Ford coupe.

As a Naval officer, when his ship went to Europe, he brought me back a Hummel called Sister.

When he was sent to Vietnam, we played chess by mail, with the agreement that we would finish the game when he got home.

He became an oceanographer and wrote bills to protect the oceans. He helped to design the Monterey Aquarium.

He became a professor of oceanography.

And then he died at age 67 from the long-term effects of MS.

His ashes are in the Pacific Ocean. I miss you, Jimmy!

-Lynn Cunningham

Chapter Two in our Lenten study book is a very provocative look at the difficulty of knowing absolutely the difference between right and wrong. Sometimes there might be a gray area of action that defies definition.

Two examples of this come from my experience as a teacher. In the mid-1970s, my tenth graders and I watched a short film titled “Joseph Schultz”. It was a reenactment of a true World War II incident. At the end of the film, a photo of the real Joseph Schultz is shown. It was taken by Nazi soldiers.

Joseph is a young German soldier who participates fully in the taking of a Polish village. He and his fellow fighters have no problem using their machine guns and throwing grenades at an unseen enemy. The next scene depicts those same young soldiers resting after their labors. They lounged by a river with uniform jackets unbuttoned – laughing and talking and smoking their cigarettes.

We see Joseph in the last scene as part of a firing squad lined up to kill a group of terrified, unarmed peasant farmers. The captives are blindfolded. They stand in a circle around a huge haystack – clutching one another’s hands. Joseph Schultz refuses to shoot unarmed, helpless “enemies”. He is told to shoot them or join them. With dramatic, deliberate movements, he tears off his uniform jacket and throws it and his gun to the ground. He strides across the field, stands between two peasants and grabs their outstretched hands. The order is given to fire, and all but Joseph fall. The second order is for all squad members to fire on Joseph Schultz, which they do.

My assignment to the stunned sophomores was to write an essay stating whether Joseph was a hero or a traitor and why. Interestingly, the brighter students considered him a hero. The less able gave reasons why he was a traitor. The essays were graded on structure (it was an English class), not on opinion. It was a revelation to see who considered obeying orders to be essential.

There are numerous examples of disobeying laws (both in history and literature) that point to the higher calling of love and compassion. Another such example of such choices comes from my time leading eighth graders through Huckleberry Finn in the mid-1980s. History tells us that in the 19th century American South, the law (and many of the churches) required turning in a runaway slave. After many days of companionship, adventures, and having his life saved by the former slave Jim, Huck Finn has the opportunity (the obligation?) to report the existence of Jim. Huck knows that disregarding the law could bring severe penalties to him – both from the government and from the church. After much thought, he refuses to betray Jim. His words, “All right, then, I’ll go to hell!” are truly profound and mark the climax of the story.

Choices can be awesome and terrifying. May God help us to make the right ones!

-Janet Johnson

I was a senior in college when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. At the time of his death, I did not fully understand or appreciate the significance of who he was and what he was doing.

Over the past fifty-plus years, as I have studied the life and teachings of Jesus, I have often thought about King and how he followed Jesus so closely. Seeking to learn more about King, I recently began reading To Shape a New World – Essays on the Political Philosophy of Martin Luther King, Jr., edited by Tommie Shelby and Brandon M. Terry. While reading one of these essays, “Hope and Despair: Past and Present” by Cornel West, I again saw a striking parallel between the work of Jesus and the work of King.

King espoused revolutionary political ideas, unpopular with those in power, just as Jesus did. In the final years of his life, King was abandoned by his friends, just as Jesus was abandoned by his disciples when he was arrested. In King’s final days, it was reported that he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, wondering if he had been wrong about his mission. On reading this, I pictured Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me,” and on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” And finally, King was harassed and assassinated by the people who most needed to hear and accept his message, just as Jesus was executed by those he came to enlighten and to serve.

Although King is remembered primarily for his pursuit of racial justice, he also spoke out against militarism, materialism, and systemic poverty, again paralleling Jesus’ revelations regarding social justice and love of neighbor. When I watch recordings of King’s speeches, or sing “We Shall Overcome” in church on Martin Luther King weekends in January, tears well up in my eyes as I am reminded of the power and majesty of his words and his mission, while also recognizing that the work is not yet finished, and that the ugliness of racism and economic injustice is still with us.

As I read about him now, fifty years after his death, I sit in awe of his vision, wisdom and courage. King did what Jesus said we should do; “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Martin Luther King, Jr. chose to do just that, as he emptied himself and sacrificed his life for others, following closely in the footsteps of Jesus. Thanks be to God for the gift of Dr. King.

Prayer: Loving God, please forgive our selfishness and our prejudices, and help us to move more quickly along the path toward justice.

-Trey Burns

If you should take the time to look up the definition of the word “hero” you would find many meanings. At one time there was a distinction between male and female heroes. A hero was male and a heroine was female. Over time, it seems that the distinctions are blended to anyone who is admired, acknowledged, brave, outstanding and more.

For example, the following are a sample of definitions:

The MacMillan Dictionary says a hero is someone who has done something brave; a main male character of a book, etc.

The Oxford Dictionary says it’s a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements or noble qualities.

The Collins English Dictionary says it’s someone who has done something brave, new or good and who is greatly admired.

I actually discovered another twenty-three meanings; however, I would like to add my own definition.

My thought is that a hero does not necessarily have to be someone who has done something wonderful, courageous or outstanding as an adult, but rather it can be anyone. I have a neighbor who in my opinion displays all of the attributes of a hero. Her name is Avery and lives just around the corner.

Avery is very thoughtful and caring and is my hero. She happens to be 8 years old. During this pandemic she has sent me beautiful notes. Her notes has been thoughtful and creative.

I believe that we have heroes living among us. Stop and take a look around and I am sure that you can find many heroes. May we all find heroes in our neighborhoods and communities.

-Donna Mills

He will teach us his ways so that we walk in his paths. (Isaiah 2:3)

“The Master’s Way”
(poet unknown)

Not ours to know the reason why
Unanswered is our prayer.
But ours to wait for God’s own time,
To lift the cross we bear.

Not ours to know the reason why,
From loved ones we must part;
But ours to live in faith and hope,
Though bleeding in the heart.

Not ours to know the reason
Why this anguish, strife, and pain
But ours to know a crown of thorns
Sweet graces for us gain.

A cross, a bleeding heart, and crown
What greater gifts are given?
Be still, my heart, and murmur not,
These are the ways of heaven.

-submitted by Marge Glencross

I believe I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. (Psalm 27:13)

I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. (John 10:10b)

I first met Fred Morris (no relation) at the Union Church in San Jose, Costa Rica in 1978. He and his Brazilian wife, Tereza, had a daughter who was born in San Jose about the same time that Margriet gave birth to our son Michael. From the beginning of our friendship I marveled at Fred’s knowledge and understanding of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I learned that Fred had served as a United Methodist missionary in Brazil working with the urban poor and marginalized, in association with Dom Helder Camara, the beloved Roman Catholic Archbishop of Recife and a strong supporter of human rights during the military rule.

The military equated concern for the poor with communism. They couldn’t do much about Dom Helder, so they turned to his associates. They abducted Fred and tortured him for four days, trying to make him confess to being a link between the archbishop and the Communist Party of Brazil. When Tereza realized he had been disappeared, she quickly notified US diplomats in Recife and Brasilia. Fred’s father, a United Methodist pastor in Nebraska, generated more than a thousand letters to send to members of Congress. Thanks to diplomatic and Congressional pressure, Fred was released after seventeen days and ordered to leave the country. During each of those days, he found strength in Psalm 23.

Fred served as the associate pastor of the Union Church. During that time, the liberation theology movement was growing among Christians in Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala, where poverty and oppression were common, in stark contrast to the love of neighbor proclaimed by Jesus. Fred helped me understand the origin of the theology and how it affected the lives of the poor — the full meaning of having life and having it abundantly.

Fred eventually left Costa Rica to serve in United Methodist churches in the Chicago area, where he retired as a pastor in 1995. During the next ten years, he held a variety of positions, including Executive Director of the Florida Council of Churches, and Director of Latin American Relations for the National Council of Churches, as well as academic posts in Brazil and Florida. He then lived in retirement in Panama and Nicaragua, during which time the Brazilian Justice Ministry formally asked for his forgiveness and offered him monetary compensation.

In 2013, United Methodist Bishop Minerva Carcaño called Fred out of retirement to develop a multi-cultural congregation to reflect the local demographics in a small church in Shandon, CA. The following year, he became pastor of the reopened North Hills UMC Hispanic Mission. After a series of ICE raids, his congregation of about 40 parishioners, mostly from Central America, offered to become a sanctuary church if a request for sanctuary were received.

Fred and the North Hills church then founded the San Fernando Valley Refugee Children Center, which actively helps desperate children fleeing gang violence and extreme poverty in Central America to secure legal asylum, medical care, education, and a safe future in the United States.

Even at the age of 88, Fred responds to Jesus’ call to help the most marginalized and needy. He believes that the antidote to these challenging times in America is a greater focus on love. His adherence to the teachings of Jesus makes him a Christian hero in the lens of my faith.

Prayer: Most Gracious God, you sent Jesus to confirm your concern for the least among us. You called Fred to dedicate his life to advocating for and working with the needy, the oppressed and the marginalized. Help us find ways to love and support our neighbors near and far who struggle each day to find food, clothing and shelter and a job to support themselves. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

-Richard Morris

For many years after I joined SUMC, our family fit the category of attending most services except Christmas and Easter. We spent these special times with both George’s and my families in West Hartford, Connecticut, and we celebrated Easter at the Presbyterian church where I was confirmed (during a service on Maundy Thursday).

One of the treasured parts of Advent, Christmas, Lent, and Easter has always been the music of these special seasons, and, until COVID forced us to stop singing choral music, I sang in the choir at SUMC from 1972 until 2020. I have always been moved by the Maundy Thursday services and during the years when we were away for Easter, I stayed after the service for choir practice so I could sing the Easter music, particularly the Hallelujah chorus. In Connecticut, the choir sang this and I listened. What a joy it has been at SUMC to sing this chorus with the members of the congregation who came to join the choir in song.

Twice, I was far away from New England for part of Holy Week and Easter. In 1996, our daughter Katherine spent her spring semester in Edinburgh, Scotland, and I flew over to spend a week with her there. Each of us was filled with emotion when we saw each other for the first time since Katherine’s departure on January 1. On Easter, we went to Saint Giles Cathedral (The High Kirk of Scotland) for one of the services, during which communion was served in a way that we had never experienced: guided by the ushers, groups of us walked toward the altar and stood on the floor tiles that made the shape of a large cross. A loaf of bread was passed from hand to hand and each of us tore off a piece before passing the loaf on. Each of us sipped from the cup of wine that was presented to us before being offered to the next person. We returned to our seats as a group while the next worshippers came forward. I do not have particular memories of the music, but certainly remember the communion service.

In the afternoon, we joined many families and climbed Arthur’s Seat, a steep hill that looms behind Edinburgh Castle. It was fun watching people of all ages as they celebrated the holiday together, particularly the children who rolled eggs down the hill. For dinner, I roasted a chicken in the flat that Katherine shared with her British and Scottish roommates, all of whom were away with their families. We picked up a rented car on Easter Monday and drove around Scotland the following week.

In 2010, George and I flew to Madrid, Spain, to be with our family during semana santa – vacation begins on the Friday before Palm Sunday and ends on the Tuesday after Easter. We had a wonderful time together, although rainy and cold weather forced the cancellation of the processions that are part of Holy Week. The larger-than-life-size figures of Jesus and Mary could not be carried through the streets in the rain and we were disappointed to miss these very special ways to remember the events of Holy Week.

On Easter Sunday, we attended one of the Catholic masses that are held each hour. I am not terribly familiar with the mass and do not really speak Spanish, but at one point in the service, I was able to recognize that the Apostles’ Creed was being recited by picking up a few of the words and recognizing the rhythm of the Creed. After the service, we went to the Plaza Mayor in the center of Madrid and ate calamari while watching the many people celebrating this special day.

For the second year in a row, we will experience Holy Week and Easter in very different ways; and many of the trappings, such as family and friend gatherings, choral music sung with so many whom we hold close, and worship in a full sanctuary, will again be stripped away. Ideally, this will enable each of us to focus on the essence of our Christian faith and to make each day of this week one filled with contemplation. May it be so.

-Ann Hamilton

One of the provocative questions in our Lenten study book is “Have you experienced something that was great that resulted in something not so great?” Let me share my bewilderment:

In the 1960s, our family did what we could to foster justice and interracial friendships. My husband attended the March on Washington, and went south to aid voter registration. We had a close relationship with the AME congregation and their pastor. I became deeply involved with a people-to-people project known as the Box Project – even had a stint as volunteer record keeper for the hundreds of families who “adopted” southern families by sending boxes of food, clothing, and household items. Eventually the record keeping got transferred to a “real” office with (poorly) paid workers. Donations enabled us to secure a young Mississippi man in his twenties named Otis Brown, who became our Box Project agent. He visited our adopted families in the area of Sunflower, Mississippi, and even distributed items which were generously trucked in – thus saving us postage money.

We Johnsons sent boxes to Martha Ollie and her six children, and enjoyed an exchange of letters. In the summer of 1969, we six were able to travel south to visit Otis and his young family in the impoverished area of Sunflower. We met some of his neighbors (boards across open sewer ditches were “sidewalks”), and he guided us out into the countryside to visit Martha and her family. We have photos of the ten children who were similar in age if not color. It was a great visit.

Unknown (or unrealized) by either Otis or us Box Project senders was the unrest and anger of the neighbors who were NOT recipients. They couldn’t understand why trucks would unload items destined for the rural folks but nothing was given to them. They were furious with Otis for only bringing items to Box Project families. Their anger erupted the second evening of our stay in the humble Brown home, and a “mini-riot” occurred in the little office Otis had established. Typewriter and phones were smashed – and we all fled. We Johnsons were able to find an air-conditioned motel. The Browns drove some miles away to stay with family.

It was a frightening experience for all. When I got back to Connecticut, I reported the event to Box Project workers. We all were perplexed and confused as to how our “do-gooding” could have endangered our dear young agent and his family. The Box Project folks in Connecticut invited Otis Brown to move to that state. He eventually obtained a college degree, and still lives in Plainville. I was able to chat with him on the phone a year ago. The Box Project is still in existence – with headquarters in the south and various social projects. We continued to send boxes to Martha until she moved to Chicago, where we visited her some ten years later – and then lost touch.

I’m sure that much good came out of the early days of the Box Project, but it’s still frightening to think of how not-so-good things could have ruined the lives of Otis Brown and his family.

-Janet Johnson

I have a confession to make. I did something bad when I was seven years old. It was the beginning of Lent and my mother suggested I give something up for Lent.

“What should I give up?” I asked. “How about candy?” she said. “Okay,” I said.

A few days later I went with her to the Flower Show, and there was a vendor selling fudge! “I want some,” I said. “You gave it up,” my mother said. Well, I proceeded to “act out”. I stomped my foot. I cried. But it did me no good. So I pouted the rest of the day.

Now, I am sorry for what I did to my mother, but I did not understand the meaning of Lent, and that I should avoid the temptations of the Devil, like Jesus did for forty days in the wilderness. The Devil sure had me where he wanted me.

I’m trying to be stronger now that I am an adult, and will try to explain the meaning of Lent to any child who might ask me. And I hope to be strong like Jesus!

-Lynn Cunningham

Sometimes heroes come wearing capes and brandishing superpowers. We picture someone strong, ready to take on evildoers. A gathering of such superheroes would be surprised to find my hero in their midst. My superhero’s sidekick was a golden retriever named Brandy, and her secret weapon was an autoharp. I decided it was time to write her a letter expressing my thanks to her for her impact on my life.

Dear Mrs. Roemer,

I can still remember you coming into my Sunday School classroom, Brandy’s seeing-eye dog harness in one hand and your autoharp under your other arm. Those were my favorite Sundays! Even though we could not see your eyes behind your dark glasses, I and the rest of the kindergartners in the class could feel the love you had for us. You would come and sit among us, Brandy lying at your feet with her head on her paws, waiting for you to give us permission to stroke her soft fur. And then you would stroke your autoharp. Sometimes I still catch myself singing, “Love Him, Love Him, All you little children, God is Love, God is Love…” My brother’s favorite was “Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam.” I’ll bet he still sings it occasionally! Like I said, we knew you loved us, but we also knew you loved Jesus. It showed through your words, your singing, and through your faithfulness and determination to share that love for Him with us, children you could not see. I couldn’t say how many years you and Brandy came to our class every Sunday. Nor can I remember the names of any of my teachers from those early days. Now, when children are baptized in our church, and we recite the baptismal vows to nurture them in the Christian faith, I often think of you and your example. In a way, it seems like you are still sharing your love for God, I hope, through me and so many others who sang those simple songs of faith with you when we were children ourselves.

I looked up your name on the Internet this morning. I learned that you went to be with Jesus, whom you loved so much, 17 years ago at the age of 97. I learned a lot of other things, too. Like the fact that you were an artist and a poet, an historian and an activist for native Americans. You wrote a couple of children’s books, including one you co-authored with Brandy! All of those accomplishments would make you a superhero in some people’s books, no doubt. But for me, it was your coming down the stairs, led by Brandy and carrying your autoharp to sing with children you saw with your heart, if not with your eyes, to share the love of and for God with them.

Thank you, Mildred Roemer, for being the hero who taught me that “God is Love.”

-Wendy (Davison) Guillemette

He took me to get my learner’s permit, down the four lane road into Oswego, about 15 miles from home. My first time behind the wheel. He fell asleep in the backseat on the way home up the four lane highway. I drove at 10 mph the entire way home. I was terrified; he was asleep.

We were walking through the park at dusk on a snowy eve. A big plow came roaring down the sideway. He threw me into the huge pile of snow at the edge of the sidewalk; the plow never slowed. I was blown by and covered with the snow from the plow. A hand smacked me in the face then pulled me out of the mound. We continued walking home. I had a black eye and broken rib.

There were four of them that had encircled me pushing me from one to the other to the other back and forth while threatening my ten year old being. I did not scream but for some reason he came anyway. There was a fight, then we walked home. He had a black eye.

I was supposed to learn to swim. I did not want to put my face in the water, I did not want to blow bubbles, I did not want to get wet with that cold water, I did not want to go under the water. I complained. He took me for a walk to see the tadpoles on the high wall. He pushed me in the pond. We swam in the pond.

We went bowling, I beat him, again – he did not talk to me for weeks.

We went skeet shooting, I beat him, again – he did not talk to me for weeks.

We went ice skating, he won all the races – he did not talk to me for weeks.

I was very very sick, I was young and afraid. Dr. Cincotta came every day to my bedside. Father Hughes came to the house to bless me. One night he sat the entire black night with me, keeping me packed in ice. He missed his senior prom.

Thank you God for my hero, my brother.

-submitted anonymously

“Content us, when we can only do small things, knowing that we are justified by amazing grace.”
-from a prayer by Daniel Benedict

During one of my first years of teaching, I started a small evening group of students interested in knitting. We gathered once a month, put on some quiet music, and practiced knitting and purling. Some students were working on their own projects, some were just learning to knit, and some were making squares for an afghan that we decided to create for a local nursing home.

One of the students who was learning to knit created a long, soft purple scarf and gave it to me – her very first knitted creation. While her knitting was simple (no purling here!), the gift was heartfelt and very gratefully received. I still have, and still wear, this scarf, frequently using it as both scarf and face-covering during COVID-era walks through the woods.

Small things, like this scarf, are precious. We often feel as though only grand gestures or Herculean efforts can make a difference, and this may seem to let us off the hook for the smaller things. But when we think of the power of a small gift, a brief word, a quick note, to change our attitude and our day, we know that we are not off the hook. As Daniel Benedict reminds us in the prayer cited above, on many days we can only do small things, but we must still do them. And the doing of these small things can be a vehicle for amazing grace.

Maybe doing more of these small things can be part of our Lenten discipline this year. To whom can we send thank you notes, greeting cards, friendly e-mails or Facebook messages or chats? Who would appreciate a five-minute phone call? Who needs to hear that we appreciate them during this season?

As for me, I’m going to send a message to my former student right now, thanking her again for the scarf and letting her know that it is still being used. Small things… And amazing grace!

-Heather Josselyn-Cranson

(by Reinhold Niebuhr (1892-1971), American theologian; 1932)

God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

-submitted by Cathy Burke